Curve Contract (Big Girls Next Door Erotica)

by Christa Wick

I squirmed. “You’ll leave a mark—”

  His hand gliding beneath the back band of my panties, Blake pinched my bottom.

  Fighting the urge to let him do whatever he wanted to me, I pushed at him with my shoulders, my bound hands useless. “I don’t go to work with hickeys, Blake.”

  “You do now, love.” He kissed the soft underside of my chin, his tongue trailing up to my mouth.

  There was that word again. It fell effortlessly from his lips. I knew it could fall effortlessly from mine, as well, for different reasons. If I ever said it to him, I’d mean it. But he was in love with another woman. Hell, for all I knew, he was thinking about her now -- the source behind his very real arousal and why he sounded so damn convincing.

  I drew back, he jerked me closer with a growl. He gave my bottom a rough squeeze, his tongue plundering my mouth. Another tug had my mound flush with his cock straining against his pants.

  “Baby, I’m going to make you come before I say good-bye.”

  We both knew he could. Only I didn’t want it. Rather, my brain didn’t want it.

  My pussy, on the other hand…

  A moan left me as Blake reached around front and cupped my breast. His thumb brushed along my nipple, followed by the pad of one finger. A slow grind of thumb and finger had me lifting off him, another moan clawing at my throat.

  His free hand slid between us as I rose up. When I landed again, his palm was against my pussy, his fingers pulling the gusset of my panties to the side. He eased a tip between my labia to slowly circle the muscled gate.

  “So wet, PJ.” He bit the edge of my jaw, his tongue following after to lick the hurt away before his mouth found mine again. “And tight, baby…I want to slide inside you, feel you squeezing me.”

  His hand moved, my hips moved with him. The pad of his thumb came to a stop against the kernel of my clit. He rubbed a slow clockwise circle and then another. Gazing into my eyes, he increased the pressure as his thumb took another trip around the clock. “Are you going to make me wait until after the wedding, baby.”

  I couldn’t nod or shake my head or say anything. I could only lift higher, the slow pace of his circles controlling me, wearing my resistance down until my hips bucked and I bit at my lips to stop the cry ripping from me as I came.

  “Every time, PJ.” He cupped my mound, gently rocking his palm against my clit as the crescendo inside me began to ebb. “Every time you’re in this car, in our bed, I’m going to touch you, love you until you have to let me in, baby.”

  “Blake…” The knowledge that I’d just signed the pre-nup weighed at me. Tears threatened. My hands were still tied. The first fat drop of liquid landed and I couldn’t stop it from spilling down my cheek or wipe it away. “I don’t think I can go through with this.”

  He blinked, his pupils expanding. The jaw that had been relaxed as his lips teased my flesh hardened. The hand that had been tugging relentlessly at my nipple as I arched against him landed on my hip with a dreadful finality. “Love, you don’t have a choice.”

  *****

  The rest of the limo ride passed in silence. Blake's office was closest and Carson dropped him off first. From there, I went to my brownstone to pack a few things. It had been made clear in the attorney’s office that I was expected to stay at the penthouse until the end of the trial -- even before we were legally married.

  I still had no idea when the actual wedding would occur. I only knew that the contract called for a “valid” marriage. I didn't need it spelled out in black and white, in all caps bolded, to understand the term meant fucking would be required.

  Once.

  Post-ceremony.

  Despite my quivering liquid state in the back of Blake’s limo, I was in no hurry to walk down the aisle with Cross.

  He had me in such an emotional state that I didn’t check the online version of the Post while I was packing. I judiciously avoided it at work, as well. I’d counseled more than one client at times like this and my advice had always been the same: Stay offline. Don’t watch TV. Let someone trusted field your calls and emails.

  Otherwise, it always ended with a drunken or hysterical tweet by the client and a week’s worth of #fail hash tags bearing their name until some other famous person fucked up and replaced them in the spotlight. My firm didn’t need that kind of scrutiny -- neither did Cross Incorporated.

  Thankfully, every damn member of my staff knew not to hand me a copy or mention the coverage when I arrived in the office. Even without the media distraction, I didn’t manage to get any work done. Kevin was in my office the entire time, angling for all the juicy details and every single staff member came into my office, in ones and two, to offer their congratulations. I was almost relieved to escape to the penthouse where I could at least put the lies to rest for an evening.

  Abigail greeted me at the door, her jacket and purse over one arm as she gave me a lopsided hug. “Mr. Cross is expecting you on the terrace. I hope you like sushi, dear?”

  I forced myself not to clutch at her arm as she stepped into the foyer. “Are you leaving?”

  “Six o'clock, dear. Did you need something?”

  I shook my head. She had a husband waiting for her at home; I couldn't ask her to stay and hold my hand while I ate dinner with Blake.

  “There's always a bit of nerves once it's official.” She rubbed my arm, smiling. “I tried to climb out the bathroom window at the church. Can you imagine? Me, in a wedding dress, one leg already on the outside, my maid of honor Bernice dragging me back in!”

  I mustered up a small laugh at the image. “And you're still married?”

  She nodded. “Going on thirty years, three boys, five grandchildren. Blake won't let you down, you'll see. He's a good man -- and he loves you.”

  Abigail gave me another one-armed hug and then disappeared, leaving me alone with a man who -- if Abigail knew him as well as she seemed to -- might actually be crazy in love.

  Just not with me.

  I mean, it was completely impossible, right?

  My answer came a few seconds later. I had gone into the master bedroom in search of safer clothes when my phone rang. I needed pants if I was going to have dinner with him on the terrace. Not because it was cold, but because it was Blake.

  I didn't trust him. Didn’t trust me, either. No matter how much he had to be faking it, Blake had a way of making me feel like it was my body arousing him, my essence that had captivated him and made him renounce his single status.

  I was starting to believe his act, just a little. And then the phone rang.

  I flipped it open. No caller ID but I recognized the first three numbers -- the area code to the Madison, Wisconsin, suburbs I’d grown up in. Press coverage has a way of make the insects come out of the woodwork. I hit talk and waited for the cold voice of my mother to speak. When she did, she wasted no time crushing my spirit.

  “Bad enough you’re fat, Pippa, but you’ve got to be a slut, too?”

  Foul words played along my tongue, but I only managed two -- not the two she deserved. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re pregnant, aren’t you? Why else would he marry you?” She sucked a breath in, a thin wheeze telling me that she still hadn’t dropped her two-pack a day cigarette habit. “Fat, slutty and stupid. I’m ashamed you’re my daughter.”

  “I’m not.” I swiped at the tear rolling down my cheek, furious at myself that she could cut me so deeply, so quickly, after all these years.

  “Yes, you are. That picture online is absolutely disgusting. Didn’t I teach you to cover up all that flab?”

  “I meant that I’m not your daughter. Not anymore.” I hung up, tossed the phone on the dresser and went into the bathroom. It took five minutes to stop crying and another ten of cold water on my face to reduce the swelling my tears had caused. After that, I changed into clothes that would have made my mother proud -- long sleeves, pants and a belt.

  Stepping onto the terrace, I found Blake sitting at a table, a bottle of plum wine aerating
next to him. Seeing the outfit I'd changed into, a knowing smile crept along one side of his face.

  “You didn't pack all pants, did you?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him, more annoyed at myself for being so obvious than mad at him.

  Lifting a wine glass, Blake gestured at the surrounding buildings and open sky. “Great view, isn't it? So many things to look at--”

  “Yeah, I get your point.” I took the glass and filled it to the brim. I nodded at the table loaded with enough food for four but only the single loveseat for us to sit on. “I get the point of all this.”

  “Then come and sit next to me, PJ.” He patted the cushion. The earlier smile crept up the other side of his face until he was grinning at me, his gray gaze sparkling with the city's lights as night fell around us.

  I swallowed down half the glass of wine and then perched on the edge of the loveseat. That was my first mistake -- or maybe my second. Grabbing the wine bottle, he refilled my glass, his free hand sliding around my back to grip my opposite hip.

  Trying my best to ignore having Blake’s hand on me, I scooped up one of the sushi rolls.

  “It's from Masa's.”

  I popped the roll in my mouth and let it unravel along my tongue. Groaning, I took a sip of the wine. “God, I love Masa's.”

  “I know.” Blake laughed, the sound cut short as his lips brushed against my neck.

  Right, he'd taken me there once. My agency had just finished our first campaign for Cross. He'd been more than pleased with the results and wanted to discuss ideas. The memory, almost a year old, was bittersweet.

  “If you're so good at remembering things, where's the sake?” Growling at him, I popped another roll in my mouth and leaned back, my eyes closing in epicurean ecstasy.

  “I just want you relaxed, PJ. Not drunk.”

  Shit. I had forgotten about his father. Dead. Philip Cross had been a drunk while he was alive. A very charming one, if the tales were true, but beaten down by the stigma of having grown up a bastard during a time people still paid attention to things like that. Beaten and crushed when Blake’s mom had divorced him and left them both.

  “Don’t worry about it, love.” The hand on my hip tugged me closer while the other slid along the curve of my stomach.

  Feeling his lips at my throat once more, my body's response was instant. Another groan gurgled up my throat.

  “That good, huh?” He nibbled at my ear, a shiver shooting down my body to curl my toes.

  “Hmmm?” I tried to open my eyes but the sushi and plum wine were already mixing in my stomach.

  “The sushi -- it's that good?” The hand at my stomach dipped to trace a line down my thigh before zipping back up to cup my breast.

  I wrapped my fingers around his wrist. “I'm not putting on some sex show for the Post, Blake. They’ll accuse you of animal husbandry if we do.”

  His gaze darkened and, for the first -- and hopefully last -- time I saw Blake furious.

  “Where did you read that bullshit?”

  “I didn’t.” I stuttered the answer out, my tongue tripping over itself from a combination of the wine and embarrassment. “I’ve been avoiding the news.”

  “Good, continue avoiding it.” His fist clenched before he forced it open and smoothed it along my thigh. “Those people are utterly irrelevant.”

  “Which is why you paid me a quarter million last year to shape what they say about your company,” I reminded him.

  He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, a smile curving his mouth once more. “I paid you a quarter mil so I could hold meetings with you, PJ. And watch you get all excited about a campaign and pretend it was me making your skin flush instead.”

  “Now who’s talking bullshit?” I rolled my eyes at him. “And I’m still not putting on some sex show.”

  “No, love. We'll save that for private.” Leaning against me, Blake kissed the side of my mouth.

  I turned into the kiss, unable to stop myself. Cross had to know a hundred ways of kissing a woman. He hadn't kissed me the same way twice. This one started with a slow tug at my bottom lip with his teeth. He cupped the side of my head, his thumb stroking my cheek bone as the other hand rested lightly against my throat.

  His mouth slid to the side, the tip of his tongue teasing the corner of my lips until my lower jaw went slack and I moaned.

  “Such a sweet mouth, Pippa.” His tongue curled along my upper palate as he slowly sucked my top lip. “I would kiss it all day if you'd let me.”

  I'd gladly let him, but he wasn't mine to kiss. Even if I had forgotten for a few seconds, I didn't want a borrowed lover. Not when it came to Cross. I ran my fingers along the side of his face, coaxing him to look at me. “Abigail says you're in love.”

  “Yeah, PJ, I am.” Unbelievable after dropping that bomb, he tried to kiss me again.

  I pressed my fingers lightly against his lips to stop him. “With whom?”

  I was too tired to cry anymore and the wine already tugged at my senses. I just wanted to know who it was, this woman who had managed to make Blake Cross fall in love with her. I wanted to put a name and a face to her. I wanted to confirm all the differences, lean body, exquisite face, high-society upbringing or some drop dead gorgeous Jenny on the Block whose beauty had transcended her humble beginnings to lift her to the dizzying heights of being Blake Cross’s woman.

  Only then would I be able to fully put aside the ridiculous notion that he could fall for someone like me.

  His brows knitted together, his head tilting as he chewed at his bottom lip. “You don't know already?”

  I shook my head. Earlier, I'd worried it was Burke, but that didn't fit. The few times I'd seen them together, she had tried to monopolize his attention. Like Abigail, Burke had probably realized Blake was in love. The law suit was her revenge.

  “No. But you are in love -- Burke realized and that’s why she quit and is suing you, isn’t it?”

  “One day and you’ve put almost all of it together, PJ.” The pad of his thumb grazed over my bottom lip. “I’m impressed.”

  “So fill me the rest of the way in -- who is she?”

  “If you don't know, maybe I shouldn't tell you.” He wasn't teasing. His voice sounded like he had zero intention of giving me the woman’s name.

  “You should.” I patted his shoulder, deciding that I was definitely tipsy from just the one glass. Small surprise -- other than the two sushi rolls, I'd had a cup of coffee, an apple and some water -- far, far below my normal daily intake. There hadn't been room on the day's agenda for food.

  Aiming for Blake's chest, I missed and poked him in the throat with my index finger. “Why aren't you marrying her, instead?”

  “You mean why am I paying you to marry me?” He closed his eyes, a sad smile twisting at the corners of his mouth. “The woman I love is obnoxiously clueless about how I feel.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around, it seems.” Hearing the pain in his voice, I almost felt sorry for him. Maybe I did, a little. But I felt sorrier for myself. The man I had a serious crush on was in love with someone else and I had to marry him and pretend to pretend I loved him. That was all kinds of fucked up.

  Leaning back against the cushion, I closed my eyes. “You should tell her.”

  “I will, when she's ready to hear it.” His hand brushed my face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear before sliding behind me. His thumb played along the small of my back, making me melt deeper into the cushion. “Right now she’s got her walls up.”

  I nodded. As different as I might be from this mystery woman in the flesh, I’d built a few walls myself. First with my parents, then with men after a few lovers had used me as their safety rebound -- the fat chick they thought they could walk all over.

  My head started to slide toward his chest. I tried to lift it but my eyes were closing, my brain shutting down. Feeling an arm along the back of my knees, I clutched Blake’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
<
br />   “As much as I’d rather do something else with you, PJ, I’m putting you to bed.” He lifted me, rolling my body against his broad chest. “You're exhausted.”

  I couldn't argue with that. I was asleep before we reached the bedroom.

  **********

  There was no rose when I woke the next morning. No Blake, either. Once again, I'd slept too late. I took a quick shower and let my hair air dry while I painted on a little bit of pretty. I was searching for my bag in the living room when Abigail popped around a corner and told me she was making me an omelet.

  “I really have to run--”

  “Mr. Cross said to let you sleep until you woke naturally and make sure you ate something before you left. I have it all mixed -- it won't take more than five minutes to cook and another five to eat.”

  I suppressed a frown as I tapped the clock app on my phone and set an alarm for the week. It was Blake, not Abigail, being bossy and I didn't want her to think I was upset with her. Still, I needed to go. I opened my mouth, ready to argue, when my stomach gurgled.

  “Fine.” Sighing, I followed her into the kitchen. “But I can't make a habit of going in late.”

  “No life of leisure for you after the wedding, eh?” She poured the blended eggs onto a flat skillet where they sizzled and popped.

  “Not a chance.” I peeled a banana while I watched her cook.

  “Mr. Cross said you were independent, that you had a hard time letting people take care of you.”

  Blake certainly had me pegged on that point. Depending on someone else was the surest path to disappointment. I'd learned that young and Gorman's betrayal had only reinforced my opinion. I didn't want to talk about it, though, so I steered the conversation in a new direction. “You're very fond of Blake, aren't you?”

  “He's practically a fourth son.” Abigail folded the omelet onto a plate and slid it along the counter to me. “I definitely feel a mother's joy knowing he found you.”

  She cleared her throat and I realized she was getting a little misty-eyed.

  “You know, I caught him in the hall this morning as he was leaving the bedroom. He just had to stop and stare at you.” Her hands moved up and out, a little higher than her hips as if she were standing in a doorway and leaning in. “I wish I had a camera, it was so sweet.”