"This is one of those opportunities, Flinn," she continued, "where I'm expecting you to be a problem solver rather than a problem identifier. Before you rattle off a list of everything else you've solved for me, I'd like you to recognize that complete client management doesn't allow you to deal with only the tasks you favor."
I moved closer, settling right behind her and bringing my hands to her shoulders. She was tense, her muscles bunched and tight under my touch. I gathered her hair, shifted it to one side. Dropped a kiss on the newly exposed skin. Then I pressed my thumbs to the base of her neck, kneading as she held the phone away, sighed, whispered, "Oh my fucking god."
But that moment was short-lived. She stiffened as she returned the device to her ear. I leaned into her, dragged my lips from the crook of her neck up to her tender spot behind her ear. Goose bumps rippled down her arms, over her chest. From this vantage point, I saw her nipples harden against the bodice of her dress.
"If anything, me stepping in at this point will only publicly validate the idea you aren't capable of resolving minor crisis situations as they develop," she said, her breath hitching as she spoke. "That's not the path to you identifying yourself as a competent client manager."
Stella paused, listening to the rapid-fire argument coming at her, and I put real effort into loosening those muscles. She shot a glance at me over her shoulder, mouthed, "Thank you."
I responded with another open-mouth kiss and the barest hint of teeth scraping over her neck. That earned another glance, this one hot, wide-eyed. Interested. I was hard before she could blink.
"Listen to me, Flinn. I cannot continue giving you prime chances to lead if you are not willing to take them. I want you to make this better and I want you to do it without me hovering over you. If you need support, get Tatum involved. She's quiet but she makes things happen when they need to." She murmured as he spoke, shook her head. "Call me if the situation does not improve and you've exhausted the tactics I proposed."
Stella didn't wait for a response. She stabbed the red button on her screen, ending the call, and dropped her head back to my chest.
"That sounded fun," I remarked. "McKendrick?"
"Yeah. Flinn is dealing with it. Somewhat." She blew out a breath. "But my pal Lucian is back on his shit again."
I had to ask, "When is he not?"
"There are moments. Not many of them but they're essential to the preservation of my sanity nonetheless."
"He sees more of you than I do," I said, immediately hating the way those words sounded.
"That's not true," she said with a laugh. "There's plenty of me he hasn't seen."
A growl sounded in my throat. "I rather enjoy it that way."
"No argument from me," she said. "Whatever you're doing back there, keep doing it."
"Yeah?" I asked, ducking my head to taste her skin again. "This is good?"
"Amazing," she breathed, roping her arm around my waist.
Her backside connected with my crotch as she pulled me closer. There was no way she could ignore the erection lengthening under my trousers. "Is this hard enough?" I asked, my thumb digging into the knots along her shoulder blade. "Or can you take it harder, Stella?"
"I can take it," she said, a laugh ringing in her words. "Trust me, I can take it."
We stayed there, her ripe backside nestled right up against my cock as I smoothed out her kinks and dotted kisses over her skin. We didn't say anything and there was no need. We were alone, once again the only two people in the world. This was where we were at our best—when reality fell to the shadows and our only obligations were to each other.
She shifted her hand to catch hold of my belt, twining her fingers around the leather at my hip. Jerking me even closer. "I need something to do," she whispered.
"Right now?" I asked, my teeth grazing the back of her neck, just below her hairline. "Or in some larger context?"
"Right now," she replied. "I'm just standing here, doing nothing, while you're busy untangling my stress."
"No, sweet thing, you're rubbing your ass all over my cock. You're quite busy," I said.
"This is good?" she asked, feeding my words back to her.
"Amazing." I groaned into her neck as the roll and slide of her hips increased, and I was nearly convinced that I needed to mark her. Bite, suck, anything. But then better options took over.
"I'm not sure how you knew I needed this but thank you," she said, her head lazing to one side. "Today has been a thousand times more stressful than I'd expected and you really know how to use those hands."
I kissed her again, right at the spot where her shoulder started and her neck ended. "Would you like me to do that? Use my hands?" I asked against her skin.
She nodded, dropped her mobile phone to the floor. It clattered against the hardwood, landing faceup. "Yes, please."
On a different night, things would've been different. I wouldn't have cornered her in an empty bedroom. I wouldn't have initiated this at Acevedo's house, where I had no guarantee of extended privacy. And I wouldn't have done this without a bed.
But I had tonight and Alex's words whipping the back of my mind and Stella in my arms. This was my night and I wasn't passing it up.
I ran my palm down her flank, over her hip, to her thigh. I gripped her dress, bunching it in my fist and yanking it to her waist. "Tell me again," I ordered.
She knew what I wanted. She didn't need any explanation.
"Yes, please," she repeated.
I growled in agreement as I pushed my hand under her panties. For a second, I thought about taking it slow, petting her, making her ache and want the way I did. But then I found her wet and swollen and I couldn't help but head straight for her clit. I'd succeeded in getting her there before and I meant to do it again. Fast and hard, and this time, we'd make it to the second act.
Two fingers circled her clit as I kissed her neck. "You need this," I whispered. "Don't you, sweet thing?"
"So much," she said through a groan. "It has been—oh, fuck, keep doing that."
I almost stopped if for no other reason other than determining how long it had been for her. Almost. I wanted to know who touched her like this, but more than that, I wanted to keep doing it. I wasn't going to deny her this pleasure because I needed some info. "It's not the same. Not the same as your toys, your fingers. It's not what you need."
Her head lolled against my shoulder as she said, "Not even close."
I pushed my foot against hers, widening her stance. "You need this." But I was a weak, weak man and she was so damn close to coming apart in my hands. I continued, "How long has it been, Stel? When was the last time someone made you feel good?"
"You know how long it's been." A quiet shriek burst from her throat and I felt a new rush of wet on my fingers. The sound of her arousal and my hand was obscene. If someone walked in here now, they'd know what we were doing even with my body sheltering hers.
"I don't, I don't," I repeated. Her body shuddered as I circled her clit, pushed my fingers inside her. She held back, doing everything in her power to resist. And I did everything in my power to send her flying over the edge. "How long? Tell me how bad you need this."
"The door," she cried, slapping her palms against my legs. "The door. Your apartment. The door."
"Because you belong to me," I said, dragging my teeth over her neck. I pressed, just enough for her to feel me there. And she broke like a wave hitting the shore. I kept up the pressure between her legs, stroking and circling as she trembled in my arms.
But that didn't last long. She swatted my hands away, stepped out of my hold, turned to face me. "Your turn," she announced. "It's your turn now. Okay?"
"Yes." I didn't have to think about it. "Yes, fuck, yes. Stella, get over here and get on your knees."
She reached for my belt and zipper, and before I could complain about her leaving my arms, she dropped to the floor with my cock in her mouth. I flailed a bit, nearly overtaken by the heat of her tongue and the rush of sensation. B
ut then my hand connected with the wall and I steadied myself. As much as possible. Her hand slipped between my legs, sliding up my thigh and cupping my sac. My hips surged forward and a noise that was equal parts howl and holler rattled up from the pit of my stomach.
I wanted to hold back a bit. I wanted to enjoy this as long as possible. And I wanted to let her run the show. But I couldn't take more than three, maybe four minutes of her championship-caliber sucking and stroking before pure electricity fired through my blood. I was out of words, left with only desperate murmurs and choked pleas, and a steady stream of obscenity. Nothing meaningful, just a wild torrent of
fuuuck, fuuuuck, fuuuuuuck
your cunt
suckkkkkk
take my cock, take it
give me
want you
need
fuuuuuuck
need you
your cunt
need you, Stella. Need you.
Then I reached for her, tangling my hand in her hair and tugging. Pulling. "Stella."
That was the best I could do but she didn't require further explanation. She bobbed her head, worked her tongue along the underside of my shaft, and took me to the back of her throat. Her forehead brushed against my belly and she gave my balls a little tug of encouragement.
Maybe it was a whoa there tug but we were past the point of analysis.
My body vibrated under her hold, every single cell of me turned up to full blast as her tongue moved over me. She kept one hand anchored on my thigh, her nails biting into my skin, and that twinge snapped my hips in uneven thrusts.
There was nothing nice about this moment. Nothing civilized, nothing loving. No tenderness or affection. Just flat out cocksucking, rough and ugly and not nice at all.
It was amazing.
My release arrived with a snarl, a noise that belonged in a jungle or forest. In a cave. I sounded raw, inhuman. With my hand on her neck, I traced small circles into her skin while I pumped into her, emptying myself into her mouth in long, hot spurts. I shook as my cock pulsed and twitched on her tongue, shuddered as my orgasm spilled over her lips.
I loosened enough buttons to tug my shirt over my head and then reached for the t-shirt underneath. I pulled it off, balled it up, wiped her face.
We stared at each other, Stella on her knees and me stroking my thumb over her suck-plumped lips. This was a moment. This was a time for confessions and promises and proclamations. This was when we stopped fucking around and got real with each other. No more playing games, no more wait-and-see. This was the moment and I wanted to say everything. Shake my truths out and see where they fell.
"Stella," I said, as determined as ever. I was taking her home tonight. Taking her to bed, keeping her there. Keeping her with me.
A shuddering breath blew past her lips as she blinked up at me. "I know, Cal, I—"
Brightness filled the room as her phone buzzed to life. A photo of Flinn appeared on the screen. We stared at the device as it skittered over the hardwood, the sound amplified by the uneven surface. Neither of us moved.
The vibrations ended but started back up a second later. From her knees, Stella said, "I have to take this. And…I have to go. He wouldn't be calling if things were fine."
I slapped my hand against the wall, dropped my head back against my shoulders. My dick was wet and my blood was thrumming and I hated Lucian McKendrick. I knew it was her job and I knew her promotion was on the line but fuck me, I hated him. I wanted to throw that phone out the window and then pick her up and take her home with me.
I blinked at ceiling for a second while I dug deep to find the right words. No, you don't and no, you aren't weren't the correct sentiments but that didn't stop them from burning the tip of my tongue.
Finally, I reached for Stella, saying, "Up you go, sweet thing."
"I'm sorry about this," she whispered. "As soon as I get him back in the game, everything will change."
I shook out the balled-up t-shirt, folding the damp spots in on each other until it formed a smooth rectangle. "Don't apologize." I wrapped my arm around her waist, kicked her feet apart, ran the t-shirt over her slit. "But I'm not letting you leave here with a sopping wet cunt, Stel."
She rested her forehead on my shoulder as she released a breathy laugh. "Thank you." Her phone started vibrating again but I didn't stop. No, I wasn't rushing this job. "I think. I need to review the girl power bylaws on this one."
"Nope," I replied, my hand still working between her legs. At this rate, I'd have to scrub the scent of her off my skin. "The regs are clear. This belongs to me."
19
Stella
Nothing good happened at The Liberty Hotel. Nothing I'd ever witnessed.
The old jail-turned-hotel hot-spot seemed to shout "trouble be found here" and tonight was no exception.
As Flinn promised I would, I found McKendrick in Alibi, the trendy drunk tank-slash-watering hole, kicked back at the end of the bar. His body consumed as much real estate as possible. His arms were draped over stools on his left and right, his legs were spread wide enough to block anyone who tried to pass without his express desire. And three members of the hotel's security team loomed near him, physically separating him from the other patrons. And there were plenty of them, all edging against the human barricade to get a look at—and a photo of—Boston's reigning bad boy ballplayer.
At the other end of the bar sat Orrille Whitelock, a recently retired NFL wideout I'd repped through a PED scandal a few years back. He held a rocks glass in one hand, a bag of ice pressed to his eye in the other. The stools around him were missing. I was hoping they were removed to give him space and not as a result of damage. These guys could afford a few stools without issue but neither of them needed to add bar brawling to their résumés.
I nodded to him but that was all he was getting from me tonight. He wasn't paying me and I didn't clean up after athletes for the fun of it.
"Hey, lady," McKendrick called as I waded through the crowd.
"Here I am," I replied. Even at a distance I noticed his lip was split and swollen. "As requested."
He gestured to my dress with his beer bottle. "Did you get all fancy for me? You didn't have to do that."
"Sorry to get your hopes up but this is not for you." I glanced around, hoping to find an adult in the room. Head of security, management, anyone. The bartender tipped his chin up in greeting but offered nothing else. When I arrived at McKendrick's side, I said, "Pay your tab. Whitelock's too. We're leaving."
He draped his arm around my shoulder. "I'd do that, honeycakes, if I had any cash." He aimed a surly glare across the bar. "But don't worry. Whitelock's picking up this round."
"The fuck I am," Whitelock called. "Not after you fuckin' decked me, dude."
"I'll add it to your bill." I yanked my corporate card from my wallet, pointing at both men as I slapped it down on the hardwood surface. When the bartender approached, I said, "These two gentlemen are finished for the evening." I glanced over at Whitelock. "Head on home now, Orrille."
He was a nice guy. Truly. He made tons of bad decisions but he was a nice guy.
"Maybe I wanna press charges," he yelled, loud enough for the whole damn bar to hear. "Maybe I'm not done with you, McKendrick."
"We're friends, Orrille. We don't need to call the cops." I leveled a pointed stare at McKendrick's split lip. "I don't think it makes sense to spend the night filing charges and giving statements when you could be"—I tipped my head toward the throng of women willing to kiss it better—"somewhere more pleasant. Don't you agree?"
Whitelock grumbled to himself and then slammed his glass on the bar. He craved attention just the way McKendrick craved it. Giving him that attention wasn't the solution. Not tonight. But that was the trouble with athletes who'd lived most of their lives as superstars—they didn't know how to exist without a constant feed of praise and adoration. They didn't care if that adoration came in the form of negative press or acquiring a bad reputation. When th
e drug of choice was fame, it didn't matter where the fix came from as long as they got it.
To be fair, I didn't know how I'd transition from playing in packed arenas before thousands of screaming fans and signing multi-million-dollar mattress spokesmodel deals to being a semi-regular person who used to be famous. I wasn't sure I could adapt to that rise and fall, the momentary luxury of people tending to my every need and maintaining my body like it was a machine, followed by nothing. Retirement wasn't nothing but it was a big drop off from the intensity of a decade in the NFL.
Part of me wondered whether McKendrick worked this hard at screwing up because he wanted to get out of the game. If he wanted to play, he had another six or seven good years in him. But it seemed like he wanted the fall, wanted the sudden drop into semi-obscurity.
I signed the check and pocketed the receipt for my expense report before motioning to McKendrick to follow me out. He grumbled too and left Whitelock with an earful of foul parting shots, but he walked with me—and the security team—through the hotel's front lobby.
"There will be videos," I said as we waited for the car service to come around. "Videos of whatever led to Whitelock's shiner and your split lip, and the hearty goodbye you gave him just now."
He tugged a beanie from his back pocket and pulled it low, past his eyebrows. "And your fuckin' point, lady?"
"Oh, no point. Nothing to worry about here." I gestured toward the car as the driver pulled into the portico. "Though I will ask you to refrain from using the phrase cum-dumpster when we visit the elementary school in Chelsea later this week. Gotta know your audience, Lucian."
The security team moved forward to open the vehicle's doors and shuffle us inside but McKendrick wasn't having it. He pushed one of the men away, yelling, "You wanna swallow those teeth or what? Back the fuck up."
"Seriously," I hissed at him. "Just get in the car."
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