“Yeah.” I watch as she arches her back, skimming the dress over her shoulders and dropping it to the floor, the woman unable to resist putting on a show. This weekend would be her prime opportunity, me and two other men fucking her nine-ways-to-Sunday. I wait for the familiar pull of excitement, the high that precedes a meeting, but there is nothing, my funk still in full effect, my mind unable to pull itself off the image of Stephen leaning over, his face beaming at Kate as if she is his.
I can’t keep this up. Something has to give, something has to crack. Otherwise, I am going to go mad. I’d think of a lingerie analogy, but my head hurts too much.
Chapter 29
HER
“What do you think?” Trey flips the keys over in his hand and looks up at the chandelier, his eyes drifting over the living room’s exposed beams before returning to me. Marks Lingerie just finished a record-breaking year and Trey seems intent on spending all of the profit. Yesterday, he cut me a bonus check with enough zeros to make Mom faint. Today, we are house-hunting. Not for me, but for him.
“I like it.” I fall back on the leather couch, the giant cushion wide enough that I could do a mini snow angel of sorts. “Does the couch come with it?”
“Furniture is negotiable,” the agent pipes in, her heels clicking rapidly across the wood floors, following Trey in the direction of the kitchen. I roll to the left, coming off the couch and standing.
“It’s a little big,” I remark. “Five bedrooms? Are you starting an orphanage?” I’ve dropped a few Chelsea questions, ones he has dodged with professional skill. A house seems like a significant step toward settling down. They’ve been dating six months now. Maybe they are getting serious, talking babies—this home the first step to their own octuplets reality show. Inside, the familiar burn of envy flares.
“What’s that face for?” Trey stops before me. “What don’t you like?”
I wipe the scowl from my face and try to come up with something, anything, to dislike. “The ceilings are really high,” I manage.
He glances upward. “Yes they are. Excellent point. What would be ideal? Eight-foot?” He turns to the agent. “Can you put that on my requirement list?”
“Shut up,” I snap, and the agent looks from him to me, confused. “It’s fine.” I turn around, looking through the giant windows and at the view. “It’s perfect for you.”
“It’s got plenty of guest rooms,” he points out. “I could use a roommate.”
“Ha.” I smile. “I don’t think Chelsea would like that.”
“Or Stephen,” he points out, and I shift away, the conversation moving into the sort of direction we normally avoid. “Plus…” He turns to me. “You seem like you’d have trouble following the house rules.”
“House rules?” I laugh. “Let me guess.” He opens the sliding glass door and I step before him, into the backyard. Before us, a long pool glitters darkly, set off perfectly by the bright green grass. “Something about being naked.”
He scowls in response, proof positive of my guessing ability. “And…” I muse. “Mandatory meal prep.”
“It’s not my fault I like your cooking,” he says, offering a hand and helping me down the stairs and onto the pool deck.
We stop before the pool. “Want to test it out?” I grin at him and the edge of his mouth curves up.
“Ladies first,” he beckons.
I anticipate his next move and twist left in the moment before his hand reaches out to push me in. Kicking off my sandals, I dodge another swipe of his hand, sprinting around the edge of the pool and awkwardly jumping over a lounge chair. He stops, his chest barely moving, and eyes me, his eyes alit with mischief.
“Don’t even,” I warn.
“What?” he shrugs. “It’s hot out. And I’m dying to know how well my Creative Director swims.”
I scoff. “Regional freestyle champion, 2001.”
“Oh, I bet you blew those scrawny high-schoolers away,” he drawls, and I laugh, easing further around the pool.
“Ummm…” the realtor stops in the back doorway, her worried eyes darting between us. “I don’t think swimming is allowed.”
“Kate,” he lifts his chin to me. “Beat me across the length of this pool and I’ll buy this house.”
I laugh. “I don’t care if you buy it.” I’m perfectly happy with his current condo—and the gym it grants me access to. Plus, there’s no way I’m stripping down to my underwear and getting wet, even if I am wearing our Crepe sports collection—the perfect accompaniment to any physical activity, should a woman feel inclined to spend three hundred dollars on a sports bra and panty set.
“Hmm…” he glances toward the house. “You’re making my attempt to get you undressed really difficult, Kate.”
I step off the pool deck and onto the grass before I make a mistake I will regret. Him stripping out of his clothes, me out of mine … he can call it a race, but we both know what it’d be—an excuse to see more of each other.
He tilts his head at me and I give mine a small shake.
He chuckles, and I can’t help but laugh. I turn back to the house and look up at it. The pale stucco, the orange tile roof, the ivy climbing up its side. It’s beautiful, worth every bit of its price tag. My favorite of the ones we’ve seen today.
He comes up beside me and hangs an arm around my shoulder, bringing me against him. “I like it.” He looks up at the house.
“Me too. Can you afford it?”
He shrugs. “Keep the designs coming, and I’ll buy you a matching one in five years.”
“Ha.” I rest my head against his shoulder. “And leave my apartment? Never.”
I look up at the master bedroom, and imagine him at the window, fresh from a shower, a towel around his waist. I think of that giant kitchen, the tall fireplace, the view. I don’t want a matching one. I want this one, with him in it. I want to swim naked in this pool and roll around in front of that fireplace, and make love in that kitchen.
The wind picks up, sweeping my hair across my face, and I feel, in the strong brush of its breeze, my daydreams scatter.
Chapter 30
HIM
I don’t understand my cock. When I was younger, I wanted more kink. Something wilder than vanilla, something that led to orgies and threesomes, an audience often present during my fucking. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-eight, I can only think of one woman. And she’s not the one currently elbow deep in naked men.
I sigh, pushing open the glass sliding door and stepping out onto the Hollywood Hills balcony, resting my hands on the rail and looking down at the circular drive, one littered with expensive vehicles, a suited valet stepping from a Lambo and holding the door open to a couple, one who I saw earlier. From behind me, I hear the familiar shriek of Chelsea’s orgasm, her sixth or seventh of the evening. It’s a sound that should stir my cock, one that should, at the very least, pull my eyes toward the scene. But I don’t care. Or maybe I do care, and that’s the problem. Dating Chelsea has been my first experience with this world from the perspective of a couple and not as a single male. Being single, the situation was simple. I arrived, I pleased, I came, I left. Being emotionally involved with the woman in the threesome, or foursome, was a different scenario entirely. As it turns out, I don’t like to share. There is something about another man putting his hand on my girlfriend that rubs me the wrong way. Chelsea said that makes me a hypocrite, seeing as that was how we met—me fucking her while her then-boyfriend watched. I don’t think it makes me a hypocrite. I think different things turn on different people and, right now? Monogamy is looking pretty damn sexy. I don’t want to deal with internet chatrooms and strangers and illicit meetings in hotel rooms. I want to memorize one woman’s body and every sound and pleasure point she has. I want to please her in every room of my new house, and on every continent. I want to get married. And in all of those visions, Chelsea isn’t present. In all of those thoughts, there is only Kate.
Kate, who is still with that tooth doctor.
Kate, who gets flowers every other week, delivered to the damn office. Kate, who left for a weekend in Cabo and came back tan and glowing, her hair still curly from the salt air. It had been the longest weekend of my life, imagining what they were doing, imagining what he was saying to her. Chelsea had been a needed distraction that weekend. Hell, her presence is the only thing keeping me from looking like a lovesick idiot. And she understands, her breezy attitude about Kate almost annoying at times. What woman is okay with her boyfriend being in love with someone else? Maybe it is her generation, a younger attitude that accepts all circumstances. Or maybe she enjoys the expensive dinners and my cock. I turn, my back settling against the balcony rail, and watch her through the open curtains. On her hands and knees, she looks over her shoulder and laughs at something the man behind her says. Reaching forward, she looks up at the cock in front of her, her hand greedy in its grasp of it.
Ten years ago, maybe I’d have fallen in love with her. Now, I only want out. I pull back my sleeve and look at my watch. I’ll give her another half hour of fun. Then, damn the situation, we’re leaving.
Chapter 31
HER
“So much for Paris in the springtime.” I flick a piece of bread into the mist and watch a pigeon pounce on it.
“It’s an off day.” Trey sips his coffee and points down the street. “Look, the Eiffel Tower. That’s all you really need to see. Now you can go home happy.”
“Wet and happy,” I grumble, scooting my chair closer to the table, its flimsy umbrella doing little to protect us from the rain. He chuckles and I wave my hand in the air to stop him. “Shush, I heard how it came out. Just get me somewhere warm and I’ll be less grumpy.”
“Fine.” He stands, fishing into his pocket and pulling out some euros. Peeling off a few bills, he tucks them under the coffee cup and holds out his hand. “But we’re going to have to make a run for it.” I slip my hand in his, and he pulls me through the crowded street. My other hand pulls at the hood of my rain jacket, the downpour soaking my jeans, my flats squishing with water by the time he finds an empty alcove for us to duck into.
“Oh my God.” I push the hood off my head and wipe underneath my bottom lashes with my fingertips. “I miss California.”
He runs a rough hand through his hair and water splatters everywhere. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who wanted us to open a French boutique.”
“It was a terrible idea,” I decide. “You should fire me for it.” I look out on the street. “I mean, look at these women. They aren’t going to buy two-hundred-dollar panties.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He leans against the wall and points to a man who holds an umbrella, helping a brunette across the street. “But he is. And so will the women, once that billboard goes up.” He turns to me. “Or so you tell me.”
The billboard is actually the side of a building, one that will host a ridiculously sexy picture of Trey, in his hottest suit, our LeCort bra hanging from the tip of his finger. It’s part of the campaign I had brainstormed the night of Trey’s mugging. This billboard is one of eight ads, all of which featured Trey, domination pouring from the images. I had been right. He ordered women to buy our lingerie, and they responded in staggering numbers. Our focus groups had obsessed over it, and sales in US cities spiked everywhere we’ve run the ad. The billboard will be the first of a full French marketing campaign.
“It doesn’t matter if they buy.” I jump in place, watching my shoes, bits of water squirting out the top of them as I land. “This entire thing was really just an excuse for a free trip to Paris. And now that I’m here, and it’s freaking bleak and dreary, I’d like to cancel it all. Let’s just forget the grand opening altogether and fly home. I’ll even give you a free grope mid-flight.”
He makes a face, his hands tucking into his pockets. “No deal. I grope you anyway. As soon as you start drooling all over my shoulder, my hands get to working. But if you can wear a front-clasp bra, that would make my life easier. It’s a bitch to undo it from the back, especially when people are watching.”
I smile despite the weather and the hours of work ahead of us. He catches the movement and steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he matches my stance, both of us looking out into the street. Even through the rain and the fog, it does have a certain ethereal beauty to it. A beauty that I never thought I would experience and yet here I am, in the most romantic city on Earth, with him. I glance over, and he looks down at me, a grin stealing over his face. “You know we’ve done it, Kate. Pulled Marks Lingerie from the ashes.”
I nod, and for once, I don’t have words. Tomorrow, we will open the doors to a French store, a sister to the Los Angeles boutique we opened six months ago. This year, we will clear two million in profits. Next year, we should triple that, launch a men’s line and five more boutiques. It’s incredible what we’ve done, all in two-and-a-half years. As fucked up as our attraction occasionally gets, at least we have this. I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life.
I nod again, and he wraps his arm around me, his chin resting on my head. “Thank you, Kate.”
I smile. “You’re welcome.”
* * *
“I love Paris!” I scream the words into the night, the wind carrying them down to the street, a few tourists cheering in response. An arm hooks around my waist, and I giggle as Trey hauls me off the balcony, his hands firm as he turns me in place and then points to the suite’s couch.
“Sit, my drunk beauty.”
“Yessir,” I mock, plopping down on the red velvet, some of the champagne sloshing out of my flute. I take a small sip, watching as he feeds another log into the fireplace, bright orange embers curling through the air, some floating into the room. I close my eyes and stretch my bare feet toward the fire.
“Warm enough?” he asks, and the couch beside me dips from his weight. I roll my head to the side, smiling at the look of him, his bow tie loosened, tux jacket gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Rumpled. My rumpled and sexy man.
“I’m perfect.” I hold my champagne glass out to him. “Finish this please.”
He takes it from me and finishes off a hundred dollars’ worth of champagne in one thick gulp.
“Is it weird that I didn’t bring Stephen with me?”
He looks down into the empty champagne flute, then sets it on the side table, slouching down on the couch until his position matches mine. “No. It was a work trip.”
“Is it weird that I didn’t want to bring him?”
He turns his head to the side, his ear against the couch pillow. “A little.”
“Did you think about bringing Chelsea?” It’s been eight months, and I still struggle to say her name.
“It wouldn’t have made much sense to. We broke up last week.”
“What?” I readjust, turning slightly to see him better. “Why?” They broke up? My drunk self can’t handle the news; it doesn’t know how to react, and whether to cheer or cry. I’ve spent months trying to adjust to the impending possibility of their long-term relationship, months trying to see him as a friend and never ever anything else.
“You want the long or short answer?”
“Both.”
“She wasn’t you.”
Three simple words, yet they hit like sledgehammers. I look into his eyes and wonder how much of the emotion welling in me is from the champagne, how much is from Paris, and how much is from him. I have a boyfriend. I need to remember that. Stephen is a good and stable man. I just can’t, right this second, remember what makes him better than Trey. I swallow. “Is that the long or short answer?”
“The short one.” He sighs. “The long one will have to wait for another night.”
“I’m with Stephen.”
“I didn’t tell you that to change anything, Kate.” He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear. “I was just answering your question. I wanted to try dating, I thought Chelsea would be a good fit.” He shrugs. “She wasn’t. It is as simple as that.”
Would I be a good fit? It’s a question I won’t ask, a door I can’t open—not when I’m with Stephen.
It’s as simple as that. But nothing is ever simple, not when it involves the two of us.
Chapter 32
HIM
She falls asleep on the couch, her bare feet stretched out on the rug, her beaded dress bunched and twisted. I carry her to the bed, and she wakes enough to undress, my hand careful as I help her with the zipper, my eyes looking away as she peels the evening gown away, the barest of peeks revealing her choices for the evening—our Haviar shelf bra and matching eyelet panties, both pale lavender. I pull back the duvet and she rolls underneath it.
“Goodnight, Kate.” I pull the blanket up and softly kiss her forehead. Moving toward the second bedroom, I stop in the doorway, looking back at her, dark hair spread over the pillowcase, arm limp over the top of the duvet.
Sometimes, I love her so much it hurts.
Chapter 33
HER
“Please focus," I laugh, leaning back in the chair and rubbing my eyes. "We're going to be here all night if you keep getting distracted."
"Just try on the white one." He pulls a bathing suit out of the box and holds it up with one hand, the other hand wrapping around his beer, the bottle lifted to his lips as he grins at me. "Then we can go back to your comparison charts.”
The box before him is an order from Fredrick’s of Hollywood, and contains their entire summer lineup. We have ridiculed their products while finishing off an entire platter of tacos and … I eye the empty bottles littering the conference table ... two six-packs of Mexican beer. He shakes the flimsy white fabric at me and I snatch it from him, holding the ridiculous ensemble up by the straps. Its first downfall is the color—the type of cheap white that will turn dingy by the second wash. The second downfall—and the sadder of the two—the style. It has a poufy neckline, one that matches the little skirt that hugs the hips of the suit. I turn the suit around and am dismayed to see a tail of sorts, the skirt continuing in a manner the fashion designer had probably pitched as “seductive.” It’s a disaster. I toss it at his face and he tilts his head away, the swimsuit catching on his beer and hanging there for a moment.
Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6 Page 120