Penthouse Player

by Tara Leigh

  “I guess it is a shame. I never thought of it like that.”

  The way Tristan looked at me, I could almost imagine I was some gift he was taking his time opening. Savoring the process of not knowing, only guessing a little before unwrapping it, bit by bit, piece by piece. Tristan had no idea that I was actually a mistake, some drunken hookup between an egg and sperm that took root and grew into a living, breathing person. Reina St. James. The girl with a regal sounding name to mask her sordid past.

  “That’s a shame too.”

  The night I lost my virginity, I had felt relieved. Like, phew, glad that’s done. If only I’d known this man was in my future, waiting for me. I wished Tristan had been my first. No—I wished he’d been my only. I’d never felt this visceral connection to anyone. Eyeing Tristan as he sipped at his wine, I could feel the confidence that enveloped him. The sureness of his path, his future. As our salad plates were cleared, I thanked the one lucky star in my universe that had somehow made Tristan want me and pursue me. The tips of my ears felt hot, raw emotion rising to the surface of my skin.

  “Were you always like this?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “So sure of yourself. Is it a by-product of growing up a Bettencourt, or was there some class you took at school?”

  “You mean, during my boarding school brat phase?”

  I grinned. “Maybe, yeah.”

  He put his glass down, leaned back in his chair. “You know, one of the best things about being your boss is that I can look into your background without being accused of stalking.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up, my smile fading. I didn’t need anyone “looking into” my background, least of all Tristan. Through well-practiced restraint, my expression remained neutral. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. And I discovered that you went to a school every bit as bratty—your word, not mine—as I did.”

  I let out a breath. Basic résumé stuff. No problem, as long as he didn’t dive too deep. “True. But my dad taught at the school, it’s different.”

  “Different how? Same caliber, same classes, same cafeteria food.”

  Did I want to go there? No, not really. Any conversation about my upbringing would reveal the gaping divide between us. But I plunged in anyway.

  “Maybe you never felt it, but there’s a caste system at places that cost sixty, seventy thousand dollars a year just to walk through the front door. Kids like you, whose parents foot the entire bill, are at the top. You have the best clothes, go on the most exciting vacations, have the strongest connections to get into college—legacies, a library with your last name on it, whatever. The next rung down is the scholarship kids. Academic or athletic, they’re there because the school wanted them. They’re either the smartest in their class or the ones who take your team to the championship.” I tucked a wayward lock of hair behind my ear, then sat on my hands to stop fidgeting. “And at the very bottom are kids like me. I wasn’t recruited. No one was paying my tuition. I was only there because my father worked for the school. Kids like me, we have to prove ourselves every day. Otherwise we just take up space that could have gone to someone who actually deserved it.” I closed my mouth, almost shocked that I’d let so many words slip out, and picked up my fork, determined to fill my mouth so full of fish I wouldn’t be able to talk.

  “Did you?”

  The fork stopped halfway to my face. “Did I what?”

  “Prove yourself.”

  Rather than answer, I took my bite, chewed slowly as I ran through answers that wouldn’t make him sorry he’d invited me over.

  But Tristan didn’t wait for my response. “You did. Of course you did. And you’ve been doing it ever since, right? Boarding school, college, a job with Bettencourt. You said it yourself, you’ve made an art form of going after the thing that everyone else wants.”

  My mouth went dry. What he said was true. But it made me sound conniving rather than industrious.

  Tristan got up and pulled out the chair closest to me, sat. “Is that what this is? What I am? Are you here with me tonight because of some kind of competitive streak?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  @BettencourtBets: Hmmm. IVy didn’t come into the office this weekend. What game was he playing at home?

  Tristan

  My voice sounded sharp, even to my own ears. How was it that Reina wasn’t even my girlfriend and yet I was waiting for her answer as if she was my everything? That tweet about escaping from my father’s shadow had been closer to the truth than I would ever willingly admit. Was I falling for a woman who would turn as cold and sharp as the diamond she’d set her sights on? Was Reina like Elise, willing to do anything to become a hedge fund heiress? Was she just another Claudia in disguise—a gorgeous, sexy-as-hell disguise?

  If Reina had any ulterior motives at all, I needed to know. Now. Because our date wasn’t going quite the way I’d planned. There was a depth to Reina that I hadn’t expected, and it was about time I owned up to the truth—I wanted more from her than just her body, exquisite as it was. Nearly ten years younger than me, and fresh out of college, Reina should have been about as deep as a puddle. Instead I found myself staring into a wishing well, taunted by the pennies glinting at the bottom. They might be just an arm’s length away, or so far I’d never be able to reach them. And it was killing me.

  The silence stretched out as Reina put down her fork, turned to face me. “Tristan, if I told you that I knew what we are, or what this is, I’d be lying. I don’t. I don’t have a fucking clue.” Her eyes searched mine, looking for . . . something. They were wide and green, fringed with lashes so long they brushed my cheek when we kissed. “You scare the hell out of me, you know. I thought working for Bettencourt was what I wanted. And it is. It still is. But all these risks I’ve been taking—creeping down corridors and showing up at your door with a baseball cap covering my face—that’s not me.”

  “I don’t want you because someone else does—although I’m sure if we went to the bar down the street every girl would be all over you. I want you because . . . I don’t know how not to want you. And I’m scared. I’m beginning to realize that I want you more than some job—even the one I’ve been working toward for more years than I’m willing to admit.” She laughed suddenly, running her fingers through her hair and ruffling it. “I didn’t know guys like you even existed. And even if I did, you’re not on my five-year-plan. I didn’t think I had room in my life for you, but now . . .” She reached out her hands for mine. “I need you to be patient with me, Tristan. Because I’m coming in blind.”

  I swallowed. Hard. Her answer, her explanation, was exactly what I needed to hear. Reina wasn’t devious or calculating. She didn’t look at me like I was just the next phase in her master plan. She was just cautious, and as confused as I was about what we were and where we were going. My fingers closed around hers.

  This one, she’s a fighter. The voice in my head, it didn’t belong to me.

  My thumb pressed into Reina’s palm, kneading her tender flesh. “The first night we met, when you smiled at me in the middle of the ballroom, I knew you looked young, but I would have sworn you were five steps ahead of me. Ahead of everyone in the room.”

  Reina laughed. “I thought I was. But you shoved me off my pedestal pretty quick.”

  “I like you unsteady.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because it means you have to lean on me, just a little.”

  She toyed with her wine glass, running her finger along the rim. “You don’t mind?”

  I smiled. Reina was no Claudia. Neither was she Elise 2.0. I didn’t exactly know what we were yet. But there was something between us. Something pretty fucking special. “Hell no. I like keeping you close.”

  Reina

  My heart could have burst. I rose from my own chair and swung my legs over Tristan’s strong thighs, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Me too.” There was a muted click, like the sound of a door closing. “I think we scare
d the server away.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s all taken care of. I told him to leave once we lost interest in the food.”

  “Do you always think of everything?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Not anymore. Lately I’ve only been thinking of you.”

  Sentences like that flayed my skin with the precision of a vegetable peeler—the kind you bought at Sur La Table, not Target. I felt raw and exposed; even the air stung. So I did the only thing that made sense anymore. I kissed Tristan with every pent up bit of longing and frustration bubbling in my veins, giving as much as I took. I pulled at his hair, bit at his neck, tore at his clothes. I could feel him hold back for a minute, thrown off by my urgency. But I’d crossed the thin line between passion and pure lust. I was lost in a vortex, operating purely on animal instinct. I wanted Tristan. I wanted his mouth and his tongue, his hands and his cock. I wanted everything he had to give.

  There was ripping and tearing, and at one point I could have sworn the chair was going to fly backward and leave at least one of us with a concussion. But Tristan steadied it and in under a minute we were both naked, skin to skin. I groaned at the sheer pleasure of it. His touch was everything I craved.

  Then he was in me and I was finally full, finally whole. I came in a rush, eyes closed, clinging to Tristan for dear life. He must have pried me off him, because the next thing I knew we were standing, then I was leaning over the table and he was inside me again, holding my hips steady as he pounded into me. My breath fogged the ebony table top, and I heard a glass topple over, watched the wine spreading across the surface toward me with half lidded eyes. The scent of sex, of sweat, mixed with the acrid notes of the wine and I cried out, overcome with too many sensory inputs.

  Tristan’s rhythm sped up, and a hand crept between my ass cheeks. His thumb pushed into me at the last minute, amping up the intensity with the grace of a sledgehammer and catapulting me over the edge. No one had ever done that before. I came again, my orgasm more intense this time. Tristan followed just moments later and I savored the feeling of him spurting deep inside of me.

  “That was . . .”

  We glanced around at the wreckage of the table: broken glass, spilled wine. “Messy,” I finished.

  “Yeah. But worth it.”

  I winced slightly as he pulled out of me, both places. “Agreed.”

  Together we cleaned up, it didn’t take long, and got in the shower together. At least five times the size of the one in my apartment, it had more jets and levers and dials than I knew what to do with. But Tristan did, handily pointing one of the sprays in just the right position to leave me limp and clinging to him, again, within seconds.

  He carried me to his bed afterward, where I felt both completely sated and wholly depleted at the same time. In his arms, we alternately chatted and dozed. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the kind of relationship my mother had had with Van Horne. Maybe not anymore, but at the beginning of their relationship at least. Because this—whatever was happening between Tristan and me—was something I couldn’t imagine anyone else, even my own child, competing with.

  Falling asleep cocooned within his arms, I felt just a tiny bit less resentful of her leaving me. Van Horne was still a piece of shit son of a bitch for denying my existence, making her walk away and cut all but the most tenuous ties with me, but if what she had was anything close to this . . . I could almost forgive her for going after the brass ring.

  * * *

  “Come on, get dressed.”

  “Hmmm?” I was still in bed, Tristan’s bed, the same place I’d spent most of the weekend. I lifted my head, wondering how I hadn’t realized he wasn’t still curled around me, the way he’d been after our early morning sex aerobics. Seriously, Jillian Michaels and Shaun T had nothing on us. Exhausted, and lulled by the rhythmic sound of Tristan’s breathing, I’d fallen right back asleep. How had he gotten up, and—by the looks of it—dressed and ready to start the day already? “Why? I thought you liked me naked?”

  Striding to the bed, Tristan lifted the covers, his eyes lighting up with appreciation. “Oh, I do. But I don’t want anyone else to have the same pleasure.”

  In the past, had anyone looked at me with such blatant appraisal, in the bright light of day and without a stitch of clothing on, I would have snatched the covers from his hands, blushing furiously. But this morning, with this man, I didn’t. My skin warmed, but not from embarrassment. I stretched. I smiled. I fucking preened. Tristan made no secret of the fact that he loved looking at my body, and I liked the person I saw reflected in his gaze. “Why? Are you expecting company?”

  “No. But I can’t stay inside for another day, not even with you.” He gestured toward the wall of windows. “It’s a gorgeous morning. Let’s go outside, walk around, find someplace to have brunch, see a movie, go to a museum.”

  I shook my head, trying to shake the sleepy cobwebs loose. “That’s quite a list. Sure I can’t tempt you to come back to bed for a little while longer?” Tucked away in his penthouse with a stack of takeout menus handy, we’d been practically inseparable for thirty-six hours. Even so, I wasn’t quite ready to face the real world yet.

  No such luck. Tristan threw the covers to the side, his hand coming back to rest on my hip. “Not even you can tempt me to stay inside today. I feel like a lab animal trapped in a cage.”

  I glanced around his luxurious, multi-million-dollar enclosure, and laughed. “Pretty nice cage.”

  I caught a twitch of Tristan’s lips, but nothing more, before I was scooped into his arms. He kissed me until my head was spinning, and I would have thought for sure we’d wind up back in bed, exactly where I wanted to be. But then he relaxed his grip, letting me slide down his body to stand on my own two feet. Rather than fight a losing battle, I headed off to shower and dress, grumbling to myself the whole time.

  Yanking on my hoodie, jeans, and Converse kicks, I realized I didn’t know enough curse words to properly deride the ridiculous wardrobe choices I’d made Friday. Compounding my problem, I’d tossed just a toothbrush into the cosmetic case in my purse—preparing for a booty-call, not a weekend rendezvous. The only makeup I carried with me on a regular basis was lip liner and gloss. Without pencil to fill in my nearly invisible brows and mascara to darken my pale eyelashes, I looked like a teenager.

  Tristan laughed as I emerged from his bathroom. “We might have to expand our list of excursions to include shopping.”

  I twirled, enjoying our private joke much more than my outfit. “What, you don’t like my college coed look?”

  “College coed might be pushing it. You look like you’re still in high school.” His voice was light, but truthful.

  Deciding the ponytail wasn’t helping my cause, I pulled at the elastic, letting my hair fall free onto my shoulders. “Better?”

  Tristan’s lips twitched as he strode toward me, wrapping his hands around my waist and pulling me against him, our eyes meeting in the mirror. “You went from cute junior to sexy senior.” He bent to kiss my neck. “But I’ll take it.”

  Tristan

  I wasn’t kidding when I told Reina she looked like she was still in high school. Reaching for her hand as we walked down the street, I hoped I didn’t look like a lecherous old man. As seductive and beguiling as she looked in dresses that accentuated her lush curves, wearing heels that made her hips sway so enticingly that even walking from one end of a room to another was as sexy as any striptease, this morning Reina barely looked old enough to drive, let alone drink.

  But her reluctance as I enfolded her hand within my own only made my grip tighter. Why? I have no idea. PDA isn’t exactly my thing. But the idea of being within arm’s length of Reina and not reaching out for her hand, at the very least, felt completely unnatural, especially in light of how close we’d been the entire weekend. If my track record was anything to go by, I should have been anxious to get rid of her already, the way I always felt after spending the night with a woman. And we’d spent a hell of
a lot more than just one night together. Since Reina’s first day at Bettencourt, I’d rarely gone more than a few hours without being charmed by her leprechaun eyes.

  This morning, getting rid of Reina was the last thing on my mind. Even when I’d been half of a couple I’d never really done couple things, like sipping Bloody Marys at a sidewalk café or strolling hand in hand. But here I was, strolling hand in hand, and damn it if I didn’t want a Bloody fucking Mary too.

  “Hungry?”

  Reina grinned. “Yeah.”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  “You mean, besides you?”

  My cock twitched. “Minx.”

  “Sorry, can’t help it. Um, what’s good around here?”

  I shrugged. “No idea. I usually wind up grabbing something from a deli on my way into the office.”

  “Even on a Sunday?”

  I chuckled. Just because the markets weren’t open, didn’t mean there wasn’t work to be done. “Especially on a Sunday.”

  “Do you want to go into the office? I could come with you if you want, or head back home and get out of your hair.”

  “No.” I raked my fingers along my skull for effect. “You’re definitely not in my hair, and I got some work done while you were sleeping.”

  She cast as sidelong glance at me as we crossed the street. “This morning?”

  “Yeah. You must have been pretty worn out after all those orgasms I gave you.”

  Reina’s throaty giggle was a welcome addition to the typical Manhattan orchestra of busses, taxis, and swearing pedestrians. “Obviously I didn’t give you enough.”

  “Oh, you did.” I waggled my eyebrows at her. “I just have more endurance than you, on account of your young age and all.”

  “Okay, old man. Maybe we should stop at a pharmacy to get you a little blue pill, in deference to your advanced years.”

  “Touché,” I conceded.