by Marie James
“That’s an insanely personal question to ask a woman.”
“What I mean,” I grind my teeth together, “is you either haven’t been waxed or you stopped running from Warren while visiting.”
“I didn’t stop getting waxed.”
Oh God. She stays completely bare? My mouth runs dry, but I blame the lack of oxygen in the room for that.
“He brought that creepy gardener with him to stand outside when I came. I’d never chance that man touching me.”
I’ve met the gardener. He seems like a decent guy, but it’s not my place to tell someone they shouldn’t listen to their instincts.
“Should I call him?” I pull my phone from my pocket, and her eyes widen.
“Don’t you dare—”
“Ms. Blair? Sonya’s ready for you.”
Calling my bluff, she spins on her heels and walks toward the hallway.
“Goddammit,” I hiss, following behind her.
The esthetician holds the door open for Remington, her eyes raking down my body as I walk inside the dimly lit room. Men have a lot of fantasies, and I’m sure a million-page novel could be written for how many different ones there are. For me, if I were the type of man to think of girl-on-girl action, it wouldn’t include the second woman having an interest in me. She’d need to focus all of her energy on pleasing the person under her fingertips. The way this woman looks at me as she gives instructions to Remington about undressing and draping the sheet, makes my skin crawl. Honestly, I’m grateful. Surviving would be impossible if she ignored me like I was a sneaky voyeur.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter as the esthetician leaves, closing the door behind her.
I spin around, facing the wall when she lifts the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head. I didn’t move fast enough to keep from seeing her bra, the see-through mesh fabric leaving nothing to the imagination.
“Why are you taking your fucking shirt off?” I hiss, the poster of a woman in a bikini on the wall doing absolutely nothing for me. Hell, how could it when the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen is standing just a few feet away?
“I’m getting my underarms done, too. I want everything fresh and smooth for my party.”
Doesn’t she know there’s no point? I’ll kill any man that gets close enough to even notice her fucking underarms. And below the belly button? Over my dead body.
See? I can’t even think straight where she’s concerned. Somehow in my head, I’ve convinced myself I own her in some way. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Planning an orgy for your birthday?” I snap, irritation like I’ve never felt heating my blood to its boiling point.
She chuckles, but I don’t spin around. I know what’s required for this appointment, and Remington has never been shy about showcasing her body. Seeing everything would tip me over the damn edge. So, I continue to face the wall, grasping onto thin threads of sanity.
“I’m not sitting outside of a room and listening to you get plowed by some frat guy.”
I want to murder this imaginary man already.
She laughs again. “Don’t be silly. You’ll be the one plowing me after my party.”
And… instant erection.
“Remi, that’s—”
“Ready for me?” The esthetician shoves open the door without knocking.
I’m grateful for the interruption. Denying her is growing harder and harder, and honestly, watching her face fall each time it happens has begun to make the words dry on my tongue more than they should.
“Almost,” Remington says. “Just need to get these panties off.”
“Up on the bed and spread wide for me.” The other woman hums her approval. “You always have the smoothest skin.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, both hands reaching up to grip the back part of my neck.
Then it all goes to hell. I notice a flash of white from the light she plans to use for her work, only it glares off the framed bikini woman in front of my eyes. A distorted view of Remington on that damn table is staring right back at me.
I take a step to the side, but it only makes it worse—or better, depending on your viewpoint.
Most of the glare is gone now, leaving the image behind me almost a mirror reflection of what’s taking place. With knees wide, Remington holds her legs open, her face directed toward me.
“I’m going to wait in the hall.” I reach for the doorknob.
“Is that window unlocked?”
The esthetician chuckles, revealing that this isn’t the first time she’s worked with my little escape artist.
“Remingt—”
Her moan has the power to take me to my knees. Wasn’t waxing supposed to hurt? That was not a pain-filled cry. Not even close.
I don’t watch the reflection but closing my eyes as the woman continues with strip after strip, moan after moan, isn’t possible either. I stare at my shoes, hyperfocusing on a scuff on the left toe for an eternity.
“Let me get some cooling gel on there and we can do your legs next.”
Her fucking legs? We’re going to be here all damn day, and there’s a good chance I’m going to walk out of this room with jizz in my damn pants.
“Oh, that’s so cold. Rub it faster.”
I bang my head against the door, and they both laugh. I want to cry in pain when Remington moans, “Mmm, that feels so good.”
***
“Would you fucking stop that?”
Remington laughs, but doesn’t stop swirling her hips as we stand in line at a very busy deli.
“I love the way it feels. So soft.”
She twists again, a wicked grin on her lips as she looks up at the menu board. She’s wearing leggings, so it isn’t her legs she’s rubbing together. Fuck me.
You’ll be the one plowing me after my party.
Did I just groan?
“Why do you keep licking your lips?”
Because I’ve never had waxed pussy against my mouth, and now I’m dying to try it.
“They’re dry.”
She reaches into her bag, her eyes bright and searching. She knows better, but she doesn’t call me on my shit either. This may be the very first time.
“Here.”
“I’m not wearing lip gloss.”
“It’s Chapstick. Don’t be such a man about it.”
“No glitter?” I ask, looking down at the tube in my hand.
“None.”
Leaning my head down as if I’m doing something shameful, I twist off the top and glide the sticky shit across my lips.
“Better?”
I grunt in response.
At least we’ve moved past her grinding her lips together.
“Two bacon, turkey, and avocado paninis. Two waters and a large bag of baked jalapeno chips,” Remington orders when she’s asked.
“Hungry today,” I muse and she just rolls her eyes at me.
We stand to the side, taking our food when it comes out. Unable to resist, I pull her chair out for her when she locates a vacant table, but her hand grabs mine when I go to step away.
“Have lunch with me.” She slides a basket with one of the paninis to the other side of the table before moving one of the bottles of water beside it.
I don’t move, staying standing and looking down at her.
“Please? I hate eating alone.”
And that’s how she convinces me. Any fool with eyes in their head can see it. She gets no attention from her parents, none from her friends, and very limited from me.
Don’t the people in her life know how amazing she actually is? I know I do, although that hasn’t kept me from putting distance between us despite that being more about me and much less about her.
Pleading green eyes blink up at me, and every excuse I could make fades away.
“I love this type of sandwich,” I say as I settle into the seat across from her, waiting for her to pick her sandwich up and take a bite before I lift mine to my mouth.
“
I know. Margarita told me.”
Margarita is the family’s cook, and the woman is a genius in the kitchen. I’ve had to up my workout routine because resisting her food is impossible. It’s a sacrifice I make easily, and something I’ll miss once I go back home.
“Have you ever thought of getting a dog?” I ask after wiping my mouth.
A wistful look takes over her pretty face. “I’ve always wanted one, but Mother doesn’t want to deal with hair all over the place.”
I open my mouth to remind her that her mother is never home, but that’s something she’s already all too aware of.
“When you move out, maybe?”
She looks away, the apples of her cheeks pinking. “I could never leave. If I walk out, I don’t get to take anything with me.”
Surely her parents wouldn’t let her enter the world with nothing. They have more than enough to spare. I didn’t see it until now, but she’s in a prison, and that makes me her damn prison guard.
“You could get a job.” I voice it with as much levity as I can manage. I’m not trying to offend her, but surely, she’s considered the possibilities of being on her own and making her own decisions. I’ve learned enough about her during the time we spent together that she’s capable of many things.
“A job?” She laughs. “And what would a starlet’s daughter with limited college hours do in the great big world?”
I shrug. “You could waitress.”
She stares at me, but it’s not an angry look. Doesn’t she know how free she can be? How exhilarating making her own choices would be?
“Or a yoga instructor. You could teach pole classes. You’re very good at that.”
Phenomenal actually.
“Or I could be a stripper.”
“No.” I set my bottle of water down with enough violence to force a spout of water to shoot out of the top.
She chuckles, the sound telling me she has the ability to read me like an open book as she uses a napkin to dry the wetness from the table.
“So, not a stripper then? I don’t have the skills to make enough money to survive without my parents help. They’d shit a brick if someone found out their daughter was working what they consider a menial job for minimum wage. No one can survive alone like that, and I like my privacy too much to get roommates.”
“It may be impossible in New York, but there are forty-nine other states in America.”
She shrugs, her face losing the dreamy look it had only for a few brief seconds while she considered the possibilities.
“If your parents don’t want you working as a stripper, then they should either give you more freedom or the help to do things apart from them.”
“Freedom is earned, and if I can’t learn to behave, then those privileges aren’t ever going to happen.”
“And did Carla or Charles say that, because those aren’t your words.”
It’s like she read them from a pamphlet at a residential treatment center or something.
“Charles, but they came from my mother’s mouth first. I’m sure you noticed she doesn’t really speak to me unless it’s to correct something she deems I did wrong.”
I sit back in my chair, my food devoured. “I think you should just do it. Just get up one day and leave. Make a plan and set out to live your own life.”
“Says the man paid to chase after me every time I leave the house.”
Chapter 16
Remington
I have skills. Not like technical skills, but seduction? I’m a pro.
Or at least I thought I was ace at it until right now.
Making a man drool with the sight of my body? Easy as pie.
Making a man lose his train of thought and turn into an easily manipulated wreck? Give me five minutes.
Sitting on a couch with Flynn Coleman while pretending to watch a stupid movie? I’m like a prepubescent kid stealing glances at my lifelong crush.
It’s awkward, and if he looks at me—he hasn’t once since we sat down that I’ve noted—he’d easily see how uneasy I am. How fidgety my entire body is.
We did this very same thing yesterday after getting home from lunch. Three movies and three feet of distance between the two of us.
The. Entire. Time.
He didn’t reposition himself to get more comfortable which would inevitably put him closer to me. He didn’t rest his hand on the damn sofa cushion between us. Didn’t brush my leg or look longingly at me. Didn’t even turn off the lights in the room when the sun set and we opted to watch another one of those old, cheesy horror movies he likes.
Nothing.
I don’t even think his eyes followed me out of the room when I managed a goodnight and disappeared up the stairs.
So explain to me why I’ve signed up for yet another day exactly like that?
I know I shouldn’t complain. He’s not bolting out of the room and making himself scarce like my parents do, but the silence isn’t exactly companionable when all I want to do is straddle his lap and see what his lounge pants feel like against the apex of my leggings.
Instead, I’m twitchy, my hands balled in my lap, fingers twisting in frustration.
“Relax,” he whispers, his eyes straight ahead on the screen. “This isn’t even the scary part.”
This clueless man.
Each breath, each time he lifts a piece of popcorn to his mouth is like foreplay. And don’t even get me started on my body’s reaction when he licks butter off the tips of his fingers.
I’m going crazy. Every second that ticks by takes another sliver of my already fragile sanity.
“I’m umm… going.”
He finally looks up at me when I stand. “You’re going to miss the best part.”
“I’m tired.” I fake a horrible yawn and stretch. “I’ll watch it some other time.”
“Are you sure?” I nod, a little too vigorously, causing him to narrow his eyes at me. “Nothing else is wrong?”
Other than my body being on fire, my legs trembling and the pulse in my clit? “Things are perfect. Just tired.”
I bolt, leaving the room as fast as I can.
I know what my plans are before I make it halfway up the stairs, entering my room and shoving the door closed. I’ve tried my damnedest not to do this. Touching yourself while thinking about a man just screams of desperation, but I can’t stay in a room any longer without some form of release. Maybe after, I’ll be able to sit three feet from him on the couch and gasp when creeps jump out at ignorant women running through the woods.
“Jesus,” I hiss, my left leg getting tangled in my leggings, causing me to fall face first on the bed. I don’t even bother with my top or my panties. My breasts have never been much of an erogenous zone—despite what magazines declare—and I can pull my panties to the side.
“Pitiful,” I moan, my fingers already finding me slick and needy. “Oh God.”
This isn’t going to take long at all. I may have time to get myself off twice, and that would make what I told Flynn true. I’ll be exhausted and in need of a nap after that.
His handsome face flashes before my mind, dark blue eyes watching me from the corner of the room. He likes what he sees, that pink tongue, the same one that felt so good against mine, licking at his lips.
I know it would feel amazing right where my fingers are, licking, flicking, teasing, his lips forming a suction that makes my back arch off the bed.
“Flynn,” I groan, my fingers making teasing circles, gathering my arousal and spreading it to that perfect little spot that drives me wild. “Fuck, Flynn.”
“Did you call for me?”
I die. Right there in the middle of my king-sized bed with my legs spread wide, panties pulled to the side, I fucking die.
“Jesus,” he whispers, not making a move to back out and give me some privacy.
Why am I not screaming? Why am I not yelling for him to leave me alone while pulling my comforter over my body? Why do I lick my lips and start running slow circles over my clit?<
br />
The answer to all of that is because of the way he’s looking at me, glazed eyes, bulge growing in his loose lounge pants. Has he ever looked at me like this before?
I don’t think so, because if I saw desire like that in his eyes, I would’ve offered myself up on one of the silver platters Mother keeps in the china cabinet for guests.
“I didn’t call for you,” I whisper, somehow finding a part of me I’ve never seen before.
This part, this woman in this bed has never done anything like this before in her life. Ever.
Seduction is easy. It can be managed with tight clothes, the sight of my tits, or even just the brush of my hand. Until Flynn, I thought men were easy to manipulate. It’s looking like he takes just a little more effort, but as my fingers continue their torturous circles, I realize I don’t want to torture him, I just want him.
“I moaned for you.”
“Are you imagining it’s me touching you?”
I shake my head. “Come closer.”
I want his mouth on mine, his hands all over me. I want him to sink inside of me so hard I gasp and beg for mercy.
He stands stock still, only a foot inside of the doorway, unmoving, his eyes glued to the action of my hand.
“What am I doing in this fantasy if I’m not touching you?”
“You’re,” I lick at my dry lips, “watching me. Telling me what to do.”
He groans, moving for the first time to give his hard dick a punishing squeeze over the top of his pants.
“Like, use both hands and spread that pretty pussy wider?”
My teeth dig into my lower lip as my head nods. My hands obey him, spreading myself open.
“So pink,” he whispers with reverence. “So fucking wet.”
My hands begin to tremble both in anticipation and need because my touch isn’t where my body demands it to be.
“Lift your legs higher, naughty girl. Let me see both of your holes.”
How fucking crude and debasing. He groans again when I comply without question.
“Finish what you started, gorgeous. Make that perfect pussy come for me.”