by Zaires, Anna
My conviction holds until the doorbell rings as I’m feeding the cats.
“One second!” I yell out, trying not to stumble over Mr. Puffs as I set down his plate and rush over to the door. I don’t need a repeat of the other week.
There’s no one at the door when I open it, but there is a package on the doormat.
My pulse jumps.
I’m not expecting a delivery.
The box is small and light, so I have no trouble lifting it. Heart pounding, I carry it into the kitchen and set it on the counter, then grab a knife to slice through the tape.
Inside is another box, a much prettier one with the Saks Fifth Avenue logo on it. Opening it, I gape at the contents inside.
A white cashmere scarf, one just like the cheap Chinese brand I put on my Amazon wish list for Christmas—except it’s by some Italian designer and looks a thousand times more expensive.
What the hell?
I rummage through the box and find a note.
From your wrong person, it says.
* * *
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Kendall says on Friday morning, when I cave and call her from work after another sleepless night. “You texted him by accident at three in the morning on Thursday, and he’s already sent you two gifts?”
“Yes!” A woman browsing through the mystery section gives me an annoyed look, and I sink down in my chair, so I’m half-hidden behind the counter. “Why would he do that?” I continue in a hushed tone. “And with those notes? Do you think he’s just toying with me?”
“Why would he toy with you? Emma, pull your head out of your ass. He obviously still wants you. He sent you… what? Flowers and a scarf?”
“Yes. A huge bouquet of tulips and a white cashmere scarf, just like the one I was hoping my grandparents would get me for Christmas, but infinitely fancier. How did he know I needed a scarf? Or that I love tulips, for that matter?”
“Most people like tulips, and he must’ve seen you without a scarf. Either way, what does it matter?” Kendall’s voice rises in exasperation. “He sent you gifts. That means he’s still really into you. Did you at least text him a thank-you?”
I bite my lip. “I wanted to, but—”
“Okay, seriously? You need to get on that. Like, right now. Text him a thank-you and say you want to see him again.”
“Kendall—”
“Don’t you Kendall me. Text him and call me back when it’s done.”
“Excuse me.” The woman who was browsing the mystery section approaches the counter, her broad face creased in a disapproving frown. “I can’t find the latest James Patterson.”
“Of course.” Hanging up on Kendall, I jump up, glad for the interruption. “Let me show you where it is.”
As I lead the woman through the bookstore, I try to forget all about Kendall’s instructions—and the man who’s the cause of my turmoil.
* * *
I still haven’t worked up the courage to call or text Marcus by the time I get home. Partially, it’s because I have no idea what to say. Is he messing with me, or is this for real? Should I be mad or grateful? The gifts he sent me are outrageously expensive—I know, because I looked up the cost of that scarf online—so I should decline them, at the very least. But that would mean getting in touch with Marcus, which brings me back to my dilemma about his intentions.
What is he after?
Does he still want to date me, or is this all just a game to him?
I’ve fed the cats and am halfway through my own dinner when the doorbell rings again.
I jump up and rush over, but the FedEx guy who left the package on my doorstep is already getting into his truck.
The box is heavy for its size. I bring it into the kitchen and slice through the tape, my hands shaking.
Inside are books, each in a hermetically sealed plastic pouch.
Gulliver’s Travels, Gone with the Wind, and The Count of Monte Cristo.
My three favorite stories of all time—and each of them a signed first edition.
* * *
For the first time, I understand people who go for a run when they’re stressed.
I can’t sit still—and I haven’t been able to for the past hour. Same goes for finishing my dinner. I’m pacing around my tiny apartment, going from kitchen to bedroom to bathroom and back. My cats are staring at me like I’ve lost my mind, and it’s possible that I have.
There’s no way a bajillion dollars’ worth of rare books are sitting on my kitchen counter, along with a note that says, “Pick you up at 7 tonight.”
It’s a prank. It has to be.
For the twentieth time, I grab my phone and begin composing a message to Marcus.
Thank you so much for your insanely generous gifts, but I’m afraid I can’t accept them—and I have other plans tonight. Also, are you messing with me?
I erase the text before I can send it, just like I erased the nineteen attempts before it.
Nothing I compose sounds right. I can edit a novel with ruthless precision, suggesting words and phrases that convey the meaning perfectly, but I can’t seem to write this text.
I’ve never been so off-balance. And worst of all, the clock is ticking, getting inevitably closer to seven. In seventeen minutes, Marcus is going to come pick me up, and I still haven’t been able to work up the courage to call or text him to make sure that doesn’t happen.
It’s probably best if I talk to him about this in person, I reason, trying to make myself feel better about my inexplicable cowardice. Maybe if I can see his expression, I’ll know what he’s after, as opposed to making dumb assumptions. Because none of this—the gifts, the ambiguous notes—makes any sense.
Obviously, I have no intention of going on a date with him—if “pick you up” even means a date. And if it does, what kind of asshole tells a woman he’s picking her up instead of asking? What if I had other plans? Granted, I didn’t, but he can’t know that, can he?
Then again, how does he know what my favorite books or flowers are? Or what kind of scarf I wanted? We’ve never talked about that.
My head is beginning to hurt from overthinking, so I stop by my bed to scoop up Cottonball—who immediately starts purring.
“I know, baby.” Cradling him against my chest, I stroke his soft fur. “I haven’t cuddled you tonight, and I’m sorry. Maybe Marcus won’t show up. It could all be a massive joke, you know? The books might not even be real but some kind of reproductions—though I have no idea why he’d bother.”
Queen Elizabeth lifts her head from my pillow and gives me a narrow-eyed look.
“You don’t think it’s a joke?” I ask over Cottonball’s loud purr, and she yawns demonstratively.
“Yeah, okay, maybe it’s not that funny, but what else could it be? I told him it’s not going to work out between us, and I’m sure he has a million women lined up to date him.”
She yawns again and puts her head back on the pillow.
“I know. It’s all so confusing, isn’t it?” I sigh and sit down on the bed next to her—which Mr. Puffs takes as an invitation to shove Cottonball off my lap. He gets jealous when I interact with his siblings, so I scratch behind his ears, knowing that if I don’t, my remaining accessories are in for a world of pain.
Continuing to pet Mr. Puffs, I sneak a glance at my phone.
6:53 p.m.
If this were a date, I’d be freaking out about the fact that I’m still dressed in my ratty old sweatpants and a T-shirt covered with cat hair, but I’m not. I’m really not. Because this is not a date. Even if Marcus shows up at my door as promised, I’m just going to give him back the insanely expensive books and calmly explain that I’m not going anywhere. I will tell him to stop sending me gifts with mocking messages and—oh, who am I kidding?
Ignoring Mr. Puffs’s offended yowl, I push him off my lap and rush to the closet, frantically yanking out one outfit after another. I’m not dressing up for Marcus; it’s for me, I tell myself. I want to be presentable
because it’s the civilized thing to do. I’d do it for anyone, even Kendall. Especially Kendall, come to think of it. I’d never hear the end of it if she saw me looking like a hobo.
Of course, as luck would have it, this Saturday is laundry day, and I have next to nothing in my closet. But anything is an upgrade over what I’m currently wearing, so I wriggle into my skinny jeans—so named because I need to be way skinnier to comfortably wear them—and yank on a gray sweater that only has a little bit of cat hair on it.
There. Done. Never mind that I can barely close the button on the jeans or that pulling on the sweater has created static, making my hair look like I’ve been struck by lightning. I smooth my palms over the madly puffed-up curls, pinch my cheeks to give them a little color, and swipe on a pink lip gloss—just in case.
The doorbell rings as I’m about to put on boots instead of my fuzzy house slippers.
Crap, crap, crap.
I was hoping he wouldn’t show.
No, that’s a lie. I would’ve been disappointed if he didn’t show—but only because I want to give him a piece of my mind. Who the hell does he think he is? Getting me those outrageously expensive gifts—that bouquet must’ve also cost a pretty penny—and ordering me to go on a date with him?
I’m so worked up that I stomp over to the door and yank it open—and only then remember the pink fuzzy slippers I still have on.
“Hi,” Marcus murmurs, gazing down at me, and I forget all about my outrage and my slippers, my breath catching at the dark heat in those cool blue eyes.
Somehow, over the past two weeks, I’ve forgotten how big he is, and how striking his harshly masculine features are. In his intimidating attire of perfectly tailored suit, crisp blue shirt, subtly striped tie, and unbuttoned knee-length coat, he’s like some kind of modern-day king, exuding wealth and power—and more than his fair share of potent animal magnetism. I can literally feel my blood rushing faster through my veins, heating up every inch of my skin until the icy gusts of wind outside feel like a balmy summer breeze.
“H-hi,” I stutter out, realizing I’m staring up at him with my mouth open. “I mean… hello.” The inability to use words that had afflicted me with the text messages hasn’t gone away, I note with the small part of my brain that’s still functioning. The rest of my mind is blank. I can’t recall any of the speeches I prepared as I paced across my room, or why I even prepared them in the first place. All I can think about as I look at him is how those big warm hands had felt on my skin and how those soft masculine lips had nibbled on my ear, sending chills of pleasure down my body.
“Emma.” His voice is low and deep, so velvety it’s like a massage with a happy ending for my ears. “Kitten, are you ready?”
“Ready?” Oh God, get it together, Emma! He doesn’t mean that sexually! Unless he does, in which case the answer is yes, a thousand times yes. Maybe other human females don’t go into heat, but that’s exactly what seems to happen to me when I’m with Marcus. Already, my panties are damp, and it’s all I can do to stand still instead of leaning in and rubbing against him like a cat marking her territory.
“To go,” he clarifies, glancing down, and I follow his gaze to my slippers—which are still as pink and fuzzy as ever.
With a massive effort of will, I gather my scrambled brains. “Go where? I’m not—”
“To the Greek place we never got a chance to try the other week,” he says smoothly. “It’s really good, I promise—and not expensive in the least.”
“But—”
“It’s very casual too,” he says. “But you still might want to put on your shoes. Here, those will do.” He steps forward, and I instinctively back up, letting him into the apartment and closing the door behind him on autopilot.
Ignoring Mr. Puffs hissing at him, Marcus walks past me and picks up the boots I’d taken out of the closet. Then he returns and kneels in front of me, like an assistant at a shoe store. Clasping my ankle in one large hand, he takes off my slipper and starts fitting my sock-clad foot into the boot.
What remains of my brain short-circuits, the feel of his hard, warm fingers on my ankle as erotic as if he’d started sucking on my toes. Oh God, is that a new fantasy of mine? Because all of a sudden, I can’t think of anything I want more than for Marcus to take off my sock and press his lips to my ankle, then trail hot, wet kisses over the top of my foot before—
“Here, give me your other foot,” he murmurs, jolting me out of my depraved daydream, and I blink, a hot flush crawling up my neck as I realize that one boot is already on my foot—and that he put it there.
Feeling like a perverted Cinderella, I blurt out, “I can do that,” and bend down to intercept him as he reaches for my other foot. Except I miscalculate, and my foot comes up just as I’m lowering my head.
With a startled cry, I pitch forward—only to catch myself on Marcus’s broad shoulders. His hands immediately close around my waist, steadying me, and we end up nose to nose, so close that I can feel his warm breath on my lips and smell the faint hint of cool breeze and fresh pine—his aftershave, most likely.
His eyes aren’t just blue, I notice dazedly as he pulls me into a kneeling position next to him. His irises have flecks of silver in them, some light enough to be almost white. They’re beautiful, and the way his pupils are dilating is mesmerizing me, even as growing arousal quickens my breath and floods my sex with liquid warmth.
“Emma.” The soft, deep timbre of his voice vibrates through me, adding to the hypnotic effect as one of his hands leaves my waist to curve around my jaw, the gesture both tender and possessive. Leaning in another inch, he murmurs hoarsely, “Kitten, if you don’t want this, tell me now.”
Yes, tell him. Only my mouth refuses to cooperate, to form the words needed to stop this insanity. Because I do want this. I want it so badly that I ache. I know there are reasons why this is not a good idea, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what they are.
He correctly interprets my silence, and his lips hover next to mine for only a moment longer before pressing against them in a tenderly demanding kiss. His tongue sweeps over the closed seam of my lips, seeking entrance, and I let him in with a soft moan, my eyes closing and my hands fisting in the lapels of his coat as heated pleasure rockets through my body.
Distantly, I hear a pissed-off meow, but it can’t penetrate the sensual fog enveloping my brain. The tension is growing in my core, coiling tighter with each skillful caress of his tongue, and my hands slide up his neck to indulge in the feel of his thick, silky hair. My touch seems to please him, and a groan rumbles low in his throat as he pulls me to my feet and maneuvers us both toward the bed, throwing off his coat and jacket on the way.
There are more outraged meows as the cats jump off the bed, clearing the space for us, and then I’m stretched out on my back, with Marcus over me, his lips devouring mine as his hands roam greedily over my clothed body. One big hand ventures underneath my sweater, the palm hot and rough on my bare skin, and I shudder with pleasure as his fingers close over my left breast, kneading it through my bra with firm pressure. His thumb brushes over my peaked nipple, and I arch into his touch, craving more, needing more.
Needing everything.
This must be what it’s like to be swept away by passion, I realize dimly, even as my hands yank at the knot of his expensive tie, desperate to get it off him so I can tear off his shirt and feel his bare chest. I’ve always thought the swept-away bit was just a poetic turn of phrase, a romantic exaggeration. But that’s precisely how this feels: like an unstoppable wave, a tsunami of sensation over which I have no control. My entire body is on fire, my nipples taut and aching, my clit throbbing as need coils ever tighter in my core.
I don’t know how I manage to get the tie and shirt off him in this state, but I do, and the heat inside me grows into a conflagration as my hands slide across the broad, muscled planes of his chest and back. He’s warm and hard all over, his smooth skin roughened only by the sprinkling of coarse hair near h
is flat nipples and the happy trail running down his ridged stomach. His abs feel like they’ve been carved from stone, each one delineated so perfectly that I want to slow things down so I can stare at him and drool. But he’s already pulling off my sweater and too-tight jeans, along with my socks and the one boot, and all thoughts of slowing down evaporate as he buries his hand in my hair and kisses me again, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with fierce hunger as his free hand slides down my body and delves under my soaked panties.
Yes, oh God, yes, right there. I want to scream the words from the rooftops as he unerringly finds my throbbing clit, but all I can manage is a ragged gasp against his lips, my vocal cords locking up along with every muscle in my body. My eyes squeeze shut, and I arch against him, writhing and panting, my nails digging into his sides as his thumb presses on the swollen bundle of nerves and starts moving in a cruelly teasing circle. I’m close, so very, very close—
“Look at me,” he orders, lifting his head, and my eyes snap open, meeting his gaze as his index finger dips lower, smearing the wetness along the rim of my entrance while his thumb continues its exquisite torment of my clit. His eyes are dark and hungry as he says hoarsely, “I want to watch you come.”
Yes, oh yes, please. The possessive note in his deep voice adds to the unbearable tension coiling in me, and I hover on the edge for a delicious second before the pressure from his thumb increases and I go over it with a choked scream.
The release is like a bomb going off inside my body, imploding everything in its way. The pleasure pulses violently through my nerve endings, ripples of sensation pounding at every cell. And all the while he watches me, his gaze locked on mine with dark triumph—and his own fiercely growing need.
28
Emma
The aftershocks are still hammering my core when Marcus reaches up and unhooks my bra, then lowers his head to close his lips around my right nipple as soon as my breasts are bared. The lash of sensation is almost cruel, his hot, wet mouth sucking so strongly that I cry out, gripping his hair in agony-edged pleasure as my eyes squeeze closed once again. But he’s relentless, and to my shock, a renewed throbbing starts low in my core, the tension growing again. I’ve never come twice during sex before, only on my own with my vibrator, but I realize that it’s possible with Marcus.