Guilty as Sin

by Meghan March

  Lincoln shoves down his zipper, and his cock bobs free of his pants.

  My fantasy was wrong. There are no boxer briefs.

  I drag my index finger over my clit, and my hips jerk at the spike of pleasure.

  “Jesus, fuck. You’re so goddamn sexy.” Lincoln fists his cock and gives it a rough tug.

  I put more pressure on my clit and demand, “Do that again.”

  Lincoln slowly jerks his shaft, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I push two fingers inside myself and buck against my hand. His chest rises and falls as he watches me, lust practically rolling off him in waves.

  “You look like you want to see more.”

  “Fuck, Blue. I want to see it all. Want to feel you. Touch you. Fill you up until you don’t remember what it’s like not to be full of my cock.”

  His dirty words unleash another rush of moisture between my legs.

  “I’m so wet.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut as he gives himself another tug. A bead of pre-cum rolls off the head of his cock, and my tongue swipes along my lips.

  I want to taste.

  Lincoln’s eyes snap open when I realize I said the words out loud instead of in my head.

  “I want to give you everything you want, Blue. Just say the word.”

  I push another finger inside myself, but even that’s not enough to fill me the way he will. I strum my clit harder and faster, and my orgasm builds.

  “I want you to watch me make myself come while you stroke yourself.”

  His rough breathing is the only response he gives other than a nod.

  I focus on his hand and the flex of his muscles as he works his cock, and I strum my clit. “I’m close. So close.”

  “Come for me. Come for me, and then tell me you want me to fill you up.”

  His order sends me over the edge, and I moan his name as the orgasm crashes down on me. “Hurry!”

  He’s off the sofa and beside me on the bed in seconds. “Trying to kill me. So goddamn beautiful when you come.”

  He shoves my panties aside, baring my fingers, which are still busy.

  “I need you. Now.”

  The buzz of the orgasm fades away, and I want it back. I want exactly what Lincoln promised me.

  “You’ve got me, Blue,” he says as he comes over me, fitting the head of his cock against my entrance. “Always.”

  He drives home with a single thrust, and it’s everything I need.

  32

  Whitney

  Light spills through the windows, dragging me out of sleep. I blink a couple of times and remember where I am. The Gables. My suite. Except everything is in the opposite place it should be.

  Because it’s not my suite. It’s Lincoln’s.

  I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. Where is he?

  I scoot over to the side of the bed and my hand crushes a piece of paper. A note.

  * * *

  I’m sorry you’re waking up alone. I don’t want to leave, but I have a meeting I can’t miss. You’re welcome to stay in the suite as long as you want, but I’m having something delivered to yours. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

  — L

  * * *

  I read it again. He’s having something delivered?

  I wrap the sheet around my body and tiptoe out into the living room. I have no idea why I’m tiptoeing, but it feels like the right thing to do. The connecting door between our rooms is still wide open, and the events of last night come rolling back in vivid color.

  Everything you want is on the other side of fear.

  Once back in my room, I debate leaving the door open for several minutes, but I decide to close it just in case someone comes in and is predisposed to asking questions.

  A half hour later, I’ve showered and ordered espresso.

  The majordomo knocks, and I open the door wrapped in a fluffy white robe. But he doesn’t just have my espresso. He also has a box on the tray that’s the size of a ream of paper.

  “Good morning, Ms. Gable. Mr. Riscoff thought you might need additional stationery for your room, along with some writing utensils.”

  My jaw slackens. Lincoln sent me paper. A sharp pang hits me in the chest but blooms into a cloud of warmth.

  “Thank you,” I say through the lump that has taken up residence in my throat.

  “Of course. And if you need additional paper, pens, or anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask. Also, if you’ve made your selections, I’m happy to take your breakfast order.”

  I rattle off something that I can’t remember as soon as the request leaves my mouth because I’m too caught up in the paper that’s now sitting on a tray on the desk. I whisper my thanks one more time before the majordomo disappears, and I stare at the box for long moments before my attention goes back to the door that leads to Lincoln’s suite.

  I open the box of stationery, grab the pen, and write a quick note to Lincoln. I slip back into his room, leave it on the matching desk, and hurry back out as though I’m more worried about being caught in there now than I was when I was ordering him to jack off for me so I could finger myself on his bed.

  I can’t wipe the secret smile off my face until I answer the knock on my door for breakfast.

  An hour later, after I’ve eaten my spinach-and-ham omelet, I decide to take advantage of the sunny day and lay out on the terrace.

  No clouds in the sky.

  Which is why I’m sweating within minutes and wishing I had a pool.

  Which I do. All I have to do is leave my room and risk running into another human.

  Everything you want is on the other side of fear. My mantra from last night echoes in my head.

  Screw it. I load up my stuff and make the trek down the hallway, through the lounge, to the beautiful patio and crystal-blue water. Karma and the girls are nowhere to be seen, and neither is anyone else.

  See? That wasn’t difficult at all.

  I choose a reclining lounger that’s in the sun, but with an umbrella nearby, and lie on my stomach, jotting down words and phrases that mean nothing together. That’s how my brain works. I write stream-of-consciousness style, putting whatever comes through my head onto paper, and then I piece it together like a puzzle when a pattern emerges.

  I’m almost done with a chorus when another woman walks through the sliding glass doors in a black bikini and a turquoise blue caftan. Her face is shaded by a big floppy hat and large sunglasses.

  I try to refocus on the paper, but my concentration slips again when she takes the chair directly next to mine.

  She smiles and sets herself up, slathering her already golden-brown skin with sunscreen, and then pulls out a gossip magazine.

  As soon as I see the cover, I cringe.

  It must be a new one because the headline says Was Ricky Rango Really a Billionaire’s Heir? The picture is Ricky onstage, overlaid on top of a photo of the Riscoff estate.

  It’s not a crappy gossip magazine either. It’s one of the glossy ones I used to avoid looking at when I went through the checkout aisle at the grocery store. The story is too juicy for anyone to pass up.

  As she flips the pages, my concentration and creativity dwindle to nothing.

  Not focusing on the clouds.

  I tuck my paper under my towel, ditch my sunglasses, and decide to go for a dip in the pool, carefully keeping my back to her and hoping like hell there are no pictures of me in that magazine.

  I slip under the surface of the pool and push off the concrete with the soles of my feet, shooting forward underwater, my arms pulling me through. I try to make it all the way to the other end of the pool, but my lungs burn far too soon. Probably because it’s been years since I last swam with any regularity. Regardless, when I resurface, I’m far enough away from her now. I let my body go limp and float to the surface, arching my back and soaking up the sun on my face.

  I stay in the water, alternating between idly swimming laps and floating on my back, until my fingertips prune. With a gla
nce toward my chair, I see the woman is still there, flipping through her magazine as she basks in the sun.

  I pull myself out of the pool, letting the water stream off me, and grab a rolled towel from the rack near the stairs. After wrapping it around myself, I keep my face averted as I return to my seat and snatch up my glasses to put them back on before she can get a good look at my face.

  “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” she says when I settle back onto the lounge chair.

  “Definitely.”

  She must take my reply as an indication that I want to talk, because she launches into a conversation. “I love coming to places like this. It always feels so decadent when it’s exclusive.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I try to stop the chattiness, but she can’t take the hint.

  “Where are you from?” she asks.

  “All over,” I tell her, because I have no intention of telling her the truth.

  “Ah, a citizen of the world. That’s so fortunate. I’m a born-and-bred Cali girl myself. It gets so stifling in the city, though. Everyone trying to outdo everyone else. It’s nice to get out of there and appreciate different scenery.”

  “It’s definitely different here.”

  “The Gables has been on my travel bucket list for years. I’m so glad I finally got to see it. What a beautiful place, right? And the food? To die for.”

  “Definitely.” I pick up my paper and start writing again in the hopes that she’ll get a clue and leave me the hell alone.

  Not so.

  “Have you been here before?”

  I nod rather than answer verbally this time, and a rush of relief fills me as Karma and her girls come through the glass doors.

  Thank the Lord. I need a distraction.

  I wave at the girls and smile. “Hey! You guys ready for some swimming?”

  “Yes!” Addy replies as she runs toward the pool.

  “Addy, slow down. You’re not getting into the pool yet.”

  “They’re so cute. Friends of yours?” the woman asks.

  “Yes.” I keep my answer short, hoping she’ll take the hint, not that it’s worked so far.

  Shockingly, Karma comes over toward me instead of heading to the opposite side of the pool. “Decided to finally risk leaving your room?”

  I cringe. Maybe this was like wishing for a life ring and someone throws you one—but it’s on fire.

  “Thought I’d get some sun and swim.”

  “Hi, I’m Emmy.” The woman beside me stands up and holds out her hand. “We were just chatting.”

  Karma eyes the lady and shakes her hand reluctantly. “Hi.”

  “Are you from here too? I was just about to ask your friend what I need to make sure I try before I leave town. I hear Gable has some pretty interesting history and infamous residents, past and present.”

  “Karma, the girls look excited to get in the pool. Do you want me to go swim with them?”

  She shoots me a glare. “I don’t need your help, Whitney.”

  The lady’s kind smile turns into a grin. “And here I thought she’d never admit who she was.”

  Karma’s eyes light up. “Who? Whitney Gable Rango? Yeah, that’s definitely her.”

  I give my cousin the most intense side-eye I can possibly manage. “I think it’s time for me to go now.”

  The woman reaches out and puts a hand on my arm as I stand. “Now, don’t go running off just when things are getting interesting.”

  “Who are you and what do you want?” I drop any pretense of politeness.

  “I could be your new best friend.”

  “I don’t need any new friends,” I tell her as I grasp my stationery to my chest.

  “You really don’t want to leave until you hear the proposition I’ve got for you.”

  “No, actually I do want to leave.”

  “I’m interested in what your new friend has to say,” Karma says, and I want to smack the bitchiness right off her face. “Are you a reporter?”

  Emmy nods with a smile.

  “I don’t know how you got up here, but you need to leave before security comes to show you out. That’s the first call I make as soon as I step inside.”

  “Such a buzzkill, Whit.”

  “Shut up, Karma.”

  Emmy’s eyes practically light up. “You two are just precious. My audience will love hearing about how Whitney Rango gets along with her family.”

  “How big of an audience?” Karma takes a step closer to her.

  Instead of replying, the woman produces two business cards and hands one to Karma before shoving one at me. “Emmy Richards. Daily Post. I would love to talk to you, Whitney. I think your side of the story would be of great interest—”

  “I’m not interested.” I start to turn away, but she slips the card between my hand and the papers.

  “You don’t want to set the record straight? Tell everyone how you’ve been crucified in the press for causing Ricky’s suicide when there’s another reason he could’ve done it?”

  “What other reason?” Karma asks, fanning the flames of this woman’s ego.

  “Don’t you need to go watch your kids?” I ask my cousin, shooting a look toward the girls where they’re both dipping their toes in the water.

  “Leave my kids out of it. I want to hear what Emmy has to say.”

  “You’re clearly the smart one in the family.” Emmy speaks directly to Karma as if I’m not even here.

  “Obviously.”

  “Did you know there’s a rumor going around that your cousin’s husband had a mistress and he really killed himself because of her?”

  Mistress? I knew Ricky was cheating because of the STD, but I assumed it was some random skank and a backstage hookup . . . not a relationship.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I demand.

  Emmy turns her attention back to me. “I’m just saying that it seems like there was a lot more going on with your husband than you thought, Whitney. What if you could redeem yourself? Make his fans hate you a little less? Wouldn’t that make life easier? I can help you do that, if you let me.”

  A tiny shred of my soul is tempted by her offer, but I know enough not to trust her or anything she says. “I’m calling security.” I look at Karma. “You might want to take the girls back to the room so they don’t have to see this.”

  She says nothing, just fingers Emmy’s card and glances at me. “How much would you pay for a good story?”

  “You can’t be serious!” I step toward her and rip the card out of her hand.

  “I’m not the one with a billionaire boyfriend. I’ve got two little girls to feed.”

  Emmy pulls another card from her purse and hands it to Karma. “Call me. We’ll talk.”

  Fuck. Now my cousin is going to sell me out to the press.

  33

  Lincoln

  The past

  The funeral for Mr. and Mrs. Gable was a fraction of the size of my father’s, even when it should arguably have been double, especially in a town named after their ancestors.

  I saw Whitney dressed in black, walking into the church between her brother and her aunt. Even with her summer tan, her face looked pale, standing out against the dark dress.

  I hated that I was watching from the other side of the street instead of holding her up and giving her strength to get through this day. That should have been my job, and I’d totally fucked it up.

  I sat in a black sedan outside the church for hours, waiting for my chance. Finally, I spotted a girl with brown hair slipping out the side door. Whitney’s cousin.

  She was lighting up a joint when I got to her.

  “Cricket, right?”

  She looked up at me in surprise before giving me a short nod in response.

  “Can you do me a massive favor?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “I need you to give something to Whitney.”

  “Oh, really? Like what?” She flicked the ash off the end of the joint as I pulle
d the letter out of my pocket and held it out.

  “Just . . . please give it to her. I need to see her. I have to talk to her. I swear to Christ I’ll leave her alone if she tells me to herself.”

  Whitney’s cousin studied me and took a drag before puffing the smoke in my face. A moment later, she reached out and snatched the letter from me. “Fine. But don’t expect her to want to see you. She’s already cozied up to Ricky like they were never apart.”

  “He doesn’t fucking deserve her, and you know it.”

  Her shoulders dipped in a shrug. “I don’t think you’re the one who gets to make that choice.”

  The judgment in her eyes made me want to snatch the letter back, but it was too late. She shoved it in her purse.

  “You should get out of here before Asa comes out. From what I heard, he’s not your biggest fan.”

  “Just give her the letter.”

  She nodded, and I headed back to the car to watch the entire funeral procession leave the church, hoping for one more glimpse of Whitney.

  34

  Lincoln

  I didn’t know if she was coming. My watch showed that it was already fifteen minutes past the time I’d written in the note. I glanced out the window of the cabin again, and headlights cut through the darkness.

  Thank fuck. She’s coming.

  As tires crunched gravel in the driveway, I hurried toward the door, pulling it open and rushing toward the car. I was two feet away when the driver’s door flew open.

  It’s not Whitney.

  “I told you to stay the fuck away from my sister.” Asa Gable climbed out, his fists clenched and jaw set. Ricky Rango’s head popped out of the passenger side.

  She got my letter and instead of coming herself . . . she told her brother and her boyfriend. All the hope I’d been holding on to shattered. She doesn’t want to see me again.