Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)

by Kate Stewart

  “That’s also a yes or no question.” She slips her hand into the collar of my shirt and runs a long nail over my shoulder.

  “I don’t know.” I try to focus on the conversation even as her touches distract me. “I’m just realizing that she may not feel the same way.”

  “Then she’s a fool.” Qwest rocks her hips into me, the heat between her legs like a furnace on my dick.

  I gently push her back to put some distance between us.

  “Qwest, I like you.” I look her right in the eyes. I learned my lesson with Tessa. I’m not that dude who leads girls on anymore. “I respect you and think you’re amazing. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. I’m afraid that’s what would happen. We got business together. We’re friends. Maybe we shouldn’t mess with that.”

  “Let me worry about it.” She scoots forward again. “I’m going into this with my eyes wide open.”

  She leans into me and sucks my earlobe into her mouth.

  Fuck. It’s been too long since I had some.

  My dick rises to the occasion, and she pulls back with a satisfied chuckle.

  “So what do you say?” She opens her lips over my jaw, mumbling against my neck. “We doing this or what?”

  “Um . . .” My underserved libido and my anger over Bristol riding off into the sunset with that punk ass urge me to say yes.

  Gripe? Motherfucker, you know my name.

  “You have a few days off.” Qwest slides her hands over my back under my shirt, lightly raking the skin with her fingernails. “Fly back with me to New York tomorrow night and I’ll screw myself into your system.”

  A million, no more, guys would kill to have Qwest and her ass in their lap right now. I know this. It isn’t her. I’m just so tired of being with anyone who isn’t Bristol. In all these years, I haven’t figured out how to move past what started between us. I know it was only a week. And we were young. And I mishandled the situation with Tessa. I get all that, but it wasn’t just a few kisses on spring break. It’s the friendship we’ve built since then. It’s her passion about my writing, about my work. Her commitment to her brother. Her knife-sharp sense of humor. The soft, sweet side only a handful of people get to see. It’s the way she tastes. The texture of her skin. Her hair. Her laugh. The conversations I can have with her and no one else. Everyone who thinks we’re not right for each other doesn’t know her, doesn’t know me, or doesn’t know how good we are together.

  I want Bristol. Not anyone else.

  And that’s a problem, because for the first time, I have to consider the possibility that she doesn’t, not even deep down where I thought she did, want me.

  Chapter Ten

  Bristol

  THERE’S A MAN in my bed.

  I barely know my name. I’m not sure who’s leading the free world or what year it is, but I do know there is a man in my bed. I at least know that is unusual. I don’t do sleepovers.

  At least sober Bristol doesn’t do sleepovers. Apparently, after one . . . or two . . . or eight vodka martinis, drunk Bristol does sleepovers.

  The guy is naked. I do know that. Man parts poke between my butt cheeks.

  My naked butt cheeks.

  Dammit, I’m naked. He’s naked. In my bed. At my house. The likelihood that we didn’t have sex diminishes with every detail I absorb through my pickled senses. My thong and bra, a man’s pants, suit jacket and shirt leave a sinful trail across the hardwood floor of my bedroom. To the left, a man’s expensive watch rests on my mirrored nightstand. Under the duvet cover, which I’ll probably burn later, a muscled forearm reaches across my hip, and a hand flattens against my stomach. He pushes my hair aside and trails kisses down my neck.

  “Morning, Bris.”

  I clench my eyes closed and silently curse, dread lining my stomach. Or maybe that’s nausea. There’s a bass drum banging in my head, and I could vomit on my Egyptian cotton sheets any minute now. I struggle to bring the room into focus as the details swim in front of me. This is the worst scenario. I could have had meaningless sex with a stranger, but nooooo. Instead, I had meaningless sex with the man who has been obsessed with the idea of marrying me since we were ten years old. Meaningless sex that will mean something to him.

  Oh, this will end marvelously.

  “Parker?” I ask tentatively.

  “I hope so.” His husky laugh blows the hair at my neck. “Last night was amazing, Bristol. Even better than before.”

  “Before” set a low bar from what I recall. The orgasm I had in that coat check was the only time Parker got me off. And I think the threat of getting caught probably helped a lot then. After that, I touched myself more than he did every time we had sex. A girl’s gotta DIY when he isn’t getting it done. The story of my sex life.

  I bet Grip would get it done.

  Since when did my vagina start talking back to me? Maybe I’m still drunk. I hope so. God, please let this be a drunken hallucination. Parker’s fingers wandering between my legs confirms it’s happening.

  “Um, Parker.” I turn over, pulling the sheets over my naked breasts. “Last night is kind of hazy. I’m not sure how we . . . did we . . . you know.”

  “Fuck?”

  Blond hair falls into his blue eyes brimming with laughter. He looks good in the morning. I remember that now, but it doesn’t make up for how overbearing he is the other twenty-three hours of the day.

  “Uh, yeah.” My cheeks fire up. I’m blushing? Apparently, even I have some shame. Remembering who was inside you last night must be one of my standards.

  “Yes, we fucked.” He leans over to kiss my neck. “We took the jet back from Vegas.”

  “I thought we took a helicopter?”

  How drunk was I?

  “We took a helicopter there and the Park Hotel jet back.” He kisses my shoulder. “We kissed in the car."

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This is worse than I thought.

  “And then we came here and made love." His hand explores under the sheet, gripping my thigh and pulling my knee over his hip. “You still give the best head, Bris.”

  Oh. Dear. God.

  Do I still have disposable toothbrushes? No way I’m using my electric. I assumed my tongue felt furry and sticky from too much alcohol. Apparently Parker’s dick was down my throat last night. I don’t typically swallow, but I also don’t typically sleep with Parker. I want to purge the contents of my stomach just in case. I want to purge the contents of last night. To make it go away, flush it down the toilet like it never happened. All signs indicate it did happen, though. And from Parker’s growing erection, he thinks it will happen again. Not when I have all my faculties.

  I roll out of the bed, and it feels like my head keeps rolling. Dizziness assaults me, and I stumble back to the mattress. I look over my shoulder to find Parker watching me intently.

  "You okay, Bris?"

  Do I look fucking okay?

  I nod as much as my pounding head will allow, grabbing the sheet and wrapping it toga style to cover my nakedness.

  “Parker, I hate to rush you off," I lie. "But I have an appointment this morning.”

  He looks at me like I’ve disenfranchised him somehow. Like it’s his inalienable right to screw me before breakfast.

  “Re-schedule or—”

  “No, sorry. This is can’t-miss.”

  I shuffle to the bathroom, making sure the sheet covers the vital parts even though he’s seen and sampled them all. When I look back, he’s propped against my tufted headboard like he has all the time in the world, sheet down to his waist, hands folded behind his head.

  “You should probably get going.” I lean into the arched doorway of the bathroom. “I’m going to shower and then I’ll be leaving, so . . .”

  “You kicking me out?” His smirk works my last remaining nerve.

  “Yes, Parker. I’m kicking you out. Men don’t normally sleep at my house, and if I hadn’t been plastered out of my mind, you wouldn’t be here this morning.”

  The smi
rk dies, collapsing into a flat line.

  “You’re not implying that I took advantage of you somehow, are you?”

  “Imply?” I shake my head. “I’m saying I’m disappointed you had sex with me knowing I was drunk and maybe not fully . . . aware.”

  I've known Parker literally my whole life. As slimy as he can be, I don't want to think he would drug me, but was I that drunk? To remember nothing? Everything after we arrived in Vegas is a blank sheet of paper, and as hard as I try, I can't sketch any details. I wanted a good martini. That's all. I know I had no intention of sleeping with Parker. Even drunk I can't imagine allowing this, wanting this. I've come as close as I can to an accusation without actually making it, but based on Parker's heavy scowl, it's close enough.

  “Bristol, you were completely willing, and we did use protection, if that’s your next question.”

  It was, but I still see a visit to my doctor in the very near future.

  “I don’t doubt that.” Even sighing makes my head spin a little. “But we haven’t had sex in over a decade, and you think the night I’m drunk is the night to get reacquainted?”

  He climbs out of my bed, less modest than I was, not bothering to cover up. He’s in good shape, but his dick is as underwhelming as I remember. I avert my eyes, embarrassed for him. Embarrassed for myself. No wonder it doesn’t feel like I had sex last night.

  “I know you’re having a rough morning,” Parker says as he steps into his pants. “So I’ll excuse that. When can I see you again?”

  “I think we should slow this down.” I run fingers through the tangled hair hanging past my shoulders. “I didn’t, um . . . anticipate any of this. I’m not in the market for a relationship right now.”

  “This is happening, Bristol.” He buttons up his shirt, his eyes never leaving my face. “It's always been obvious that we’re perfect for each other. Last night only solidified it.”

  “Forgive me for not agreeing since I don’t remember much about last night.” I turn into the bathroom. “We’ll talk more later. Could you lock up on your way out?”

  I don’t wait for his response before closing the bathroom door and slumping against it, barely able to meet my own eyes in the mirror. Shame, frustration, disappointment swirl in my belly, joining the nausea. I feel violated, and as much as I want to put all the blame on Parker, there's really no one to blame but myself. I blink at the disheveled, puffy-eyed girl in the mirror who has tears filling her eyes.

  "Bristol," I say to her. "What the fuck?"

  After a few more moments of self-castigation, I start my shower. I wonder what time it is, but I left my phone in the bedroom. At least I presume that’s where I left it. Hopefully, it isn’t lost somewhere between here and Vegas. I have this appointment downtown, then errands, and then the Prodigy lunch at Rhyson’s.

  God, facing Grip after sleeping with Parker. Not that I haven’t slept with other guys before, but the other night on the roof, our conversation in the hall yesterday, the confrontation in the club last night—we haven’t talked this openly about what’s between us in years, and now everything feels right at the surface.

  An hour later, YSL Roadie bag on my shoulder and feeling only slightly more like myself, I walk into Chelle’s, the high-end jewelry store I stumbled across downtown. Black skinny jeans ripped at the knee, black cashmere T-shirt, a knee-length camel-colored cardigan duster and nude ankle strap sandals. Hopefully no one will notice that I’m woefully in need of a pedicure. My head remains under attack, so I couldn’t endure the blow dryer. My still-damp hair is scooped up into a top knot that I hope looks somewhat intentional. I wait until the last possible second to remove my sunglasses. My intolerance for sunlight is near-vampiric.

  “Bristol, morning, love.” Chelle, the owner of the exclusive, but lesser-known, shop air kisses my cheek.

  “Morning.” I clear my throat of the alcohol-induced Barry White effect. “How are you?”

  “Not as good as you, I would imagine.” Chelle pairs a knowing grin with her Stella McCartney jumpsuit. “You sneaky thing.”

  “Huh?” I slide the sunglasses farther up into my hair. “We have an appointment, right? My necklace came in?”

  “Boy did it, you lucky girl.” Chelle gives my arm a light slap and starts toward the back. “Come on. I’ve got it ready for you.”

  Either the lingering effects of my inebriation have dulled my senses, or Chelle has been imbibing, too, because she’s acting strangely. I sit down at the small display table and wait. I special ordered this necklace a while ago and was giddy to get the message that it had come in. It’s twenty-four carat gold with a diamond-encrusted vertical bar, which hangs just above my cleavage. The inscription on the bar is my favorite part.

  “It’s beautiful, Chelle.” I bend over the table to examine it more closely and reach for the wallet in my bag. “Looks good. Let’s settle up. I’m late for lunch at my brother’s.”

  “Already paid in full.” Chelle’s smirk and teasing eyes mystify me.

  “What do you mean it’s—”

  “She means it’s my gift to you. I've already taken care of it.” Parker stands in the door leading to the back room where Chelle keeps inventory. “I couldn’t resist.”

  White-hot rage lights me up like a signal flare. I squeeze my eyes shut in a futile attempt to douse my temper.

  “You didn’t tell me you were dating Charles Parker,” Chelle whispers in my ear. “You lucky thing.”

  I can’t muster a smile, and my voice comes out so softly I barely hear it myself.

  “Chelle, would you excuse us for a moment?”

  “I get it,” Chelle says. “You want to reward him in private. Just spill all the dets later.”

  “Oh, I’m going to reward him all right.” My eyes pin Parker where he stands, still wearing last night’s clothes.

  “Now don’t be mad," he says. "You left your phone in the bedroom, and I saw the alert to pick up the necklace. I just thought it would be something I could do for you."

  He lifts the necklace from its velvet box and goes behind me to clip it on. I step away and whirl around to face him.

  “Don’t you dare.” Anger shakes my voice. “Who do you think you are? And what the hell do you think you’re doing paying for jewelry I ordered for myself?”

  His face registers what I’m saying slowly, the smile fading into confusion.

  “We had a great time last night, and I wanted to—”

  “Thank me?” Brows lifted high, hands on hips, I cut in. “Is that what this is?”

  “Well, not exactly. I just—”

  “The other women you sleep with may require these little fuck tokens the next day as expression of your appreciation. I, however, do not.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “I’m being independent. I’m being the woman who earned the money to buy this outrageously expensive necklace, chose it for myself, and has been looking forward to swiping my own damn card to pay for it.”

  “Bristol, I—”

  “No, you will listen.” My words butcher whatever he was about to say. “The bed you woke up in this morning? I paid for that. The house you locked up on your way out? I paid for that. The car I drove here in? All me.”

  I step as close as I dare and glare up at him.

  “I will not be kept.” My words whiz through the air like arrows. “That may be the road your mother chose, but it isn’t the one mine did. Mine taught me not to rely on any man for anything, and I’m damn well not starting with you.”

  He blinks at me for a full ten seconds before he sighs, his tight expression relaxing into a smile.

  “All that fight and pride.” He grabs my upper arms and looks down at me intently. “You’ll be my queen. With you at my side, we’ll rule the world. Can’t you see that?”

  After last night’s fiasco of lost memories, I can barely rule myself. He thinks I want to rule the world with him? Some replica of his committee-chairing, debutante-sponsoring, Vicodin
-popping mother? She’s my mother’s best friend, and actually very sweet, but hell will freeze over before I become her.

  “I need to pay for my necklace and go.” I pull out of his hands and turn back to the showroom.

  “I’ve already paid for it.” His voice hardens. When I look back, so have his eyes. They’re blue crystals in his handsome face.

  “Then we’ll get you a nice little refund.”

  I call Chelle back in and instruct her to refund Mr. Parker’s card and to charge mine.

  “I’ll need the card you paid with.” Chelle gives Parker a confused look but accepts his card. She probably thinks I’m crazy. On the surface, Parker is one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, hell, maybe in the world. Why wouldn’t I want him and his gifts?

  He and I stand in awkward silence while Chelle processes the transactions.

  “I didn’t mean any harm.” He steps closer until his stale morning breath wafts over my lips. “I want to see you again. Soon.”

  “I don’t know, Parker.”

  I step back and away. This is already out of control. I wanted to just wave Parker around a little so Grip would take that step toward Qwest. Somehow, I ended up sleeping with the guy I’ve avoided for the last decade. I grew up surrounded by people like the man Parker has grown into. Not just overbearing, but willful. Spoiled. Entitled. Combined with unlimited resources and unchecked power, that’s dangerous.

  “I fly to India tonight for business.” He presses his hand to my back as we exit Chelle’s. “Can we talk when I get back? About where we go from here?”

  I’m so tired. I’m running late, and I don’t feel like fighting with Parker in the street in front of half of Los Angeles.

  “Okay, we’ll talk when you get back,” I concede. “But I’m not making any promises.”

  He steps closer until I’m pressed into the driver side door of the Audi convertible I treated myself to last year. Before I can object, he leans down to press a hard kiss against my lips. The contact is quick, but I still resent it.