He’s watched over me and my brother ever since he started working for the company; he’s my driver and head of security. He understands the open-mindedness and moral flexibility needed to work with people like us. He’s always been there as a kind of father figure, but right now I don’t want him here.
“I said, get the fuck out.”
His footsteps grow closer, but I can’t push off my arms enough to get off the ground.
“Settle down. Let me help you.” He urges.
Putting his hands under my arms, he pulls to lift me, and I draw my legs under me to stand.
I turn to meet his face, looking down, since I’m the taller of the two of us.
“I’m alone in this. You can’t help. So don’t ask questions. Please.”
I’m sincere. I don’t want to hurt the people I love. I don’t want to be so unhinged, but I can’t stop the fallout, and nobody is safe around me.
“Okay. I won’t push, but Luca, you don’t get to self-destruct. Not anymore.”
My gaze falters. I understand what he means. I have more than just myself to think about. I have Ella.
“I’m trying, George. I am.” I pat his shoulder as I pass him. “For what it’s worth, thank you.”
George is one of the few people who can guess my thoughts and knows just how malleable my view is on morality. So, if he sees me heading toward destruction, chances are I’m already there.
I drag my ass out of the gym and back to my room, not even bothering to shower. Instead, I collapse onto my bed, wincing as my busted knuckles graze the fabric.
After all is said and done, I’m back where I started, in my empty bed thinking about forgiveness and justice. Or maybe I’m just thinking of the girl who keeps telling me what I need to hear.
I’ve only spoken to Gretchen three times: once at the restaurant where she brazenly flirted with me; second at my brother’s family gathering to celebrate his elopement; and tonight. But every time I find myself being just that—myself.
No mask of charm or flash of congeniality. I just say the ugly, mangled thoughts floating around in my head, and she never backs away or even thinks I’m strange. I toe off my shoes and roll to grab my phone off the nightstand.
“Boss,” my tech guy answers.
“Get me a personal cell number. Gretchen Andrews, works at the Cohen Management Team. Text me.”
There’s no need for chatting. He’s more task oriented than people friendly.
“Will do. Should only take a few minutes.”
I disconnect, lying back to stare at the ceiling. I know it’s the wrong move—the worst fucking idea—but I don’t care. I owe Shelby nothing.
The minute the text arrives, I open and press the number to add it to my contacts. “What’s the plan, Luca?” I whisper to myself.
There isn’t a plan of action, there’s only impulse and desire—the two worst idea makers. I just want to talk to her…and keep talking to her.
She’s trouble though. It’s those eyes and those gorgeous lips—I can’t get them out of my mind. Especially when I picture her mouth around my cock and those beautiful eyes looking up at me while she sucks me off.
Tugging my sweats down, I grip my dick, pulling roughly toward my stomach, and the first wave of sensation draws my balls up, producing a groan from my lips.
All I picture is her mouth sucking and licking the tip of my dick as her hands roam over my stomach and then around to grip my ass. Her hungry eyes are begging for more of my cock.
“Say it,” I demand from her.
“Please,” she purrs as I feed my cock to her inch by inch until I can feel the back of her throat.
“Suck.” She licks from the base to the tip and wraps one hand around my dick while she sucks me off, head bobbing and her cheeks drawing inward, so greedy for my cum.
The picture plays out in my mind.
Me fucking Gretchen’s luscious mouth while she sits submissively on her knees. I grip the edge of the bed, my other hand moving faster, jacking harder. My hips push into the pressure as I drown in my fantasy. I groan, biting down, straining against the power of my orgasm as I’m held still by my hot seed shooting out onto my stomach.
A long breath exhales from my lips, and my body relaxes for only a minute because I know that every fucking time I jerk off to thoughts of her, it will only serve to make me want to fuck her more. I tug my sweats back on, over my dick, stand, and make my way to the bathroom to wash myself off, rinsing off the evidence of my obsession.
THE BUZZING FROM THE PHONE on my nightstand hasn’t stopped. I know it’s Drew because she’s the only person who would call me incessantly on a Saturday morning. Without bothering to look, I fumble around, and slap at my phone until the speaker engages.
“I’ll kill you.”
“I texted, but you didn’t answer.” Her chipper voice is irritatingly happy.
“Shouldn’t that be enough of a deterrent?” I grumble under my covers.
“Come on. Get up,” she sings.
“Why do you sound like you’ve hit the lottery? We have to break up. This is a hard limit for me. Mornings are for sleeping through.”
I open my eyes and sit up, kicking at my covers like I’m bearing a grudge. I blame them for not keeping me in my slumber.
“Meet me at our spot?” she asks.
“I hate you.” My words are met with her laughter. “I’m drawing a line in the sand, and I am not getting out of this bed, Drew.”
“Fine. Be a grump, but call me later…and you’re welcome for the early wake-up call. Maybe you can use all this extra time to fucking unpack.”
“Such a foul mouth for a beauty queen.”
She blows a raspberry into the phone, and I hang up. I really do hate her in this moment. Because now I’m awake at eight in the morning on a Saturday, with no hope of going back to sleep.
Opening the french doors that separate my bedroom from the rest of my apartment, I survey the large room full of boxes, a deep red velvet couch, and a television. I’ve lived here for over a month, so my acceptable laziness level has reached the statute of limitations. I just never have the time—I live at work; I just sleep here. I should’ve hired people to unpack me. Hindsight, you’re a twat.
My kitchen is open to the main room, separated only by a marble-topped island. I pad around it and stand surveying my wine fridge, also known as my regular fridge. I’m reminded of my failure at an essential life skill because it lacks all the food. Looks like I’m ordering in.
Half an hour later, I’ve got the most delicious breakfast burrito, a coffee, and a marathon of Real Housewives. This early-morning thing isn’t so bad. I may just keep it going for the whole day. Thank god for take-out, technology and shitty television.
As I devour my food, I shoot a text to Lyla wondering what we are doing tonight. She’d mentioned meeting for drinks at this posh little bar downtown that has a bluesy feel and an incredible bar menu.
My phone vibrates and I crane my neck to see what it says.
Lyla: Wanna double?
“What?” I say to myself, reaching for my phone and opening the whole message.
Lyla: Wanna double? ‘Super sweet guy’ asked me out again and I think I want to go, but his friend is in town…sooo. Don’t say no.
Me: But you sold him so well the first time, I can only imagine how incredible his friend is. I think I’d rather stay home and schedule a lobotomy.
Lyla: I said, don’t say no.
Me: And I didn’t say no, I said I have surgery scheduled…on my brain.
Lyla: If you don’t come. I will never speak to you again.
Jesus, she’s so twenty-three. Originally, it was me and Blair plus Lyla. Then Blair canceled for something with clients, and I felt bad canceling too. So now I’m stuck.
Me: Fingers crossed because friends don’t offer friends garbage.
Lyla: I’ll buy all your drinks and your bar food.
Me: Yes…now we’re talking. Sold. But I reserve the right to bail if shit
gets sketchy, and I’m taking you with me!
Lyla: Mwah. Deal.
What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
I spend the morning unpacking my house and watching reality television. Mostly just watching television. I stand for a moment, looking around me wondering if I’m ever going to lady up and just fucking unpack. I can’t keep living in denial.
The reality is that the thought of discovering tiny little emotional bombs is too much. I roll my shoulders and shake out my arms to rid myself of the emotion, the panic.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get to a place where I’m ready to dig through these boxes. There are too many reminders from when Dad was alive. From when he was here to help me through a shit situation. From when his hugs seemed to fix all.
I could really use his hugs right about now. Fuck this. I walk to the box that my purse is perched and grab it, then throw on my flip-flops and head out of the door. I’m not emotionally ready. One day I will be.
But until then, I will spend the ridiculously large paycheck I make on a new outfit for tonight instead of searching those fucking boxes.
I live in a cute trendy little area not far from a row of shops that will have something perfect for tonight. I meander my way toward the clothing stores, looking inside windows and loving the warmth of the day. I spy a shop that has some really cute vintage stuff and take the plunge, opening the door to enter, my presence announced by the ding of a bell.
“Hi.” The salesgirl is super friendly, and I smile back, then direct my attention almost instantly to a dress hanging in the back.
I make a beeline for the slinky deep blue number with Sally Sales on my heels.
“Can I try this one, please?” I ask.
“You’re going to look amazing—he won’t know what hit him.”
I always think it’s weird when people say things like that. I always want to correct them and say it’s for me, never him. But instead, I smile and move on to some rock tees. I’m elbow-deep in my perusal when my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
“Hello,” I answer without looking, squeezing the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“You sound different than I thought you would…”
Holy shit. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the number. It’s unknown. I stand there silent, not knowing what to say. My eyes are bugging out of my head. This can’t actually be Luca. Why would he be calling me?
His deep voice fills my ear, “This is when you say something about me sounding exactly the same and then call me the wrong name.”
I smile and stifle a giggle at his joke.
“That’s hilarious. Does Drew know you’re this funny, Dom?”
I hear his throaty laugh, and the smile tugs at my lips again.
“Sorry, I was surprised. It’s not every day that I get a call from someone I’ve never given my number to.” I tease still a bit shell shocked.
“It’s hard for me to believe men don’t try and track you down.”
“I typically try to establish better boundaries. It’s a rare occasion I speak to a man the next day. No need.” I joke but he doesn’t answer right away, and I begin to fidget.
“Ah, the ways of a playa.” I can hear his smile.
“Just hate the game.”
“You’re funny.” His statement is said almost as if he isn’t even speaking to me, but I answer him anyway.
“I feel like everyone knows this. Did you call to feed my ego?” Silence stretches between us. I was joking, but the realness behind the question lingers, making me push for an answer. “Luca? Why are you calling me?”
“I’m still deciding.”
“You do that a lot.” My exact thought spills from my mouth.
“What?” He questions.
“Brood,” I answer.
He laughs, deep and sexy. “I do. But…I didn’t really think this through. I just wanted to talk to you. Is that weird?”
Yes? No? I don’t care.
“No. Maybe? I guess it depends on why?”
“You seem to be the one person that tells me what’s real. And you don’t scare away from what it means. I could use some of that right now.”
He wants a friend. The thought is insane. He’s surrounded by people, all who love him. We’re practically strangers—and he’s calling me.
“What about your brothers?” I ask. It’s not that I don’t believe him, it’s just unbelievable.
“They tell me what I want to hear or what will keep me from going off the rails.” He breathes out into the phone. It sounds defeated, frustrated. “Tell me something. Something about you.”
I hear the movement of fabric in the background and imagine he’s lying on a pillow. His voice, his attention, it makes it feel like we’re in a bubble. It’s disarming and inviting.
“I can’t unpack the boxes in my house because the memories inside of them make me so sad that I feel like I’m going to drown in them.” My confession surprises me.
But I also feel relief to have said it out loud. And a part of me wants to give him something as raw as he’s shared with me.
“Why? What’s in the boxes?” he questions. Despite this being the strangest conversation I’ve ever had, it feels exactly like what I need.
“Things from my dad. He died a few months ago,” I offer, feeling the grief begin to close in again. I sit back against the table of tees. “It never really goes away, the sadness.”
“When my parents died, I never wanted the pain to go away. I would force myself to remember all the details each night. Like how the doctor described their injuries, or how everyone reassured us that they didn’t suffer. We knew they had. I forced myself to relive it every night, and especially if I caught myself being happy because I felt like if the grief dulled, then I didn’t love them.” His words resonate deep inside my broken heart.
“You’ll always love them, but your misery was all you had. Like the last connection to your love. I get it. Survivor’s guilt.”
“Yes.” More silence stretches between us, and I rush to fill the space, greedy for more of his words.
“Who do you want to punish?” I ask in a hushed voice, bringing back his question to me from last night.
“Who says I don’t want to forgive?” Lies.
“You. I hear what you mean, Luca, not just what you say.” I see him, really see him. But he doesn’t belong to me. I just wish he did.
The line is muted silence, and I look back to the phone face to see if the call dropped. “Luca…” I pause, worrying that I’ve overstepped. I’m not so ridiculously ruled by my crush that I don’t recognize a person in pain. I want to help him, if I can.
“Promise me you’ll forgive me.” His voice is so sincere in the request that it throws me for a moment.
“For what?” I ask, confusion evident in my voice.
“I’ve decided why I called.”
I gnaw on my lip before answering. Why does he make me feel like I’m walking into a trap?
“Why would that need forgiveness?” I almost don’t want the answer.
His gruff laugh travels through the phone and makes me squirm. “If I tell you, that would be like asking for permission. And I don’t do that. Intention is everything, remember?”
“I thought you already established you’re a monster?”
“I did. And I am.”
The line falls silent again, and when I look at the phone, I see he’s hung up. I let out a breath, realizing I’m holding it. My hand slowly drops down to my side, hearing his last words in my mind. Was I flirting? It wasn’t my intention, and he didn’t say anything out of line.
But everything with Luca feels like fucking foreplay.
I smile to the salesgirl, who’s hovering to take the items I’ve randomly picked up from my hand. I give them to her and follow her back to the dressing room.
I close the curtain and take a seat on the bench, analyzing the conversation again. The heat I’m feeling is just my perspective because I’m attracted
to him. It’s wishful thinking.
I’m horrible. The man was looking for a friend, and I reacted like a horny teenager. He could’ve easily meant a thousand different things by what he said. But why would he need my forgiveness for calling me? Unless he was planning on doing something bad to me. I look in the mirror of the changing room to verify my blush. I’m a dirty, dirty whore.
I LOOK DOWN AT MY phone, grinning like a fool. I almost forgot what the chase felt like. That’s what I’m doing…chasing her. I’m going to fuck Gretchen Andrews. I’m going to sink into her balls-deep and tell her all my dirty secrets and awful thoughts. And I’ll give her reason to satisfy the attraction she feels because I’ve known it’s there, all this time.
It’s hard not to notice the buzz between us. I’ve ignored it like a good husband does. But my marriage is a sham, a fucking joke that’s been laughed at behind my back. So now, I’ll do what I want, to whom I want. Starting with Gretchen.
There’s something about her candor that draws me in and holds me fucking hostage. Even now, I called her with bad intentions and she has me talking about my parents. Asking to hear about her. Doesn’t matter that I made her promise to forgive me. She won’t. Not after we cross the line. She’ll hate me. It’ll be deserving, but I’d rather her hate me and have her for only a minute because everyone’s a liar. Even Gretchen.
I head to the shower, wash, and dress for the day. Heading downstairs, I hear the cutest sounds coming from the kitchen. My grin plants on my face in anticipation of what I’m about to see as I enter the kitchen. Rose is feeding Ella, but with each spoonful, Ella smacks the table for more. Ella’s little legs kick in and out as she laughs at her own enthusiasm.
“She’s an eater like her daddy.” I chuckle along with them.
Rose nods her agreement, and I open my phone to check some emails, grabbing my coffee.
“Mr. King, will you be joining us at the park today?”
I try and go most days, scheduling free time in my day to meet them. I’ve been a tiny bit busier lately since coming back from the accident. Money doesn’t make itself.
“It’s the best part of my day,” I say with a wink to Ella.
Worship (Sinful Series Book 2) Page 3