A glance at the clock tells me that it’s even later than I thought it was.
My mother always told me that nothing good ever happens past 2:00 a.m.
As Braden presses my body up against the glass, I’m not sure if he’s about to prove her right…or wrong.
“I’m going to break you, Jenna,” he says, wrapping an arm around my hips and pulling me hard against him.
“I don’t break easy.”
“No?”
“No.”
“We’ll see about that,” he growls.
And it begins.
Braden’s fingers find my clit. It’s not difficult. My clit is sensitive, slick, and swollen, and Braden knows the female body better than most men ever will.
I feel myself coming close to orgasm immediately, but just as it begins—the heaving chest, the growing warmth, the blossoming of something gorgeous and dark and heady from my cunt all the way up into my womb—Braden backs off. He leaves me wanting.
Then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
And no matter how I whimper and wheel and buck against him, I can’t take it from him. I can’t force him to give me what I need.
He’s edging me so dangerously close to coming that every time he flicks my clit between his fingers, I’m certain that this is the time. This is it. This is when he’ll push me over the edge.
But he doesn’t. He fucking won’t.
My whimpers turn into cries. My cries turn to desperate sobs.
I want him. I want it. However he’ll give it to me, I don’t fucking care.
I need him. His touch. His fingers. His tongue. His cock.
I need release.
And that’s how he breaks me. Little by little, then all at once.
“Please,” I sob, shaking. From where he’s positioned me, it feels like the whole city can see my need.
“Please what, Jenna?”
“Please—anything!” I cry out.
Like a slut. Like a fucking whore.
Behind me, Braden places the champagne bottle between my thighs, nestling the dripping cold neck against my cunt.
“Anything, huh? You must be desperate, offering something like that to a man like me.”
“Anything,” I whine, trying to grind against the bottle’s neck.
But I’m too slick. Braden has filled me with his cum and made sure that my cunt is keeping itself nice and wet.
“I bet you’d let me fuck you with this bottle, even,” Braden muses. “If I wanted to. You’d fucking let me, wouldn’t you, Jenna?”
I swallow hard, my mind racing.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck. Anything. Whatever you want.”
Braden pauses, and for a second, I think he’s going to actually do it.
Slide the cork of the champagne bottle into my wet, dripping slit and make me come around it. Make me drink it after. Pop the cork and let it foam all over my breasts while I lick the bubbles and my honey off the rim.
Instead, he sets the bottle down. My body heaves in relief—but not for long.
“What about your ass, Jenna?” he growls, pressing the head of his cock between my ass cheeks. “Will you let me fuck this tight little ass of yours, here at the top of the city where all of New York can see?”
His cock is nestled just against the pucker of my asshole.
I’m so wet, my pussy has managed to lube that hole up as well. And I fucking want it. I want his cock inside me, however he’ll give it to me, if he’ll just let me come…
I’m done fucking around. I force myself backwards, impaling myself on his rock-hard rod. Braden doesn’t miss a beat. He wants this just as bad as I do, and I can feel it. In the way he grabs my hips, fucking me hard and fast and with total abandon.
His fingers pinch my clit, working the hood up and down over it until I’m coming for him with all the force of a clap of thunder.
The spasming in my cunt makes my ass even tighter around his throbbing shaft. I feel his thighs tense up, and then he’s coming as well, flooding my ass with his cum as the sky explodes with lightning and the rain streams down the windowpane and I collapse against the glass.
He takes me in his arms after. He unwraps the jumper cables from my wrists and peels off what’s left of his clothing and joins me in bed, a glass of champagne for each of us.
The warmth of the alcohol in my stomach mingles with the warmth of Braden’s body around mine, the weight of his blankets, and the cool linen of his sheets.
“You didn’t break me,” I mumble sleepily against his chest.
“Sure I didn’t, honey.” He chuckles. A low rumble, just like thunder. “Whatever you say.”
28
Braden
I pull open the door of the refrigerator and pull out the carton of eggs, a bunch of fresh mixed herbs, and a block of gruyere cheese. The coffee is finishing brewing, but I fill a mug with hot water and let it sit for a minute to warm. Then I turn the stove’s burner to low and place a copper saucepan over the flame so it will heat slowly.
I’m trying to impress her. I realize this with a shock. I run my fingers through my hair, keeping my back towards the counter island where she’s sitting, looking delicious and rumpled in my old t-shirt and a pair of my boxer briefs.
I inhale deeply and realize that her smells are all over me—the creamy notes of her cum mixed up with the sweet musk of her own scent. I release a low growl—like a caged animal I pace towards the coffee, dump the water warming the mug, and pour in the black liquid.
I can’t remember the last time I did this morning ritual for an audience. I can’t remember the last time I brought anyone to stay overnight or cook for them. Not before Jenna. It feels intimate, personal, intimidating and sexy.
Like Jenna.
I turn my head slightly, so I can catch a glimpse of her sitting at the large island in the kitchen. She’s fingering the paper I laid out for her. She’s nervous—I can tell by the way her finger is tapping and playing with the collar of the white shirt—but she’s also glancing over the front page with genuine interest.
I bring the coffee and set it down in front of her. She lifts her head and smiles at me. Her expression is open. For the briefest moment, it feels like we’re just two normal people, and the mess with the FBI and the races feels very far away.
“How do you take it?” I ask, gesturing at the coffee.
She leans forward on the stool, resting her elbows on the island, and putting her hands around the mug. She’s not wearing a bra, and the shirt is loose enough that I glimpse the roundness of her breasts for a moment. She’s not wearing makeup, but somehow looks more striking than ever.
Her hair tumbles around her face in waves. I stare as she moves her mass of dark curls to one side; I can feel the pulse in my neck beginning to race.
She catches me staring and I watch her blush slightly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue before answering me.
“I’d like it with a little cream if you have it, but black is fine if you don’t,” she says.
I nod. This is a quiet moment. That personal exchange of information, which has nothing to do with racing or the industry or betrayal. That has nothing to do with our fucking or sucking, and being pulled towards each other. She just told me how she takes her coffee.
And it feels like the beginning of something.
I clear my throat, take out the cream, and place it front of her. I’m careful not to touch her. I need to get my balance back.
She might be the enemy, I remind myself. She might be my enemy. She could be the end of me; the end of this career I’ve built up through ingenuity and sheer force of will. She could be lying to me—and I’m lying to her.
She might be on my side. This might be the beginning of something; it might be real. It might actually be the most real thing I’ve ever experienced.
Being around Jenna, I feel like I’m behind the wheel of the most powerful machine I’ve ever driven. With her, I hear the constant
purr of the engine. Anticipation floods my body, pushing my senses into overdrive. All I feel is adrenaline; all I think about is strategy. Being with her is like the pure excitement of a race, the feeling of barrelling into the future and leaving everything on the course.
I smile to myself, because the only person who could get this would be Jenna. But we’re not there. I’m not ready to trust this, yet. I have to wait and see what she’s going to do.
The pan is warm. I begin to move, cracking eggs into a bowl.
“What do you think about an omelette for breakfast?” I ask.
“That sounds perfect,” she says, taking a sip of coffee.
“Bread? I have a fresh baguette delivered every morning I know I’ll be here,” I say.
“Of course you do,” she says with a laugh.
I can feel her eyes on me as I whisk the eggs and then tear apart the fresh parsley, basil, and thyme. I shred the gruyere and put it aside. I pour the mixture in the pan.
“He cooks,” she says. I can hear her smiling. It loosens something inside me. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me laugh.
“I cook,” I say, nodding. “I like the kitchen. I like being alone in here and focusing on my cravings as I try to create something simple to satisfy it. It’s like any other kind of inventing process. Just with cooking it’s finding the right combination of flavors to satisfy me.”
“Is that what you feel when you’re tweaking the engine or playing with the design of the car?”
I open my mouth to respond, and then consider my options. This could be, I realize, an opportunity to figure her out. Another exchange of information. I know now how she takes her coffee, she knows now that I cook. I know that she stole from me, but now will she find the words—or will I find the question—that will help me understand if she’s a tool for the Feds or her team. And if she’s not, how and why did she get caught up in this?
She asked a simple question. Do I answer it honestly, in the way of two people learning the contours of each other? In the way couples do at the beginning of an affair?
I lower the heat on the burner and leave the omelette to cook a bit. Then I turn to her, leaning against the counter and we look at each other for a moment. Her green eyes are locked on mine.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve never really thought about it before, but I suppose there are parallels between cooking and the way I approach racing. I’m not sure if I can explain it—”
“Try,” she says.
I nod.
“It’s never about driving, not really. When I race it’s about becoming enveloped in the machine or going so fast you feel one with the wind.” I shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it better than that. It’s not just about speed, but it’s about cutting through the world, whipping between objects so quickly it’s like you’re invisible.
“It’s not like flying—I’ve never been interested in being in the air, I like the feeling of being connected to Earth, but so loosely, it feels otherworldly. A perfect drive is combining the grit of the earth—smell of gasoline, the black tar, sweat pouring down your back—all with the elegance of a dance.”
“That’s what you’re doing with your ‘adjustments.’ You’re trying to streamline the dance?”
“That’s a good way of putting it, yeah. But it’s also more than that.”
I turn back to the pan and sprinkle the cheese over the bed of eggs, a pinch of salt and grind of fresh pepper. I fold the omelette perfectly.
“Or, that’s the racing part, that’s what I’m craving. The other part to it is trying to mix things up to satisfy that craving.” I slide the omelette on to a plate, tear off the heel of the baguette, and place the plate in front of her.
“Eat.”
She breaks into the eggs, bringing a morsel to mouth. I watch her eyes close for a second. She’s smiling.
“This is really good.”
“I know,” I say. We’re both smiling. Then I say, more seriously this time, “I’m glad you like it.”
I clear my throat and I start on my own omelette.
“Don’t stop,” she says. “Keep telling me.”
“Okay,” I start, “what I’m trying to say is the innovation part is the puzzle. It’s not about breaking laws or hurting people, it’s about pushing the industry forward—safely, but also for the sake of it. Inventors don’t always have a grand plan in mind, they are simply trying to improve on the past.”
“I get that,” she says. “I really do. I fell in love with racing because it feels miraculous—how can a lug of a machine cut through air and be maneuvered so beautifully? Watching a race feels the same as watching a beautiful hunt—a pride of lions trying to make it to the prey.” She pauses. “I’ve never articulated that before.”
She opens her mouth to say something. I feel like she’s going to tell me what’s happening. I feel like she’s about to come clean. But she smiles instead.
I’m about to say something to urge her to talk more, challenge her to speak to me, but she speaks first.
“Yours ready, yet? I’m almost done here.”
“Yep,” I say, sliding onto the stool beside her. And then she passes me the butter, and we casually eat together in my kitchen. She can’t know what this is doing to me. I don’t even have the words for it. But I’m suddenly terrified that now that I’ve had this, I won’t be able to let it go. And that could be my undoing.
29
Jenna
I walk out of Braden’s apartment and decide to walk the long way home. For once, my thoughts aren’t racing. I’m moving without a clear purpose, but I’m sure eventually I’ll get home.
I’m waiting for the crosswalk sign to flicker from the orange hand to the blinking white figure when I catch my reflection in the darkened window of a passing black car. I’m smiling to myself, like Mona Lisa or like a girl with a secret. It makes me looking alluring.
The white figure starts blinking and I force myself to move forward. My movement feels lighter than it has in months. I’m not quite floating, but I am relieved.
After all this time worrying about what to do about Braden and myself, I’m starting to feel some clarity. The chorus of questions—“Should I hand over the blueprints?” “Should I perjure myself to the Feds?” “It this feeling between Braden and I real? Or is it lust run wild?”—that rush of voices has quieted down.
I feel sure of him; I feel certain we’re building towards something. Braden and me.
I clap my hand over my mouth and can barely stop myself from laughing and doing a small, quick little skip. Braden made me breakfast. We talked about those things that drive us forward—we both love racing and pushing ourselves and the cars. We both crave that sense of freedom that comes with moving faster than has ever been possible.
The blueprints aren’t mine to handover, I know that now. I want a future with Braden—a real one based on honesty and respect. I want us to challenge each other, yes, but I don’t want to betray him before we’ve even started.
I have to tell him what I did. I have to tell him about taking the prints and about the agent who’s chasing him down. He might never forgive me—but I can’t think about that now.
He might be able to explain himself, though. He might be able to explain why he’s putting himself and our whole sport in jeopardy. He might be able to explain how this isn’t cheating; how he’s not undercutting my team and my job. He might.
He might not, but suddenly I’m not sure how much I care anymore. I want to be with him and sit at the kitchen island and talk with him until we’re both blue in the face and have used every word known to man. I want to understand him completely. I want him to understand me.
I need to get home. I’ll grab the blueprints and race back to his house. I’ll give them to him and ask him to make the right choice for all of us—himself, me, and the racing world. We’ll figure out what that is together.
Raising my hand to my lips, I step to the curb and whistle so loudly other people on the street co
ver their ears and wince. A small child is holding his mother’s hand and looks at me in awe, his small mouth agape. I wink at him and smile, stepping into the street and opening the door of the yellow cab that screeches to a standstill in front of me.
“Step on it,” I tell the cab driver. He takes off, both of us enjoying our turn as characters in the Sunday afternoon movie.
The cabbie pulls on my street and there are cars backed up down the street for miles.
“I can get out here,” I say, taking a wad of bills out of my wallet and pushing them into his hand. I overpaid, but I don’t want to wait. I wanted to be home, blueprints in hand to try to catch Braden before another moment passes.
Suddenly, time feels like it’s moving too fast and I start to run towards home, making a right into the driveway and running headlong into the arms of Agent Harrison.
“Jesus,” he says. “Is there someone chasing you?”
I pull myself backwards, confused for a second. How is this guy here? Why is he here?
Agent Sanchez is standing in front of my door and I watch him walk towards me slowly. He has a toothpick in his mouth. I wonder vaguely if they had lunch in my neighborhood or if they grabbed to sandwiches in the city and ate them on the road.
“You scared me,” I say, taking care to keep my voice steady and light. I pull my wrist from Harrison’s hand. He was gripping my wrist harder than he needed to keep me still. I rub it lightly.
Then I force myself to smile widely. “Did we have an appointment?”
“No,” Sanchez says, coming up to stand next to his partner. They’re a blocking my path to the front door, so I move to the right.
They move with me.
Sanchez smiles down at me. “Sorry to barge in on you, but we understand you have what we need. You have the evidence on Braden, don’t you? We can’t wait anymore for you to, uh,” here he takes the toothpick out of his mouth, “to do the right thing.” His mouth stretches in an approximation of a smile.
The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance Page 97