All He Wants

by Anna Cruise

  But I'd opened my big mouth and invited us over for dinner. The last thing I was going to do was back down from that. I wasn't a quitter and I wasn't about to let anyone think I was. So if dinner was going to consist of Stuart and Kristen making eyes at each other and flirting, I'd sit there and take it. I might stab her hand with a fork and kick Stuart in the nuts but I'd go and smile sweetly and pretend I didn't give a flying fuck about either of them.

  I weeded through my bag, frowning at everything in it. Nothing looked good enough to wear. I didn't want Stuart to take his eyes off of me and I sure as hell didn't want him looking at Kristen. I sat back down on the edge of the bed, frustrated. His words were still echoing in my head.

  So we do our thing and that's it and you keep me right there.

  It was me. He wasn't wrong. I was the one holding up the stop sign. I knew in my head how I felt about him, but I wasn't showing him that. I was doing what I'd always done. Trying to gain the upper hand. Trying to take control. Trying to make sure I left a door open so I could walk out any time I wanted.

  The problem was that I didn't want to walk through a door this time.

  At least I didn't think I wanted to.

  So why couldn't I get myself to tell him that? Or show him?

  “Because you're totally fucked up,” I muttered to myself.

  I sighed and went back to the clothes, finally settling on the only nice outfit I'd brought, a stretchy black dress with a plunging neckline and a small slit up the side. I put a little more cream on my exposed skin, pissed that I hadn't thought to pack a better selection of clothes that wouldn't showcase every single damn spot I still had. I sighed, dragged the brush through my hair one more time, then stepped quietly across the hall to the bathroom.

  Stuart was still nowhere to be found and my pulse quickened a little. What if he'd left? Worse, what if he'd gone to Kristen's without me? What if they were tangled up in her sheets right that moment and he was telling her what a huge mistake he'd made with me and it had been her all along?

  My mind was racing and I couldn't get it to slow down.

  A knock sounded on the door and I whirled around. The door opened and Stuart was there, his face expressionless.

  “Dinner's in an hour.” His tone was clipped.

  “Here or at Kristen's?”

  “Where the hell do you think?”

  He stepped into the room and, ignoring me, walked over to the dresser. He grabbed his wallet and car keys and shoved them both into the pocket of his shorts.

  I took a deep breath. “I'm sorry.”

  He didn't respond. He didn't even look at me.

  “Did you hear me?” I asked. “I said I'm sorry.”

  “I heard you.”

  “You aren't going to acknowledge?”

  He looked at me, his face a mask of anger. “What exactly are you sorry for? Accusing me of being engaged? Acting like a complete bitch?”

  I swallowed, biting back my response. I deserved the label, even if I hated hearing it come from him.

  “Or are you sorry because you finally fucking feel bad about leading someone on? About using someone for sex when they might actually want something more from you?” His cheeks were flushed and a muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Which one is it, Annika?”

  “You...you want something more from me?” My voice was barely a whisper.

  He laughed, a short sharp bark. “You know what?” he said, shaking his head. “I don't. Not anymore. Because I'm pretty sure I was wrong about you. I don't think you're capable of anything else.”

  “That's not true—” I began but he cut me off.

  “You like sex. Without attachments. You don't like the mess that comes with building relationships. Not with your family, not with friends, and not with men.”

  “I—”

  He stepped closer, his eyes roving the length of me. He reached for me, his hand settling on my shoulder. He moved it quickly to my breast and squeezed, his fingers hot through the thin fabric of my dress.

  “So let's just focus on fucking. Since that's all you want.” His fingers teased my nipple and I felt my body respond.

  “Stop,” I said weakly.

  His hand covered my other breast. “No.”

  He leaned in and he kissed me hard, crushing his lips to mine. His mouth was insistent, his tongue pushing against my lips, forcing its way in. He yanked the neckline of my dress down and his hands touched my bare skin and I tried to pull away.

  “Isn't this what you want?” he whispered against my mouth. He moved one hand to my thigh, hiking my dress up. He yanked my panties down and cupped my crotch. “A good fuck? Isn't this all you want?”

  I put my hands on his chest and shoved against him. “No.”

  His eyes were hot, his mouth set. “No?” He pushed his hair off his forehead. “Then what do you want, Annika? Tell me.”

  My heart hammered and I took a couple of breaths, trying as much to stem the tide of desire welling up inside of me as I was trying to find the courage to say the words I wanted to say.

  “I want you,” I managed.

  He smirked. “I know. So let's fuck.” He lifted his shirt and peeled it off. “Right fucking now.”

  “No,” I said, my voice firmer. I stared at his chest, at the sweat glistening on his tanned skin, at the way it heaved up and down as he tried to control his breathing. “That's not what I meant.”

  “Then what do you mean, Annika?”

  My mouth was dry and I tried to swallow but my throat was stuck and the only moisture to be found were the tears welling up in my eyes.

  “I want you. And I want me.”

  I closed my eyes. “And I want an us.”

  TWENTY ONE

  “You ready to get this over with?” Stuart asked.

  The Mini was idling on a residential street in Palo Alto, in front of a tall wall of privacy hedging. The driveway just to the right had the gates open and a single lane curved toward the unseen house.

  “Yep,” I told him, a grim smile plastered on my face.

  We were outside of Marcus Filmore's home, five minutes late for our dinner date. Not because we'd had hot and crazy sex after our confrontation in Stuart's room, but because he'd dropped his arms and walked toward me and cradled me against his chest for a full ten minutes, not saying anything after my announcement.

  I'd let him hold me, fighting the urge to pull away or to turn the embrace into something safe, something sexual. That was my standard MO and I fought against it. And he just...held me.There was nothing erotic about how he caressed me, how his lips rained kisses on top of my hair. It was comforting and peaceful and loving. And it scared the shit out of me.

  When he'd loosened his grip around my waist and opened his mouth to say something, I put my finger to his lips and said, “Not now. We need to go. We can talk later.”

  He'd opened his mouth, ready to object. But then his expression cleared and he smiled and said, “Okay.”

  And we'd gotten in the car and driven in silence to Marcus Filmore's home and our dinner date with Stuart's not-fiancee, Kristen.

  He lifted his foot off the brake and turned the car toward the opened gates. We drove down the tree-lined drive for about a quarter of mile until the house came into view.

  I sucked in my breath. “Holy shit.”

  The house was a mansion. A stately white colonial with Grecian accents, including twenty-foot tall marble columns flanking the steps that led to the front door. A balcony ran the full length of the second floor, mirroring the porch beneath it. Five of my parents' houses could have fit into it. Maybe more.

  “Vanity and fear of aging has paid off big time for Filmore,” Stuart said. He parked the car in the circular drive and stepped out and I followed suit.

  “Clearly,” I said, looking around me.

  I'd seen some decadent homes in San Diego, ones that my parents had sold in La Jolla and Rancho Santa Fe, and Marcus Filmore's home was right up there with those. The property was lushly landsc
aped, peppered with dwarf palm trees and hibiscus plants. The grass looked like a putting green, not a blade out of place. Tucked behind the house, I could make out the edge of a pool and, behind it, what looked like tennis courts.

  Stuart took the front steps two at a time and rapped the brass knocker mounted on the door. Within seconds, it opened and a Hispanic woman wearing a simple gray dress and white apron answered. Her face lit up when she saw him.

  “Wood,” she said warmly, using his nickname. Her brown eyes crinkling around the edges when she smiled.

  He leaned in and gave her a hug. “Sylvia. It's been a while.”

  “Too long,” she chided, swinging the door wide and ushering us inside. “Where have you been?”

  “Saving the world,” he told her with a wink.

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course, of course.” She turned her attention to me. “This is a friend of yours?” She didn't bother to hide the curiosity in her voice.

  “Yes,” he said. “More than a friend.” He reached for my hand and squeezed and I felt a lump form in my throat. “This is Annika. Annika Sellers.”

  If Sylvia was surprised by his manner of introduction, she hid it well. “Ms. Sellers,” she said, extending her hand along with a smile. “Very nice to meet you.”

  I shook her hand. “Annika.”

  She nodded. “Very well. Mr. Filmore and Kristen are ready for you.”

  She led us through the entryway and I tried not to stare at the opulence surrounding us. The floor was white marble and my shoes clicked on the surface as we followed her, past a living room filled with red velvet couches and brown leather arm chairs. The walls of the hallway were lined with gilt-framed art and even though I knew nothing about paintings, I was sure they were all priceless, museum-worthy masterpieces.

  Sylvia led us into the dining room, where Kristen and an older man were already seated at a long, rectangular table that easily could have seated twelve. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, dripping with teardrop crystals.

  “Your guests have arrived, sir,” Sylvia said in a much more formal voice.

  Marcus Filmore looked up from his position at the head of the table. To my surprise, he didn't look much older than Stuart. He had thick dark hair that was combed off his forehead and his tanned complexion didn't hint at a single wrinkle as he offered us a polite smile. I wondered if he gave himself Botox injections or if he relied on a plastic surgeon friend to help maintain his youthful appearance.

  “Welcome,” he said, his voice echoing in the otherwise empty room. He motioned for us to sit. “Join us, please.”

  Kristen sat to his left and there was a place setting next to her. The other was directly to her father's right.

  I glanced at Stuart, not sure where to sit. Marcus made the decision for us.

  “Sit here, Wood,” he said to Stuart, motioning to the spot on his right. “So we can talk.”

  Kristen stiffened in her chair and I knew she was just as unenthused as I was about having to sit next to one another. Stuart pulled out my chair for me, then pushed it in slightly before taking his place next to Marcus.

  Mr. Filmore turned his attention to me. “I understand you're working with Stuart.”

  Not many people intimidated me, but there was something about Marcus Filmore's gaze that made me squirm. His eyes were blue like his daughter's but they were cold, almost lifeless.

  “Yes,” I said simply.

  He nodded. “Will you be a permanent fixture?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Excuse me?” I said, not understanding the question.

  Stuart cut in. “Annika and I met in San Diego. She volunteered to help during a trip to Mexico and we're working on some other projects together.”

  “I see.” Marcus lifted his glass of wine and took a sip. He picked up the linen napkin in his lap and dabbed at his mouth. “I'd like to hear about your projects. The projects I'm funding.”

  Sylvia had returned and filled the wine glass in front of me and I reached for it. I took a long drink, mostly to keep myself from muttering obscenities toward the man sitting at the head of the table. His tone with Stuart was both imperial and condescending and it was all I could do to not call him out on being a complete and total asshole.

  “You've been very generous,” Stuart said, picking up his own glass of wine and taking a long swallow. “As always.”

  Marcus gave a brief nod of his head. “It's my pleasure,” he said but his tone indicated otherwise.

  “I've been working with some local charities in Central America. Honduras and Guatemala. Delivery has been difficult the past couple of years due to the unstable conditions in many of the villages and towns. But we're making good headway.”

  Kristen's brow furrowed. Her hair was twisted into a low French knot and her make-up was soft and feminine and she looked like she'd just stepped out of one of the paintings showcased in the hall. “Guatemala? Isn't that where all the illegals are coming from?”

  “You mean the refugees?” Stuart said, emphasizing the word. “The kids who have traveled hundreds or thousands of miles by themselves to avoid being raped and murdered by the cartel members who have taken over their towns? Yes.”

  She pressed her lips together and said nothing but I saw the tell-tale blush rise on her fair skin as she realized her faux pas.

  “Now, now,” Marcus said. He folded his hands together and placed them on the table. “No sense talking about politics at the dinner table. Nothing ruins a meal faster than that.”

  “It's not politics,” Stuart said. “It's a humanitarian crisis.”

  “That's the super hero in you talking, Wood,” Marcus said, an amused smile on his lips. “You always did want to save the world.”

  Stuart was about to respond but a man dressed all in white and wearing a massive chef's hat appeared, carrying two plates of food. Another man followed, bearing two more plates. They set them down in front of us and, after receiving a quick nod of approval from Marcus, disappeared.

  “Let's eat,” Marcus suggested. “We can discuss business later.”

  Dinner was salmon with herbed rice pilaf and steamed asparagus. I didn't like fish and asparagus made my pee smell weird so I shuffled the food around my plate, taking a bite here and there. If anyone noticed, they didn't say anything.

  “So, Annika,” Marcus said, addressing me.

  I looked up from my plate in surprise. Stuart hadn't officially introduced me—which was fine by me—and I wondered how he knew my name.

  “Tell us,” he said. “What do you do? When you're not volunteering with Book of Hope, of course.”

  “I'm finishing school,” I said.

  “School?” He arched an eyebrow, as if the concept was unbelievable. “Where?”

  “San Diego State.”

  His mouth lifted into a mocking smile. “Oh? I'm afraid I don't know much about that school, beyond its rather untoward reputation as a party school. What exactly do you study there?”

  “International business and global studies.”

  “Global studies,” he repeated. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of asparagus. “Is that a liberal arts degree? And what does that degree entail?”

  I hated his tone, as if what I'd decided to study was a complete and total joke. I stole a quick glance at Kristen. She had her wine glass halfway to her mouth and her eyes were on me, her smile more taunting than friendly.

  I looked at Stuart. He was watching me, a frown on his face. I knew he was as pissed by Marcus's tone and line of questioning as I was.

  I folded my own hands and smiled brightly at Marcus Filmore. “It depends on your emphasis, really,” I told him. “It's an interdisciplinary degree.”

  “Interdisciplinary? So a bunch of classes just sort of cobbled together to form a degree?”

  I laughed and took another sip of wine. “Something like that. But there's a lot of real life experience that comes into play when your focus is global.”

  “And volunteering with
Stuart provides you with these real life experiences?” he asked. “To cobble this degree together?”

  I hesitated for a moment. Did I play the meek, demure woman and ignore his blatant disrespect for me and what I'd chosen to study? Or did I unleash?

  “Yes, it does” I told him, making my decision. I met his gaze full-on. “But so does fucking him.”

  Marcus Filmore's head jerked. “Excuse me?”

  “Fucking him,” I repeated. “Having sex. With Stuart. Understanding international relations really just boils down to understanding people. Intimately.” I smiled. “And I'm an expert at making those kinds of connections. Cobbling those experiences together, to use your terminology.”

  He choked as he swallowed his bite of salmon. “I see.”

  An uneasy silence settled over us and I fought back the urge to giggle. Nothing like down and dirty sex talk to silence a crowd, I thought. Kristen's glass of wine sat empty in front of her and she looked like she'd happily drain the bottle if one had been set in front of her. I smiled, happy that I'd made her squirm. I peeked at Stuart; he wouldn't look at me but I could see his upturned mouth and knew he was more amused than angry by how I'd handled the situation.

  Marcus finished his dinner and lay his napkin on the plate. “Perhaps we can let the ladies finish their meal while we discuss business,” he said to Stuart. “If you're done, of course.”

  Stuart set his fork down. “Of course.”

  Kristen and I both watched them leave the dining room. As soon as they were gone, she turned toward me. Her eyes glittered like shards of ice.

  “You're wasting your time,” she said primly.

  “Oh?” I scraped up a forkful of rice. “How's that?”

  “He might enjoy sleeping with you but that's as far as it's going to go.”

  “And how do you know that?” I asked.

  She smiled thinly. “Because I've known Wood all my life. He likes pretty things. All men do. But they're nothing more than spoiled children. They get tired of shiny, new toys. Especially the one-trick ponies.”

  “I'm no one-trick pony in bed, sweetheart,” I said. “I'll do whatever. Whenever.”