by Kim Karr
On the plus side, by the time I hit my private shower, the only thing on my mind is why the fuck am I so horny? It’s like I’m a teenage boy.
My brain might not be functioning properly but one thing is clear—I can’t show up at Fiona and Ethan’s place with a raging hard-on. And I certainly can’t be in Tess’s presence with one, especially not all evening.
What if she noticed?
What if she didn’t?
Fuck me.
Feeling . . .
Eager.
Bold.
Hot-blooded.
That is just a disaster waiting to happen.
I need to take care of this situation right now.
Jerking off at the office isn’t something I normally do, but today I need to make an exception.
Sitting on the long bench in the middle of the marble bathroom, I pull my track pants down and kick them and my sneakers off. Running my hand down my stomach, I wrap my fingers around my dick and think of how good it would feel to be inside her.
Soon enough, I find myself lying back. As I stare at the ceiling, I pump slowly from my balls to the tip of my cock, once, twice, three times. And suddenly I’m thinking of the noises she might make when I touch her clit and then rub it over and over, or whether or not she’ll scream my name when I fuck her hard and fast.
My breathing comes in short bursts as adrenaline pumps through my veins. Out of nowhere, I start to wonder how her wetness might taste—on her tongue, in her mouth, and around her sweet pussy. I press my heels into the ground and push my hips up. My grip grows tighter as I pump my fist harder, faster.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Again and again.
After a few minutes, I’m on the edge, almost there, but I slow my hand to prolong the pleasure. But then thoughts of her straddling me so she can thrust her hips into mine, rush my need for release. All too soon I’m coming. I arch my back and tip my head, letting the feeling absorb me.
Overtake me.
Own me.
Minutes later I rise from the bench to hop in the shower. Once under the warm spray, I refuse to put a face to the woman’s body I just imagined in my mind and used to make myself come.
Because if I think too hard about it, I’m afraid I know whose face it was.
And more than likely . . . she’d slap me if she found out about the very dirty thoughts I was having starring her.
Not fuck me.
Tess
THE WORLD IS made up of many different kinds of business people. Suits. Khakis. Take charge. Cower down. Go with the flow.
But the bullying type is simply unacceptable.
In fact, there should be laws against this kind of behavior. I give him a sideways glance and see his smirk. There definitely should be laws against it. What this big shot is trying to do is completely unethical and downright underhanded.
I really wish I had done my research before coming to the agreed upon appointment to sign my new restaurant lease, because if I had, I would have canceled. But with everything happening so fast, I neglected to notice whom exactly I would be meeting.
He’s a man with a reputation around Chicago.
And not a good one.
Word on the street is that he is a slumlord.
A down and dirty businessman.
Ruthless.
With a narrowed stare, I look my potential new landlord right in the eyes. “I am not signing this lease until you change the monthly lease payment back to the one advertised, and I might add, the previously agreed upon amount.”
Pokerfaced, Mathias Bigelow shifts his gaze from the clipboard in his hands over to me, and then stares at me deadpan. “Ms. Winters, the advertised monthly rate was for retail space, not a restaurant.”
“But I told Derrick what the space would be used for.”
“Derrick,” he grits, “is a realtor, and has no decision-making authority in my business.”
I have to tread lightly. This man owns a rather large percentage of the properties in River North and is rumored to be involved with organized crime. Figures I’d get stuck with him. “I don’t understand why it matters what I plan to use the space for.”
Pardon my language, but this dick in a suit doesn’t impress me with his business savvy when he indicates to the space we are standing in and says, “Would you like me to explain why it matters, doll?”
Trying hard not to roll my eyes, I answer with what I believe to be an intelligent response. “Yes, Mr. Bigelow, I would because the lease is triple net, and therefore there are no additional expenses out of your pocket.”
His face turns red and I think he is getting angry. “Turning this old accountant’s office into a restaurant is going to require renovations, extensive renovations, and although the money is not coming out of my pocket, you will be limiting the future revenue streams of this location when you vacate the property.”
Now irritation starts to flare beneath my skin. “That makes absolutely no sense. If anything, I’m providing the potential to improve it, not reduce it.”
Taking two giant steps toward me, he closes in on me—intentionally moving into my personal space. “Look doll, you either sign the contract or you don’t. It’s no skin off my back either way, but stop wasting my time.”
Whereas Nick in a suit is all smooth and polished, this guy looks rough around the edges even in expensive pinstripes.
Odd thought, I know.
But then Mathias Bigelow takes another step, and his closeness causes my pulse to leap erratically with fear. Effectively banishing all my thoughts about anything except the situation I am in.
When he takes another step toward me, I can smell the foul odor of his cologne, and I am forced to take a step back. He in turn, steps toward me again, caging me against the wall with his free arm.
Somehow I manage to suppress my snarl of rage.
Barely.
How dare he try to intimidate me?
Moving way past fear now, I grit my teeth and go on the attack. “Your shady business tactics won’t work with me, Mr. Bigelow.”
“Shady.” He tips his head back and laughs.
“Yes, shady. You baited me in here, and now you want to switch the deal.”
Somehow he moves even closer. “Are you accusing me of trying to pull a scam?”
Now my nerves are back, and I swallow before nodding.
“Do you know who I am?” he bites out.
As if his cologne doesn’t smell bad enough, the smell of his coffee breath is vile. The combination is making me sick. My stomach becomes a nervous flutter. I want to get away from him. For a brief moment, I consider pushing him back. But I know I won’t be able to budge him, so I don’t. There’s no way I am giving him that kind of satisfaction. Instead, I answer, “Yes,” again, and then add, “I’ll sign for the agreed upon amount only.”
He merely grins. “And I’ll say it one more time, a little slower so you understand, there was no viable, binding prior agreement. This,” he raises the hand with the clipboard and at the same time, lowers the arm caging me in, “is the only agreement there is.”
I look down at the skirt and knee-high boots I opted to wear and then across to the door, and wonder should I decide to run, if I can make it.
And if I do, will he chase me?
Catch me?
Hold me in his grip?
Not wanting to risk an altercation, I square my shoulders and purse my lips. I can act tough, too.
As if sensing I plan to hold my ground, that he will not intimidate me, he pulls the stapled packet of papers from its holder. Once free, he shoves them at me. “I’ll give you until Monday to decide, after that, this place is back on the market. And even with the increased price, you won’t find a cheaper place for rent.”
Damn him, he’s right.
Still, I have my principles and will not be bullied. With shaky fingers I take the papers and stare at him, steady, unwavering. I refuse to show him an
y fear, or like a lion, he’ll prey on it.
Finally he steps back, allowing me room to pass. “Goodbye,” I say, willing my trembling voice to remain steady.
He grabs my upper arm, tightly, as I move past him. “You have until Monday,” he reminds me, and then lets me go.
When I approach the door, all I can think is, I showed him. I am woman hear me roar. As I open the door, all I can think is, I really need a drink. But then, as the door closes behind me, all I can think is . . . I am not sure if I am lucky . . .
Or screwed.
Tess
DINNER CONSISTS OF a big bowl of popcorn and a glass of wine.
Over the last three months, this has become habit. And I rather like the ease of popping a bag into the microwave and then uncorking a bottle.
Truth be told, I might have gone to culinary school, but I’m not much of a cook. While I had exceled in restaurant management, food preparation courses weren’t my forte. Honestly, I’ve just never loved cooking.
With my sweatpants on and my brown hair twisted in a knot on top of my head, I turn on the fireplace and blow my bangs from my eyes. My hair is in bad shape. I really could use a bang trim.
The ill state of my hair aside, I sit at the kitchen island with my laptop in front of me and begin to peruse alternative properties for rent. Any of the places within a semi-decent distance of Magnificent Mile are all way too expensive. Besides, more than likely Mathias Bigelow owns them, and God knows what his markup or punishment tax will be for me to rent an alternate one of his other properties.
I take a sip of wine and start adding up the costs to renovate the property I’m interested in, and then the increased monthly lease payments the ruthless bastard wants to charge me. The amount is almost doable. Almost. So close that it’s like a tease. So close and yet so far. I simply don’t have the money to stretch myself that thin. And I have to say, it’s probably a good thing. I don’t scare easy. I pride myself on the fact I can take care of myself. Still, he made me nervous.
And with that thought in mind, I realize I’m right back where I started two weeks ago when I started looking around . . . nowhere with nothing.
By the time I hear Nick’s Range Rover pull into the driveway, that one glass of wine has somehow turned into three, my worries have quadrupled, and the popcorn bowl is nearly empty.
Nick had taken Max over to Jace Bennett’s house right after pre-school pickup. Jace is Ethan and Nick’s college buddy.
It’s a Friday night tradition for Max.
You see, Jace is recently widowed. He lost his wife of seven years last year to a tragic illness. Not only has he been left a widower at the age of thirty, but he is also a single father to a little girl about six months younger than Max. Let me tell you, Scarlett is the cutest redhead you’ve ever seen, and she is the spitting image of her mother.
Jace owns Flirt Enterprises, a huge conglomerate of social media dating sites. From what Fiona has told me, between his job and his daughter, Jace has no time left for himself. Knowing exactly how that feels, she takes Scarlett on Friday nights so that the boys can watch a hockey game, shoot some hoops, or just sit around and drink beers.
Nick, previously unbeknownst to me, is obviously a part of the boys, and decided not to cancel Friday night altogether. But rather, he went to his friend’s house to spend the evening with him and the kids. I have to admit, spending his Friday nights with married men isn’t very playboy like.
He’s such a contradiction.
Nice when you thought he wasn’t.
Helpful when you had no idea he even knew the definition of the word.
What is it they say—don’t judge a book by its hard, chiseled, exterior? Well, not quite, but something like that.
“Hey,” Nick says softly as he comes up the stairs. Max is already in his pajamas and sound asleep resting his head on Nick’s shoulder.
“Hey,” I respond quietly, jumping to my feet and almost fall over from the wave of dizziness that hits me. “Let me help you.”
Nick shakes his head as he crosses the room. “I got this.”
Wanting to assist in removing Max’s outerwear, but wondering if I can actually make it up the stairs without stumbling, I decide to sit back down and will the spinning room to stop. I know I’m not drunk. Two glasses of wine and then some isn’t enough to intoxicate me.
Nick’s strides are quick, and he is up the stairs even quicker.
I close my laptop and shut my eyes, pressing the heels of my palms to my forehead in order to concentrate on gaining my stability.
Minutes pass, and then suddenly the overhead lights flick on. I hadn’t realized I’d been sitting in the dark. I move my hands away from my face and blink. My vision blurs and then finally clears.
“Rough night?” Nick asks, taking his coat off and hanging it in the closet near the front door.
“Shitty day,” I tell him honestly, and quickly add, “But the night hasn’t been so bad.”
He’s standing beside me in a moment and pointing to the bottle. “I can tell,” he says with a smirk. “Mind?”
Surprised he drinks wine, I fight a smile as I push it his way. “Help yourself.”
When he reaches for a glass from the cupboard, I can’t help but notice how long and lean he is. I’ve seen his bare torso, I’ve seen his bare ass, but I’ve obviously never paid enough attention to how good he looks in suit pants and a white shirt.
Pouring the last of the wine into first my glass and then his own, he dips his chin toward the empty bottle. “So, tell me Tess,” he says, in that authoritative manner I used to think was condescending, but now know is just the way he speaks, “why was your day so shitty?” The note of concern in his tone strangely makes me feel like my blood is on fire.
Ignoring this very wrong illicit reaction, I glance up a little too fast and have to grab the island I’m sitting at for support.
Like lightning speed, his glass is down, he has one hand on my shoulder, and the other lifting my chin to look into my eyes. “Hey, Tess, are you okay?”
It’s odd but there is this hot, thick feeling inside me that I become aware of almost instantly when his warm skin touches mine. I write it off as too much wine. “Yes, I’m fine. I think I’m just tired.”
Letting go of my shoulder, he points to the nearly empty bowl beside me. “Have you eaten anything besides popcorn today?”
Feeling like a fool, I suddenly know why I’m out of sorts. Obviously drinking on an empty stomach is very irresponsible of me, and I have to own up to my stupidity. “No, I haven’t,” I admit. “But I’m fine now.”
Instead of chastising me, or worse, calling me on my irresponsibility, like I probably would have done if the tables were turned, he simply responds with, “Yes, I can see that,” and then strides toward the refrigerator.
Curious as to what he is doing, I twist in my stool. “How was your night?”
Bending, he rummages through the contents before him. “It was a good time. We ordered pizza, the kids played, and Jace and I watched hockey.”
“Sounds fun. It certainly looked like Max enjoyed himself.”
Setting a carton of eggs, a bag of cheese, and a gallon of milk on the counter beside the stove, Nick glances over at me. “Are eggs okay?”
More than a bit surprised by his question, I start to protest, “You don’t have to cook—”
“Tess, how do you like your eggs?” Nick asks, cutting me off.
Somewhat bewildered, I stare at him. Not sure how to answer that. It’s weird, but in all the years I was with Ansel, I don’t think he ever asked me what I preferred to eat. I always just ate whatever new recipe he had decided to try out.
The skillet clanks as it hits the stovetop. “Do you want them fried or scrambled?” he presses.
It takes me a moment, but finally I answer him. “Scrambled, please.”
With a nod, Nick grabs for a glass bowl.
“How’s Jace?” I ask, still surprised he’s cooking for me.
My heart hurts for Nick and Ethan’s friend. I can’t imagine what he is going through. “Maybe he just wants to keep busy,” I suggest.
“I’m sure of that, but he can’t keep going at the pace he is for much longer. He gets up, takes Scarlett to a daycare near his office, goes to work, leaves the office by six to pick her up, and once she is in bed, he works until God knows what hour. I swear, the dude never sleeps.”
I watch Nick with an odd curiosity as he competently whisks the milk in his egg mixture, shakes in some salt and pepper, and then adds a handful of cheese. He knows what he’s doing. There is no show, or fancy moves though. It’s all done quick and efficiently, with the intent to get to the finished product. “Have you suggested he hire a nanny to help with Scarlett?” I ask.
Nick pours the contents of the bowl into the hot skillet and starts to whip the liquid around with a fork. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Maybe someone needs to let him know it’s okay if he can’t do everything himself.”
“No, I haven’t, but I’m sure Fiona must have.”
“But he’s your friend, so maybe if you suggest it, he’ll at least consider the idea,” I say optimistically.
Nick smirks at me as he puts some bread in the toaster. “Maybe.”
“What?” I ask.
“When did you become little miss sunshine?”
I put my hand to my chest. “I beg your pardon, but I have always been a glass half full kind of girl.”
With a snicker, Nick scoops the eggs onto two plates.
“I have,” I stress.
The toast pops up. “Whatever you say.”
“Nick, I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are,” he mumbles under his breath.
“I am.”
His smirk remains in place as he grabs the hot slices of bread and quickly drops them to the plates. “Do you remember the night,” he says, waving his hand as if he burned it, “of Fiona and Ethan’s rehearsal dinner,” he goes on, “when I suggested we take the Polar Bear Plunge and you shot me down?”
Torn between watching him make me something to eat and arguing with him, I decide why not do both. “Yes, I do remember, and the idea was just ludicrous.”