“Wait. You’re leaving?”
“Yes I’m leaving!”
“We haven’t done anything yet!” Then, when she’s straightened up and marching for the door, I say something desperate: “We have a contract!”
It’s the wrong thing to say. She spins.
“What did you hire me for, Evan?”
“That’s what we need to figure out.” I need to talk her down, try to find the place where we left off. But Callie was right; I’ve thrown our money away. I should let that be all we lose. We can’t get in bed with a wildcard. I’ve misjudged Rebecca Presley. I can never work with her now.
Lies.
Even as she stares daggers at me, I feel my heart and gut betraying my logic. The truth is, I still want to be here with her. Like it or not, I want to protect her from a world that could devour her delicate soul. I still want to build what we’re destined to build. There’s fire inside her; I just need to learn how to direct it where it needs to go and learn how not to get burned.
But there’s more than that, too.
Even as Rebecca hates me, I’m drawn to her. I don’t want to flinch. I want to move closer. I don’t want to flee the fire. I want to step into it and be consumed.
She shakes her head. “This was a mistake.”
She heads for the door.
I reach out to grab her by the arm. Something’s snapping inside me, too.
“Come back here and talk to me.” It comes out hard, like steel.
“I’m through talking to you.”
She pulls away again, but I hold fast. This time when I drag her to me, I shake her a little. I can’t parse my emotions. Some of me is mad at her for being pissed, for being so rude that she won’t even explain what I’ve done. Some of me is angry for the sake of anger: I’m not used to being spoken to this way.
But there are other feelings in me. Somewhere in there is magnetism: a raw, pulsing sense that feels like instinct. Masculine drive that starts low, in the pit of my stomach. There’s a part of attraction that’s inseparable from aggression. A part of lust that holds hands with fury.
My jaw is rigid. Adrenaline courses through my veins. My cock is rock hard, throbbing with every hard beat of my heart.
Knowing it’s wrong, knowing these are things that lawsuits are made of, I grip Rebecca’s upper arms with both of my hands, bringing her front and center before me. I almost shout, like a lion’s roar.
“Sit down and listen to me!”
The change is instant. Her eyelids flutter as if her mind is resetting.
And then she cries. There’s no space between her anger and hurt.
She sits. I let go. Tentatively, I sit across from her. I wait for her to speak first, if there are words coming.
And she says between the tears, “I’m so fucked up.”
There’s a box of Kleenex on the table. I reach for it, drag it forward. I’m about to pluck a few tissues and give them to her, but she snatches three in quick succession before I can. The PFFT as they leave the box is like a series of silenced gunshots.
She swipes at the tears as if they’ve offended her. She doesn’t really blow her nose, just tries her best at facial triage. It takes ten seconds, and then she looks up at me, her eyes like pools.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I don’t know what I said. I don’t know what I did wrong.”
She wipes at her nose, her motions furious. I can see she hates herself right now. It bothers me. Nobody should hate Becca, not even Becca.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I don’t know, either.”
“I obviously pissed you off, but I don’t know what I did. I’m not trying to be dense.”
She sighs. Then I see her eyes again, and at that moment, I see the depth of hurt within her. It wasn’t just Steve who wounded her. It was a string of men, all of whom treated her like shit. I’ve read enough of Becca’s personalized work to know some of her history, and now it’s all falling into place. Grew up without a father, with a mother who was her own breed of wacko. No wonder Becca is so funny, and no wonder people love her so much. The humor is a wall, meant to turn troubles into something less threatening, at least until the sun goes down. And the love people have for her? That’s the brokenness inside them recognizing the splintered pieces inside Becca.
“It was what you said about taking care of me,” she tells me. “It’s something my ex used to say. But he said it condescendingly. Like I was a hopeless idiot in need of a keeper, to protect me from myself.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Sniff. “I know you didn’t. It’s just that I have triggers. You’d think I’d know them by now, but that surprised me.”
“I just want to find you a project. A position within LiveLyfe so that you can have the time it takes for us to figure out how—”
She waves me off. “I know. Believe me, I know. You just caught me off guard.”
She meets my eyes. I see her pain, and my heart calls out to aid it. I see how hurt she is, and God help me, I do want to take care of her. I meant it in business, but sitting with her I feel it in life.
Softer, Becca says, “You make me feel …”
The thought goes nowhere.
She shakes her head. Wipes her eyes again. Stands up, resumes her spot at the window. With her back to me, Becca says, “You got yourself into some deep shit with this one, Evan Cohen.”
“Which one?”
“This crazy bitch at your window.”
I stand. I walk closer.
Becca turns. There’s a new look on her face. Another change, and this one makes me want to touch her differently than before. Her eyes have become cat’s eyes. I can’t pinpoint the way her body has changed, but now it’s talking to me. Asking for things I know better than to do.
Her nipples are hard, pushing against her blouse. Her cheeks and neck are blushed. Her lips are wet, slightly parted. Her gaze is knowing. Vulnerable, but not helpless.
I take another step.
“I still don’t know why I’m here.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“I know better than this. I have my own thing. I can’t be bought because I’m too crazy to care about what normal people care about.”
“You’re not crazy.”
Her hand rises as if to touch me, but I’m still too far away. Her eyes flick down, toward the fork of my crotch. Evidence of inappropriate lust is all over me.
The hand lowers. I close the distance. Now she runs her hand along my arm, slowly, almost without meaning.
Face to face.
“You hired me for a project.”
I swallow. “I believe in you. I don’t know why, or for what.”
“Was there any other reason?”
Her fingers rest on my arm. She’s half-turned, her hip leaning into me.
I reach up. With my heartbeat in my head like a tympani, I open the top button of her blouse. A finger trails into the soft, sloping skin beneath. I look up again to see Rebecca watching me, her lip delicately bitten.
“Maybe,” I say.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REBECCA
ANOTHER BUTTON. THEN ANOTHER.
I’M paralyzed. Unable to move. My mouth opens in a sigh as my eyes close, and I feel my lip unstick from my bitten lower lip. Every nerve sings in a forest of sensations. I can feel every part of me: earlobes, big toe, tip of my nose.
With my eyes closed, I sense Evan without seeing. I can feel him in front of me, and for a moment I think he’ll kiss me. But his mouth moves to the open V of my blouse. To the bra his hands move to unfasten.
The weight of my breasts, as they settle into his hand, is its own exhilaration. My nerves have never been so keyed up, this on edge.
We’re two stones rolling down a hill, gathering momentum. Faster and faster.
My eyes open as Evan kisses his way down my chest, openi
ng my blouse the rest of the way as he goes. My nipples are hard, aroused just by the soft brush of fabric. A moment later he’s pulling the blouse down and off. My bra hits the floor with a sound like puffing smoke. I’m bare from the waist up, gooseflesh forming. Is it cold? Or as afraid as I am excited?
Evan’s mouth on me, moving to my waist before he comes back up, taking my right nipple between his lips. His warmth is addictive.
I pull him closer. My hands are behind him then, cupping his ass, pulling him against my body. I feel the hard column of his erect cock settle between my legs, into the crevice of my too tight skirt. I want to feel it more. To have nothing between us.
My hands are up, unbuttoning his shirt, moving slower than I’d like because I can only imagine how much it costs. But Evan takes over, pulling buttons through holes with enough force to rip it.
A frenzy, our mouths finally together, lips mashing, hot and wet. It’s all lips and tongue, with neither of us caring. We want it sloppy, crave the mess and the chaos. We sink into it.
His shirt lands beside my blouse. My hands are on him, finding the contours of his chest, his shoulders, his arms. I run my hands down his washboard stomach, feeling him twitch when I reach his belt line.
His right hand is on my tit, rubbing it, rough but nowhere near too rough. His mouth massacres mine. I stumble two steps backward and find myself pressed into the wall beside the window, pinned enough that Evan’s hand can easily move down, low between my legs.
Just above the knee. Mid-thigh. Moving up, slowly.
I’m so hot. So wet. My pussy has its own mind, throbbing with desire. I can feel my pulse everywhere. Hear Evan’s hot breath in my ear as he moves up and devours it.
The hand slides up as his chest presses against mine, my nipples grazing his hard body.
He moves down. Reaches under my skirt and pulls my panties down. But not all the way; they hang mid-thigh with my wet pussy begging for attention. He doesn’t give it right away. He lifts me as he straightens up.
Now I’m weightless and pinned to the wall.
Evan yanks my panties the rest of the way down and off, his movements possessed. They still dangle from one foot as he parts my legs and moves between them.
I’m spun around. Then I’m sitting on the conference flat top, so like that large table at the restaurant where I imagined so many dirty things.
His hand are on my bare chest. Pushing me to lie back. But I don’t want to go.
My hands are at his belt, undoing it, opening his fly, reaching inside to paw his cock through his boxer briefs. I can feel its head, its length, its rigidity like a girder. It pushes into my hand, responding to my touch.
Evan lays me down, but as soon as he’s stripped away my skirt to leave me bare-ass naked on the table in only my heels, I curve my body around again to rub his cock. I can’t be without it. I need it in my hand. I have to get it into my mouth.
We must look like pretzels.
Evan moves down as I shove his pants to his knees, bending over me to put his face between my spread legs. I gasp as his hot mouth meets my pussy, unwinding something deep inside me, begging for more.
But I’m twisted back toward him as he stands beside the table, refusing to stop my work of freeing his pulsing dick from its prison.
A wiggle puts us in a standing-lying 69: me on my back with my head near the table’s edge and my ass near its center, Evan bent over me licking my pussy.
It’s hard to concentrate; I think I might come any second. Everything is tense; nothing is relaxed. I need him. I need him inside me.
One final twist and I’m able to turn my head toward him, slipping his shaft between my lips.
I suck it, desperate for it. Desperate for him.
His tongue flicks across my clit, sending thrills up the insides of my legs, through my core.
I add a hand, now pumping his cock with my fist while my lips devour it. I can feel the way it surges, pressing into me with urgency.
His balls clench. If I keep this up, he’ll come in my mouth.
I come first, the thought tinder for my fire. Suddenly the idea of Evan exploding across my tongue is the hottest thing in my world.
I suck him harder, jacking hard with one hand, using my saliva to lubricate. I have to stop as my orgasm racks me, as Evan’s tongue moves from my sensitive clit to my pussy lips, and at that moment, all I can do is grip Evan’s cock and hold on.
“If you keep that up, I’m going to come in your mouth,” he pants.
I’m in no state to answer. My breath is only now starting to recover, my body electric. Evan straightens, my pussy missing him already. He takes that beautiful dick from my lips and pulls me from the table, then turns me around to bend me over it. There is no courtesy left in him. Only need.
His hand on my bare back, pressing me flat, tits to the polished wood.
I feel his hot tip press against my wet opening. I gasp as he enters me, as he fills me with his throbbing length. It’s big, but not too much to take. I sigh as he seats against my ass, fully inside me.
Evan thrusts. Harder and faster. He lifts me up, uses both hands to grab my breasts as they hang beneath me. I feel his every thrust, making all of me shake.
“Oh my God, Rebecca — I’m going to come!”
I turn my head and whisper, “I’m on the pill.”
I’m crazy. I’m reckless. I never think of what’s best.
But my words drive Evan over the edge, and he slams into me harder.
I think I come again as he reaches his peak but it’s all a stew: bodies and sweat and sensations and bliss; I can’t separate me from him or him from me.
With a grunt and a thrust, Evan comes inside me, pushing so hard against my ass that the table presses lines into my upper thighs.
Aftershocks. Waves passing.
Finally, Evan pulls out. He sits, breathing heavy, as I move to sit beside him.
“I guess you were right,” he says. “I didn’t know what I was getting into.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
REBECCA
ONCE HOME, THE SECOND-GUESSING starts.
Why did Evan hire me? Was it for my ideas, which seem nebulously considered — or for sex, which is straightforward and already given?
I know what my mom would say if I were still talking to her. And I know what my girlfriends would say, if they hadn’t already said it so many times that they’re all getting tired of banging their heads against my wall.
Of course it’s for sex, Becca. Why is this even a question?
It’s hard to argue. I don’t have the best track record. Steve wasn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing; he was an ass from the start. His modeling name was Chase Phoenix, for fuck’s sake. Did I think I was going to build something amazing with a guy who’d make that choice?
Evan is different.
My internal girlfriends laugh.
But it’s true. He’s successful; he’s smart; he’s a gentleman. He even mentioned, during one of our chats, that he does this thing within LiveLyfe called Project Angel, where he finds worthy employees and anonymously gives them gifts when they need them most.
You mean his secret project? And there’s more internal laughing. The one he tells nobody about. Except, conveniently, the girl he’s trying to stick his dick into?
I have reasons why he’d tell me that don’t involve his penis, but I decide the saner choice, for now, would be to set it all aside. I’ve argued with the voices in my head too often. We’re a big, loud Italian family in there. Sometimes, a girl needs her peace.
But by evening, the feeling hasn’t subsided. This isn’t even directly about Evan. It’s about me. I know who I am; I know how reliably I make poor choices. Given any decision — especially where men are involved — I’m a backward kind of compass. Anyone looking for the right things to do would need only to watch me and make the opposite choice.
I sit and write a post on my blog. About one of the times Steve and I were broken up, and he connived his way
back into my pants. He was out of money; people did not want to hire a Chase Phoenix who was getting fat and going bald. I told him to go away. We had sex instead, and sometime before he left, he stole the wallet right out of my purse. Not just the $120 in cash, the whole damn thing. I went to dinner with an important client and had no way to pay. The client covered it, and I lost the account. On the way home, I got stopped by a cop and got a ticket for driving without a license. I called Steve to bring it to me, but he said he was playing darts.
The post is funny in the way SteveHasATinyDick.com posts tend to be. Within minutes of posting it I’m getting replies from fans who say it’s one of the best yet. But it doesn’t scratch the itch, and when I’m still up at midnight, neurotic over the stuff with Evan today. The only way to still the demons is to pull up some more photos of Steve with his tiny cock in Photoshop then add speech bubbles and a face, so it looks like his skinny mini is saying embarrassing things.
A picture with his soldier flat on his stomach. I add arms and a face looking up, so it looks like his cock just fell back with exhaustion. The speech bubble says, “I’m so tired of dwarves laughing at me.”
One where it looks like the penis is carrying his balls with the drawn-on arms, and it’s saying something about going bowling.
And one I’m particularly proud of: a shot of Steve gripping his thing as if it’s a monster, but it just looks like he’s caught a rogue toadstool. I add a straining, out-of-breath face to his dick’s head, tint it red, and add a bubble: “AT LEAST LET ME CATCH MY BREATH BEFORE BEATING ME AGAIN!”
I collapse more than fall asleep. The first hour happens at my desk with my face on the keyboard. When I awaken, it looks like I’ve inadvertently sent a few emails. I go to bed. I’m still wearing my skirt, which I put on backward as I rushed to leave the conference room. No time for afterglow. I just realized I was being a whore and got the hell out of there.
The next thing I hear is the alarm. I don’t remember setting it. Evan asked if I could be back tomorrow (now today) at 9 AM. I said yes. This is starting to feel a lot more like a real job than he’d promised.
The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7) Page 9