by K. L. Kreig
Crisp hazel eyes so feverish I may blister under them.
A gentle swipe of his thumb against my forehead, silently reassuring me.
Shaw grunting: “I want to watch you swallow his cock.”
Me asking: “Would that turn you on?”
Him responding: “Is it wrong if it does?”
It was…
Good God, what was it?
A turn-on? Repulsive? A little of both, maybe?
On the plane, in the comfort of Shaw’s hold, I fell into a twisted, fitful, hedonistic sleep about Vegas and black-tie balls and ringing in the new year with Noah’s tongue lashing me to orgasm. Hours later, most of the details may have faded but sharp remnants still cling fast.
Part of me knew it was odd; not actually real the entire time I played the starring role in a fantasy that was never mine to begin with, but one that was subconsciously planted by a lovesick ex who only wanted to hurt me. Regardless of what Voodoo Eyes said, she wasn’t doing womankind a favor by “warning” me. She stuck a rusty, jagged dagger in, twisted it, and soaked in my pain, fueling the flames of jealousy burning clearly behind her black corneas.
Shaw doesn’t want to share me with Noah. He made that clear on the plane. You and me. That’s it. That’s all it will ever be, Goldilocks. Just you and me.
I believe him. But what if…
Yeah. What if that small, insecure part of me whispers. What. If.
What if this is all a momentary thread in time?
What if I can’t let him in all the way?
What if he changes his mind?
What if he decides he can’t commit?
What if he needs these twisted activities between him and Noah more than he thinks he does?
What then?
I’ll admit that for a single solitary second, I contemplated walking away. From the contract. The money. My commitment. Him. All of it. For a single solitary second, I wanted to forget I ever met the man who made me burn with life again.
But then that second passed.
The simple fact of the matter is even if it’s what I should do, I don’t want to. I am desperately, foolishly, irrevocably in love with the billionaire playboy of Seattle who has never been in love with a woman in his life. While he may well be like the wind—uncontrollable and wild—Shaw Mercer is an inescapable force of nature.
He kissed my soul, leaving an indelible stain behind.
I am his.
I fully realize I could end up like Voodoo Eyes and every other one of his relationships. I may. It’s entirely possible. But I may not. Maybe I’m his anomaly, too. Maybe he’s risking as much by loving me as I am by loving him.
With a deep breath in, I let the hot spray of the shower pound into my back, wishing my insecurities would slide off me and disappear down the drain.
Shaw and Noah dropped me off at the Ritz a few hours ago before they took off by chauffeured car for their meeting. Shaw said they’d be back by dinnertime, surprising me with a day full of spa treatments. The works. Mani, pedi, facial, wrap, massage. I skipped the hair and makeup, sick of being pampered after five straight gluttonous hours.
Water beads on my skin, the oils acting as a repellant. I suds up a washcloth with vanilla-scented body wash and start to scrub. Minutes later with mundane tasks complete, body clean, hair washed and conditioned, and a razor smoothing the important parts, I feel slightly better but linger under the water longer than usual, trying to pull my thoughts together. Convincing myself what I learned about Shaw and Noah last night, despite my disturbing dream, is ancient history.
Now the fact he needed a fake girlfriend makes all the sense in the world. And this has to be the reason why Reid has been trying to cast shadows on Shaw. Of course he knows. Noah and Shaw have a sordid past together, and it likely doesn’t bode well for Preston’s campaign if any of their escapades were to leak to the press during election season.
There’s more to it than that, though. I feel it in my gut. Just as I haven’t let Shaw in all the way, he hasn’t returned the favor. I know other dynamics are at play with his family. Annabelle is one bad decision away from making headlines. Gemma and her husband’s relationship seems strained. And his brother Lincoln? I don’t know his backstory, but I’d bet money Shaw is trying to protect him from something, too, because that’s the way he is.
Fingers starting to prune, I switch off the water. Quickly drying with a plush, oversized towel, I take care to squeeze excess moisture from my hair. I finger comb it best as I can, intending to do a better job after I’ve dressed.
Grabbing a thick white robe from a hook on the wall, I slip my arms through and cinch the waist as I pad to the bedroom to grab my toiletry bag.
It’s only then that I notice a dress the shade of fresh winter snow lying on the comforter. Other than a few well-placed sequins, it blends in, which is why I must have overlooked it when I came back from the spa awhile ago.
Shaw. God, that man.
Voodoo Eyes’ threat whispers in my mind, warning he’ll ply me with gifts only to break my heart, but I ignore it and run over to examine the silky fabric.
Reaching to pick it up, I spot a vanilla linen notecard with only my name on the front. With shaky hands, I open it and read the neatly penned inscription in his handwriting. By the time I’m done, my heart has swelled with so much love the seams of me feel stretched to the max.
Willow,
Somehow, someway you have
managed the impossible. You have
captured every shred of my heart,
every piece of my mind, every bit
of my very soul. Everything I am
belongs to you.
Yours,
~ Shaw
Goose bumps erupt everywhere. I find myself smiling ridiculously, like a teenager whose boyfriend told her he loved her for the first time. And in a way, I think he just did.
My attention goes back to the gift. I run my fingers gently over it, top to bottom. It’s short. Sexy. Sheer. Revealing. Too revealing to wear out. The translucent fabric doesn’t even meet in the middle of the structured lace cups. It will leave me exposed straight down to the juncture of my thighs. That’s when I realize it’s not a dress at all, but a nightie with intricate matching panties.
It’s exquisite and downright sinful. I rub the silky material between my fingers, excited to feel it lay against my skin for the briefest of seconds before it’s hopefully ripped from my body.
Knowing I should wait for Shaw but not wanting to, I drop the robe to the floor, slipping the delicate piece over my head. It flutters against my damp skin, tickling along my belly. I forgo the panties, striding to the full-length mirror to examine myself. I twist, gauging myself from various angles. I adjust my boobs for maximum push-up effect.
I look virginal in the color he chose. The way the gown frames the trimmed patch of curls between my thighs, I’m a virtuous sacrifice. An offering for his whims, his use. His, period.
An image of him returning to the suite with me draped over the baby grand in this, sans the panties, sends tingles of longing ghosting across my nipples. I’ll order in champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Put on soft music. We’ll stay in all night as I let him feast on every part of me until we pass out from exhaustion.
We were supposed to go out for an elegant dinner. I bought a new little black dress for our reservations at eight, but now all I can think about is secluding ourselves away in this tiny corner of the world where I can have him all to myself.
I’d love nothing more than vegging on messy sheets and eating junk food until crumbs stick to the backs of our thighs. I want to kiss, pet, cuddle. Be normal. Boring. Just the two of us. I need to solidify the connection between us. It’s taut, fresh with reservations that threaten to snap us in two.
Hopeful he’ll forgive the abrupt change in plans when he sees my wet pussy on display for him, I scurry down the hall to the living area of the spacious suite Shaw reserved for us. It’s ridiculously large for only
two people, and at 2,900 square feet, it’s bigger than many people’s single-unit homes, mine included.
I intend to grab my cell to call him only I jump straight from my skin when I see a broad figure slumped in one of the velvet chairs, facing me.
“Jesus Christ,” I half squeal, half yell.
It takes a second or two for my brain to catch up to my sprinting heart. As the adrenaline that’s flooded my bloodstream wanes, I squawk, “Shaw? What are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me.”
And how long has he been here? Was he here when I came in? No. The room was dark. Why didn’t he tell me he was back? My questions morph into immediate concerns, the scene feeling off. Way off.
“I’m sorry,” he offers, monotone. Disconnected from the moment. His body is present but his mind is absent.
I take one step forward, my eyes adjusting to the low light. He looks completely disheveled. A one-eighty from his usual crispness.
The tails of his button-down are pulled haphazardly from the waist of his dress pants; the top two buttons are broken apart. His tie is askew, undone, hanging in a mess, which now that I’m looking closer matches his chaotic hair. Deep grooves are clearly evident as if he’s repeatedly raked through it. Under normal circumstances, it would be sexy as hell. Now, though, it’s unsettling.
Dangling precariously between his middle finger and thumb is a tumbler, a splash of brown liquid sloshing in the bottom. He’s been here long enough to pour himself a drink, then. He watches my eyes track to it and back to his. They’re dark. Severe. So intense I squirm, shifting my body weight to my other foot.
“What’s the matter? Did your meeting go badly?”
Instead of answering, he brings the glass to his lips and tosses back the entire contents in one swallow. Gently he sets it on the table next to him, so quietly no noise registers at all. When his gaze finally pops back to mine, the air in my lungs freezes.
He looks…desperate.
My palms start to sweat. I have no idea why but every cell in my being cries out his mood is about us, not his business meeting. Which is crazy. Right?
Forgetting I’m barely covered I walk toward him with purpose. “Shaw, tell me what happened.”
I stop between his spread legs and drop to my knees, the soft carpet cushioning the abruptness of my move. Setting my palms to his thighs I stare up at him, cowardly on the inside but trying to remain stoic on the outer edges. I have the distinct feeling he needs that from me now more than anything.
Unconsciously, I glide my fingers up slowly, dragging the smooth fabric with my upward trek until his hands on mine halt me. It’s then I’m sure my heart will beat from my chest.
He’s trembling.
Fear is a living, breathing thing taking me over. I’m not crazy. What the hell happened today?
“Shaw, please. You’re scaring me.”
With his attention securely on his lap, he gently picks up my hands and brings one to his cheek. He closes his eyes and rubs back and forth. Coarse day-old whiskers abrade the thin skin on top.
The act is tender, sweet, and wrought with such intimacy I can hardly breathe through the thickness of it.
I’m kneeling at the feet of the man I love in barely a wisp of silk covering my nakedness but it’s not my body he needs right now.
“Talk to me.”
His eyes are still shut. He squeezes them so tight it looks painful. Placing his lips in the center of my palm, he whispers brokenly, “There is not a single person in my life more important than you.”
The declaration makes me gasp more than the physical contact, but I’m not going to deny that electricity prickles the length of my arm as he slides his lips up to my wrist. “How did that happen?”
I’m pretty sure his question is rhetorical. I murmur back “I don’t know” anyway. And it’s the God’s honest truth. Neither of us expected to be here; the professional turned so personal we both ache with uneasy, uncharted emotion.
His lids pry open and penetrating murky irises fasten to mine. “I would do anything to keep you, Willow. To make you mine. Christ, I want you to be mine more than I’ve ever wanted anything before.”
I’m utterly confused at what happened over the past few hours. He left a note telling me I was essentially his. In fact, he’s been telling me that for days. Now his tone holds an edge of fear that I don’t understand. “I am yours, Shaw.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” I tell him with every ounce of determination I can muster. “Nothing will change that.” Unless you want it to.
“God, how I want that to be true.”
What he said was mumbled, but I heard it clearly anyway. Only weeks ago, he was preparing me for the end. Now he sounds as if he couldn’t go on if I’m not in his life.
Clawing terror like nothing I’ve ever felt scorches a path from my belly to my rib cage. Invisible threads that feel more like bony fingers of impending doom clutch my chest, squeezing.
I never understood the depth of true love until I met this man. The way it crowds your whole being. Consumes your soul. Implants itself straight into your bones, your marrow until your DNA changes to match his. I’ll never experience another thing like it as long as I live.
And something is threatening it. I feel it in every molecule.
This is a defining moment for me. Right now. This very second.
I could withdraw. Curl back into my protective little ball and play out the next few weeks with the practiced veneer I’ve mastered for the past fifteen years. I could hide this insane love I feel for him behind a fortress built of fear and unworthiness.
Or I can harness those feelings. Use the energy I expend for self-protection to flay myself until I’m raw and exposed, searing past wounds closed in the process.
Could I get hurt? No question, the answer is yes.
But is he worth it? A million times over.
That’s it then. Decision made.
“You’re in.”
“Huh?” he asks absently.
You’re in, you’re in. You wanted in and you’re there.
God, my stomach hurts.
“I’m in love with you,” I tell him softly. In fact, it was so soft I’m not even sure he heard it. I’m not even sure I said it out loud, but when his eyes, which had fallen back down to our joined hands jerk to mine, I know I did because the lines in his cheeks turn sharp. His nostrils flare when he fills his lungs deeply. He parts his full pink lips slightly as if he’s going to say it back. But he doesn’t. He closes them again and swallows.
I offer a small smile, though nerves are causing my lips to shake furiously. He doesn’t return it, simply continues to stare at me. Into that closed-off place I ripped open just for him. Even telling Reid I loved him the first time didn’t feel like this.
He’s quiet for so long I start running at the mouth, trying to defend myself in case this isn’t what he wanted. “I know it wasn’t supposed to happen. I know this is just a job and that it will be over soon, but—” He cuts me off by pressing his thumb firmly against my mouth.
“Stop,” he growls.
Oh shit. Oh crap. Did I misread everything that’s happened over the last few days? Maybe I got the cues all wrong, the words he wrote me all twisted into what I wanted them to mean.
Panic winds me up. My face goes hot. My lips feel dry as dust and even though his finger is still there, I dart my tongue out to give them some relief. I can’t help but taste him in the process. He jolts, his eyes even more hooded.
“Say it again.” It’s a command. It’s dark and gravelly. Pure need. Straight sex. He’s telling me to tell him I love him again and I close my eyes in sweet relief that I wasn’t wrong.
Taking in bravery through my nose, I whisper, “I love you,” when I blow the breath out.
Then my face is between his strong hands. He tugs me toward him, and he looks wild and brutal and so, so beautiful I want to weep. “All of it. Say all the words again, Willow. Every last of them.”
/> All the words. Okay. I can do that.
“I am in love with you, Shaw Mercer.”
He never looks away.
“Fuck.” He blinks slowly. Breathes deeply. “Again.”
I start to smile at his bossiness. Those clusters of angst in my belly loosen. I bring my hands up and place them over his, resting my small fingers between his larger ones. “I am in love with you, Shaw Andrew Mercer.”
I push myself to my feet, bending over at the waist because my face is a hostage in his hands. I crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs. He moves with me the whole time, leaning back as I lean forward, but he never lets me go, doesn’t even loosen his hold on me an ounce.
“I am in love with you.” This time my voice may be buttery soft, but I hit each syllable with purpose.
I dip down to kiss him. We both moan at our first touch. He tastes of chambered power, smoky liquor, and sheer awe, if that had a flavor.
It’s gentle, my kiss. Different from others before it. It’s jam-packed with every raw emotion I now want him to feel. For the first time since I was a little girl, I’m completely see-through.
We move languid and light against each other. For once he lets me lead. I nibble and play, letting our mouths break often before coming back to a different spot to do the same. I whisper, “I love you,” over and over, feeling more powerful and sure each time it leaves my mouth. The last time I say it I pause and wait for his eyes to open so he understands how much I mean it.
He sees it. His jaw muscles jump. His fingers flex against my cheeks briefly before sliding back to wind through my still-damp hair. Tilting my head, he tugs me back to him. He deepens our connection but doesn’t take over while our tongues slow dance and our souls blend into one.
I want to strip his clothes and sink down on him. I want to look into his eyes the entire time he’s moving inside me and let him take stock of everything that’s there. The good, the mistakes, the fears, the guilt, the past. It’s all his now. Every raw part.
But innate habits die hard. I’m insecure and I’ve just told Shaw I love him for the first time. Where does that leave us now? I desperately want him to say it back, but I want him to say it because he means it not because he feels he has to. Tearing away, I lean my forehead against his, panting a little, and I give him an out.