Gravity (Wilde Boys Book 1)

by Sara Cate

  Emma would never like this, I tell myself because the constant reminder that my sister was better than me lives in every moment of my life.

  Well, if I’m so fucked up, I might as well enjoy it. Nash jerks my head forward and I wrap my lips around him, letting out a sweet moan. He lets out a grunt as my tongue circles his head. Thrusting forward, I gag as he hits the back of my mouth.

  Loosening his grip, he lets me pull back enough to work his length with my mouth. But then he pumps into my mouth again, saliva dripping down my chin and the taste of his pre-cum coating my tongue.

  He doesn’t let up, fucking my mouth and barely letting me breathe, and my arousal only grows. His grip tightens on my head, and I clench the bedsheets with my nails. I open my eyes to stare up at him, a fierce look of control on his face, but I see he’s slipping. He’s about to crack from the pressure, and I wish he’d let go. His expression contorts into pain when I feel him shoot down the back of my throat. He pulls out of my mouth in a rush, and I have the urge to spit, but he clamps a hand over my mouth.

  “Swallow it,” he grunts breathlessly, and I obey.

  Suddenly, I’m on my back, and his body is covering mine. His hands are pulling my clothes off and my mind is still reeling as his hands reach my soaked panties, pulling them aside roughly.

  “Who do you belong to, Zara?”

  His fingers zero in roughly on my clit, and my back lifts off the bed. Every nerve in my body is alive. I know this game we’re playing is cruel, playing to Nash’s insecurities while he plays to mine, but we’re both so high on it that we can’t stop.

  I don't answer him, clenching my thighs together while he teases me with an orgasm that he won’t let me have.

  “Whose cum is in your belly right now, Zara? It’s not his.”

  Another high-pitched moan escapes my lips, and he grows even more frustrated. A moment later he tears off my underwear. His mouth lands first on my stomach in a half-kiss, half-bite, and I writhe underneath him, pushing his head downward, waiting for his mouth to meet where I want him.

  “Answer me, Zara. Tell me who you belong to.”

  His mouth circles my pussy, kissing my inner thigh before finally covering my clit and sucking on it so intensely I let out a scream. His teeth take a bite, and I twist up in a mix of pleasure and pain.

  “I’m not letting you come until you answer me.”

  Keeping his mouth on my clit, two fingers pump in and out, and I am consumed by the pleasure. My breath becomes heavy, and I can see my climax in the distance, and I’m flying toward it.

  Until he pulls away, leaving me cold and waiting. His hand clamps down around my chin, squeezing so tight, I let out a yelp.

  “You’re going to answer me, Zara.”

  Then, he’s back on my clit, swirling his tongue against it. I’m so close, and when I feel him pull away again, I scream in desperation. Grabbing his hair in my fists, I pull his face back down. Then, I let out in a sharp cry.

  “Yours, Nash! I’m yours.”

  “Good girl,” he growls before he devours me.

  It doesn’t take long before I come hard, shattering every inch of my body. As I come down from my high, his lips are moving up my body toward my mouth. When he finally kisses me, I feel him melt.

  It’s in these moments that I connect with the broken Nash. He puts on such a tough exterior, but I know there is so much pain under that shell, and I feel the guilt for toying with those insecurities. But I am fragmented too, and my broken parts match his.

  “Stay with me tonight,” I whisper. I don’t know why I want him here so bad, like I need a moment of softness to balance the harsh moments.

  He doesn’t answer, but he pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me as we settle on the pillow.

  “What were you talking about with him, Zara?” he asks.

  My heart feels heavy with the idea that I’m betraying one by being with or talking about the other.

  “He's just worried about you, Nash. He’s not trying anything with me. He wants you to be happy.”

  “You don’t know what he’s capable of, Zara.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Not tonight,” he says, kissing my forehead.

  I let the subject go, and rest against his chest. After a few minutes I hear his breathing settle into sleep. I can’t sleep at first. I feel as if I’m drowning in something I don't understand. The way I feel being punished by Nash scares me, and I think it scares him too. As if we’re punishing ourselves by punishing each other. And our only real crime is being the one who survived.

  14

  I open my eyes sometime around three in the morning to a dream of her gasping for air as I come down her throat. What the fuck is wrong with me? Silently, I creep out of her room and walk back to my own.

  I know she’s fine. She didn’t tell me to stop. I mean, she liked it, didn’t she? But why the fuck am I getting off on watching her hurt? That’s not me. I’m not that guy.

  Instead of going back to bed, I get in the shower, turning the water on as hot as I can get it. I can still hear their laughter coming from that helicopter. When I came outside after the day on the jet-skis, I felt good about Zara. Things felt different, like I could actually share a connection with another human being, the first one in a long time.

  Then I saw her with him.

  He thinks I’m an idiot. I saw the way he looked at her every time she came out before Preston died. I know he’s fucking obsessed with her. It’s the only reason I had to find her at that strip club that night. I needed to witness the ruin of something he loved. But as she danced up on that stage with her new black look, she didn’t look fucking ruined to me. She looked liberated, like she was finally free, and you know what...I was fucking jealous.

  I was jealous of him for moving on after my brother’s death. I was jealous of her for moving on after her sister’s death. Why was everyone acting like everything was okay? No, not just okay. They were acting like life was somehow fucking better.

  Then, I managed to get her ass back to her apartment, and I didn’t plan on fucking her, but I wanted to take something he wanted for myself. It was payback.

  I sure as shit didn’t expect him to bring her to Del Rey. I could have probably moved on, but with her in the house, I was sucked right back into this sick cycle. Fuck with her to fuck with him, and she has no fucking clue.

  Still, my mind won’t stop replaying the scene tonight. Last time I forced myself on her, I needed three days to get that shit out of my head. I don’t want to hurt her, but I certainly don’t want to be catching any fucking feelings either.

  I need to get off this goddamn island. It’s starting to do things to my head, and now it’s got me second guessing everything. Like if I can just get out of here for a couple days I can get Zara out of my system. Maybe if I get out of here, I can find a sliver of Preston’s energy out there.

  Every time I visit a club he loved or get really drunk, it’s like I can feel him there. He’s still around, and I’m not so goddamn alone.

  By the time I get out of the shower, the sun is starting to rise in the sky, and the guilt sets in. It’s wrong of me to leave her here, especially if I don’t want her falling into his trap, giving in to all his fucking charm.

  But then I think, who gives a shit? If she wants him, he can have her. My sloppy seconds. He likes sloppy seconds apparently.

  I used to think he was better than this shit. I was wrong.

  I grab a bag and toss some of my shit in there, my cell phone charger, some extra clothes, toothbrush. Then, I head for the door. We have a house in the city, and I could use some fucking mainland time with regular people. Well, maybe not regular exactly, but anyone who is not Zara or my dad will do.

  15

  Nash is gone when I wake up. Not in my bed. Not at Del Rey at all.

  Astrid said he must have taken the boat to the mainland for the day, and I’m left with a sudden feeling of dread in the pit of my stomac
h. The last time Nash and I hooked up, he retreated, quarantining himself like being with me was some kind of sickness. And now he’s left me altogether.

  My rational mind thinks this could be him dealing with guilt or regret. Things got a little intense last night—okay, a lot intense. But it was all consensual. I would have told him if I wasn’t okay. Is he really beating himself up about it?

  The less-rational, more emotional side of me is convinced Nash’s leaving has absolutely nothing to do with me. I’m so inconsequential to him he never thought for a second to invite me along.

  It hurts, and by lunchtime, I’m so fucking bored that all I can do is dwell on my paranoia.

  Alistair’s tiny, two-seater helicopter is still parked outside, so I know he’s here, but he hasn’t come out of his office all morning. I’ve gone swimming, watched TV, and scrolled mindlessly through my phone.

  Completely out of things to do, I decide to go snooping back down his wing of the house. I hear his voice before I even turn the corner to his office. He’s standing with his back to me, staring out at the yard. I spot the bud in his ear and realize he must be on a call. Every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a foreign language, aviation jargon I couldn't comprehend if I tried.

  Instead of knocking, I just slip into the room, and walk over to the bookshelf. The moment I walk in, I’m met with that familiar smell of cologne and books—smoky, woodsy, sexy. I had completely forgotten about the book Alistair gave me to read the other night, but I spot it right away, sitting on the small table between the heavy chairs. Picking it up again, I flip through to the back.

  His voice pauses, and I turn around to see him staring at me with that cold, calculating expression. Alistair lives behind a hard exterior of walls he’s put up, even before his son was killed in a helicopter crash.

  I remember once tuning into a press conference being shared after the crash. They questioned the safety of his aircrafts and outright blamed him for his son’s death. Even though the inspectors had all deemed the crash weather and pilot error, he had to sit through a meeting where people basically told him that selling his helicopters was irresponsible. The comment section was even worse, but I distinctly remember that video because of how stoic and calm he appeared the whole time, as if he wasn’t even there. The man sitting in front of those cameras was just a shell, a spokesperson. The real man, with real emotions had retreated and disappeared.

  He’s still hidden as he stares at me now, not sure what to do with me. He’s probably wishing I’d go away, but I meant what I said last night. I’m stubborn, and the more my presence triggers Alistair, the more I want to be around him. I like seeing him so worked up, and I can’t help but wonder if I could break down that wall, just a little bit.

  I’m waiting for him to kick me out of his office, but he doesn’t. He resumes his conversation without another look in my direction, so I go back to the book in my hands. It sounds boring, but he promised me there was a controversial love story, so I plop down in the heavy chair and open to the beginning.

  By the end of the first fifteen minutes I decide it is pretty boring, but just as I’m about to toss it back down on the table, the romance reels me in.

  Two hours later, I’m lying on my stomach on the floor with two empty water bottles and a half-eaten bag of chips. Alistair doesn’t say a word to me the whole time, working tirelessly without so much as a bathroom break.

  I’m so engulfed in my book I don’t react when his leather shoes step into view.

  Finally looking up at him, my eyes widen. “This book is amazing, but this couple...are they really…”

  “Mmhm,” he responds in his deep tone which sends warmth to my core. Leaning against the doorframe in his white button-up shirt and dark brown slacks, tightly fitted and coming down to just below his ankles, I can’t help but stare at him for a moment.

  With his dark hair, cut short on the sides and slicked back at the top, Alistair is the textbook definition of dashing. There are crow’s feet wrinkles around his eyes and a golden hue to his skin. Alistair and Nash look nothing alike, really. Nash must resemble his mother. It was Preston who favored his dad, but I never looked at Preston the way I’m seeing Alistair today, with those high cheekbones and strong jaw.

  And granted, he’s a grade-A asshole, so high on himself and his money that it ruins all of his good looks with his shitty attitude.

  “I’m not going to spoil it for you, but try to enjoy it for what it is, a really good love story.”

  I look back down at the book, feeling a sort of fondness for it now. Like I’ve bonded with it, grown closer to it, and I can’t seem to wipe the warm smile off my face.

  “So I heard Nash left this morning. Any idea where he went?” he asks, his tone taking on a more serious sound.

  “No clue. He was gone when I woke up.”

  I noticed the subtle way his expression changes when he finds out Nash slept with me last night.

  “Well, I gave Astrid the night off. I thought I’d just be cooking for myself, but if you’re hungry, I’ll have some Osso Buco ready in a couple hours.”

  Peeling myself off the floor, perched on my bent knees, I cast him a curious glare. “I have no idea what that is.”

  He lets out a sigh, like he’s annoyed with me again. “Come on. I’ll teach you.”

  Following him into the kitchen, I start to get a strange feeling in my stomach. Why do I feel a little excited? There's a subtle jitter in my bones as I step behind him. I’m alone in the house with Alistair Wilde, and it’s actually comfortable. So far, we’re not trying to kill each other.

  “Here, dice these up,” he says, handing me two onions and a knife. He’s rolled up his sleeves revealing the cords of muscle along his forearms, and it takes my brain a moment too long to process the task at hand because I’m staring at his arms.

  Taking the onions, I do as he says. Naturally, the kitchen is massive, so there’s plenty of room between us as we work. But I almost wish there wasn’t. Emma and I used to cook together at our tiny apartment during college. It was almost cozy, bumping into each other every time we had to cross paths from the sink to the stove.

  Behind me, Alistair is seasoning a slab of meat that looks like beef. He moves naturally in the kitchen, and I wonder how often he gives Astrid the day off just to cook a meal for himself.

  The house is silent until soft classical music starts to play from the speakers set into the ceiling. When I peek back at Alistair, he’s pocketing his phone.

  As I pass him the cutting board covered in diced onions, he looks a moment too long at my face. My watering eyes begin to spill over, I freeze as he lifts a knuckle to my cheek, wiping a single tear away. The moment is tense until he lets out a sigh and turns his back.

  “So tell me,” he says. “How on earth did you end up at that club?”

  My cheeks flush pink as I stare at him. I’ve never felt as if Alistair was judging me, and he doesn’t seem to be now, but being here in his billion dollar house on a private island listening to classical music, it does feel a little bit like I’m being judged for taking my clothes off for a couple hundred bucks.

  “I’m not implying there’s anything wrong with it, Zara.”

  Leaning my back against the counter, I look up at him. “I know you’re not. But it’s not really a story I’m proud of.”

  “Why?” he asks while stirring a pot of red sauce.

  This feels like a question I’ve spent the last two years curating in my head. How do I explain to people what brought me to this profession without it sounding like an excuse? Without feeling like utter shit. Without somehow coming back to Emma. It’s impossible. And for the most part, I want to answer that questions with, “None of your fucking business,” but Alistair isn’t being nosey. It’s genuine curiosity, and maybe I don't like answering the question because I don’t like how it makes me feel.

  Hopping up on the counter, I chew on my lip a moment. “I was a trained dancer. Ballet since I was five. I l
oved it so much.”

  Silence fills the room while I wait for him to ask what happened or what that has to do with the strip club, but he doesn’t. He waits for me to continue.

  “I had an opportunity to join a dance company during college, and I passed it up.”

  His stirring hand freezes as he stares at me. “Why?”

  “Have you ever loved something so much you were afraid of failing at it?”

  There’s a heavy moment of quiet as he stares at me. Why don’t I feel so intimidated by him anymore? The intensity of his eyes doesn’t quiet me the way it used to. It’s almost as if I feel safer in his stare.

  “Sure,” he replies.

  “I loved to dance, but I was terrified I wasn’t good enough. That I would only fail, and they would criticize me, and ruin this thing I loved so much. My sister was furious,” I say, letting a sad laugh escape my lips remembering the day Emma screamed at me. She didn’t talk to me for a whole week, which was the longest we ever went without speaking, and the only thing that broke the silence was her starting to date the Preston Wilde, which was so insane there was no silent treatment that could withstand it.

  “I bet she was,” he says. “I would be too.”

  “But she couldn’t understand. She was twice as good at ballet as I was, and she quit too. So what’s the difference?” I argue.

  “Did she love it the way you did?” he asks, and I go back to chewing on my lip. Not even close.

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Watching someone quit something they’re so good at is hard. When you know they love it, it’s even harder. I see the same thing with Nash.”

  That quiets me. Because I understand, and I see the frustration too, but trying to find a reason why those two things are different is failing me.

  “But that doesn’t answer my question,” he adds. “How did you end up at the club?”

  I scoff. “I waited tables for a while, and the pay was okay, but I missed dancing, and I figured...if I could make some money dancing, then I wasn’t really quitting it. Plus...no one criticizes your dancing when you do it naked.”