by Lila Monroe
“Take it off,” I say breathlessly, and he starts undoing his belt, his fingers moving quickly, but not quickly enough, so I finish the job, freeing his cock so it juts up, hard and ready for me. I fist him in my hand and he groans, and then I can’t resist dipping my head to lick the tip, teasing at his straining head.
Jake lets out a curse and dives back between my legs, his hands gripping hard on my thighs. I send up a silent thanks for all that yoga Della made me do, because I may not be doing Wounded Peacock right now, but I can sure as hell manage a 69. I curl around to take him in my mouth, and although it’s hard to focus through the haze of incredible pleasure, I suck at him eagerly, loving the salty taste and how his cock leaps in my mouth. He’s driving me closer to the edge, I’m not going to last long, but fuck, I try to hold back, fisting his cock and swirling my tongue against his sensitive tip. Jake pumps his fingers inside me and sucks at my clit, tonguing my bud just right, and it’s too much. I explode. Fuck!
I moan against him, the waves crashing through me as I lift my head and cry out in pleasure, pumping him in my fist as my body shakes with the most incredible orgasm of my life. Jake echoes my groan, and then he’s coming, too, spurting hotly all over my naked chest as the pleasure claims us both.
I collapse back on the bed. Holy shit!
Slowly the world comes filtering back in. My chest is sticky, and I can’t keep from giggling at the déjà vu.
“What?” Jake asks, lifting his head.
I grin. “Nothing. Just . . . third time’s a charm.”
He gives me a quizzical look, but I don’t explain. I let out a yawn and stretch, and my stomach makes a loud rumbling sound.
“Hungry again?” He laughs.
“Orgasms burn a lot of calories.” I grab the room service menu from the bedside table and toss it at him.
“You better order me some sustenance for round two,” I say, getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom. “Something tells me you’re going to need it.” I smile, grabbing my purse and closing the door.
I turn on the shower, setting the water to hot. God, I needed that. My whole body is humming with pleasure—and technically, I didn’t even break the strike.
You’ve got to love the technicalities.
Still, as amazing as that was, there’s still a craving deep inside me—and I know just what it needs. That gorgeous hard cock, buried deep inside me. Damn, always wanting what I can’t have.
But you can have it. Just say the word—and maybe wait five minutes—and Jake could be fucking you just the way you need . . .
I’m torn. That orgasm was just an appetizer, and I want the main course. “Everything but” is fine when you’re a teenager dry-humping in your parents’ basement, but as a grown woman? I like a three-course meal with all the trimmings.
And by trimmings, I mean his dick.
My phone buzzes just as I’m about to jump in the shower. It’s Della, and I can hear Jake ordering room service, so I pick up.
“I’m a bad girl,” I greet her. “But damn, it feels good.”
“Tell me you didn’t fuck him!” Della sounds panicked. I stop.
“No . . .” I answer slowly. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Dapper magazine put a fucking bounty on you,” Della exclaims. “Fifty thousand dollars to whoever makes you break the strike.”
“What?” I sit down on the edge of the tub. “No, you must have it wrong.”
“It’s right there on their website, in the VIP section.” Della is spitting mad. “Zach found it, I had him give me his login info. I’m sorry babe, those fuckers are like teenagers in heat. It’s all about the glory to them.”
“Send me the link,” I say, still not believing it. Dapper is Miles’ magazine, right? Jake’s friend.
Jake’s best friend.
“Here you go.” A text comes through. “I’m sorry, what a fucking asshole,” Della continues. “Are you OK? When do you get back?”
“Tomorrow,” I say numbly. “Look, I can’t . . . I have to go.”
In a daze, I hang up and click the link Della sent. And there it is, right in front of me. The bounty, along with a photo of me, too.
No wonder guys have been after me! They want to be the one to scale Mount Everest, and stick a fucking flag in my pussy.
But Jake . . . ?
I can’t believe it. There’s no way he doesn’t know about this, so is this what tonight was all about? The dinner, the flirting, the amazing orgasms? He was just greasing the wheel for the main event.
And I nearly fell for it.
Fuck!
The disappointment sinks through me like lead. And the betrayal. To think, I actually thought I’d gotten him wrong. That there was someone decent lurking under his designer suits. I guess I wanted to believe in the fantasy of it all, the wounded guy hiding a heart of gold. But sometimes, if he walks like an asshole, and talks like an asshole . . .
He’s a fucking asshole.
And his cum is still all over my naked chest. Ugh. I jump in the shower and scrub myself clean hard enough to take off a layer of skin.
There’s a knock at the door. “Food’s on it’s way up,” Jake calls. “How about I join you in there?”
“Too late. All done.” I quickly towel myself off and open the door, avoiding looking at him as I hunt for my dress.
“What do you need that for?” Jake’s voice is lazy and thick with sex. “Come back to bed, I’m not finished with you.”
“Oh, we’re finished, alright.” When I’m clothed, I finally let myself look at him. He’s sprawled on the bed again, so hot it splits my chest in two. “But don’t worry, if you get lonely, you can just read the latest issue of Dapper. Or better yet, the online edition.”
His face changes.
“Yup,” I spit. “I know. So fuck you, fuck your stupid bet, and fuck the fifty grand you won’t be making tonight. Because I’m done.”
I walk out the door, slamming it behind me.
And my heart breaks in two.
24
Lizzie
What do you do when you find out the guy you maybe, sort of, kind of, completely have been falling for is nothing but a lying, pussy-chasing douchebag?
In my case, you drink all the minibar vodka and pass out crying over an old screening of Titanic on the hotel TV. I wake up with a killer hangover, with barely enough time to throw myself—and my baggage—into the cab and make it to the airport in time for our early flight.
Ours. Because despite wanting him to disappear off the face of the earth, I’m still stuck on this trip with the super rat himself. He tried to talk to me in the car, but I just put my sunglasses on, plugged my earbuds in, and blasted Beyoncé all the way back to New York City.
When life gives you lemons, put Lemonade on repeat play.
By the time we get off the plane from LA and walk into the terminal, I’m just about ready to explode, or break down in messy sobs, and I know, neither will be pretty. I’ve never been so happy to set foot back in New York, with its noisy, chaotic airport, and even noisier citizens screaming at baggage claim, not to mention the hordes of children running around like deranged, dirty savages. The flight itself was the very definition of miserable—until I got some older businessman type to switch seats with me so I didn’t have to be anywhere near the Bounty Hunter himself.
And let’s be honest—the three bourbon and Cokes I threw back on the flight didn’t exactly hurt either. Hair of the dog, and all that.
I stride as far away from Jake as I can get and keep my eyes glued to the revolving carousel, willing my red suitcase to come out first—which would be nothing short of a total miracle, since I usually have the abysmal luck of being the last person standing there waiting for my bag—on the flights where it isn’t completely lost, that is.
I mean, why should anything actually go right on this trip?
Jake walks up beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes searching the conveyor belt. I can feel his nerv
ous energy, and every muscle in my body tightens up on his approach. If he even so much as tries to touch me, I might break into a million pieces. In the not-helping-things department is also the fact that I slept for about an hour on the plane—if that. I would give my left arm—not to mention my first-born child—for an Americano right now. I mean, seriously, whoever invented the concept of the air travel should be strenuously punished. No trial, no jury—just straight to execution.
“You okay?” Jake asks, interrupting my homicidal thoughts.
I paste my brightest, fakest smile on my face, which takes all the energy I have left, since I sat up most of last night crying in my hotel room. My eyes are still so swollen that I had to ice them in the morning, just so they’d open properly. Thank god for sunglasses.
“I’m great!” I chirp. “Just a little tired from the flight is all.”
I make the mistake of glancing over, and he looks so uncomfortable and guilty that for a minute I wonder if he really does care. But then I remember that nothing that happened between us was real. For him—I was just a bet.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because we should probably talk . . . you know, about last night. I wanted to say—”
“You don’t need to say anything!” I cut him off. “I get it. Believe me, I understand everything.”
“I don’t think you do. Look, Lizzie, if you give me a chance to explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain.” I glower at him. I see my red suitcase tumbling down the chute and onto the carousel and I let out a sigh of relief. There is a god! And she’s clearly a woman.
I rush over to grab it so I don’t have to hear whatever sweet-talk comes out of Jake’s mouth next, then drag it to the exit at a sprint while he’s stuck stranded waiting for his bags. I haul ass into a cab, and slam the door behind me.
“Brooklyn,” I tell the driver. “And step on it.”
I sit back and check my phone, home to about a dozen concerned texts from Della, Melissa, and my sister, all wanting to know if I’ve seen the bounty and how I’m holding up.
Not good, Bob. Not fucking good.
The pain hits me again, now that the booze is wearing off. The betrayal, the disappointment, and most of all, the hurt. That Jake could play me like a goddamn fiddle. I thought our connection was real, but it was all a lie—every bit of it. The look in his eyes as he brushed the hair away from my face, the feel of his hands on my skin..
I feel the tears rising and have to swallow them back. No. I’m not crying over that smooth-talking son of a bitch, not anymore. Why should I be the one sobbing when he’s the assrat who treated me like some kind of trophy? Him and his friend Miles, and that stupid magazine.
I feel the hurt turn to anger, and yes, that’s more like it. The rage flooding my body is so much better than caffeine—no need for coffee anymore. I mean, who does this Miles guy think he is, anyway? And what gives him the right to mess with my life like it’s some sort of sick game? I open up my browser and search for the Dapper webpage, clicking on the “contact us” button.
“Forget Brooklyn,” I tell the driver. “We’re making a stop in Soho first.”
The Dapper offices are on the twelfth floor in a predictably phallic building of glass and steel—windows everywhere, framed magazine covers with the likes of Sophia Vergara and Kate Hudson half-naked and smiling down at me. I stride through the main office to the reception area, where a bottle blond sits behind a desk, punching the keyboard with nails so long and red I’m surprised she can actually function with them on, much less type anything legible.
“Is Miles in?” I ask sweetly.
“He is,” she says, looking startled. “But he’s in a meeting right now.”
“Not anymore.” I stride past her, making a beeline for the corner office at the end of the open-plan layout.
“Hey!” she calls after me. “You can’t go in there! I told you he’s—”
I throw the door open dramatically and stride inside. “I want a word with you!” I declare loudly, but my big entrance is cut short as my heel catches on the edge of the huge rug. I trip, falling right into the arms of none other than Jake Weston, who’s standing near the door, looking at me with a bemused expression on his face.
Whoops.
I tear away from him like I’ve been burned.
“I should’ve known you’d come here,” I spit. “Calling in your report? Sorry to say, he didn’t close the deal,” I glare at Miles, who’s cowering behind his desk. “And if he tells you otherwise, he’s a fucking liar.”
“I didn’t lie.” Jake sounds put out, and I quell him with a look. “Seriously.” He keeps talking, which shows a serious lack of concern for his bodily safety right now. “I came here to make him call it all off. The bounty, everything. I said from the start it was a stupid idea.”
“Nice try,” I snort. “But it’s a little too late for that.” I turn back to face Miles, who’s edging towards the phone. “What, are you going to call security?” I demand. “Because I could call someone too right now. My lawyer!”
“Now, now, there’s no need for that,” Miles quakes.
“Why not?” I say, pretending like I’m the kind of person who really does have a lawyer on speed-dial, instead of just five different take-out restaurants. “I could sue you for emotional distress, fraud, who knows what else?”
“I’m sorry! It was just good fun,” he protests. “My wife’s been driving me crazy on this strike, and I’ll do anything to make it end. You weren’t supposed to even know!”
“Because when you post something on the internet, it always stays a secret,” I scorn. “Did you really not consider the fact that I’m a living, breathing person and that what happens in my vagina is nothing to do with you?”
“Lizzie, I wanted to tell you,” Jake interrupts, and his face is so sincere, I want to believe him. But right now I just can’t.
Even if those blue eyes are beseeching me, and he’s running a hand through that rumpled mop of hair, and he looks way too good to have just been stuck in a tin can in the sky for the past six hours.
“Don’t even get me started on you,” I say, my voice quiet, but the hurt rings out for anyone to hear. He looks at the floor, chastened. This is a Jake Weston I’ve never seen before—humble and apologetic. Too bad I’m only really meeting him now. He seems like he’d probably be a nice guy.
“You are going to take the fucking bounty down,” I say, stabbing a finger in Miles’ direction. “And you are going to stay away and never speak to me again.” I glare at Jake. “Unless it’s about work, or the words out of your mouth are limited to, ‘Here, I have an extra doughnut for you,’ ‘Yes, I’m total scum,’ and ‘Can I please have the honor of bringing you a venti latte?’ Got it?”
They both nod, looking guilty.
“Good.” I stalk back to the door, careful not to trip this time. “Oh, and Miles? If you want to figure out why your wife won’t fuck you, maybe ASK HER, instead of paying men to seduce a total stranger!”
I slam the door behind me. The secretary glares at me as I walk out the big glass doors to the gleaming bank of elevators, but even though I’ve managed to take some of my power back, I don’t exactly feel any better about the whole thing. Vindicated maybe, but not better. Not by a long shot.
I text Della. “911 EMERGENCY GIRLS NIGHT. MY PLACE.”
I need some moral support, fried food, and three bottles of red. And not necessarily in that order.
25
Lizzie
“You’re not saving this, right?” Della says, pulling a bottle of wine from my rack and pulling the cork out before I can so much as protest.
“That was my emergency rations!” I say, then pause. Fuck it, if this doesn’t qualify, I don’t know what does. “Go crazy,” I tell her, which is probably redundant, considering she’s already pouring herself a glass.
Friends. Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them.
“So what happened out there?” Melissa asks, s
inking into the couch cushions. There’s junk food spread on the coffee table, the best the Ming Tsun Palace has to offer is on its way, and there’s three quarts of Ben and Jerry’s waiting in the freezer.
When we go hard, we go hard.
Della pours me a glass of wine, too, and I plop down next to her on the couch.
“A disaster,” I say miserably. “I mean, it was great, at first. We went to see Danforth at his ridiculously amazing Bel Air estate, and he ended up giving us all the pieces on loan. Then Jake surprised me with a hike in Griffith Park to check out where they shot the fight scene in Rebel Without a Cause.”
“Oh my god,” Melissa sighs. “I love that movie so much. James Dean? Swoon.”
“Then what happened?” Della demands.
“Well, he took me out to dinner that night,” I say, my heart sinking just remembering. “To this steak house in Hollywood, and afterward I kind of . . . kissed him in the elevator? Actually, I pretty much attacked him.” I look down at my lap, my cheeks burning from the memory.
“Living it up when you’re going down.” Della grins. “So you were all set to break the strike?”
“No!” I protest, ignoring just how close I came. God, I remember how strong his hands were on my hips, the heat of his mouth on mine . . . and the feel of his cock, pressing up against me.
I clutch a cushion and gulp my wine. “We agreed, everything but. So then somehow we’re back in his room, and we’re hooking up, and it’s just so fucking hot. You know, when you think you’re about to literally combust if you don’t have him RIGHT NOW? And then you called,” I sigh, coming back down to earth with a bump.
“Sorry, babe.” Della nudges me. “But at least you didn’t sleep with him, right? That would have been worse.”
“Maybe,” I sigh. “But honestly, I feel so shitty, it doesn’t make a difference. I can’t believe I actually liked him. He really had me fooled.”
“What a snake,” Melissa mutters.