Wherever It Leads

by Adriana Locke

  “And what are the odds he looks like Fenton and he licks my pussy until I come in his mouth?”

  “My Lord, Pres!” I place my bag next to the chair and strip off my cover-up. I lean back on the chaise and get situated. “Can you be any more descriptive?”

  “I could. Wanna hear?”

  “No.”

  She laughs. “So, was he better than, less than, or equal to that guy you banged on the boat? What was that guy’s name?”

  “The doctor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Connor,” I giggle, thinking back to the cutie I met while he was on vacation. “Connor was great, as you know.”

  “Yes. I’m still pissed you didn’t give me his number.”

  “He went back to Arizona! You don’t date well when they live in Santa Monica, Pres, let alone Scottsdale.”

  “Whatever. Keep going with your story.”

  “Fenton is just . . . How do I explain it, Pres? It’s not about the actual act. It’s more like he builds you up, makes you think about it, and when he finally touches you, it’s like bombs dropping everywhere.”

  “I want bombed.”

  “You don’t even know,” I taunt.

  A long silence extends between us. It’s an awkward kind of lull in the conversation and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Something tells me this discussion is going to make a turn and I’m not going to like it.

  “Hey, Brynne. I have something to tell you . . .”

  And I was right.

  I brace myself. “What?”

  “So, today I went to Pilates and grabbed a bagel, which I know offset—”

  “Pres,” I warn.

  “When I got home, Grant was here.”

  “Why?”

  “He was just sitting on the steps.”

  She has to be kidding me right now.

  “I would’ve hit him in the chest with my stiletto, but I had on sandals.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t really say,” she sighs. “I didn’t know whether to tell you this now or later, but I felt guilty as hell not telling you. I’m such a bad secret keeper.”

  “No,” I croak. “Thank you for telling me.” I slip back against the cushion again and try to find my zen. “He didn’t say what he wanted?”

  “Uh-uh. He just said he wanted to see you. And that he wanted to see you face-to-face.”

  I stare at a passing cloud that looks like a mushroom. It floats through the sky and I try to use it to find some calm.

  I have nothing to say to him and we have nothing in common anymore, unless he wants to tell me what he knows about Brady.

  “I told him you were out of town with a friend,” Presley explains. “I said you were getting a break and that he needed to give you some space.”

  I take a deep breath and watch a man and woman holding hands. They shove each other playfully before he pulls her in for a quick kiss. It looks so easy. Happy.

  Did I ever have that with Grant? Do I even know what that feels like?

  Something stirs inside me.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’m going to lay out in this hot as hell sun and forget all about this little deviation in our conversation.”

  “And wait to get ravaged by the man of both of our dreams.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I want details, Calloway!”

  “Maybe,” I laugh. “Call you later.”

  “And if Mr. Avocado is Fenton’s twin, I’ll call you! Bye!”

  “Bye,” I laugh, shaking my head.

  I plop my earbuds in and find a music app and select a playlist that I use when I’m studying—something calm and relaxing. Closing my eyes, the heat beats down on my tired muscles and fretful mind. I let the music wash over me and picture Fenton’s sexy grin and the feeling of my hands tugging on his thick mane.

  I must have fallen asleep because I’m shocked awake by my phone buzzing in my ears. Scrambling to sit up, I realize I’m still at the pool. I quickly gather my bearings and look at my screen. Fenton.

  Jerking out my earbuds, I swing my feet to the side and press the green button.

  “Hello?” I squint against the sun, trying to figure out how long I’ve been here.

  “Where are you?”

  “The pool,” I say as casually as possible.

  The phone chirps and I look at the screen. FaceTime.

  I glance down at my bikini-clad body.

  Oh. Shit.

  I tap the button.

  He’s looking right at me on the screen. His jaw is pulsing, a vein I hadn’t noticed before throbbing at his temple. He’s not happy.

  “Hey,” I say sweetly, hoping to distract him.

  “Take the phone,” he commands, “And show me your body.”

  “Fenton, wait—”

  “Now.” The grin he gives me is misleading. I grin back. His smile vanishes. “Now, Brynne.”

  I drop the screen to show my body and then pull it up to my face again. ”Relax. No one was getting to see me when you weren’t.”

  When the phone faces me again, he’s not relaxed. He may even be a little worked up. “I’m going to be in the room in twelve minutes. I’m going to suggest you be there in eleven.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Do I look serious?”

  Seriously hot. But I don’t tempt the beast. Not now. Not when he’s looking at me like that.

  “Okay. I’ll see you there,” I say, starting to end the call.

  “Are you hanging up on me?”

  “How do you want me to get appropriately clothed and make it to the room in ten and a half minutes and carry on a discussion with you in the process?”

  “It’s a little late to be concerned with being appropriately clothed, don’t you think?”

  “Will you seriously stop it?” I roll my eyes and it catches him off guard. His eyebrows shoot to the sky and he almost laughs. Almost. “I’m sitting back here by myself and relaxing. It’s not like I’m walking around, trying to pick up dick.”

  “It’s a good fucking thing.”

  “Fine.” I sit the phone down and grab my cover-up. I pull it on and grab my bag. He’s talking from the chair but I ignore him. He wants to be a baby, I’ll treat him like a baby.

  “Brynne!”

  “What?” I say, exasperated, jerking the phone to my face. I give him the look I give Presley when I’m trying to study and she won’t leave me alone. The look that says, You’re being stupid and I don’t even want to deal with you. Our eyes lock and a grin tugs at his lips. The lines on his face smooth out, his irritation melting before my eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Get your ass to the room and I’m going to show you just how ridiculous I can be.”

  “It’s about fucking time,” I say. “I was starting to think you were all talk and no action.”

  “What the . . .” he stumbles, making me laugh.

  “I’ll see you in nine.”

  “Bry—”

  “Eight and a half. Don’t be late,” I wink and end the call. The look on his face, the one of pure bewilderment, is worth whatever he says when we get up there.

  An elevator is open and waiting for me, like the heavens above know I need to beat Fenton back to the suite. My sandal-clad feet slap against the floor. Two women dressed like high-end hookers give me disgusted looks and I shoot them my sweetest smile just to piss them off. It works.

  I watch the floor numbers change in super slow motion.

  My mind is buzzing with possibilities.

  My room key card is ready in my hand when I get to the end of the hall and it shakes as I swipe it through the reader and hear the door unlatch.

  He’s here.

  I can sense him. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne, feel the heaviness of the air when he’s around. The door closes softly behind me, the sound, however faint, still making me jump. I have no idea what I’m walking into, but I know something’s off. Something has him more aggress
ive than I’ve seen him, and while it’s hotter than hell to see him all worked up, I still have enough sense to play it safe.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I tiptoe into the living room and halt as soon as I see him standing in front of the windows. His shoulders are stiff, one arm brings a tumbler to his lips. Dressed in a jet-black suit and tie, he looks like he’s straight out of Central Casting—the dapper, powerful businessman in his high-rise.

  I rest my bag on the floor. The towel tucked inside makes it lopsided and it falls to the side. My lip gloss goes tumbling across the tile. Fenton wheels around.

  “You’re late,” he says, taking another drink.

  “You’re early.” I throw him a shrug and try to downplay that I read his frustration.

  “I said twelve minutes.”

  “And I found running through the casino and shoving people out of my way to make some insane timeline a little embarrassing. So deal with it.”

  He wants to smile. I can tell. But he doesn’t. He takes another drink instead. Pulling the tumbler away from his lips, he narrows his eyes. “Come here.”

  It’s a command and one I can’t—and don’t want to—ignore. I sashay across the room and stop a few feet in front of him. He places the glass on the table, his eyes never leaving mine.

  My chest rises and falls like crazy, the anticipation of the moment driving me insane. He’s doing what he does—drawing out the excitement. It’s a torturous, potent method and altogether successful.

  He takes my hand and instead of pulling me into his arms or into the bedroom, he walks to the windows. A black leather bench is placed in the center of the wall of windows. It hasn’t been there before. Before I can ponder that, he speaks.

  “Put your knees on the bench and face the glass.”

  “What?” I look at him and his eyes are as calm as I’ve ever seen them.

  Instead of answering me, he lifts me up and sits me on the bench. “Hold on.”

  My throat is scalding as I pass a swallow. My breathing is hitched as I do as instructed and grab the edge of the leather.

  The glass allows me to see his reflection if I look at it the right way. I hear his belt pull from around his waist, the crispness of his jacket as he slips from inside it. Each movement, every sound, heightens my senses, and I can barely take it.

  “Fenton . . .” I look at him over my shoulder. He’s naked, his body not just formed, but created. Sculpted. Chiseled to perfection. He’s not overly muscled, but defined in a way that makes me want to touch him, worship him.

  He stands behind me, his cock sitting against my ass. I exhale a breath that comes out in a heated gush, the feeling of his hardness against my body leveling me up about six notches. I arch my back, pressing myself against him.

  His hand wraps in my hair, tugging my head back. He captures my mouth with his, his tongue stroking mine in long, possessive marks. I moan into his mouth, soaking in every sensation as it comes.

  “Face the window,” he orders, his tone soft but unwavering.

  My thighs are gripped by a set of strong hands. He squeezes me just under the cheeks of my ass before drawing them up my back, letting the cover-up roll up to my shoulder blades. My skin shivers at the onslaught of cool air and his heavy hands, a contradiction that’s divine.

  He finds the sides of my bikini bottoms and hooks his fingers beneath them. Slowly, he drags them down my hips and legs. I lift my knees so he can remove them completely. Glancing over my shoulder again, he’s watching me, my bottoms pressed to his face.

  “I love the smell of you,” he rumbles before tossing them to the side and saddling up behind me again. He palms his cock and sets it against my opening, spreading my wetness around. “You’re so fucking wet.”

  “For you.”

  “For me,” he breathes. “Now look at the glass.”

  I watch his face in the reflection. His eyes find mine as his cock kisses my pussy. He presses deliciously slow, taking his precious time, and I moan as my body expands, letting him enter.

  “You’re so damn tight,” he groans, biting his bottom lip.

  I squeeze the leather, my knuckles beginning to turn white, as my body makes room for his size. His cock inches in, my body wrapping around it like a glove. Each movement sends a new shock wave of sensation through my body, and it’s not long before I have to close my eyes and focus on the feeling.

  “Does that feel good?” he asks, his hands digging into my hips.

  “So good,” I mutter through clenched teeth as he hits the back of me. He draws his cock out again, as gradually as he entered. Before I expect it, he pushes into me with one quick thrust. “Ah!”

  He’s out and in again before I can comprehend it. My body squeezes his cock as he glides into me.

  “Is this what you wanted today when you were out parading yourself around the pool?”

  “Yes!” I nearly shout, arching my back so his cock hits the spot in the back of my vagina. “This is exactly what I wanted! Fuck!”

  His hands move from my hips to the tops of my cheeks and he rubs them while driving into me. “You are so beautiful. Do you know that? Seeing you like this—displayed for me like this—is every man’s dream.”

  Feeling like this is every woman’s dream, but I can’t find words. I can only find the ledge from which I’m about to jump.

  With each stroke, he hits the spot that drives me insane. Each thrust presses me closer to an orgasm that I’m desperate to experience.

  I rock back against him, our bodies in total sync. The sound of our skin, tacky with sweat, heated with desire, smacking each other echoes through the suite.

  My arms begin to shake, my legs feeling heavy. The pressure in my core starts to boil, the muscles in my pussy spasming.

  “I’m going to come, Fenton,” I warn, gripping the leather so I don’t fall face-first against the bench.

  His pace quickens, his cock swelling inside me. My pussy instinctively begins to milk it, clenching around his length.

  “Fuck, Brynne!” he shouts, his grip moving to my shoulders.

  I roll my head back, the orgasm uncoiling in my body and shooting through every cell. My moan ricochets off the glass, and as my head falls forward, I catch a glimpse of Fenton. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lips in a tight line as he, too, finds his release.

  He presses into me, a small smile slinking over his lips. The look sends another ripple of orgasmic bliss through me and I shake as the high begins to even out, and then, as he slides out and back in again, settles.

  As he pulls out, I nearly topple forward. He catches me around my middle and draws me back into him. I look up at his handsome face and he just grins. No words are said, but none need to be. Our smiles say it all.

  One of Fenton’s t-shirts drapes my body as I come out of the master ensuite. Unlike last night, I’m not self-conscious or at all unsure about what to do. Maybe it’s that we finally had sex or maybe it’s that Fenton had to leave again as soon as we finished earlier and I got to spend some time soaking everything in.

  He makes me smile. I feel desired and protected and considered. I know he’d never hurt me; I see it in his eyes. He’s kind and compassionate, and I’ve enjoyed the start to our little getaway. I’ve enjoyed him.

  When I come around the corner to the living room, I stutter-step. He’s standing in the middle of the room, typing away on his phone.

  “I didn’t know you were back,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Just got here,” he says. He finishes whatever he’s doing and shuts his phone down before looking at me. “Did you just take a bath?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I breathe, “And it was fantastic. But it would’ve been better if you were in it with me.”

  “We can take another. Maybe the hot water would be good for my neck.” He cups the back of neck and winces.

  “I’m taking it you had a bad day?”

  “Well, you can say that. Or you can say today was a disaster. Whatever word you want to use would s
uffice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll accept your apology.”

  I toss him a baffled look. “I’m sorry you had a bad day. I’m not actually apologizing. What would I be apologizing for?”

  “For wearing that bikini again without me.”

  “Is that still bothering you?”

  “Yes, that’s still bothering me. It’s worse now, actually.”

  I grin. “And why is that?”

  “Because now I know what you feel like under that strip of fabric and I don’t want anyone else thinking about it.”

  “Get over it, Fent,” I laugh.

  He shifts his weight. “I remember having a discussion that you wouldn’t go out like that without me. And then you go off and nullify our agreement.”

  “You told me not to wear it,” I say, smiling sweetly. “And that, Mr. Abbott, is not a discussion or an agreement. That’s you being an asshole and me choosing to ignore you.”

  That does it. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is that what happened?”

  “I’m a grown woman. If I want to wear a bikini to a pool, I will. I don’t need your approval to do that. And if you want the truth, you telling me not to is probably going to guarantee I do it again just to prove a point. Although,” I tease, “I do kinda like you not wanting anyone else to see me. So I’ll take that under consideration next time.”

  “Next time?”

  “Yes. Next time.”

  “You’re frustrating.”

  “So it’s been said. Now,” I say, switching topics, “Let’s discuss why your day was so bad otherwise. What happened?”

  Only because I’m paying attention do I see his shoulders drop a touch forward. It’s a sign of defeat—or at least a battle he’s taking a hit in. I have no idea what to say because I have no idea why he’s even here in Vegas. Something about the way he stands, his posture, the distant look in his eye makes him seem lonely.

  I move across the room without saying a word and grab his hand. He watches me with uncertain eyes, but lets me usher him to the bedroom.

  My heart thumps wildly, his hand so warm and strong against mine. He holds it possessively and I vaguely wonder if this goes back to the bikini conversation—to him asserting his control—but I dismiss it. I’ll think about that later. Right now, I want to make him feel, just like he did to me last night.