by Cynthia Sax
John would have played in these streets also, risked being cut by the glass and hit by passing vehicles. I could have lost him decades ago. I glance at the silver scars around his neck. I came very close to losing him. If he hadn’t survived his childhood, I would have remained alone, not knowing love, not knowing him.
I squeeze John’s hand, overcome with gratitude. He squeezes back, his gaze on the building, on his childhood home, his lips flat and his expression grim. He doesn’t have to say anything. I feel his dread as though it was my own, the feeling growing with each passing second.
“Are you ready?” I whisper, my words meant for his ears only.
“No,” John admits. He wraps one of his arms protectively around my waist and takes a deep ragged breath, his chest pushing against my back. “But this has to be done.” He surges forward, taking me with him.
Chapter Nine
Two and a half hours later, I trudge up the stairs. John follows me closely, his right palm resting on the small of my back. One of his men walks in front of us. We don’t speak, John having explained to me how voices carry, drawing unwanted attention. Small talk can be dangerous in this neighborhood and my billionaire isn’t taking any chances.
The stairwell is disgustingly dirty, smelling of urine and vomit. Liquor bottles are scattered on every landing. Taking the elevator isn’t an option. John claims it has been broken since he lived here.
I can’t believe this was once his home. This building is so different from Powers Corporation’s modern, immaculately clean head office. It hurts my heart to think of him spending his formative childhood years amidst the crime and grime.
The hired muscle opens the door to the roof and a blast of fresh air sweeps over the space. I hasten my pace, my calves burning, my lungs tight.
More men are positioned around the rooftop. Two lounge chairs are placed by a small table. A cooler holds bottles of water. A pizza box is set on the table.
I pace along the perimeter of the roof. Although the surface is as shabby as the rest of the building, the sky is a gorgeous shade of blue and the view is breathtaking.
“This is amazing.” I link my fingers with John’s and gaze out at the city.
“This place kept me sane,” he confesses. “I came here to escape everything else.”
I’ve seen some of his everything else, the tiny, damp apartment with the thin walls, the frighteningly dark hallways, the even more scary common areas. I heard the yelling and screaming, the rustling of rodents running between the drywall. I smelled the oil herb scent of marijuana, felt the grease on the hand railings. I faced this hardship today with John, buffered by his presence. He faced it for years alone, his childhood making him tough and strong.
I lean into the wind. “Up here, everything is possible.”
“Yes,” John agrees. We stand side by side, not speaking, the quiet comfortable.
My stomach growls and my face heats. “I hope that pizza box isn’t merely for show.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” My boss chuckles, leading me to the makeshift dining area. He extracts a bottle of water out of the cooler and splashes some of the liquid over his fingers. “Hold out your hands.”
The cool water flows over my fingers. “I see this is a fancy joint,” I tease, rubbing my palms together.
“Only the best for my girl.” John’s brown eyes glitter. I am his girl. Today has proven this. “Thank you.” His voice is soft, sincere.
“Thank me with pizza.” I flip the lid open, lightening the mood. The scent of tomato and oregano fills my nostrils, drawing another embarrassing rumble from my stomach.
“Do you need a plate?” John offers me a paper plate.
“For thin-crust pizza? Nah,” I scoff. “I’ll risk the anger of my fellow Torontonians and eat it New York style.” I fold the slice in two and nibble on a corner. “Oh my God.” I moan, the cheese melting in my mouth. “This is so good.”
“Give me a taste.” John bites into my slice.
“Hey, get your own slice.” I tug the pizza away from him.
“I want your slice.” He lunges forward and grabs my wrists. “And what I want, I get.” He forces me to feed him, his eyes sparkling with humor.
“You get what you want with my assistance.” I twist out of his grip. “Who has the slice now?” I crow, waving the crust under his nose. He pounces on me and we roll around on my lounge chair, taking bites out of the slice until there’s nothing left.
Our skirmish ends with me lying on top of John, his muscles under my curves, his palms resting on my denim-clad ass, both of us breathing heavily. I brace myself upward and gaze down at him. “You like to share meals.” It doesn’t matter what I’m eating for lunch, my boss wants half of it.
“My mom and I would share slices of pizza, ice cream cones, and any other treats we had.” John’s face softens. He doesn’t say it but I know, having seen his childhood apartment, they shared food because they couldn’t afford more.
“And now you share these treats with me.” I reach over and grab another slice of pizza.
“I only share them with you.” John meets my gaze.
He shares food with me because he loves me. A hard lump of emotion forms in my throat. “Here.” I shove the slice into his mouth, covering up my reaction.
My hungry man devours my clumsy offering and I happily feed him another slice. We eat and cuddle and talk, stretching out on the lounge chair, the blue sky above us, the sun’s rays warming our bodies.
A companionable silence falls upon us. John strokes my back, drifting his fingertips up and down, up and down. His gaze is unfocused, his brown eyes sad and soulful. He’s thinking of his past again.
I touch his face, capturing his attention. “Today took tremendous strength. Your mom would have been proud of you,” I assure my billionaire. “I’m proud of you.” I cover his lips with mine.
He opens to me, allowing me to control our kiss. I explore his mouth, tasting all of him. Our tongues touch and I retreat. He follows, pursuing me, and we play, finding joy in the middle of a stressful day, sanctuary in an urban war zone.
This is why I happily work fourteen-hour days. When I’m with John, a site visit becomes a date, a slice of pizza tastes better than any gourmet meal, and work becomes a delight.
I wiggle, brushing my denim-covered mons over the hard ridge in his jeans, rubbing my hips over his. John grips me tighter, growling softly into my mouth, the sound flowing down my throat, curling my fingers. We forget about everything, the painful past and the uncertain future, moments passing in a blur of bliss.
A throat clears. John tears his lips from mine, his muscles flexing under my body. We turn our heads toward the sound.
One of his men looms over us, his legs braced apart and his massive arms folded in front of his big barrel of a chest. His expression is deathly serious. “There’s been some gang activity in the area, sir.”
“Shit.” John pushes me to the side and leaps to his feet, his movements fast and fluid. “Call for the cars.” He draws me upward and pushes me toward the door, the cooler and patio furniture discarded. “We’re leaving.”
Another burly employee waits at the entrance to the stairwell. His right hand rests on his gun holster, his biceps bulging. I gulp. This is serious business.
John pivots me around to face him. “Follow Tiny,” he instructs. I blink up at him. The bodyguard’s name is Tiny? “I don’t care what you hear or see. You stay behind him. He’ll protect you.”
Who will protect him? Before I can ask this, John pulls me into a fervent embrace, pressing his lips against my forehead. This feels like good-bye. My heart pounds.
“Now, go.” John flattens his palm between my shoulder blades and propels me forward.
I focus on his touch as I pelt down the stairs. As long as John’s palm rests on my back, I know he’s behind me, he’s safe.
I’m not worried about my own life. My body is sandwiched between the two larger men’s physiques, shielded by broad shoulders and hard
muscle.
I’m concerned about John’s safety. He’d protect me with his own body, die for me, if this was necessary. I realize this now.
And I couldn’t live without him. The men descend silently and I try to mimic their light treads, the smack of my boot heels against the concrete obscenely loud.
My thighs burn. A trickle of perspiration drips down my spine. My lungs ache, my breathing ragged. I fix my gaze on Tiny’s shoulders and concentrate on moving my legs, on not falling.
A shot fires and I flinch, my left boot connecting with a beer bottle on the landing. As I watch, horrified, unable to do anything, it rolls off the edge, falls, shatters against the concrete. Tiny exhales, this soft sound expressing his disgust, and he draws his gun.
John grips my hip and squeezes. We move even faster, a feat I didn’t think possible. His hold steadies me, reminding me of my goal. We must move my billionaire to safety.
We reach the bottom of the stairwell and Tiny motions for us to stop. He opens the door, gazes to the left and to the right, flicks his fingers forward. I exit the building, John following me. Children no longer play in the streets, our surroundings eerily empty, freakishly still.
Tiny ushers us into the waiting car, the second of three vehicles. I enter first. John slides into the seat beside me and pushes my face into his lap, bowing his body over mine, covering me. The floor rumbles under my boots. We must be moving. All I can see is denim-covered thighs.
Shots were fired. We could have died. I shake uncontrollably.
“You’re safe, love,” John murmurs, straightening. “I have you.” He rubs one of his hands over my back, his touch soothing me. He’s alive, unharmed. I’m alive, unharmed. I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. The tremors ease and I slowly relax.
“Is everyone okay?” I whisper.
“Everyone is okay.” John removes my baseball cap and releases my hair, threading his fingers through the curls. “I can’t promise you that everyone will always be okay.”
I turn my head and gaze up at him. His eyes are hard. Grooves are etched around his lips. “No one can make that promise.” I caress his chest, seeking to distract him from his concerns. “I’ve read that the most dangerous place in the world is the bathroom.”
John lifts one of his eyebrows. “Are you handling me, Grant?”
For the entire day, I’ve been Trella. Now, I’m Grant. He’s retreating once more into business. Although I’m disappointed, I understand why. Today has been an emotionally challenging day for both of us. Business is easier on the heart.
“I wouldn’t presume to handle you, sir.” I return to my own seat.
John doesn’t allow me to move this far away from him. He hooks his right arm around my waist and pulls me to his side, tucking my curves into his muscle.
I sigh with contentment, savoring his heat, his musky scent. This is where I’m meant to be, with John. He rests his chin on the top of my head and gazes out the window. The neighborhoods become brighter, cleaner, wealthier.
There are plenty of opportunities for development in these less volatile communities. Some of these opportunities are more lucrative, allowing John to easily expand his empire without risking his personal safety.
But that isn’t the goal of the man I love. The man I love invests in areas, in people other businessmen won’t. He gives hope to the hopeless.
“I love you, John.” I press my lips to the silver scars around his neck.
“I know,” my arrogant man replies, a hint of humor in his voice. “Enough small talk.” He reaches into the side compartment and hands me my phone.
“Are we working, sir?” I ask, knowing the answer. There are two thousand and forty-four new messages in my mailbox, countless more voicemails. I swallow my groan.
“We’re always working, Grant.” John squeezes my hip, his touch softening his blunt words. “Ask Bass what type of temporary low-cost housing is available for the existing tenants. He should have also researched government grants.”
My boss’ voice rumbles, his list of must-knows long, almost never ending, as though he has been storing these requests in his overactive brain all day.
He likely has. He could have easily asked others for the answers. Instead, he waited to funnel the questions through me. I smile, feeling included, needed, loved.
* * *
We return to the house and work all afternoon. I reschedule John’s cancelled meetings. John makes call after call, driving his management team relentlessly, throwing himself into a frenzy of activity. I recognize it for what it is – an attempt to control his emotions, to distract himself from the trials of his stressful day.
I also realize it isn’t working. He doesn’t need to be the boss right now. I set my phone aside and slip onto his lap. He needs the release only I can give him. I untuck my T-shirt and slide one of his hands underneath the faded cotton. He needs me.
I arch as his calloused palm covers my left breast, my nipples tightening, aching for him, for this. John hardens, the ridge in his jeans pressing against my ass.
“Send the information to Grant by the end of the day.” My boss tosses his phone against the brown leather couch cushion. “We’re taking a break.” He pulls my shirt over my head, my crazy curls tumbling down my back, and he cups my breasts, pinching my nipples.
I wiggle, grinding my ass against him. “Can I assist you, sir?” My voice is husky with desire.
“I have the matter well in hand, Grant.” John pinches my nipples and pulls, elongating my sensitive flesh. I cry out, clenching his thighs, the pain delectable, the pleasure exquisite.
He sucks on my neck, his mouth as wet and hot as my pussy, his lips firm. I undulate against him, brushing my ass over his groin, tormenting him as he’s tormenting me.
There are too many barriers between us. Huffing with frustration, I unfasten my jeans, fold the denim back, and slip my fingers inside, skimming my fingertips over my private curls, dipping them into my wetness.
“Are you slick for me?” John asks, his breath wafting over my neck. He tightens his grip on my small breasts, molding my curves with his massive palms.
I reach deeper inside me, working my pussy. “I’m slick for you, sir.”
“Show me.”
His command sends a tremor down my spine. I hook my fingers and remove them, drawing moisture from my core. My scent fills my nostrils. I lift my hand, showing him the evidence of my arousal.
John closes his grim lips around my fingers and sucks, the tug of his mouth exciting me. He growls his approval, taking more of me into his heat, his tongue darting over my skin, my billionaire boss savoring every drop of my pussy juices.
“Oh my God.” I turn my head. He kisses me and I taste myself on his lips. “You know how to drive me crazy.”
“You showed me how to drive you crazy.” John slides one of his palms over my stomach, my mons, cupping me. I allow my head to loll back, submitting to his sure handling of my body. He holds me to him, not allowing me to move, as he taps my clit with his index finger, his slow, steady tempo making me wild. “I paid attention.”
“You paid too close attention,” I moan, my legs trembling.
“Don’t come until I’m inside you,” he orders, pushing me to my feet.
I turn around. His eyes are black with passion, the ridge in his faded jeans pronounced. My boss wants me. Badly.
“Then I suggest you come inside me quickly, sir.” I slide the denim over my hips and shimmy until my jeans fall to the Persian rug.
“Soon, I’ll come inside you.” John’s eyes glimmer. He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing golden skin and silver scars. “I’ll feel you, fill you, put our baby inside you.”
I inhale sharply. “You want to have a child with me?” I rub my hands over my breasts, between my thighs, waiting for him to touch me, to claim me completely.
“Baby making isn’t on the agenda for today.” He plucks at his button-fly. “We’ll do this properly, getting married first.”<
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“Doing this properly means asking me to marry you.” My lips twitch. My arrogant man assumes I’ll marry him, assumes I’ll wish to have his children.
“Asking a question is unnecessary if I already know the answer.” John scowls. “You love me. I love you. We’ll get married. Have those three kids you want.”
My hands still. “I mentioned that once, over two years ago.”
“You could have mentioned it a hundred years ago and I’d remember.” John shrugs. The muscles over his stomach ripple, distracting me. He is one hot man.
“Enough talking.” He lowers his jeans and briefs with one hard yank, freeing his cock. My nipples tighten to the point of pain. He’s also one generously endowed man. “I have to fuck you, Trella.”
“Where do you need me, sir?” I sway.
“On the couch.” His eyes gleam. He does enjoy being in control and I enjoy allowing him this illusion. “On your back with your legs spread.”
I recline on the soft leather couch cushion and open to him, giving him a clear view of my glistening pink folds, my empty entrance. As he sheathes himself, I roll my nipples between my thumbs and fingers, my body humming with anticipation, with desire. He gazes down at me, stroking his cock, sliding his hands up and down his shaft.
“I’m ready, sir.” I lift my hips, wanting him to take me.
“I see that.” He drifts his cock head over me, spreading my wetness, teasing my pussy. I swivel my hips, silently pleading for more. He refuses to be rushed, his lips curling into a smug smile. John knows what he’s doing to me.
He plays with me, spiraling my lust upward. I grit my teeth, determined to obey him, to not come until he’s inside me.
“You’re a good assistant.” John’s praise warms me, the approval in his eyes making my chest swell with pride. I need this, him, and he needs me. I’m not alone. I’ll never be alone again. “Good assistants earn the right to touch their bosses.”
There’s no need for John to repeat himself. I lunge forward and eagerly wrap the fingers of my right hand around his shaft. My boss’ smile fades, his body stiffening. “Thank you, sir.” I cup his balls with my left hand. A trickle of sweat drips down his cheek. “I want to please you.” I pump him slowly, my grip tight.