by Chloe Lane
I’m back at my apartment—a penthouse in one of my first buildings, so it sounds fancier than it is—when the guilt finally catches up to me.
I never should have touched her. I never should have said those things to her, about how much I want her, no matter how true it is. And I shouldn’t have let her overhear any of the conversation between me and my father.
She shouldn’t have been listening in the first place...
I’m alone, the muted light of the TV illuminating the living room, and at that thought, my mind spirals into a fantasy. Skye has only ever been perfectly professional, perfectly prim, always put-together. I’d like to see her stripped down, bent over, her back arched, ass raised to meet my hand. It’s unbelievably naughty to listen in on a private conversation. I could teach her a lesson. It would probably be the first one she’s ever had to learn, given those big green eyes, and the way she’s always so careful to be perfect.
And when I’m done, I could slide my fingers between her legs and lick her juices off of them. She’d be soaking, fucking wet. Because I have a sense that Skye could be a bad girl for me. I saw it in her eyes how much she wants it.
I have my zipper down before I realize what I’m doing, and the next thing I know I have my fist wrapped around my cock. I don’t need to think about anything other than her perfect lips, the curve of her ass, the way it would be so white when she bent over my desk and so red when I was finished with her. And then, even hotter, the sight of her belly rounding out with a baby inside it, her breasts growing fuller every day. Not just any baby. My baby. The baby that would unlock the rest of my life.
I get a tissue from the holder by the sofa just in time to shoot rope after rope of come into it, my mind blanking.
When I’m finally spent, my head is clear for the first time all day.
First things first, I’m going to clean up.
Then I have to find Skye and apologize to her.
It can’t wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 7
Skye
Robin’s thin frame appears in the doorway of her bedroom. She’s looking out at me through slatted eyes. “Skye? You okay?”
“I’m fine!” I tell her, but my voice is too loud and she flinches. “Sorry,” I say, keeping it just above a whisper. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she says. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“How much wine is left in that bottle?”
“Most of it.” I hold up the bottle, and only then do I notice that there’s about a quarter of it left. “Some of it. That doesn’t mean I’m drunk.”
She makes her way slowly into the living room, and it breaks my heart. Maybe it breaks my heart a little more than usual because of the wine, but it aches for her nonetheless. We don't have the money for specialty doctors who can help her with the migraines. I'm trying to get us better insurance, but I need to be at Hunter Housing at least three months before that kicks in. If she can just make it...
Robin flops down on the couch next to me and closes her eyes. I'm already fumbling for the TV remote and clicking it off. We sit there in the semi-darkness in our falling-down apartment building. She's just opened her mouth to say something to me when the tracks next to the back window start rumbling. No point in saying anything now. We'll have to wait for the train to pass.
I watch my sister try to relax her body, try to relax through the sound, but it's got to be killing her. In the dim light, she looks pale and washed out by the time the train is past and a relative quiet settles in around our apartment.
“What's the occasion?” She finally says softly. We could be a mirror image of each other, with the same dark hair and green eyes, only she's losing weight faster than I can get food into her. Her pain is just too much.
I shake my head, choosing my words carefully. Maybe I am a little drunk. “I made a fool of myself today.”
“I'm sure you didn't. At the coffee shop?”
Once a week, I treat myself at the coffee shop around the corner from the Hunter Housing offices. “No. It's only Thursday.” Do I really want to tell her? If I tell another person, then it means it really happened, that conversation between Mr. Hunter and me. But I can tell that Robin is desperate for news from the outside. The television can set her off, and so can the radio. Reading is all she can do, but sometimes the tiny screen of her phone is too much. And newspapers won't tell you anything about my insanely sexy boss. Well, not what you really want to know. I sigh. “I did something stupid at work.”
Her eyes light up, even in the darkness. “Tell me!” Then she closes them again and settles back into the couch. “Tell me, Skye.”
I'm just buzzed enough from the wine that I don't hesitate any longer. I tell my sister everything—what I heard from outside Mr. Hunter's office, and the way I knew instantly that it would be the solution to everyone's problems. I tell her that I've been lusting after him for weeks. I tell her that even if he doesn’t want to have an actual baby with me, there’s nothing wrong with faking the entire thing. We could make it pretty realistic.
She laughs. “I'm not surprised. I've seen pictures of him.”
“The pictures of him are nothing compared to the way he looks in real life,” I tell her, sinking into my thoughts. “And he smells like—”
There's a knock at the door that startles the shit out of me so badly that I gasp out loud. Both of us tense, our heads whipping toward the door. A strange electricity shoots down my spine, and I look back into Robin's wide eyes. For an instant, it feels like it did back when we were younger, and every knock at the door might be our mom.
It never was.
The knock comes again, but neither of us moves. There's always a sweet anticipation of a knock on the door, and both of us hate when it ends. I know she hates it as much as I do. I'd rather cling to that hope than actually get up and reveal the delivery man or the door-to-door salesman on the other side. In this minute, at least, it could be our mother. It could be anyone. It could be the answer to all my prayers.
A third knock, and then a man's voice. “Ms. Dawson?”
Robin's mouth forms a perfect, round O. I've told her how Mr. Hunter insists on calling me Ms. Dawson.
It's him. It has to be him.
I leap up off the couch, putting the wine bottle down on the side table with a clatter. “Oh, shit,” I hiss at Robin. “Look at me! Oh, my God, I—” I cast about frantically like a skirt suit is going to be magically at hand. There's nothing here. I'm stuck in my lounge shorts and a tank top. Oh, fuck. Is he going to be mad at me? On my first day on the job, Mr. Hunter made it very clear that I was his representative to anyone who came into the office, and it was essential that I always present a professional face. I'm a shambles right now.
“Skye,” Robin says, laughter in her eyes. “You're not at work. Answer the door!”
“What do I do? What do I say?”
“Say hello,” she says with a little shrug, a smile playing over her lips. “You never know. Maybe he's here because he wants to reconsider that deal.”
“I cannot have his baby, no matter what he says.” Then it hits me, what she's just said. “You think I should have his baby?”
More knocking. He's going to give up soon, if he hasn't already.
“I think you should do whatever you want.” Robin cocks her head toward the front door. “But first, you should definitely open that door.” She laughs a little. “Don't let him in, though. I'm a mess.”
Chapter 8
Matthew
There's a serious amount of commotion inside for a woman who's not coming to the door, and as the moments pass, the urgency drains out of me. My shoulders drop away from my ears. The energy crackling in my veins settles to a low hum. It’s a long time, relatively speaking, before I hear the deadbolt being opened.
The doorknob twists, the door swings open, and there stands a version of Skye I’ve never begun to imagine before.
She looks as incredible as e
ver, only there’s no sign of the carefully ironed skirt suit she was wearing earlier today. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. The shorts she’s wearing hug her ass in a way the skirts don’t touch, and the sight of her shoulders peeking out from beneath the straps of her tank top has me hard as iron again.
Skye gives me a shy smile, then straightens her back. “Mr. Hunter,” she says, finally, and there's the slightest hitch in her speech that tells me she's had a glass of wine or two. That's a pretty sensible reaction to what happened earlier—it was fucking crazy of her to do that—but she's about to find out that I'm the crazy one.
I'm here, after all.
“Ms. Dawson,” I say, my eyes locked on her face. I couldn't look away if I wanted to. And I don't want to. Not at all. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“We can talk at the office tomorrow,” she says, closing the door a little. Not all the way, just a little. “It's a little late.”
“It's eight-thirty,” I say, a hint of laughter in my voice. “Are you one of those early-to-bed types?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you really come here to ask me about my bedtime?”
I can just see past her into the apartment, which seems fairly dark. The brightest light in the space is filtering in from the hallway where I'm standing, and it's not a pleasant shade. It's a yellow, industrial light that probably shines twenty-four hours a day.
In fact, the longer I stand here, the more I see how this place is factoring into Skye's current problems. The building badly needs updating, but it's clear the landlord doesn't want to put in the time or the effort. The doorknob on Skye's unit looks flimsy. Not the doorknob itself so much as the wood around it, I guess. It's not a pretty sight—anyone with enough determination could kick it in.
“No, I didn't,” I tell her, and just then a shadow moves across the dark behind her. “Can I come in?” It disappears from view.
Skye bites her lip, considering. “You'd better not.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, it's just—” She sighs with a shake of her head. “My sister has terrible migraines. That was her, going back to her bedroom. The light from the hall—”
“Shit,” I say, and too late I've let my cool cover slip. “I can go. I didn't mean—”
“No, no,” Skye says hastily, leaning across the doorframe and reaching for something out of sight. When she straightens up, she's got apartment keys in one hand and her phone in the other. “I'll come to you.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “I'm always coming to you anyway. That’s my job.”
We've walked three blocks in the summer heat before Skye speaks. The bubble of silence around us shatters into a million pieces, crumpling under the weight of her low voice.
“I'm sorry for butting in on you like that,” she says, keeping her eyes on the sidewalk in front of us.
“You really shouldn't be sorry.”
“I am anyway.” She shrugs. “I don't know what I was thinking, bringing that up to you. It was totally out of line, and I won't be the least surprised if you decide that I—”
“Stop.” I cut her off with a single word, and she stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. I let a low laugh escape me. “I didn't mean to stop walking. I meant, stop apologizing.”
Skye's eyes are wide, fixed on my face, and there's color in her cheeks. “I'm—” She catches herself just in time. “Why shouldn't I apologize?”
“Because.” Something about the sweetness of the night air overwhelms me, and I find myself stepping closer to her. Too close. She tries to accommodate me and backs up against the brick front of a store that's been closed since three in the afternoon. “I don't think you owe me an apology. I think you owe me something else.”
Skye is breathing hard now, her cleavage accentuated by the tank top. “What do I owe you, Mr. Hunter?”
“A chance to apologize for what I said.”
Skye laughs. “You don't need to do that. You were right. We can't ever—”
“I was wrong. I was fucking wrong, and you know it.” I want her so badly I can taste it, but I don't dare touch her now. Not when there's only one way this can play out. Not when this has to be a business arrangement, and nothing more.
“You—you were?”
I take a deep breath to steady myself. “I've been thinking about it since the moment you left my office,” I tell her. “We both stand to benefit from getting my father to release the trust, and you had the perfect solution. There was only one flaw.”
Skye's eyes blaze into mine. “I'd love for you to tell me what that flaw is, Mr. Hunter.”
“We can save each other,” I say, leaning down to speak the words into her ear. “You can pretend to carry my baby. We only have to convince my father that it's real. Not just a baby, but more.”
She sucks in a breath. “You want me to—you want me to pretend I'm your girlfriend, and then trick him into believing I'm pregnant?”
“That's exactly what I think we should do.” She bites her lip, looking down. “What's wrong?”
“I—” She gives me a sheepish smile. “I'm a little disappointed.”
“About what?”
“Well...” She pauses, looking back into my eyes. A zing trails down my spine. “I really wanted to sleep with you.”
Chapter 9
Skye
Mr. Hunter is practically vibrating with a dark, sexual energy, and when those words slip from between my almost-drunk lips, I see something inside him snap.
I'm already flat against the bricks, their cool roughness pressing against my back, but then he's pressing against me, too, his hands wrapping around my face so that he can raise my lips to his and kiss me so hard I almost lose my balance. It should be impossible to fall, but I feel like I'm falling—or flying. His lips possessively capture mine, taking me completely, and all I can do is moan into his mouth.
Mr. Hunter is strong—he's built—and being held by him is the closest I’ve been to feeling really safe in months, maybe years. He's lighting me on fire with his touch, and he hasn't even moved his hands down my body.
Then he does, and everything inside me goes molten hot. He slides his hand down my neck, inching his way toward my shoulder, my wrist, my waist, and finally his fingertips are hovering just outside my pants.
“Fuck,” he growls into my ear, and I throw my arms over his shoulders, holding on for dear life. I want his fingers on me like I'd want water in the desert. “We shouldn't do this, Skye.”
I gasp. “Say it again.”
He pulls back, a hint of amusement in the darkness on his face. “Say what?” Then he gives me a wicked grin. “That we shouldn't do this?”
“No.” I'm so wet that I have to be soaking through my shorts. “Say my name.”
“Skye,” he whispers into my ear. No hesitation, no holding back. “Skye, we shouldn't do this.”
I lean my head back against the wall. “But I want to do this.” The wine has completely removed my filter. It's completely removed my sense of embarrassment from earlier. It's forcing me to be a hundred percent honest with Mr. Hunter. “Please. I'll do anything, if you just fuck me. I need your hands on me...”
And it's true. I do need this. I've been carrying the stress of Robin's health, and the more recent development of Peter totally fucking me over career-wise, and the moment I saw Mr. Hunter, I wanted him. I need to get something that I want, even if it's just being taken by him. For once, I just want someone else to be in control. I don't want to be spiraling into oblivion anymore.
“Are you begging me to fuck you? Is that what's happening right now?”
I open my eyes and look straight into his. He's holding back now, just a little, a tiny bit of restraint coming over him once more.
I'm going to shatter it.
“Yes,” I say, breathless, my hands tightening on his shoulders, pressing my breasts into the firm expanse of his chest. “Please. Please.” Then I say the words that unlock everything that follows. �
��I'm begging you.”
He doesn't live very far from the place Robin and I share. That's the first thing I learn. But four blocks might as well be a world away, for how different it is. Mr. Hunter lives in one of his own buildings, on the top floor, looking over a wide, peaceful park instead of being shoved in next to the train tracks.
But I only have a fleeting instant to take it all in, because he's taking me to the bedroom, holding my hand tightly in his.
To the bedroom, and then through the bedroom, to a set of sliding doors that open onto a private balcony. He pushes me through, then slams the door shut behind us. My head is spinning—with the speed of all this, with the hasty flight over here, with the way the professional walls between us are crumbling into nothing.
“Hands over your head,” he barks, and I obey him, and Christ, does it feel good. He's been my boss for a month, but this is what I've wanted from him since the moment I met him. Real control. Real power.
He strips my shirt over my head, then my bra, and my shorts hit the floor the moment after that. The sultry night air slips over my skin, making my nipples go hard. I'm naked on a balcony overlooking a park. Anyone might see us. The thought makes me even wetter.
“Turn around.” His voice is the only sound that means anything to me right now. I turn toward the railing, facing the park, and wait. “Bend over. Hold on to that railing.”
I do, and Mr. Hunter steps behind me. I hear the clasp of his belt as he undoes it, and his zipper. Then his hands are on me, strong and warm, reaching underneath to tweak my nipples. I gasp, an electric current of lust spiking through me.
He glides his hands down to my waist, then down to my hips.
“If we do this,” he says, hands firm on my hips, “there's no going back.”
“I know,” I tell him. “Please. I want this.”