by Zaires, Anna
It’s so strong I see sparks behind my closed eyelids, and as I’m coming down to earth, I hear him groan hoarsely and feel the liquid warmth of his release inside my ass.
33
Marcus
My heart is like a runaway bronco in my chest, my lungs heaving like bellows from the orgasm. Forcing myself to remain upright, I carefully pull out of Emma and gather her limp body in my arms. She seems even more out of it than I am, so instead of bringing her to the shower, I gently arrange her in a sitting position on the bench and step over to the showerheads to wash myself before directing the spray her way.
The hot water seems to revive Emma slightly, and she blinks up at me, her auburn lashes dark and spiky as I pour body wash into my palm.
“How are you feeling, kitten?” Crouching in front of her, I pick up one small foot and start to wash it. “Did I hurt you?” I’d tried to go as slow as I could, but she’d been beyond tight, her ass sheathing my cock more snugly than any fist. A better man would’ve backed off, letting her be, but the savage animal inside me wouldn’t allow me to withdraw until I claimed her completely… until I felt her come while I was buried deep inside that luscious ass.
Her gaze goes to the lather I’m spreading over her toes. “I’m okay.” She seems mesmerized by what I’m doing, as if she has a little foot fetish… and fuck if I don’t find that idea hot.
“So I didn’t hurt you?” I confirm, rubbing her arch with my thumb, and sure enough, her eyes grow heavy-lidded, her toes curling as if I’m sucking on her clit.
“No. That is, um… not much.” She sounds like she’s having trouble concentrating, and I lift her foot higher, moving it under the water spray to get the soap off. When it’s fully rinsed, I bend my head and suck her toes into my mouth, watching her face the entire time.
Her lips form a shocked O, and her already-rosy skin flushes brighter.
I grin internally as I massage her foot while continuing to suck on those sexy little toes. Definitely a foot fetish going on, and not just on her end. Her feet are as tiny as the rest of her, all soft and pink and pretty, and I love playing with them, especially given the way she’s staring at me, like she can’t quite believe what’s happening but is about to orgasm anyway. I love that look on her so much that my cock, which should be completely out of commission, is stiffening again.
I repeat the lather-and-suck/massage treatment on the other foot, and when her breathing sounds like she’s scaled a mountain, I kiss my way up her leg and reward her with an actual clit sucking. After she comes, I pull her onto my now-erect cock and enjoy a long, delicious shower fuck, during which I make her come twice more.
As far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as enough orgasms for her.
34
Emma
If there’s such a thing as too many orgasms, I’m pretty sure I got there last night. Not only am I seriously sore in all sorts of places, but the entire day, I’m stumbling around like a zombie, yawning and chugging down coffee in a futile attempt to stay awake at work.
Marcus clearly doesn’t need much sleep or recovery time because after that kinky sexathon in the shower, he woke me up at six o’clock this morning to—what else—have even more sex. And then, because he didn’t have an early-morning meeting, he went for a six-mile run.
Billionaires must not be human. Or at least this one doesn’t seem to be. Maybe he’s secretly a cyborg from the future—Terminator, the sex robot edition.
At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised.
The good news is that by waking up at that ungodly hour, I got to work early and therefore can leave early, so I’ll be able to pack up my things, grab my cats, and have Wilson drive us home for the night.
Or at least it should be good news. Right now, I’m so tired I can barely think, much less picture myself doing all that packing and cat chasing and car riding. Between the energy expended at the investor dinner and the sexathon that followed, it’s taking all my strength just to remain upright behind the cash register and ring up people’s purchases—partially because it’s a lot of purchases, way more than usual.
Christmas is coming up, and paper books make great gifts.
In any case, maybe this was Marcus’s evil plan: exhaust me with socializing and sex so I would stay at his place another night. Just because he promised to stop pressuring me to move in doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the idea. By now, I know him. I know how his devious mind works, and it’s entirely possible that at least a couple of the orgasms last night—and this morning—were given to me for the sole purpose of getting me not to go home.
Well, he won’t succeed. Tired or not, I’m going home anyway. Otherwise, I might as well make Mrs. Metz happy by ending my lease early—which I fully intend to do, as soon as I find myself a reasonably priced apartment.
I’m not moving in with Marcus.
No matter how good things currently are between us, it’s way too soon for that.
Unfortunately, my grandparents don’t think so. At lunchtime, Grandma calls me, asking if the move has gone as planned, and since I don’t want to disappoint her and Gramps, I end up telling her that we’re doing a trial run this week, to see how my cats adjust. Thank you, Marcus, for that idea. This way, I’ll be able to blame the cats when I tell my grandparents that we decided separate residences are the way to go for now.
Which they totally are. Granted, all three of my cats love his place, and I’m beyond pampered there, with Geoffrey making scrumptious dinners and plying me with green juices every morning, but I have to maintain my independence. This particular dinner with Marcus’s investors went better than expected, but I’m still not the beautiful, polished socialite he was looking for. If he keeps bringing me to these events, there’s a very high chance that I’ll screw up and embarrass him somehow, and then he might decide that living together was a mistake and I’ll end up scrambling for a place to rent. Not that he’d throw me out on the street, but still. The flame between us burns hot right now, but there’s no guarantee that this will last.
It’s not like he’s in love with me.
My chest tightens at the thought, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The stream of customers keeps coming, and I keep ringing up their purchases. Finally, around three, there’s a lull, and I head to one of the armchairs in the back, hoping to close my eyes for a five-minute micronap. But just as I’m settling into a comfy chair, my phone rings.
Yawning, I pull it out of my pocket and glance at the screen, expecting it to be Kendall calling to get an update on last night’s dinner. But it’s Janie, all bright and bubbly as I pick up.
“Hey, Emma! It was sooo good seeing you last night. I can’t believe we haven’t hung out in so long!”
“Um, yeah.” Having seen Landon in action last night, I can believe it, but I don’t say it. Kendall, Janie, and I had been inseparable in college and for a couple of years after graduation, and I don’t want to lose a friend just because I don’t like her boyfriend. Not that she’s been much of a friend in the past few months, but maybe that’ll change now that we’ve reconnected. Forcing myself to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, I say, “We should definitely grab lunch or dinner soon.”
“Yes! How about today? Landon and I can come to Brooklyn after work. Unless… Are you living in Manhattan now, by any chance?”
“No, but I will be in Tribeca for a bit— Wait, actually, tonight’s not good.” Not only am I too sleep-deprived for another late dinner, but an outing will interfere with my packing-and-cat-catching plans.
I’m determined to sleep in my own bed tonight.
“How about tomorrow then? Like I said, we’re flexible about the location. Brooklyn, Manhattan, whatever works for you.”
Well, that’s a first. A few months before Janie started dating Landon, she got a job at a PR firm in Midtown and moved from Brooklyn to the Upper East Side—and right away, Brooklyn became like another country for her. Kendall, who also lives in the city, feels the same way, so I thi
nk it’s a Manhattanite thing. Either way, Janie’s sudden willingness to trudge to the boroughs is odd, to say the least.
“Let me check with Marcus and get back to you,” I say as the bell over the door rings, signifying another customer. “He said something about working late tomorrow, so that may be a good time for the three of us to—”
“Oh, we can do it another day, then. Whatever works best for you and Marcus. Landon is dying to get to know him better.”
Ah. So this is not about seeing me.
“Yeah, I’ll let you know which day works,” I say, doing my best to conceal the hurt in my voice. For a minute there, I thought Janie genuinely wanted to resume our friendship. “Now if you don’t mind, I have to run. It’s a busy day here at the bookstore.”
“Of course. I’ll be waiting. Bye for now!”
And as I head back to the register, sipping on a sugar-laden coffee to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth, I realize that this is going to be another downside of dating a billionaire.
My mother isn’t the only one who believes in using people—and I’m now someone to be used.
* * *
“Just tell her Marcus is too busy to hang out with her asshole of a boyfriend,” Kendall says when I relay the conversation after bringing her up to speed on last night’s dinner and everything that followed—minus the sex, of course.
There’s no way I’m telling her I had anal. My face flames like the surface of the sun when I so much as think about how dirty-hot the whole thing had been.
“So you think my theory is right?” I ask, pulling my mind out of the gutter to glance out the window at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I left work early, as planned, but it’s snowing again, and even Wilson’s driving skills can’t help us get through the gridlock any faster.
If we keep creeping along at two miles an hour, I might end up staying at Marcus’s place another night.
“The theory that Landon pressured Janie to stop being friends with us because we don’t fit the image he wants her to project? It’s possible,” Kendall says thoughtfully. “He does seem like the type to do that.”
“No, I said that I don’t fit the image,” I correct. “You do—and didn’t you say Janie had invited you out a few times in recent months?”
“Well, yes, but it was always during the weeknights, and you know my boss often requires me to work late. And on the weekends, when I actually was free, she was too busy with Landon.”
“But she’d still invited you. Because you dress nicely and can hold your own at a fancy cocktail party. I, on the other hand, hadn’t heard from her at all. And you should’ve seen how much she’s changed, Kendall. It’s like she went on one of those makeover shows.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of crazy,” Kendall agrees. “I mean, people change and all, but that does seem pretty extreme. Do you think it’s because of Landon?”
“I’m almost sure of it.” I watch fat snowflakes land on the cars next to us. “Do you think—” I stop, unsure if I should go there.
“What? Come on, Ems, spill it.”
I take a breath. “Do you think Marcus will expect it of me too? I mean, if we stay together longer term, do you think he’ll want me to become like Janie, all designer clothes and flat-ironed hair and glossy lips?”
“So what if he does?” Kendall’s tone is distinctly lacking in sympathy. “There’s nothing wrong with putting some effort into your appearance. How did you feel in your cat’s butt dress and cheap boots last night?”
“Not great,” I admit. “I mean, once I got there, I kind of forgot about it because everyone was nice to me, but—”
“But you worried yourself sick about it beforehand. And why? Why not dress nicely and feel good in what you’re wearing?”
I frown. “Well, for one thing, I can’t afford—”
“Emma! You’re dating a billionaire. Let the guy buy you a freaking dress and a pair of decent shoes, so you’ll feel comfortable among his kind of crowd. Or if that’s too much for your independent sensibilities, let me get you some samples from my boss’s collection.”
“Aren’t they all size double-zero?” I ask wryly. “Last I checked, those clothes might not even fit my cats.”
Kendall lets out a frustrated breath. I have her there, and she knows it. “Fine. Cling to your principles. But I’m telling you, Ems, change is not always a bad thing. Maybe Janie went overboard trying to please her boyfriend, but if she feels good in her new skin, be happy for her. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to project a specific image—unless of course, by doing so, you neglect your friends.”
It’s my turn to let out a frustrated sigh. “I know that. I’m just…” Scared. I don’t say it, but the word rings out loud and clear in my mind, as if shoved to the front by my subconscious.
And I am scared.
No, that’s wrong.
I’m terrified.
My grandmother and Kendall were both right when they said I don’t like change, that I’m not a risk taker. Only it’s more than that.
Change, upheaval of any kind, reminds me of the early years of my childhood, when my mother and I would move every few weeks, going from one boyfriend’s apartment to another. Some of those moves were voluntary on my mother’s part, others not so much. In the case of the latter, we’d often have to leave our things behind and start over. I’d have to go to a new school, adjust to a new neighborhood, get new clothes, make new friends—or, after a while, not even bother to do the latter.
Why try to get close to anyone when in a few months I’d have to do it all over again?
Why risk putting myself out there when the payoff was so small?
It wasn’t until my grandparents took me in that I gained stability in my life, and I treasure it to this day. Change and the risk that comes with it are deeply unsettling for me. I need the comfort of the familiar, be it my worn-out clothes or my job or even the way people perceive me—as a bookish, slightly frumpy girl who, as Kendall pointed out last month, was turning into a stereotypical cat lady… a woman who can never be what a man like Marcus needs.
“Look, Ems,” Kendall says, and I again hear honking in the background. “I have to go now, but you should really think about your future and what you want. I know you still have doubts about Marcus’s intentions, but from where I’m sitting, the main obstacle in your relationship is you. If you want this to work, you can’t expect him to do all the heavy lifting. Spending time with your grandparents, welcoming your pets into his place, taking you to meet important-to-him people—he’s making room in his life for you and all your baggage. It’s up to you to do the same for him.”
She hangs up, and I sit in silence, staring out at the traffic.
She’s right, I know she’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to process.
True, I’ve already compromised by agreeing to let Marcus pay for stuff when he invites me out, by using his driver and flying on his plane and eating meals prepared by his chef. I let him stay at my grandparents’ house for the entire Thanksgiving weekend, and I’ve now spent two nights in a row at his place.
On the surface, I’ve done nothing but give in, but the reality of the matter is I haven’t compromised on anything truly important—not the way he has. He’s a neat freak who never wanted pets, yet he’s gone out of his way to embrace my fur babies. His dream partner is a glossy socialite, yet he hasn’t batted an eye at bringing me to an investor dinner wearing my cheap clothes and scuffed boots.
He has done all the heavy lifting in this relationship, and as strong and determined as he is, I can’t expect him to keep doing that.
I have to carry my fair share of the burden.
To make this work, I have to take a risk and embrace change.
35
Marcus
All morning long, I brainstorm ways to get Emma to stay at my place another night. The deal we made means I can’t keep asking her, so I have to resort to more underhanded methods.
Get Wilson to call in s
ick so he can’t take her and the cats home?
No, I’d just have to call a taxi, and we’d end up arguing about who gets to pay.
Incentivize the cats to run from Emma by bringing in a few live mice for them to chase?
No, too cruel to the poor mice.
Pounce on Emma as soon as she gets home and keep her in my bed all evening?
Yes, that’s a more promising idea—and if all else fails, I’ll go with her and spend the night on her lumpy bed.
Of course, that’s just a short-term solution. I need something more permanent, and I need it soon.
At lunch, I call the realtor who visited Emma’s landlady and ask her to reach out to her again. “Tell Metz you have a buyer ready,” I instruct, and after I hang up, I call Weston Long.
“It’s Carelli,” I say when the real estate mogul picks up. “I need a favor.”
I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I see no other option.
The baying beast inside me needs Emma in his cave.
* * *
The rest of my day is insanely busy. After the jobs report comes out, market volatility goes through the roof, and I spend all afternoon with my PMs, deciding which investments to unload and which ones to double down on. As a result, I don’t leave the office until seven, a full hour later than planned, and when I finally get home, I learn that my plans to pounce on Emma have hit a major obstacle.