Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  My grin widened. “I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever heard her say anything about it, but her mouth isn’t above the word condom.” That was the damn truth. The woman couldn’t complete a sentence without a curse word being present—at least, not in her own home. Out in public, she hid her fangs well.

  “Do you see yourself working for her for long?”

  I huffed out a laugh. “God, I hope not.” I told him about my tuition bill, leaving out the details that led to my financial troubles, and noticed his eyes, they stayed on me whenever I spoke—almost intimidating in their focus. He was actually listening to me, not just waiting for a chance to speak, his focus one hundred percent on me. It felt odd, a man paying such rapt attention to me, and I tried to remember the last time I had such complete attention, without eyes darting to a phone, or a sentence interrupted, details lost.

  “So, once you pay your tuition, then what?”

  I took a bite from my sandwich and chewed, thinking about the question. It was sad that I didn’t know the answer. Ever since my eviction, all of my focus had been on surviving. Well … there’d been a pitiful couple of weeks when classes were wrapping up and during finals, where I mostly moped around—feeling sorry for myself. But once that had passed, I’d been so busy, so desperate, that I hadn’t exactly thought through the next step. Would there be a next step? Would I ever save enough to pay off that bill? Or was I stuck, being Nicole’s errand girl, for the rest of my life? I literally shuddered at the thought.

  “You cold?” He glanced up at the fan, and I waved him off. Vic would have never noticed. And if he had, he’d have leaned forward and checked out the possibility of headlights in my shirt.

  “I’m fine.” I took a sip of my lemonade and noticed him still listening, waiting for my response. “I don’t know what I’ll do after I get my degree. I’ll probably try to find a job in real estate. Something with a salary, maybe in development.”

  “You like the construction end of it?”

  I let out a strangled laugh that sounded a little like a cry. “Honestly, I have no idea. I chose real estate as a major because my parents pushed me there.” And that was the truth. Something I hadn’t even confessed to myself. Something that—right there in that cheap deli—was terrifying. I was working my ass off to get proof of a degree in a field I didn’t even really like. Or know if I liked. What if I hated it? What if I was terrible at it? I felt panic growing, my hands trembling a little in their reach of the sandwich.

  “Chloe.” His voice was strong and steady and I lifted my eyes to meet his. “It’s okay if you don’t know. That’s what this time in your life is for—to figure it out.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Figuring it out?” Maybe he was actually an attorney, one on construction sabbatical, working on his hammering technique while his fat bank account accumulated interest.

  His eyes crinkled a little at the edges, as if he could hear my pathetic inner monologue and found it humorous. “Not exactly. This is as figured out as it gets for me, right now.”

  My fantasies stopped their party and slunk back to the dormant recesses of my mind. “You like being a super?” The question came out poorly—like I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do that for a living. I winced at the sound of it and hoped he wasn’t offended.

  He laughed. “I do. Plus, it has the occasional perks.”

  “Like?” A big bonus at the end of the year? Ten percent ownership of the building?

  “Sexy tenants.” He leaned forward. “There’s this one girl—she’s new—that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.”

  The heat rose in my cheeks, and I forced my smile into a scowl. “Really? I hope you’re not talking about the blonde in B4, because I heard she’s a snobby bitch. One who parties constantly. With really loud friends.”

  “Who loses her keys often?” He grinned and god, his smile was perfect.

  “I heard that’s just an excuse she uses to get inside single men’s apartments.” I widened my eyes and he leaned forward, the two of us sharing the secret.

  “She’s not a snobby bitch.” He whispered. “But she does have really loud friends.”

  I giggled, and we were close enough to kiss.

  “Do you think I have a chance with her?” he said softly.

  My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “Yeah.” I said softly. “I think you do.”

  He closed the gap, his lips soft to mine, then we were suddenly standing, his hands quick, our sandwiches shoved into a bag in seconds. “Let’s go.” The words were a growl, his fingers wrapping around my wrist and pulling, the frantic step of him to the door causing a smile to tear across my face.

  Yes. Let’s go. Please.

  52. “Please.”

  We slammed through the door of his apartment, our lunch tossed in the general direction of the kitchen, his hands pushing on my shoulders, back against the wall, lifting off me long enough to pull off my shirt, tear at the clasp of my bra, and yank down the straps. When I was topless, my bare shoulders against the textured wall, he stopped. His movements slow, he ran both palms up my stomach and cupped my breasts, squeezing them gently, his large hands holding each one easily, my name a reverent whisper off his lips.

  “Carter,” I begged. “Please.”

  “Wait,” he said and lowered his mouth to my breasts, his tongue and lips depositing soft kisses, sucks, and gentle bites across my sensitive skin, my back arching, my hands finding their way to his head, pulling at his hair. I wanted more yet didn’t want him to stop; the need between my legs competed with the pleasure his mouth was giving. He took my nipple into his mouth, and I whimpered, my hands grabbing at his soft shirt and pulling it, his head lifting, his T-shirt coming off so I could finally touch his skin.

  I grabbed his shoulders and his hands dropped lower, to the button of my jeans, the pop of restriction lifted, the zipper loud in the room, his fingertips dipping under the material, pulling my panties and jeans over my hips.

  “Damn skinny jeans,” he chuckled against my neck. “I hate these.”

  I pushed on his shoulders and he dropped to his knees, peeling off the jeans, his hands on my shoes, and then I was completely naked and he was leaning forward, his hands sliding to the back of my thighs and up, his mouth cupping me as his fingers bit into my ass. His tongue was confident and talented, the man unafraid of my body, my taste. He sucked on my clit gently, and my knees gave out when his tongue dipped inside of me. My weight sagged into his strong hands, unintelligible sounds coming out as I gripped the wall and tried to stay sane.

  I didn’t stay sane. I don’t know why I even tried. I clawed at the wall and melted against his mouth, coming hard, then stumbling after him toward the bed. I lay back on his sheet, his eyes meeting mine as he knelt in between my legs and had the sense to put on a condom. I watched him, strong fingers sure of their actions, foil tossed aside, one hand gripping his cock as he rolled the latex over it. My first sight of him and I propped up, my glimpse quick before he lifted my legs around his neck and propped himself above me, my eyes lifting to his. He held my gaze until the moment that he leaned down for a kiss and pushed himself inside. That moment, it was perfect. So tender, so caring. Even as it hurt, my body adjusting to his size, my breath catching for the briefest of moments. I wrapped my arms around him and he started thrusting. Slowly and tenderly but somewhere, somewhere after my first orgasm and before the second, he lost control. Sat back on his heels, held on to my hips and started a furious, mad rhythm of fucking, his grip on me hard, possessive, and hot.

  After the second orgasm and before the third, he rolled me onto my side, continuing the pleasure, his mouth coming down and kissing, biting, whispering things into my neck.

  You make me so hard

  I’ve wanted this for so long

  You feel incredible

  I can’t … I can’t hold off.

  Oh my God, Chloe. Chloe. I’m coming…

  And some
where between my third orgasm and his first, I forgot about trying to hold back. I forgot about protecting my heart. I got over all of my hang-ups. And I fell a little bit in like with him.

  53. God Bless Presa Little

  I rolled over in Carter’s bed and stretched, kicking off the covers, the smell of coffee dragging me out of sleep. I smiled, remembering the night before. It had officially been the Greatest Sex of My Life. I had the perverse urge to go online and gloat, hashtag SuckItVic. Instead, I eyed the bathroom door, hearing the sound of a shower. Glancing at my naked body, I wondered if I had time to run to his kitchen for a cup of coffee before he got out. As great as my three pilates DVD workouts had gone, I didn’t feel up to a naked dash in front of Carter’s ripped ass.

  I ran for it, spilling some coffee in my pour and stealing a piece of toast off a plate in the kitchen. I was darting past the fridge when I stopped, distracted by a ticket stuck under a Mets magnet. What the … I peered closer. Yep. A Presa Damn Little ticket. A ticket that matched the two stuffed in my wallet, which I’d received from Nicole. I heard the shower turn off and booked it, my butt hitting the bed just in time to pull the sheet over me before the door opened. A barely covered, dripping wet Carter stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Good morning.”

  I took a sip of coffee and smiled, still trying to work through the ticket I had just seen. I hadn’t even wanted to go to the event, preferring to avoid Nicole at all opportunities. But on the other hand, this was Presa Little. One of the most revered and most private artists of the century. She hadn’t been photographed in public since Lady Gaga wore meat. An opportunity to meet her wasn’t something I wanted to give up.

  I swallowed the sip of coffee, watching him walk to the closet. He opened the door, and my question from our first hookup was answered. Absolute organization. His T-shirts were hung and sorted by damn color. “I saw your ticket to the Presa Little event.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, reaching up and grabbing a shirt.

  I tried again. “So … how do you know her again?”

  “She’s a friend of my parents. I knew her growing up.” He pulled his shirt on and turned toward me, boxer briefs in hand. I settled further back against the pillows, lifting my eyebrows at him when he reached for the towel. He dropped it, and I giggled despite myself, his face scowling as he stepped into his underwear. “Never laugh,” he muttered, kneeling on the bed and crawling toward me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered behind my coffee mug. “It’s a nervous reaction.”

  “So is this.” He grinned, taking my coffee cup away and pushing me back, his mouth nuzzling under the sheet and nipping at my neck.

  “She must have been a good friend,” I mumbled, my eyes falling back on the giant canvas original above his bed. He pulled the sheet lower and I grabbed at it, giggling again when his mouth found its way to my newly exposed breasts. My parents’ friends were all stuffy investment types, not Presa Little—a beautiful older woman who People once called the Most Interesting Woman Alive. She had homes in Australia, South Africa, and Paris. How could she know Carter’s parents? “What do your parents do?” I suddenly realized how little I knew about the man on top of me.

  “God, your mind jumps. You really want to talk about my parents right now?”

  “I have tickets to the show too,” I explained. “From Nichole. I was thinking about inviting you. You know, since you know her.”

  “I’ll go to the show with you.” His mouth moved lower, on my stomach, and I felt his hand slide under the sheet and up my bare thigh.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He pulled the sheet lower and my legs apart, settling between them. I giggled at the scrape of his stubble against my thigh./p>

  “One final stipulation.”

  “What?” I gasped out the word, his mouth brushing across me, his tongue taking a teasingly slow path over my clit.

  “Right now, I get to make you scream so hard the McMullins on the fifth floor will hear you.”

  “Why them?” I shuddered beneath his mouth, and his hands held me down.

  “They’re deaf,” he whispered, and the hot pass of his words was another sensation I loved.

  “Deal,” I groaned, and my hands twisted in the sheets as he lowered his mouth.

  When I came it was loud. It was long. It was amazing.

  And our date was set.

  God Bless Presa Little.

  I eyed the truck skeptically. “This is yours?”

  Carter leaned over the bed’s side and grinned at me. “Yep. There a problem?”

  “It’s a truck.” I said carefully. An old truck. Rusty, with paint peeling from its trim, it had to be from the nineties. I glanced in the window and saw a rip in the bench seat, tan padding pushing through.

  “Yes.” He tilted his head. “You can back out. Won’t hurt my feelings.”

  I gripped the door’s handle, a thick silver piece with a button on it. Pushing the button, I yanked open the heavy door and looked inside. At least it was clean. I glanced down at my pale blue pants. I shut the door. “Just … let me change. Two minutes,” I promised, backing up from the truck, careful not to touch my clothes.

  He chuckled. “Okay.”

  I took the stairs, leaving the garage and heading up to my apartment, washing my hands the minute I got inside. I wouldn’t make the two-minute promise, but I tried my best, digging through my closet until I found a ripped up pair of jeans and a Yankee T-shirt. I grabbed a baseball cap, tossed my sandals for tennis shoes, and grabbed some bottled waters from the fridge. By the time I got back downstairs, he’d turned on the truck and I pushed aside any hesitation, opening the door and climbing in.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Better.” I smiled. “I think I was a little overdressed.”

  The edge of his mouth turned up, a dimple showing. “Nah.”

  He shifted into reverse and I buckled my seatbelt, holding on to its strap as the truck jerked into motion. No airbags in sight. I braced my feet against the floor and prayed he was a good driver.

  “Turn here,” I argued, looking down at my phone.

  “I can’t get around to the loading dock if I go that way.”

  “Well the next road is a one-way.” I let out an irritated breath and he laughed. “What?” I growled.

  “I’m just curious if you have ever, in your life, been to Long Island.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been to Long Island.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah. Really.” Granted, my trips had been a long way from the industrial area we were lost in.

  “Let me guess…” He took a left, in a direction that went against everything that Google Maps suggested. “To the beach.” He glanced my way. “And the theatre?”

  “There’s also a vineyard,” I pointed out, pursing my lips to stop a smile.

  He turned down a side street and parked, somehow right in front of the tile store we’d been headed to. I glared at the sign. Dammit.

  My purpose in tagging along with Carter had been to help him pick out materials. I had readily agreed, thinking it would be easy to pair a backsplash with granite, especially for someone as stylish as myself. I stared at the countertop before me, at the eighteen different options I had pulled for review, and my confidence wavered. I glanced out the window, at the truck, where Carter was helping load a vanity. His T-shirt tight, his biceps bulging, he pulled the heavy piece up into the bed. The picture was so utterly male that I almost fanned myself. I watched him as long as I could, my eyes darting away in the moment before he pulled open the store’s front door, his steps echoing across the floor toward me. “Pick something?” he asked, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans and I looked up from the options, my breath catching in my throat as I saw the damp cling of his T-shirt to his chest, the wide grin of his smile, the way his eyes even smiled at me. The man looked at me as if I were something special, a look so foreign that a part of me wa
nted to cry. How long could that look last? How many women had gotten it?

  I wasn’t special. I wasn’t even—the more I got to know myself—that great. But that look, that smile—it made me want to be more. I smiled back at him. “Yeah,” I said. “I found the perfect thing.”

  “Awesome.” He stepped closer and leaned in, pressing his lips to mine softly, then pulled back. “Meet you at the register?”

  “Yeah.” I mumbled, already wanting more. “I’ll be there.”

  He walked off, and I stared down at my mess of tiles.

  I needed to stop overthinking it and just make a decision. It was two colors that some renter would never notice.

  I grabbed two samples and headed for the counter.

  55. She’s a Monet.

  Presa Little’s show was at the Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea, the place for anyone to hold anything. I debated for a good hour over what to wear, finally opting for a silk T-shirt dress that, paired with heels, worked as well for a cocktail party as for a formal event. When Carter knocked at my door at eight, I smiled at the view—him in a suit. A very nice suit, one his build filled out perfectly.

  “Nice threads,” I mused, running my hand over his lapel before tilting my head up for a kiss.

  “Thank you. You look stunning.”

  “Thanks. Ready?”

  “If you are.” His face was tight, and I felt my first bit of unease as I grabbed my purse.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “Just a long day.”

  I bet. There’d been plumbing vans parked out front all day, men in uniforms carrying things up and down our stairs, all with urgency in their steps. Nothing like that to stress me out every time I flushed the toilet. “Is everything okay? I saw workers…”

  He shrugged. “A leak on an upper floor. It was a beast to get to. Sucked up the whole day.”