Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)

by Jen Frederick

  “She’s asleep. She was worried, by the way. She doesn’t like that you work for Malcolm.” His voice sounds labored, as if speaking in a normal tone is a chore for him. Even that gives me a petty sense of satisfaction. “We called.”

  “I ran out of battery around ten. Sounds like you had a real cozy chat.” In the kitchen, I hunt around for food inside the refrigerator, which is packed with fruits and vegetables but none of the awesome Thai we had the other night. “Where are the leftovers?”

  “Leftovers?” He clearly has no idea what those are.

  My stomach growls and I realize I haven’t eaten in hours. “You know, from the Thai food you had delivered?”

  He looks befuddled. “Why do you want old Thai food? This is a full-service building. There’s a chef on call twenty-four seven. What do you want?” He holds out his phone. I finally notice he is out of his rumpled suit and is now attired in jeans, no shoes, and a blue T-shirt that’s so worn it’s nearly white.

  Food, Tiny. My stomach rumbles again. “Um, a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.”

  Eyebrows raised, he calls in the order. What a place. I walk over to look out into the dark park. Without the sun, the dense foliage looks eerie.

  “How did you explain all of this?” I signal toward the living room. Mom had to have questions about the private room, the volunteer, and now this amazing apartment overlooking Central Park.

  “I told her you were doing me a favor,” he says, joining me at the windows. “That this place has been unoccupied for several months, and I’ve been holding it off sale as a favor until the building is over half occupied.”

  “So sell it.”

  “I will. In fact, the broker came over and met your mother today. She promised to help keep it clean and that you and she would vacate the premises when it came time to move. Sophie understood that it was easier to sell if it looked like people were living here instead of a sterile, staged place that couldn’t get off the market for some hidden reason.”

  “Oh.” That sounded really reasonable. “I guess I won’t get used to being here. How long do we have?” I try not to sound completely deflated by this news. I’d spent the entire day justifying how it was OK to accept this generosity, only to find we will be pushed out soon. I cast a longing glance behind me at the marble counters and the white, shiny glass appliances. This place is so nice that stainless steel is too down-market.

  “Long enough for you to find your own place. With the money I’m paying you and the money you’re likely getting from Malcolm, you should be able to find something better and safer than where you were living.”

  The doorbell rings, and Ian strides over to retrieve my food. Less than fifteen minutes. That’s some amazing service.

  “What’s this about insurance?” I ask, taking a huge bite of the grilled cheese. It’s delicious and I gobble down half the sandwich in no time.

  “Jesus, Tiny, why is everything a battle?” He runs a hand through hair that already looks like it lost a pillow fight.

  “Jesus, Ian, why does everything have to be your way?”

  “My way is best.” He leans forward and grabs a bite of the other half of my sandwich. I bat his hand away and he retreats, sucking some extra cheese off his thumb. My lower body stirs at that simple sight.

  “Arrogant much?”

  He just smiles and taps the side of my plate. I finish eating in silence. Leaning back in the chair, I stretch and then pat my belly. “God, I’m going to sleep so good tonight,” I say absently.

  Ian makes a sound—something between a grunt and a cough. “I hope so.”

  “By myself.” I look at him reprovingly. “I want you to explain to me why I’m an employee of Kerr Industries. Is this for real? I thought the project was an off-the-books sort of thing.”

  Instead of answering my question, Ian asks, “How many boyfriends have you had?”

  The non-sequitur is so bizarre that my answer tumbles out before I can stop it. “A few.”

  “And did you have such an immediate visceral attraction that you couldn’t stop thinking about them? That thoughts of them interrupted meetings and business deals and evenings out with other people?”

  The thought of what other people constitutes burns the back of my throat like an acid wash, but I’ve no right to be jealous that Ian has had other women. “So you’re saying that the sight of me in my spandex bike shorts made you instantly attracted?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it’s instant attraction followed by finding out other things that make you more intriguing.” He is leaning toward me now, both elbows on the table, fingers clasped together.

  “Because I’m this challenge?” I roll my eyes and force out a laugh because earnest Ian is too much of a threat to my self-control. It’s easier when I’m mad at him, when I’m counting all the imperious means he employs in an effort to control me. “That’s such a lame pickup line.”

  “Do you know how many people tell me ‘no’ right now? Maybe five. None of them are sleeping with me. I won’t give you a sob story about how hard it is to meet women because obviously that is not a problem. The challenge is finding the right one who is more interested in things outside of what I can provide.”

  “Really? Because you play so hard to get with your funds. Christ. The only reason I’m here is for the money.” I gesture toward the apartment.

  “If I believed that for an instant, you wouldn’t be here,” he retorts.

  “I think your cock is deluding you. My hard limits aren’t very hard when it comes to money.”

  “Fine,” he says impatiently. He flexes his fingers as if imagining how good my neck would feel being squeezed between them. “What else will you do for money? Will you come over here and suck my cock?”

  “How much?” I say recklessly. His green eyes are glittering with anger. Or maybe with desire? I don’t really know, and I’m a little afraid to find out.

  “How much do you charge?” He flings back.

  It’s like we’re playing verbal chicken, neither one of us wanting to swerve off our stupid road regardless of the impending injury.

  We stare at each other, the air around us so charged I’m surprised the whole place doesn’t explode. I start to rise from my chair and he shifts backward, his powerful thighs falling open. Are we really doing this? I hold my breath and sink down onto my knees between his legs. Our eyes are locked together, and though I can’t read his clearly, he must see the disbelief in mine.

  As I place my hands on his knees and then slide them slowly up his jean-clad legs, I admit that while I want him, this act will ruin whatever chance we have for something tender and meaningful. There’s a line here I’m breaching because if he pays me for sex, I’ll never feel like his equal. I’m not sure my actions are even sexual anymore.

  This is a battle for control, and I’m not going to call a halt to it. If he lets it continue as if I’m some paid whore, we’ll be done. We might have great sex a couple of times, but it won’t ever be more than that. Certainly not the fulfillment of this great attraction he speaks of. Maybe I’m dumb for even thinking that his lines are anything more than rehearsed come-ons designed to get me to drop my panties and jump into bed with him.

  And now that I’m on my knees and my hands are on his thighs, creeping ever closer to his zipper, I’m wondering why I’ve even started this challenge. There is no winning here. There is no tenderness. No sweetness, only crass commercialism. But I can’t seem to stop from hurting both of us. Tears splash down my face onto the backs of my hands and slide off onto his jeans.

  With a muffled curse, he reaches down and drags me into his lap. Burying his head in the crook of my neck, he tucks me close with one hand affixed to my waist and the other forked into my hair, his entire palm cupping the back of my head.

  “No more,” he breathes. “I give.”

  I wrap both arms around his s
houlders, reveling in the solid muscle mass beneath my hands. I wipe my tears against his shirt as unobtrusively as I can, but we both know why he stopped.

  He’s a beast, I guess, but he wants to be my beast. I don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ve tamed him, though. We sit there like that—him holding me tight on his lap—for what seems like a long time before he presses his lips briefly onto my neck. Deciding he’s done baiting me for the night, he picks me up and carries me into the bedroom. Maybe he can sense my flagging energy. It’s way past my bedtime.

  “I can walk, you know.”

  “So can I.” He jiggles me a little in his arms, as if to say I weigh nothing, which isn’t true. “Isn’t it great how physically capable we both are?”

  He tosses me on the bed and starts pulling off his shirt.

  I’m tired, but I haven’t lost all sense yet. “Wait a second.” I hold up a hand.

  He pauses, and then gives a little shrug and finishes taking off his shirt. In the lamplight, the planes of his chest look golden, almost amber in color. It’s like looking at an ancient stone statue come to life, and it takes a lot of effort to not reach out and stroke my hands across the light mat of fur on his chest and follow the treasure trail down into the very worn jeans. When his hands move to start unfastening his jeans, I’m awakened from my sensual stupor. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready for bed,” he says implacably.

  “Here?” I say dumbly.

  “Yes.” And he proceeds to shuck his jeans. Underneath he’s wearing slate-gray, silky boxer briefs that hug his very manly form. He’s half-aroused and the shape behind the fabric looks enormous. My vagina clenches in either excitement or trepidation. Both, probably. “I usually sleep in the buff, but because it’s been a long day for both of us, I’ll keep my shorts on tonight.”

  “You can’t sleep with me,” I squeak. “I’m not ready for that.”

  “We’re sleeping, bunny. Nothing else,” he says and heads for the bathroom.

  “But . . .” I trail off. “Is this because of what happened earlier?”

  “No.” He comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth. Speaking around a mouthful of foam and water, he says, “I was always planning on sleeping with you tonight.” He disappears, and I hear him spit and then the faucet running. “Actually, I planned to pick up where we left off, but it’s too late now. We both have to get up in the morning.”

  The door closes and I hear the flushing of a toilet and more running water. Then he’s done with his nightly bedtime routine, which I guess consists of brushing his teeth and peeing. Men. Totally unfair.

  Pulling back the covers, he pats my ass again. “Don’t look so disappointed, bunny. I plan to fuck you until you pass out tomorrow night.”

  I flounce out of bed like an outraged maiden and hide in the bathroom. I can tell there is no moving him, and right now I’m so tired that I give in. On the marble counter are all my bottles of personal care products, from my facial soap to my toner to my moisturizer. My outrage meter is so overworked that I can only sigh at this sight. I run through my nightly routine, which is far more extensive than Ian’s, and strip out of my confining spandex. It’s too late for a shower, so I grab a washcloth to clean my underarms and between my legs. Realizing I don’t have my pajamas—an old, oversize Giants T-shirt that I filched from Malcolm’s house—I wrap a towel around my body and confront Ian. “Where are my clothes?”

  “There’s a walk-in attached to the bathroom. Should be in there.” He leans up on one arm, the blankets falling aside to reveal his perfect chest. “Or you can wear this.”

  He tosses me the blue T-shirt he had on earlier. Reflexively I catch it and hold it to my nose, breathing deeply of Ian Kerr. God, he smells so good. Over his shirt, our eyes meet. His have taken on a feral glow. “Wear the shirt, Tiny,” he commands. And this time my reaction is a purely sexual one.

  I imagine him ordering me to do all sorts of things in this bedroom and me liking it very much. I back away into the bathroom and lean against the door, breathing heavily. It’s like he can touch me with his words. Against my better judgment, I slip the T-shirt over my head.

  He says nothing when I climb into bed next to him. I notice he sleeps on the right side of the bed, closest to the door. When my back hits the mattress, I release a moan of pleasure.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Months.”

  He grunts. “Who was he?”

  “Who was who?”

  “The guy you were sleeping with months ago.” He sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. When I look at him, it’s too dark to tell if his eyes are even open.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What’s this ‘months’ you are referring to?”

  “That’s how long it’s been since I’ve slept on anything but the pullout.” I shake my head. “How long has it been for you?”

  “I sleep in a real bed every night, bunny,” he says with obvious amusement.

  “Ha ha. Fine.” I turn over on my side and thump my pillow. “It’s probably yesterday. FYI, I’m an only child. I don’t like to share.”

  “Back at you,” he says. “I’m not fond of the idea of you sleeping with anyone else ever again.”

  I don’t fall asleep immediately because having a man in bed with me is just strange. I hardly ever slept with Colin, my one serious boyfriend, and the few random hookups since him didn’t warrant a sleepover. Sleeping with someone can be more intimate than fucking him.

  “Ever again?”

  “Ever again.” He confirms in a husky voice, knowing immediately what I’m talking about.

  “Ever again seems like a long time, or is that a rich person’s term for like six months?”

  He chuckles. “You define the length of time that makes you feel comfortable, bunny.”

  “I can’t decide if ‘bunny’ is a term of endearment or an insult.”

  “Endearment.”

  “Seems kind of insulting sometimes. I need to pick out a nickname for you.”

  “I thought I was Bruce Wayne.”

  Ian rolls me to my side and begins to rub my back, his hand underneath my shirt, lightly stroking my shoulder blades, tracing my spine, and then sweeping back up again. It feels good and would be non-sexual if not for the hard-on the size of the Empire State Building pressed against my ass.

  “That’s not insulting in any way.”

  “You’re right. I like being compared to a superhero.”

  “But you call me ‘bunny.’ That’s not kick-ass or super in any way.”

  “You looked like a scared bunny the day I saw you outside the wig shop. You wanted to come with me but were afraid, and you hopped on your bike and rode away.” He sounds so smug, but I’m tired. The feel of his hand as it rubs away the pains of my long bike ride is too good to mount a protest against. “I appreciate the Bruce Wayne imagery, and I have to tell you I’ve always wanted the Batmobile.”

  “You can’t buy that with all your money?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Technology hasn’t advanced that far yet.”

  “So if I ever come into a lot of money, the perfect gift for the man who has everything is a Batmobile?”

  “Don’t forget the butler. I want Alfred too. Steve is no Alfred.”

  “I’m telling Steve that the next time I see him.” I can barely force the words out as I get drowsier with each pass of his hand.

  “You do that. And tell him I want him to start dressing like a butler and referring to me as ‘sir.’”

  “Do you think he’ll change his behavior?”

  “Yeah, I think he’ll become more of a prick.”

  “If you don’t like him, why do you employ him?”

  “Who says I don’t like him?” Ian pulls me snug against his body. I feel his hard chest around
my back and the massive boner wedged even tighter against my ass. He throws one arm around my waist. A heavy calf slides over my legs, and I’m pinned down like a butterfly on a mat. And it feels great. “I fucking love Steve, but he’s got two emotional settings: stoic and a little less stoic.” His quiet laugh ruffles my hair.

  As I’m falling asleep against the cave of his body, I whisper, “I don’t get you.”

  “I’m going to tell you a little bedtime story, bunny. Once upon a time I was in Japan and I discovered this plastics company. I knew after the first tour of that company that I had to have it. They were manufacturing plastics using clean energy and in a safer way than I’d ever come across. I begged, cajoled, and finally bought my way in. It’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made and one that I arrived at in a day.” He pulls me even tighter to him, if that’s possible. “This is how I’m wired. By the way, I haven’t been with another woman since I saw you on the street.”

  And then I’m dead to the world. His words run around my head as I sleep, but I can’t process their meaning even though I know he’s telling me something really important.

  CHAPTER 16

  When I wake up, I am hot and aroused. There are two fingers between my legs rubbing the lace of my panties in circles, and at my back there is a furnace of male flesh.

  “I thought we weren’t having sex until tonight,” I say, sounding a bit like Marilyn Monroe—all breathy sexuality. His chest rumbles behind me as he chuckles.

  “We’re not.” But his fingers are playing out a different story. As they circle and press, I push back against the thick length snugged against my butt.

  “It feels like sex.” It feels hard and long, actually, and despite the fight we had the night before and my lack of surety about what Ian really wants from me, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything other than the languorous feelings he’s generating with such simple movements.

  “No, this feels like sex.” On the last word, he presses the tips of his fingers inside me, the fabric of the panties restricting him to shallow thrusts. Whimpering, I open my legs hoping for deeper penetration. I mean, he’s here. Why not use him?