Wherever It Leads

by Adriana Locke

  “Yes,” I say honestly. “I did. He was the first guy I ever thought I loved. We were together for a long time and I thought we’d be married.”

  “How long have you been apart?”

  “Almost a year now.”

  Fenton leans forward, looking me straight in the eye. “Do you still love him?”

  “I don’t know.” He doesn’t respond, just sits there and waits for me to expound. “I did love him. And I definitely don’t feel like that now.” I think to the cloud hanging over him being involved with Brady’s disappearance, and I know I could never love him like that again. “But maybe once you love someone, you always do in a way. I don’t know. But would I go back to him? Would I want to be with him again? No. There’s just too much that’s happened.”

  “Like what?”

  “He had issues with money. He’d tell lots of little white lies and that drove me crazy. It got to the point where I second guessed everything he said, no matter how stupid. He cheated on me,” I say, rushing over the topic. “My brother is messed up in some things and Grant might be involved somehow. I don’t know.”

  “And you thought you’d marry this guy?” he snorts. “Come on, Brynne. You seem smarter than that.”

  I shrug, feeling put on the spot. “Love blurs things. I’m sure you know that.”

  He laughs, patting his lips with his linen napkin. “So I’ve heard.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never been in love.”

  “Come on, Fenton,” I roll my eyes, tossing his words back at him. “I’m smarter than that.”

  He runs his bottom lip between his teeth, his smile hidden in his eyes. He’s amused at my retort, but I’m not sure it’s going to make him tell me anything.

  “I’m not sure I believe in love at all,” he says finally.

  “What? How can you not believe in love? It’s as real as the air we breathe or the water we drink!”

  “No, those things are quantifiable. Love is . . .” he sighs. “If love is real, it’s simply a comfort level in a relationship built on a network of dually respected qualities and preferences. It’s two people that both acknowledge they like most of the same things and enjoy being with the other person and, eventually, they agree to just do those things together. They have a different capacity for feelings for that person over most others. Maybe that’s what everyone calls love.”

  “No,” I protest. “It’s more than that. It’s chemistry. Someone making you want to be a better person. A willingness to put someone else before you. A feeling of not being able to breathe without the other person at your side. A feeling of . . . completion.”

  He presses his lips together in amusement. “And this ex-boyfriend of yours did those things for you? How is that? How did his lies make you feel complete? How did his needing to borrow money from you make you feel like he put you above himself?”

  “What?” I hiss. I’m appalled and affronted and embarrassed in the same moment. How does this man think he knows who I love or how I love? I’m not going to defend the way I love to anyone.

  “If love exists,” he quips, his voice gruff, “Then it should be something that’s given out after thoughtful consideration.”

  “Love exists,” I insist, “And it’s given out because you can’t not.”

  “Let me tell you something,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “I’ve had women say they love me before. And those same women confessed their undying devotion to me based on a façade I present them. They know what it feels like to have an orgasm at my hands. They know what it’s like to go to a fancy dinner on my arm or spend a weekend in a city while I work. But those women, those same women that ‘love’ me, know nothing about me. And do they care?” he shrugs, amped up by his little speech. “No. They don’t. Because while they profess their love for me, they’re really in love with what I offer them and that has nothing to do with me.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I smirk. “I guess it’s good for you that I’m not looking for love. Just a good time.”

  “No, that’s good for you because a great time is all I’m giving you.”

  We’re both breathing hard, impassioned by our debate. When the waiter clears his throat, we both jump.

  “Can I get you anything else?” he asks, looking from Fenton, to me, back to Fenton.

  “No, I think we’re done here.” Fenton looks at me with raised eyebrows and I nod. I’m too worked up to eat. The last couple of days have had me on edge, and this little exchange has me riled up yet again.

  The only thing I need is a break from the anxiety, a way to settle down. And the key to that sits with the gorgeous, frustrating man staring at me from across the table.

  The server scurries away.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, scooting his seat back and coming around the table. He takes my hand and brings me to my feet. The corners of his lips turn and there’s no denying that question is filled with innuendo.

  “Maybe.”

  He chuckles, pressing a palm in the small of my back, urging me towards the entrance. “You better be,” he rasps. “You better be ready for what I’m going to do to you. And if you aren’t, you shouldn’t have worn this dress.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, smiling politely at a man holding a door open for us. When we walk through, I lower my voice so only he can hear. “I won’t fall in love with you.”

  My heels click against the tile and echo off the walls. The only other sounds are my labored breathing and the door shutting behind me.

  The serenity of the suite has been replaced with a feeling of uncontained lust. I can smell it, taste it, and above all else, I can feel it. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, my hands trembling in anticipation, I listen in the darkness for Fenton.

  When his hand finds the small of my back, I startle. He guided me in the same way all the way to the room, but now, alone, in the darkness, it feels completely different. His touch now, as he presses me forward into the living area of the suite, is intimate, yet needy.

  I feel Fenton’s hot breath on my neck right below my ear. He doesn’t touch me, just brings his lips close enough so that if I leaned in, they’d touch. But I don’t. There’s something entirely sexy about feeling him this close that I close my eyes and anticipate the moment when he starts something he’s going to have to finish.

  I need that. I need a release from the build-up of this moment, a crescendo that started at the banana display days ago. Making it worse is that I haven’t quite lost the fire from the conversation in the restaurant and I’m about to spill over.

  His palm flattens against me and he takes a step closer until his hard body is up against my back. He slides his hands roughly over my sides, dragging them across my abdomen. They join at my navel and push down my middle, marking my body in some way I can’t fathom.

  I feel my breath catch as he glides over the apex of my thighs and then reverses, leisurely retracing his path like he has all the time in the world. His touch leaves me struggling for air. The heat from his mouth, lingering on my skin, drifts across my neck and my head falls back against his chest, taking in the masculine scent, adding it to the overstimulation.

  I’m going to lose it.

  Whirling me to face him, I’m caught off guard. We are face to face, his eyes burning into mine.

  I need him. Now.

  Rising on my tiptoes, I try to bring my mouth to his, but he backs away slowly, smirking, and it occurs to me what he’s doing. He’s teasing me, torturing me, just like I tried to do to him when he left this afternoon.

  He’s turning the tables.

  Oh. Shit.

  He chuckles at my realization and winks, letting me know I’m right without me ever asking.

  “Don’t you dare,” I warn.

  He draws across my lips with the pad of his thumb. “Just know that it’s eating me that I’m not eating you.”

  My mouth drops open, a breathy moan toppling out. The sound makes his eyes widen and I see the struggle in the
grey irises. I exhale again as I watch, with bated breath, as his control wanes.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper, desire dripping off each syllable. Before I can react further, his lips are on mine, his large hands coupling the sides of my head. His tongue finds mine, brushing against it, teasing it, tempting it. It’s not so much a kiss but an intricate dance—one I’m clearly not leading.

  He takes my hand and leads me to the sofa near the window. He drags me through the space, nearly knocking me off my heels, but I don’t complain. This is what I wanted. The faster the better. He sits on a plush sofa by the windows. Taking both of my hands in his, he positions me in front of him.

  The light coming through the glass is muted. He’s features are half-hidden in the shadows, but I can still make out the broodiness of his eyes, the ticking of his jaw. His chest is rising and falling as quickly as mine.

  He drops my hands, resting his elbows on his knees as a wicked smirk plays on his lips. My core burns with a desire that’s been allowed to burn for far too long. And the way he looks at me only adds more fuel to the fire. He, on the other hand, looks like there is no hurry at all.

  He sweeps across my body. From head-to-toe, he takes in every inch of me.

  “Take your dress off.”

  I flush at the huskiness of his voice, the deep timbre that’s still smooth, yet now has a touch of grit.

  “You’ve teased me all day. You’ve allowed other men to see your tight little body while I had to sit in a boardroom. It’s my turn.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he forces a swallow, keeping himself contained. “Take it off now, Brynne.”

  Holding his gaze as my hands travel to the back of my neck, I feel for the zipper, the coolness a contrast to the red-hot look Fenton is giving me. Drawing the zipper down my back, I feel it hit the end. As I tip my shoulders forward, the dress drapes off my frame and bunches at my hips. I let my hands skirt my body from my breasts, roaming my curves until they hit the fabric. I push it down until it pools at my feet.

  His eyes widen, but never leave mine.

  “Step out of it,” he commands.

  I do as asked. Dressed only in matching yellow panties and bra and a pair of nude heels, I step to the side and into a pool of light from the window. I’m inches away from him. I could reach out and touch him if I dared.

  “I’m going to need your assurance that you won’t be parading around in a bikini without me again.” It’s not so much a command, although it most definitely is. But the feel of it is more of an accolade to my body and I can’t help but smile.

  A giggle escapes my lips. Sashaying my hips, the action catching his attention, I move until I’m standing directly in front of him. Energy radiates off him, the sliver of space between us boiling over.

  “Brynne?” His chin tilts so that he’s looking up at me. He doesn’t move to touch me, just waits on my response to his ridiculous request.

  “Fenton,” I tease.

  A growl is his response.

  “Are you jealous?” I purr. “You haven’t even had me yet and you’re already thinking no one else should see me? How silly.”

  “How do you not want me to be jealous? You’re beautiful and sexy and I have. To. Work. If I think someone else is getting to enjoy you, even just visually, when I can’t, it’s going to drive me insane.”

  I take a deep breath, the air infused with testosterone and his cologne, a heady, complicated mixture that causes synapses to misfire. With a slight hesitation, knowing this is the point of no return, I reach out. My hands find the back of his head, my fingers winding in his thick, inky locks. His shoulders rise and fall as his breathing picks up pace. Encouraged, I straddle one of his legs.

  “I can feel the heat off you,” he rasps. “You are so fucking hot.”

  “Am I?” Ever so slowly, I bend until our faces are level and my lips find his. He tastes of heat and wine, a delicate blend of flavors that will always be my favorite. Our mouths move together, a soft kiss quickly turning ravenous. I squat just enough so my pussy brushes against his leg and that’s all it takes.

  He starts to stand, but I’m not done. I’m not ready for the moment he takes control—and I know it’s going to happen. It’s inevitable. He’s dying to flip me over; I feel the need rolling off him. Fingers clenched at his sides, he struggles to maintain his composure.

  I press my hands on his shoulders, my lips still working against his, but he powers through my objection and is quickly looming over me. I hiccup a breath, the exhale coming out in short, sputtered wisps.

  An unapologetic smirk stretches across his swollen lips. “I think it’s time you get to know the real me.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That means you get to see the things I’ve wanted to do to you since I saw your picture on your phone. You get to see the me that’s not watered down for public consumption. Are you ready for that?”

  Straightening my shoulders, I smile. “It’s about time.”

  A knowing look crosses his face. “Turn around.”

  When I fail to move, his large hands find my hips, rougher than before. He guides me into a half-circle until I’m facing the wall of windows.

  “Don’t move,” he whispers against my ear.

  I feel him walk away. The energy that surrounds him is gone, the air around me cooling immediately. I’m afraid to turn around, so I stand in my lingerie and heels and watch the lights blink outside. A few minutes later, I hear him moving about the room and then sense him behind me again. I listen closely, but hear nothing, and then, in a move that causes me to jump, I feel his hot breath on my shoulder.

  He places a trail of kisses up the ridge of my shoulder to my neck and up to my ear. I toss my head to the side, giving him unbridled access. I need this contact. I need his touch. My entire body hums with desire, a ball of pent-up energy is wound so tight I think I’ll lose control as soon as he touches me for real.

  “I want you to remember one thing,” he whispers.

  “Mmm . . .”

  “This is for you.”

  “What?” I start to turn to face him, but he’s behind me again.

  His arms stretch around me, his torso pressed against my back. A piece of silk dangles in his hands. “I’m going to put this over your eyes.”

  “Why?” I ask, trying to turn and see him.

  “Trust me.”

  I half-laugh. “I don’t trust you. I barely know you.”

  “Then consider this an exercise in trust.”

  I’m bewildered. This is not the carnal fucking I expected. This is not the bent-over-a-chair-and-getting-rammed that I had imagined. I don’t know what to think, how to process this.

  He lifts the fabric over my eyes. My hands reach for it immediately.

  “Trust me, Brynne. If something gets uncomfortable, all you have to do is say so. But I promise you, you’ll enjoy this.” His mouth is right against my skin. “Tonight is all about you.”

  Flustered, I drop my hands.

  He ties the fabric at the back of my head and I can’t see anything. I can sense the light from the windows that I know is in front of me, but I can’t actually make anything out. I fight to control my breathing, to fill my lungs and blow it out evenly to deter the panic that’s starting to bubble in my stomach.

  I feel his hands at the clasp of my bra and then the lacy fabric falling to my front. I shrug it off and it falls to the floor.

  Fenton’s fingertips stroke my bare back, the rough pads of his fingers blazing a trail of goosebumps in their wake as they move up and down my spine. I move against him without thought, arching my back, leaning into him. Not being able to see makes his touch that much more potent.

  I gasp when his path traces around my ribs and he cups my breasts in his hands. His thumbs massage my nipples as he lays kisses from one shoulder blade, across the back of my neck, to the other. I moan at the contact, my pussy throbbing. I need a release like I’ve never needed one before. My hand slips beneath the lace of my panties and he stops
me immediately.

  “No, Brynne.”

  “Fenton, please. I’m dying.”

  “You aren’t dying. You’re feeling.” His hand replaces mine at the hem of my panties. My breath hitches in my throat as one hand rolls a nipple and the other applies pressure on my clit.

  “Fenton,” I plead, my head falling to his chest. “Please.”

  “Do you feel that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not the pressure. Not the pleasure. Do you feel how much I want you?” His hips roll against me, his cock, rock fucking hard, pressing against my ass. “Do you feel how desired you are? How beautiful, how sexy I think you are?”

  My brain scrambles, his husky voice invading every brain cell I managed to keep clear. I can’t respond, only moan as bursts of pleasure wind through me.

  In one swift movement, he steps away. We aren’t touching at all. I search for something to tell me he’s around, but I get nothing. Across the room, I hear something crackle.

  “Fenton?” I ask, looking towards the direction of the sound but not seeing through the silk.

  He doesn’t answer, but in a few seconds, he’s behind me again. He takes my hand and guides me forward until my knees hit something hard. I rack my brain and remember a table with a few books that sat off to the side of the sofa.

  “Climb up there on your hands and knees.”

  “I can’t see.”

  “You don’t need to see.” He tugs me gently forward and I amble on top of the heavy stone piece of furniture. “Get on your hands and knees.”

  I do as instructed, my face, I’m sure, is as red as the piece of silk over my eyes. I try to block out what I must look like in my panties and heels, spread out like this.

  “Fuck,” he mutters. “You have no idea how gorgeous you are.”

  “Fenton, I . . .” A buzzing sound rips through the room, startling me. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to enjoy watching you enjoy this.”

  I gasp as he rips my panties off in one tear before the vibrator touches my pussy, the sensation just what I’ve been needing. I rock back against it and he pulls it back, controlling the pressure. One hand presses against the small of my back, holding me still, and he swirls the wand against my opening.