Perfect Fit

by Naima Simone

  A Perfect Fit

  by Naima Simone

  Breathless Press

  Calgary, Alberta

  www.breathlesspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Perfect Fit

  Copyright© 2011 Naima Simone

  ISBN: 978-1-926930-61-9

  Cover Artist: Justyn Perry

  Editor: Sandra Rychel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Breathless Press

  www.breathlesspress.com

  Dedication

  To my Father. You never cease to amaze me with your works and love toward me. Thank you for blessing me and taking the limits off.

  Gary, I should just call you my coauthor, because I couldn’t finish a book without you. You are my partner in every way and in every area of my life. And I love it and you.

  Debra, when I had my doubts, you gave me a swift kick in my confidence. You are absolutely wonderful. Thank you for laughing in all the right places!

  Breeze, Konard, Kevin, and Autumn, I promised you I would put your names in my next book—here it is! I always keep my promises!

  Jessica, you are proof that God loves me!

  Sandra, I have no words that adequately convey how much your knowledge, humor, and kindness mean to me. With every book I learn more. Not only are you a great editor, but an awesome teacher. And I am always excited to see your name in my in-box. LOL!

  Chapter One

  “…and without a word of good-bye, she slipped from the prince’s arms and ran down the steps. As she ran, she lost one of her slippers…”—Cinderella

  “Son of a bitch! Where is it?”—Rowyn Jeong

  “No, open your eyes.” A big hand smoothed her damp, tangled hair from her face. The backs of long fingers grazed her cheek. “I want you to see.”

  Her breath shuddered from between parted lips, and after the slightest hesitation, she complied with his soft command. She lifted her lashes, and the erotic tableau that met her eyes stole the air from her lungs. Oh God.

  The deep shadows reflected in the bureau mirror couldn’t hide the long arch of a masculine back, the curve of a taut buttock, or the muscled length of thigh. So much sexuality contained under golden skin. The perfect male animal.

  Her pussy clenched.

  “That’s it, baby,” he murmured in her ear. “Squeeze me tight.”

  His ass rose, and she felt the drag of his cock through her swollen sex and saw his thick, gleaming shaft as he withdrew from her body. Restrained underneath him by his body and hands, she could do nothing but gasp and receive the pleasure he seemed intent on giving over and over. It wasn’t the first or even the second time this night she’d been pinned and penetrated. But as the incredible length of his dick tunneled through her pussy once more, it may as well have been the first. Her flesh resisted, parted, gripped. Every inch, every ridge seemed to imprint a fiery brand on her sex.

  He groaned, and in a fraction of a second, he tightened his fingers on her wrists. With him stretched over her, his chest pressing into her spine, the shiver that coursed through his big body vibrated over her skin like an electric charge.

  Once more he slid free. She quivered.

  “Do you have any idea how much my cock wants your pussy?” he whispered. He eased back and hooked an arm under her hips, then pulled her ass up and back. He stroked a palm up her spine, over the ball of her shoulder, and then back down. “There, baby. Watch it. Watch my dick take you.” The pale column of flesh speared from a brown thatch of hair and arrowed straight between her trembling thighs. His cock disappeared from her sight as it surged deep in her sex. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. Her stomach muscles quivered, and she shook under the erotic image. It felt naughty, forbidden, to watch herself getting fucked. But damn—another groan ripped free as he fisted his cock near the flared base—she couldn’t turn away from the mirror’s reflection. “Your pussy’s so fucking drenched. Like hot cream. Like you’re melting around my dick…”

  The dual stimulation of his sexy words and witnessing her own fucking pushed her so close to orgasm, she shook under the whip of lust. Tiny flicks of pleasure lashed her clit, and her pussy rippled around his thick cock. She wanted to come.

  As if sensing her heightened need, he surged forward. He buried his length inside her, and his thighs pressed tight to her legs and the lower curves of her ass. Pleasure tore a cry from her throat, and she bucked helplessly against the hard thrust.

  “Good girl,” he praised. “Fuck my cock, pretty girl.” He fell forward, palms flat against the dark mahogany headboard. It didn’t seem possible that he had more cock to give her, but God, it felt as if he’d pushed deeper into her pussy and nudged the mouth of her womb. He grunted, and his hips pressed forward, grinding against her ass. He slid one hand between her thighs and plucked her clit.

  She screamed.

  The sound seemed to snap the binding that tethered his control. With a low, animalistic growl, he fucked her like a stallion covering his mare. His ass clenched and released as he rode her hard, slamming into her with thrust after thrust. She cried out with each stroke, urging him on, begging for more. God. More.

  The orgasm pummeled her like a battering ram. No slow buildup, no undulation of pleasure to signal its arrival. Just a crash of ecstasy. A shattering of self.

  Then nothing.

  ***

  Oh. Shit.

  Rowyn Jeong cast a glance down her body to the heavy arm roped across her waist. Her heart thumped. The shallow gasps of breath that escaped her lips seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room as her gaze skipped up an arm, over a shoulder, and landed on a long expanse of delectable skin.

  Jesus. She sighed and then cringed as it seemed to echo in the room like a shout across the Grand Canyon. Muscles tense, she lay frozen, as if she were engaged in some twisted erotic version of Red Light, Green Light. For several long moments, she remained still, her gaze pinned on the naked man next to her, searching for any sign of wakefulness. After several seconds that stretched like a millennium, she inched from under the arm.

  Scoot. Pause. Breathe. Scoot. Pause. Breathe. She repeated the pattern until an arm, hip, then leg dangled over the edge of the mattress like limp spaghetti. One more scoot, and she slid free. Unable to halt her momentum, she flailed, and her ass hit the floor with a thump.

  Damn.

  She shut her eyes and dropped her chin.

  Just Damn.

  She risked a peek over the side of the bed, and her inspection took in the still form. His arm stretched across the snowy sheet. His chest continued to rise and fall, undisturbed. She didn’t look away as she inched away from the bed, the man in it, and memories of the night she’d just passed. A flash of heat licked over her skin, and the swollen, well-used flesh between her thighs quivered.

  She had to get out of here. Like, pronto.

  In a hushed flurry of activity, Rowyn jumped to her feet and circled the room, snatching up clothing that had been hastily discarded earlier in the evening. Panties in her fist—how the hell had they ended up hanging from the lamp shade?—she scurried from the dark room. With a speed that smacked more of desperation than skill, she yanked on her underwear, followed by the black sweater and skirt.

  On bare feet, she darted down the shadowed hall and into the living room. Minutes later, a taxi had been requested on her cell phone, her purs
e was over her shoulder, and her boots and coat had been dragged on. As she headed toward the front door, she paused in front of the hall mirror and glanced at her reflection. Shit. She looked like she’d just spent the night fucking.

  With a moue of disgust, she tunneled her fingers through her dark hair and tried to comb some semblance of order into it so she didn’t look so freshly fucked. After several fruitless moments, she gritted her teeth. To hell with it. She scowled and shoved the heavy strands back over her shoulder. She couldn’t do anything about—

  Her eyes narrowed and then widened in horror as she stared at her neck—her bare neck. The delicate gold chain and pendant with a tiny crown etched into its surface. To my princess. The jewelry and the loving message engraved in Korean on the back of the ornament were the only legacy she had from her dead father besides her almond-shaped eyes and nearly black, dense hair.

  Dammit! She dropped her hands away from her hair, whipped around, and dashed back down the hall, the spiky heels of her stiletto boots clacking out an agitated cadence on the hardwood floor. Where is it? She conducted a circuit of the living room, jerking pillows and cushions of the couch and love seat and ghosting her palm over the glass surface of the coffee table. Finally, after long, frustrating minutes with her heart lodged in her throat, she stood in the middle of the room, one hand cupping her forehead and the other resting on her collarbone. She felt naked—bereft—without the jewelry. She couldn’t leave without it—

  A short toot of a horn sounded from outside. The taxi had arrived.

  With one last desperate glance down the darkened hall, she turned and retraced her steps toward the front door.

  And felt as if she had left a part of her heart behind.

  Chapter Two

  “Once upon a time, there was a widower who married a proud and haughty woman as his second wife… By his first wife he’d had a beautiful daughter, who was a girl of unparalleled goodness and sweet temper.”—Cinderella

  “Nobody’s that damn nice.”—Rowyn Jeong

  “New assistant not working out?”

  Rowyn glanced up from her computer and met the dark brown gaze of her coworker and friend, Wanda Dixon.

  “Hmm?” Rowyn asked, returning her attention to the report on her monitor. A surge of satisfaction rose up in her chest as she studied the budget. The second-quarter numbers were right on target… She shifted her gaze from the quarterly financial statement and realized Wanda had entered the office and closed the door behind her. “What did you say?”

  Wanda shook her head and crossed the room. As she sank down onto the chair in front of the desk, Rowyn couldn’t help but notice the elegant fit of her friend’s lilac wraparound dress. The soft color complemented the woman’s smooth, brown skin, and the silk glided over her tall, lithe body. Rowyn tapped a fingertip against her lip. That style might be just the thing they needed to complete the fall collection for the store…

  “I said, the new assistant must not be working out.”

  Rowyn frowned as she picked up a pen and jotted down a note about looking into that dress. “What are you talking about?”

  “I just passed by your secretary of one week, her purse over her shoulder and a cardboard box under an arm.” Wanda arched an eyebrow. “Crying.”

  “What the hell?” Rowyn demanded. “Did she say anything?”

  “Yeah.” The other woman snorted. “’That bitch is crazy’.”

  “Funny,” Rowyn drawled. She dropped her pen on the desk and fell back in her chair, irritated. “Well, damn. This is an inconvenient time to quit. She could’ve at least waited until the end of the day. I have a conference call at three, and I needed her to take notes.” She reached for the phone. “You think Human Resources will send up a temporary replacement?”

  “Doubtful.” Wanda smirked. “After three—well, four, counting the one that just left—different assistants in seven months, you’ve earned a bit of a reputation.”

  “Reputation, my ass,” Rowyn growled and jabbed a finger in the air toward Wanda. “All I asked her to do was rewrite a report and use fucking spell-check and a dictionary next time. Excuse me if I offended her tender sensibilities,” she sneered. “I’m not a total bitch—”

  “Partial maybe, but definitely not total,” Wanda agreed.

  “It’s not my fault that the last three—”

  “Four, actually.”

  “Assistants couldn’t stick around and grow some balls,” Rowyn concluded with a glare at Wanda for her interruptions.

  Unperturbed, Wanda held up her hand, stretched her fingers wide, and pretended to study her immaculate manicure. “Maybe they could borrow a couple from you. From what I hear, you have a very nice brass pair.” Her peal of laughter rang out as Rowyn flipped her off. “Very eloquent comeback, my friend.” She chuckled, then slipped one slim leg over the other, rested an elbow on her knee, and settled her chin in her palm. “As much as I enjoy commiserating over your employee—or lack of employee—issues, it isn’t why I came by. I have tickets to the Poison concert tonight. And great friend that I am, thought of you. So how ‘bout it? Want to go?”

  “You’re kidding!” Excitement swept Rowyn’s annoyance aside like a tornado winding through an Alabama trailer park. Her voice rose several octaves, and she didn’t care that she sounded like a teenager screeching over her favorite rock band. Hell, given the chance, she would throw Bret Michaels her panties. “Of course I want—Oh damn. Damn. Damn.” She slapped the heel of her palm against her forehead, punctuating each “damn” with a thump. “I can’t.”

  Wanda’s eyes widened, and her arm fell across her knee as she leaned forward. “You can’t go see your favorite ‘80s hair band? Is there a world summit on global peace that I’m not aware of?”

  Rowyn snorted. “Not likely. Daniel invited a potential business associate over for dinner. And Mom demanded my presence for the performance of the Harrison version of the Partridge Family.” She smiled, and from the tight pull of her lips, Rowyn assumed it appeared as grim as it felt. “Tonight’s showing begins at eight p.m., and I am slotted to play the role of adoring older daughter.”

  “Oh God.” Wanda shuddered. “You’d turn down Poison to attend the dinner from hell?”

  Rowyn shook her head and winced as thoughts of spending that evening with her stepfather, mother, and stepsister flitted through her mind like a horror movie reel.

  “Believe me,” she said, “if I could avoid this, I would. But it’s either go and endure torture for a couple of hours, or not go and have to endure hearing Mom’s diatribe about what an ungrateful, inconsiderate daughter I am for the next couple of months.”

  “Well, when you put it like that,” her friend conceded. “My condolences.”

  “I need them.” Rowyn squeezed her forehead between her thumb and middle finger. “It’s going to be one hell of a night.”

  ***

  8:15. Shit. She was late.

  The Harrisons’ longtime housekeeper, Margaret, opened the front door at her knock. When the older woman smiled and stepped back for her to pass, it occurred to Rowyn that the housekeeper might be the only person pleased to see her tonight. Her mother, Pamela Wright Harrison, would be pissed because she’d arrived late. Daniel Harrison, her mother’s second husband and Rowyn’s stepfather, would be irritated because of the interruption her arrival would cause. And her stepsister, Cynthia, or Cindy, as they all called her, would wear her usual pretty smile and add a vapid comment or two.

  Fun, fun, fun.

  Yeah. Like a stake in the eye.

  “They are in the small living room,” Margaret said, taking Rowyn’s purse from her.

  “Thanks, Maggie.” Rowyn inhaled and released the breath in a low gust of air. Then she stretched her lips into the brightest, phoniest smile she could manage. “Here’s my social smile,” she murmured through clenched teeth and a stiff mouth. “How does it look?”

  Margaret chuckled and shook her head. “Lovely, Ms. Rowyn.”

  Th
e older woman turned and headed toward the hall closet, still laughing softly. Rowyn stared after her, noticing the hair contained more gray strands now than black. The drill sergeant stride that had struck awe and fear in her heart as a child had slowed a bit. It dawned on her like the coming of a new day that if this proud woman were gone, Rowyn would lose the only person who had loved her unconditionally.

  She’d entered this home at her mother’s side a scared and nervous eleven-year-old, trying so hard to mimic Pamela’s aloof expression. But Maggie had taken one look at her and had detected the fear lurking beneath the adult mask. And through the years, the housekeeper had loved Rowyn—even when she’d been unlovable.

  Amusement mingled with the pang of sadness. There had been times when she’d been damn unlovable.

  As she turned toward the living room entrance, humor drained away like the alcohol that doubtless flowed too easily down her mother’s throat. With her hand on the knob, Rowyn started to slab on layer after layer of mental cement around her emotions and heart. A quick scan ensured no cracks existed, and then she twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and entered.

  And walked into Charlotte Bronte’s version of hell.

  Daniel faced the entrance, speaking animatedly to the tall man across from him. Her mother—surprise, surprise, with a highball glass raised to her lips—and stepsister filled in the small circle. At the sound of the door closing behind Rowyn, all four turned to stare in her direction.

  Oh. Damn.

  The gasp was trapped in her throat, and the world screeched to a halt as if God had slammed his foot on the brakes of time. She sucked in a breath—a difficult task, since all the air seemed to have been vacuumed out of the room. Perspiration prickled her palms, and if she could have moved, she would have rubbed them against her skirt.