by Shayla Black
“Honey, if your blow-job technique was any better, I’d be permanently wrung out and wearing a sated smile on my face twenty-four seven. You’re intentionally missing the point. I want to be with you, not take pleasure from you.”
She lifts one pale shoulder. “Semantics.”
“Reality. Eat. Then we’ll talk.” I lift the lids off our domed plates and set them aside.
Savory aromas fill the air, along with her gasp.
“Lamb chops?” For the first time this evening, she looks softly surprised and rapt.
I don’t bother repressing a smile. “Exactly the way you like them. Potatoes au gratin, roasted asparagus, a mixed green salad with feta, and sourdough rolls. All your favorites.”
Her eyes actually fill with tears before she manages to blink them back. “You remembered.”
“Whatever you think happened three years ago, I wanted to marry you because I loved you. I wanted to make you happy for the rest of your life.” I lift her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles.
I want to tell her that nothing has changed. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, fighting to get past my lips. But I don’t dare. She’s not ready to hear them. In fact, I suspect they would have the opposite-than-intended effect. If I confess I’m still in love with her, her walls will rise between us. What little intimacy I’ve managed to wring from her will evaporate.
Instead, I watch, hoping like hell that she’ll be curious enough, angry enough, or touched enough to ask me why. Why, if I loved her, did I leave her? Why, if I wanted to make her happy, did I disappear without an explanation?
But no. She presses her lips together and stares at the food, chin trembling.
“Eryn?”
She pastes on a plastic smile. “Everything looks amazing. Thank you.”
I swallow back a curse. That’s the most response I’m going to coax from her now. She had three years to learn to hate me and barely more than a week to accept that I’m back in her life.
“You’re welcome.” I grab a nearby remote and flip on some romantic R&B tunes, keeping the volume low. “What did you do today?”
“I went to the gym downstairs. I walked around the mall for a while. I watched a movie.” She sighs. “I’m not used to having so little to do.”
“A vacation isn’t a bad thing.”
She fidgets. “It’s boring. Besides, if I was having a real vacation, I’d be with my sisters, doing something fun. Or trying to. Ella would suggest spa day. Echo would vote for mountain climbing. I’d play referee and cast the deciding vote, as usual.”
I smile. I can totally picture that. I love that she’s close with her sisters, despite the fact they’re all vastly different women. “When was the last time you saw your parents? Did they go to Ella’s wedding?”
“No. She got married last minute in North Carolina. Predictably, the folks just couldn’t make it.”
And there’s her inner cynic, the one who believes no one really gives a shit about anyone but themselves, her sisters excepting.
“I haven’t seen my mother in months,” I venture, pouring us each a glass of wine.
She tilts her head as she slices into her lamb, then looks my way. “You never talked about your family much when… Well, before.”
When we were engaged. She doesn’t want to say the words. Because she doesn’t want to be reminded? Because the memories hurt?
I shake my head. “I know. I didn’t want to taint you. My mom isn’t a happy person. She’s always been difficult to be around, especially after Dad died. She grieved for a long while. Then she turned bitter, like life did her wrong. I’ve tried to understand. But…”
“I know. I do my best not to let my parents’ indifference bother me too much, but when you’re a kid and all the other mommies and daddies seem really involved and concerned while yours are working too much to give a shit? It’s hard.”
Eryn is clearly more comfortable discussing her workaholic parents’ apathy than what went wrong between us. But at least we’re skirting the topics that drove us apart. Maybe I can keep tiptoeing in this direction and steer the conversation back our way…
“It is. Your parents’ behavior stunned me, I’ll be honest.”
She nods slowly. “At least they remembered to call Echo for her birthday in June.”
But they obviously forgot Eryn’s more recently.
“I’m sorry, honey. Really, really sorry.” I take her hand again. “I think of you every September fifth.”
“Thanks.” She works her hand free and takes a bite of the lamb. “Hmm. That’s really good.”
I do the same, my head spinning with ways to broach the topic of our breakup. “Glad you like it.”
She drags her fork through her potatoes and lifts a cheesy bite to her mouth. A second later, she’s groaning. “Oh, these are incredible. I’m in love.”
I laugh. “They’re my favorite, too.”
We eat and drink in silence for a few minutes. I let the tension drain between us. I hold my impatience and try not to rush what might be the most important conversation we’ve had so far.
As she sets her fork down for the last time and wipes her mouth, I do the same. “Eryn, your parents’ behavior isn’t a reflection of you or anything you’ve done.”
She nods. “I know that now.”
But she didn’t always, and it’s one reason she’s always been guarded. “They’re human, and they have their own foibles and demons. My mom is the same.”
“Did she ignore you growing up, too?”
“No. As an adult, she betrayed me. I don’t speak to her except at public functions if the optics have to look good.”
Eryn’s face reflects confusion. “Betrayed you? In what way?”
I reach across the table and sandwich her hands between mine. “My mother is the reason we didn’t get married three years ago, and I will never forgive her.”
Eryn rips her hands free and leaps from her chair. “We didn’t get married because you didn’t want to.”
She’s halfway across the room, looking out the windows as night falls over the Strip and the city comes alive. Mentally, she’s looking for an escape route again. I bite back a curse. I pushed too fast. It’s frustrating, but I have to do everything at Eryn’s pace. She’s been preventing me from getting any closer to her this week, and I’ve been stupid enough to let her. Of course she doesn’t want to hear that our broken engagement isn’t my fault.
I approach her slowly. I know she’s aware of me because she stiffens. I stifle the urge to cup her shoulders, draw her closer. It would be a mistake.
“Eryn, you know my grandfather died nine days after I left you.”
Her posture relaxes. She doesn’t turn to face me, but I feel her sympathy. “Yes. I know you two were very close, and I’m sorry I never had the opportunity to meet him. He sounded like an incredible man.”
“He was. I learned so much from him.”
“My condolences. But he wasn’t the only reason you left me on our wedding day.”
“No. He also wasn’t the only reason I couldn’t come back to you right away and explain.”
“You assumed the reins of Quaid Enterprises as soon as you got home?”
I nod. “I had to start fighting my uncle for the job. I swear, I wanted to call you a million times—”
“But you didn’t, and now I’m just your temporary mistress.” She turns to me and lifts her skirt up one thigh, baring her hip. “Where would you like your dessert, sir?”
Her question would turn me on if it wasn’t delivered so emotionlessly. And it’s telling that she’d rather risk exposing her emotions to me through a sexual interaction than a conversation.
“I owed you more than a phone call allowed,” I argue.
“It’s ancient history. Forget about it, West. I have.”
That’s the biggest lie she’s ever told me, but I don’t call her on it. Instead, I simply decide I’ve had enough.
On silent feet, I prowl toward her, closing the dista
nce between us, and tip her chin up with my finger until she’s forced to meet my gaze. “I want my dessert in bed. Now.”
Chapter Seven
Eryn
West is different tonight.
For the past few days, I managed to circumvent the unbearable intimacy he pushed on me by heaping pleasure on him first. That worked well, and he seemed content enough. Until now.
That look in his eyes tells me my strategy won’t fly anymore.
Anxiety pops up. I shove it down. I’ll be okay. I’ve had a few days to bolster my resistance to this man. It should be enough, right? It has to be because I can tell he intends to do his damnedest to surround my senses, penetrate my body, and steal my soul.
I raise my chin to escape his finger—and the resulting burn from that one simple touch. I look away to find my composure, which I nearly lost after one hungry stare. My heart thuds so hard it’s nearly painful. My breaths score my lungs. Every sense is attuned to Weston Quaid and the resolution on his face. Yeah, there will be no eluding him with a simple blow job tonight.
“Would you like me clothed or naked?” I’m proud of how calm I sound.
“Don’t do this, Eryn.”
“What?”
“Talk to me dispassionately, like you’re a fucking waitress asking if I want coffee or tea.”
“I am a waitress.”
“Right now you’re my mistress.”
“And that’s all I’ll ever be. Maybe you’ve forgotten, Mr. Quaid, that nothing in our contract says I have to feel anything for you, simply be present. So here I am, living up to my end of the bargain. Clothed or naked?”
West’s jaw clenches. I’m pushing his temper. He wants me to shelve my resistance and embrace him again as if he didn’t completely tear my world apart three years ago.
Finally, his expression flattens. He’s reached some decision. I have a bad feeling about this…
“Turn around.” He makes the accompanying motion with his finger.
Swallowing and hoping he can’t see my nerves, I comply. But I’m worried… West will be methodical in searching for any weaknesses he can exploit. I have to hope that he finds orgasm before I come apart.
One warm hand cups my nape. The other pulls at the tab of my zipper. As he tugs it down, a sensual hiss fills the air. I suck in a breath as he shoves the sleeves down my arms. The dress slithers to the floor. With a flick of his fingers, he makes quick work of my strapless bra.
Then I’m standing before him, trembling and utterly exposed. I feel his stare all over my ass.
I glance over my shoulder at him as he holds out his hand. Automatically, I lay my fingers on his upturned palm.
“Step out.”
As I do, tingles crackle down my spine. Already, the ache between my legs is sharp and lip-bitingly strong.
To my surprise, he retrieves the dress from the floor, then lays it over the nearest chair. The bra he tosses on the seat, then he glides a palm possessively down my waist, over my hip, then cups my derrière. “Walk.”
“I’m leaving the shoes on?”
“For now.”
There’s nothing left to say, so I head for his bedroom, trying to ignore my nerves and my heart lodged in my throat.
When I cross the threshold, I turn to him. “On the bed?”
“Yes. Legs spread.”
What does he want? What is he planning? I don’t know, and the suspense is killing me. I could ask…but then he’d know the answer mattered to me. Besides, in this mood, I’m not convinced he’d divulge anything. I don’t know precisely what he’s seeking from me. I know what he says he wants. Me. Us together. But I’ve heard this before. Maybe he even believes he means it this time. But if I give in, he’d probably sing the same song, different verse, before he disappears. Then I’d be alone again.
No.
With a nod, I dip my knee onto the mattress and climb to the middle, then flip over to brace myself on my elbows, acutely aware of his stare. Slowly, I part my thighs, high heels gliding across the stiff brocade duvet.
“Stop.”
Instantly, I cease everything but my breathing. That’s one thing I can’t control. In the silent room, it’s choppy and audible.
His stare rakes my exposed breasts, dip of my stomach, my thighs…and everything in between. If a gaze can be a tactile caress, I feel his. The tingle of it charges through me, electric and undeniable.
“You’re wet.”
Why deny what he can visibly see? “Yes.”
“You’re aroused.”
“Yes.”
“Touch yourself.”
I freeze. “Where?”
But I know the answer.
“Drag your fingers through that pussy. Give your clit a tease.” He walks closer as he watches me dip my fingers into my sex and skim my nerve-laden button with a back-arching hiss. “Stop. Show me your fingers.”
I hesitate, desperate to give myself relief. If I do, maybe I won’t ache so much for him. And maybe I’m fooling myself since the ache is way worse now that I know he’s here and watching.
I don’t know what game West is playing with me or why I’m responding so utterly. My desire is so intense, it’s scary. The lack of control I have over my body while he’s toying with me is even more terrifying.
Suddenly, he grabs my wrist and drags my hand away from my sex. “I said stop.”
At the feel of his fingers clamping around my arm, my breathing roughens. The tension between us climbs. My ache deepens.
He turns his attention to my fingers, smiling with sly pleasure. “Drenched.”
I don’t answer; there’s nothing to say. Then it doesn’t matter because he sucks my fingers into the warm cavern of his mouth with a moan and steals my breath.
After he licks me thoroughly, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam between my digits, he releases me to trail kisses down my palm and up the sensitive skin of my inner arm. Climbing onto the bed, he hovers over me, lips drifting toward the crook of my elbow. Once there, he nips at the delicate flesh, making my breath catch, before he licks his way up my biceps, sucks at my collarbone, then nuzzles my neck.
Every move is pure seduction, and I don’t know how to resist. I want to be angry with him. Actually, I want to feel nothing for him, but every emotion is converging like a twister in my heart. Resentment, mistrust, hurt—all still there. But less welcome feelings are creeping in, like empathy.
I had no idea the relationship between him and his mother was so strained. My curiosity surges. What happened? What could she possibly have done to prevent West and me from marrying?
But it’s the unavoidable chemistry he and I share that gets to me every time. Sexual, yes. But in the reckless moments where I forget our past, I find myself liking him. Enjoying the time I spend with him. I even let myself be touched that he remembers my favorite foods. To most people, it would seem simple and silly. But, other than my sisters, he’s the only person who’s ever cared.
Does it mean something I’m too afraid to hear?
“Eryn?”
I blink, back in the moment. “What?”
“Spread your legs wider.”
I do, trying to resist a fresh twinge of excitement. But it’s futile. Four words—that’s all he has to utter—before I’m trembling to comply.
“Like that.” He nods as he maneuvers his wide shoulders between them and pins me with a greedy, hot stare. “Perfect.”
A wave of heat rolls through me. I close my eyes. If I don’t look at him, maybe I won’t feel as attuned to him?
He chuckles as if he can read my mind. “Open your pussy for me.”
The command hits me with another blast of heat. I know exactly what he’s doing. With one sentence, West is forcing me helplessly onto my back and insisting I expose every bit of my most intimate self to him for his consumption.
But am I upset? Is my first urge to call him a bastard and tell him to piss off? No, my body is a traitor, and even while my head is screaming, I follow his di
ctate.
“Hmm.” He glides a finger down the soft, bare pad of my sex. “I’ve dreamed of this all day. All week. But there’s nothing to interrupt us now, and I know exactly where I want to spend my weekend.”
His words alone make me clench. Then he slides one thick finger into my empty, clutching opening. My body seizes on him greedily. But he doesn’t move to give me relief, simply enjoys watching my arousal climb.
The fact that he has more control over my body than I do is both horrifying and hot as hell.
I’m still trying to process that reality when his shoulders butt against the back of my thighs and the crook of my knees fall into his grip. His exhalations singe my sex. I shudder.
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
If I do, I’ll unravel. “You don’t need me to do that for what you have in mind.”
“But I want you to. I’m going to have more of you than merely your orgasms.”
He wants my soul.
Fear shoots through my heart. Desire twists my stomach.
All those days I spent fortifying my defenses against him? Pointless. I’m already open to him in almost every way; he’s seen to that. And since Weston Quaid has me right where he wants me, I don’t see how I’ll stop him from taking all of me.
Slowly, I lift my lashes. “Don’t do this.”
He rakes a tongue through my furrow, lingering at my clit. Tingles burn and spread. My whole body tightens. I arch, gasp.
“Will you hate me for loving you?” he asks.
I don’t think I can. And for that, it’s myself I hate.
He glides a palm up my thigh and plants kisses along the tender skin. “Give me the weekend to show you this time will be different.”
I don’t reply. First, because he doesn’t wait for me to. He simply lowers his head and gives his mouth full reign over my body. Every nook, cranny, and sensitive spot he thinks needs attention, he claims and conquers. His lips cover my folds. His tongue makes love to my clit. And I’m helpless against him.
The first orgasm takes me like a slow-gathering storm, brewing and swirling, building, building…then releasing with a sudden slam of pleasure that leaves me stunned, shaken, and breathless. The second is all stealth, a thief in the night, waiting, stalking, finding my weakest moment to steal over me and rob me of thoughts and common sense. The third is the most catastrophic, a giant behemoth that seizes on the lingering ache from my previous climaxes and manipulates for long, aching minutes, uncaring how much I twist or beg for relief. It sits like a gleeful soul-stealing demon, a breath from granting me deliverance. Only when I claw and give him a teary promise to surrender all of me does he allow me to crest the pinnacle that strips my throat raw from screaming and sends my heart slamming uncontrollably against my chest.