by Alisha Rai
LIVVY WAS so boneless she could only clutch weakly at the cheap bedding. The hotel hadn’t been renovated or touched since she and Nicholas had snuck off here when they were young, and there was an odd nostalgia in grasping the orange-and-green comforter while his hungry hands roved over her.
Except neither of them were young anymore. The tongue that had devastated her was a man’s tongue, the big hands arranging her into position, back arched, booty high, were a man’s hands. She was his—his woman, his to use and fuck.
Like you’ll always be.
There was no way she could excise him from her system. Not with a one-night stand, not with annual meetings. Not ever.
A tiny part of her broke apart as she confronted her deepest, darkest fear, and she buried her face in the scratchy comforter like an animal sticking its head in the sand. Later. She’d think later. First, she’d pretend she was his, and he was hers, even if only for a few minutes.
His latex-clad cock brushed against her bottom, and lower. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead on her arms.
“Christ, you have no idea how much I love seeing you like this. Laid out and wet and open.” His fingers trailed over the crack of her ass, then below, probing her softness, and he made a deep noise of appreciation. “You taste so good. I could lick this all day. You’d let me.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded, stripped of her bluster. Yes, she’d let him. It was the one constant whenever they got together. He dived between her legs like he couldn’t get enough, his technique and skill improving every year. She wasn’t about to complain. A man who loved to give head and was spectacular at it? He was a goddamn prince.
His fingers slipped away, and his cock replaced them, the pressure promising her untold delight. She pushed her ass toward him so he’d take her. He gave a rough laugh. “You’re so hungry. Ask me for it.”
“Fuck me.” Her voice was high and barely perceptible.
He teased her, the head pushing inside and then pulling out. “I can’t hear you.”
“Fuck me,” she said, louder, crying out when he thrust, seating inside with one push. She gasped, sweat falling into her eyes, her hair sticking to her back.
He didn’t give her the steady thrusts that would get both of them off but held completely still, letting her feel every twitch of his cock.
A big hand carefully gathered her hair up, every tug on her scalp sending electrical tingles down her spine and body. She gasped as he wound the strands around his hand the same way he wound his tie to fold it up. When they were secured, he pulled. He lowered over her, plastering his body against hers, resting his lips against her ear. “You fuck me.”
She shoved her hips back against his hard, immovable body, but he had her almost pinned to the bed, and she could only fuck herself on a couple of inches of his hard dick. It wasn’t enough, the thick length barely moving. She sobbed. “I can’t. Please.”
His mouth descended on her shoulder. She stiffened as his hot tongue traced the tattoo there. This was about as much light as they’d ever had when they screwed. He wouldn’t be able to see all of the marks she’d put on herself. That was good, even if it did send a shot of sadness through her. She had to keep him from her soft parts.
Well, not all her soft parts. He bit the flesh right above a prickly flower, and she tried to rock again. “Fuck me. Please, I need your cock so bad. I’ll do anything for it.” Sex words. True words.
He gave her hair another tug, then reared back, his cock withdrawing from her body, leaving her clenching around nothing. She made a low sound of yearning.
“I shouldn’t let you have it,” he rumbled above her. “I should punish you for making me want you. For making me need you.”
“If you punish me, you’re punishing yourself.”
There was a moment of silence, their loud breaths syncing together. His big hands settled on her hips, and he flipped her over. His face was strained and covered with sweat. He yanked her legs wide and moved between them, his fat cock shoving in deep enough to make her scream.
She strained underneath him. “Plea—”
“Shh.” His cock sank inside her again and he rested his hands on either side of her head. “No more begging now.”
She lost herself in the steady roll of his hips, the in and out that was both familiar and altogether new. She had to close her eyes to avoid his intense blue gaze, the way his brow furrowed as he carefully catalogued her face.
“Livvy—”
“Stop talking. Just fuck me. Harder.” Hard enough she didn’t have to remember this was it, the last time it would happen.
His hips picked up speed, slamming into her. She could always tell when Nicholas was close because he fucked like a train run off course, his hips blurring. She bit her lip to hold back her cries, well aware that these walls were thin, but then his fingers were at her lips, his thumb inserting between her teeth. “You want to abuse a body, abuse mine. I don’t want a mark on those lips.”
Her body tightened around him, and she moaned, her teeth sinking into his flesh, taking him at his word. She bit harder as she climaxed on his pistoning cock. At the last minute she drew her arms around his neck and brought his face down so his lips were right next to her ear. His breaths soughed in and out, and he groaned, long and low. He shoved in deep and came, his body convulsing in her arms. She pressed her fingertips against his back and stared up at the ceiling, post-orgasmic bliss almost letting her forget this was all she’d ever have of him.
Almost.
He lifted his head, his eyes still closed, forehead creased like he was in pain. He slipped out of her arms before rolling to the side of the bed. He sat there for a long time, both of them breathing hard.
She’d been mistaken. Her heart didn’t feel dinged. It felt pummeled.
She stared at his back, the blank canvas of muscles and sinew and bone making her want to roll over and trace her fingers all over it. Tears and sorrow clogged her sinuses. She had no right to that back. Or his cock or his tongue or any part of him. This had been it. A few brief moments of forgetfulness to tide them over.
Say something. Do something.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, feeling lost.
She jerked when he came to his feet, but he didn’t look at her. The muscles in his butt flexed as he made his way to the bathroom. He shut the door behind him with a thud of finality. A faucet turned on.
The noise was an impetus. She lurched from the bed and gathered her clothes, not bothering to adjust her bra when it gave her a quadri-boob. Once she was dressed, she grabbed her phone and opened an app, muttering a sigh of relief when she saw there was a ride within a minute of her. She called for it and stuffed her feet into her shoes.
The water shut off in the bathroom as she exited the room, and the headlights of the car she’d called cut across the front of the hotel. She hesitated for a second, then typed out, I’m fine. Got a ride, and hit send.
She jumped in her ride, her eyes stinging. The car pulled away, and she caught sight of herself in the reflection of the window. Thank God her driver was utterly oblivious. She looked like a girl who had just gotten fucked. Her hair was tumbled, clothes in disarray. She tugged at her jacket to make sure it covered her breasts. So much for being healthier.
Her nose twitched, and she placed her finger under it, trying to stave off the flood of emotions. You’re a tough cookie. Hang in there.
She opened her conversation with Nicholas again, aware she was getting dangerously obsessive. That made five texts she’d sent him now.
A bubble popped up on the bottom of the screen, indicating he was typing, and her breath strangled. He’d never replied. Not once. She waited, hand clutching her phone tight.
The bubble went away and tears stung her eyes. Unable to look at the damn thing a second longer, she typed, Bye, hesitated for a second, and sent it. Then she deleted the conversation and sat back, wishing she could delete him from her life just as easily.
She
’d lied to herself, but that was nothing new. She was weak. For never being able to stop wanting Nicholas, for using the same dumb rationale every year to see him again, for accepting the crumbs of his physical affection.
She sniffed, hard. She’d said it before, but this time she meant it. She absolutely had to move forward. It was done. They were done. For good.
Chapter 8
NICHOLAS WALKED around the exterior of the house, his polished shoes squelching into the damp ground. His grandfather had left him a voicemail asking him to come as soon as possible. Nicholas had canceled a meeting and gotten in his car.
When John Chandler said jump, no one at Chandler’s wasted time asking how high. Except his dad, but then Brendan actively wanted to fuck with John.
He found his grandparent hunched over his beloved late wife’s rose garden, carefully pruning the dead heads off the branches. Nicholas came to stand next to his wheelchair. “Grandpa. You called?”
His grandfather didn’t stop what he was doing. “There’s some weeds over there I can’t reach.”
Most corporate executives probably weren’t ordered to weed in the middle of the workday, but then, most executives weren’t employed by a man who had changed their diapers. Nicholas stripped off his jacket, draped it over the banister of the porch, and rolled up his sleeves, tossing his tie over his shoulder so it wouldn’t get in the way. He grabbed the soft foam knee rest near John’s chair—laid there for him, he assumed—and knelt on the ground, pulling the offending weeds out.
Unlike his grandfather, he didn’t count gardening among his hobbies. Nicholas frowned at a stubborn weed. Actually, what were his hobbies? Working out, but that was out of necessity and discipline. When was the last time he’d engaged in an activity for pleasure?
Five nights ago.
He ripped the weed out so hard, dirt sprayed on his white shirt. He glanced down in dismay. He’d have to shower and change when he got back to the office.
“These protests. What’s happening?”
Nicholas sat back on his heels and swiped his arm over his forehead. Right. Business. Work. Things that had nothing to do with Livvy and that seedy hotel room where he’d fucked her and left her lying naked on the bed.
Shame and self-disgust wrestled inside him, but he tried to focus past them. “I got the report today. The store the activists are protesting is selling a tomato sauce from a company that uses prison labor to farm tomatoes and a honey from a company that hires inmates to raise bees. There may be a few others. It’s hard to source back to every ingredient.”
“Have you told your father?”
It was always “Brendan” or “your father.” Brendan had stopped being John’s son when he’d bought Tani’s shares behind John’s back. “Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said the products are fine sellers and it doesn’t make sense to go down the slippery slope of discovering where everything comes from.”
“I bet he said, if it became more publicized, we could spin the discovery as corrective rehabilitation, correct? A good deed.”
Nicholas reluctantly nodded.
“I looked into this particular program myself. If the prisoners are lucky, they earn a few thousand a year.”
“Yes, sir.” Nicholas wasn’t surprised his grandfather had researched it. John was more than a little technologically adept.
“That’s exploitation.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Nicholas said diplomatically.
“I want no part of it. We will not carry those products, and I want a top-to-bottom review of every supplier we use to ensure none of them are using companies like this. I won’t profit off the backs of men and women who have no choice in their employment.”
Nicholas pulled off his gloves. “Dad’s going to say that’s an expensive proposition.”
John finished snipping at the thorns and sat back in his chair. His gaze was shrewd when it met Nicholas’s. “What do you say?”
“It doesn’t matter what I say. I don’t own half the company.” He didn’t mean for his tone to be so testy, and he recalibrated immediately. “I mean, the ultimate decision is up to the two of you.”
“Which one of us do you think is right?”
Ha-ha. No. He wasn’t falling into that trap. Privately, he agreed with his grandfather, as he often did, but that was an opinion he’d take to his grave. The usual way he handled situations like this was to get both of their visions and then create a perfect compromise neither could wiggle out from. His thoughts were part and parcel of that compromise, but picking sides was a fool’s errand. He was Switzerland, a neutral party in this world war. “I’ll have to consider it some more.”
John harrumphed. “Fine. Consider it fast, though. This could blow up.”
In many ways, his grandfather understood public relations far better than his dad. “Yes, sir. I have people drafting a few different statements we can circulate to the media as well.”
“Good. Good.”
“I think once we come to a decision on this, we should come up with some general guidelines so we can handle these sorts of issues without needing to bother you. Or Dad,” Nicholas said.
John smirked. “Are you saying we micromanage you?”
Yes. “Our company has grown dramatically in a short period of time. It makes sense to periodically review all of our job responsibilities.”
“I swear, son. You got this diplomacy directly from your grandmother.” John removed his gardening gloves. “Very well. Speaking of your grandmother, I’ve sent Shel to you for a job.”
Nicholas racked his brain, but came up empty. “A cousin?”
“Barbara’s sister’s daughter’s niece. She’s in a tough spot.”
Nicholas didn’t bother to try to parse that connection. It didn’t matter how anyone was connected to him. If John said they were family, they were family. Besides, he’d probably recognize the girl when he saw her. “Fine. I’ll find her a place.” He came to his feet and dusted off his pants legs. “Is that all?”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?” Nicholas walked to the porch to grab his suit jacket.
“I want to see Livvy.”
It was a good thing Nicholas had his back to his grandfather, because it took him a second to control his expression. In the meantime, he pulled his jacket on, his brain racing. When he felt more composed, he turned to face his patiently waiting grandfather.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t feed me any bullshit,” John said bluntly. “I know she’s here.”
Nicholas didn’t bother to ask how John had found out. Though he mostly kept to himself now, in Rockville, John was larger than life. There were few people who he hadn’t affected in one way or another. “She’s here. I don’t know why you think I’d be able to arrange a meeting between you.”
“Don’t play dumb, Nicholas. I know you’ve seen her.”
“What makes you say that?” He was proud of how cool and controlled his voice sounded when he wanted to grab his grandfather and demand to know who had seen them together and where. They’d been careful. Had he been spotted at that hotel?
His blood ran to ice to think of what his father would think about that.
“Don’t worry about it. And relax, your dad doesn’t know you’ve seen her.”
Nicholas bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t care whether Dad knows or not.” Look at that. He was even able to lie without betraying a hint of his inner disquiet.
John merely nodded. “I need you to do this for me, Nicholas.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets, not bothering to pretend any longer. “I don’t think I can arrange that. I’m not planning on seeing her again.” She wouldn’t want to see him. Generally, when a woman booked it after sex with a couple of terse messages, it was a pretty good sign she was done.
Bye.
That bye was haunting him. He hadn’t been able to delete it. Ten times he’d tried to work up some sort
of response, if only to ask if she was okay or that she’d reached home safely, and he couldn’t.
He’d never felt like less of a man.
He couldn’t shove the compartment on her closed. His desire for her hadn’t eased. On the contrary, he only craved her more than he had before.
Which was why he shouldn’t go anywhere near her.
John looked across the yard to the woods, where Livvy’s old house sat on the other side.
“Do you know what I promised Sam before he died?”
“That you would take care of his family,” Nicholas said quietly. It was a vow he knew his grandfather didn’t take lightly, one that had its origins in the history between their two families.
When Sam and John had been little more than children, the Okas had been sentenced to an internment camp for Japanese-Americans. They’d hastily shut down their successful grocery store. Unable to take more than they could carry to the camp, they’d entrusted as many possessions as they could to the Chandlers.
The two families had a lot in common—John’s parents had been immigrants too, from England. The Chandlers had simply had the privilege not to be viewed as enemies on sight. They’d carefully guarded the Okas’ assets.
When the Okas had been released, Sam and John had headed east, eager for a fresh start. They’d found it. Their tight bond had lasted up until the day Sam died.
“You know, I wasn’t a tenth of the businessman Sam was. Everything we have—everything you have, you owe to him.”
Nicholas dipped his head, having heard this before. He didn’t disbelieve it. His grandfather was shrewd, but he lacked a killer instinct. By all accounts, Sam had been the one to steer the ship during their first tumultuous years.
“I didn’t do a good job keeping my promise,” John said. “I did the worst fucking job.”
“It’s not your fault.” It was Brendan’s fault.
Nicholas tried to beat back that thought. He couldn’t survive if he let the seething resentment he felt toward his father surface. And above all, he needed to survive.