It’s strange, seeing him in this role, seeing the tenderness come through all of the layers of playboy. How he sweeps a loose tendril of her hair and tucks it into her braid. How he lowers his head to listen to her words, and watches her when she walks through the room. I’ve had his undivided attention for so long—seeing it directed at another woman is disconcerting. I feel lost when I look at him and don’t have his gaze, when I say something to him and it takes a moment to get his attention. I reach under the table and slide my hand into Stephen’s, needing to feel something, a connection, filled with a sudden yearning to be held, cupped against a man’s chest, the feel of arms wrapped around me. Stephen’s arms, I remind myself, lifting my eyes from Trey’s hand, from the slow slide of his index finger around the lip of his bread plate. I move my gaze up Trey’s chest, his jacket open, his dark V-neck shirt snug to his body, light stubble across his neck and jaw. His lips twitch and I flip my gaze to his eyes. They study me, and there is a moment where I can’t swallow, where a bit of bread just sits on my tongue. He slowly palms his glass, and I can only watch as he lifts it to his mouth. The simple act of sipping a drink shouldn’t be seductive, it shouldn’t make a woman clench her thighs or swallow in need. I’m suddenly thirsty, and hot, and I look away, reaching for my ice water, smiling when Stephen glances my way.
Chelsea asks me something about my dress, and I answer, forcing myself to meet her eyes, to respond in kind, to have some stupid conversation about an episode of The View, one I haven’t seen but that she seems desperate to chat about.
“We’re going to Exuma at the end of the month,” Trey cuts in smoothly. “You two should join us.”
“They have wild pigs there,” she says excitedly. “You can swim with them.”
“Pigs?” I ask dubiously. “Is that sanitary?”
“They’re very clean,” she informs me, leaning forward, her voice dropping, as if this is a secret of some sort. “They have an Instagram account; I can send you the link.” I don’t tell her that I’m not on Instagram, or that I have little interest in swimming with an animal that I’m minutes away from eating. I simply nod, look for the waiter, and regret agreeing to this dinner to begin with.
“What do you think, Kate?” Trey settles back in his chair, and his foot bumps mine. “Exuma? You and Steve?”
“The end of the month?” I look up to the ceiling. “I think…” I look to Stephen for rescue. “Isn’t that when we’re going to your parents?”
He misses my cue but brightens up at the thought of me and his parents, an introduction he has been pushing for weeks. When he nods, I frown at Trey, painting my features with as much regret as I can muster. “Maybe next time,” I say, and he holds my gaze for a moment before he turns to Stephen.
“Steve, Kate says that you’re an oral surgeon.”
“It’s Stephen,” I interrupt, irritated when Stephen waves off the nickname, his shoulders hunching forward as he launches into his spiel on tooth maintenance and root canal procedures. I glance at Chelsea, who is studying her menu. I watch her hand leave one edge of the menu as she reaches under the table, my eyes zeroing in on a movement that has Trey pausing mid-sentence. She glances up, catches me watching, and colors slightly, her hand returning to the menu, the linen paper flipped over as she stares at the wines.
Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe behind her blushes and soft words, she’s a super freak. Something had to cause him to hop on the dating bandwagon after so many years of being single. I look at my own menu and try to push out the thought of what her hand encountered, what he feels like through his slacks, and if he had hardened under her touch. I flush and stare at the list of entrees. Yeah. We’re definitely not going to Exuma. A full weekend with them would be pure hell.
“So, I’ve got to tell you, Steve.” Trey sets down his glass and I sense the danger before he even reopens his mouth. “I’ve always wondered if Kate is as much of a hard ass in relationships as she is at the office.”
“Oh please.” I roll my eyes. “Ignore him, Stephen.”
“No, really.” Trey leans forward, his hands linking, his forearms resting on the linen tablecloth. “Is she an alpha?”
“I’m actually very submissive,” I lie, for no reason whatsoever, except that Little Miss Chelsea here seems to be positively collared by design.
“Oh please,” Trey scoffs. “You couldn’t be submissive if your life depended on it.”
“Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down.” I stare at him and wonder if he has forgotten that moment. “I think you’re wrong.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” he challenges. “A lot of men like a little fight in their woman.” He glances at Stephen. “So settle it for us. In a relationship, is she dominant or submissive?”
He’s asking a man who barely knows me, and he knows it. This isn’t a question, this is a pop quiz, one to find out how involved my relationship actually is, how much of my heart this man has actually sampled. I rip off a piece of bread with my teeth and wonder how convincingly I can feign illness. Maybe we could skip the main course and escape after appetizers.
“She’s not that simple,” Stephen says, his hand running down my back, his fingers cool on the bare skin. “Just when I think she’s the most independent woman in California, she’ll surprise me.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss on my shoulder. “Like you did last week.” I flick my eyes up to him, a question in them. Last week? He leans in, lowering his voice. “In the elevator,” he reminds me.
Oh. I wouldn’t exactly call that a submissive moment; it was more of a weak one. The elevator in his building had shuddered, the lights flickering, and I had all but crawled into his arms, terrified of being stuck there, in the dark, a claustrophobic attack armed and ready. It hadn’t been necessary. The lights had stayed on, and the elevator had resumed its climb, crisis averted. I shrug, ready to be done with the conversation. “You’re right. I’m a paradox of contradictions.” I stick my tongue out at Stephen, and he gives me that smile, the one he reserves for moments when he’s enamored with me, and I’m not surprised when he leans forward, pressing a kiss to my lips. When I pull away, the waiter is finally here, and I smile at him in relief.
Him
The dinner is two hours of absolute agony, and I don’t know if it had originally been Kate’s idea or mine, but it needs to never ever happen again. Every time he touches her, my skin crawls. The prick kisses her, and I about come out of my chair. And I’ll never be able to step on an elevator again without running through every possible scenario that could have occurred between them. The question had been a test, and he’d failed. Submissive and dominant aren’t words that apply to Kate. She is both, constantly, and at the same time. She challenges me as she begs for domination. She argues for what she wants to be told. She needs a firm hand that gives her everything she wants. She needs me, and no one else.
Chelsea says something and I turn my head, nodding, willing her to go to the bedroom and sleep. Tonight was as cruel to her as it was to me. Each touch was a show, each whisper a power play, the entire meal a battle between Kate and me. Chelsea pulls on my hand and I stand, following her to the room.
“Wait here.” She pushes me down in the chair, the one by the bedroom’s fireplace, and I sink into the velvet, rubbing my hands across my face.
“Not tonight, Chels—”
“Shut up.” She disappears into the bathroom, and I slouch in the chair, closing my eyes and resting my head on the back of the chair, listening to the sound of water running and drawers opening. When she reappears, I crack open an eye, her profile silhouetted by the bathroom’s light. “Close your eyes,” she whispers.
I don’t, my head rolling to one side as I eye her, trying to understand what is different. It’s her hair, it’s dark and shorter, brushing the top of her shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh…” she says, straddling me. “Don’t ask questions.”
She leans forward, and it’s the
n that I smell the perfume, the scent that Kate wears. I stiffen, and she lifts my hands, placing them on her hips. “Undress me.”
“Chelsea…”
“Don’t think about it. Pretend I’m her. You need it.” She drags her fingers through my hair, and in the dark bedroom, with the dark hair, her smell … I can almost believe it. I can almost believe that this is Kate, and I can have her. Right now, I can unbutton her top and bury my face into her breasts. I can push her to the floor and have her mouth around my cock. I can carry her to my bed, and wrap her legs around my waist and tell her everything that I always think and never say. I love Chelsea for this, and I also hate her for seeing it, for how transparent I must be.
I drop my head forward, resting it on her chest, my arms stealing around her waist. I hug her to me and feel myself breaking, feel exactly how fragile every piece of my world is. “I can’t,” I say, the words gruff. “I’m sorry.”
She leans back and lifts my chin. I’m glad it’s dark, glad I can’t see her face. “Don’t be sorry. It was a stupid idea. A little creepy on my part, too.”
I laugh, and drop my forehead into the crook of her neck. “It wasn’t a terrible idea. I’m hard as a rock right now.”
“Yeah, I can feel that.” She rocks against me. “Any chance of me taking advantage of that?”
“Not tonight.” I reach up and gently pull at her hair, the wig coming off, her blonde hair spilling out. “I’m in one hell of a mood. I’m just going to step in the shower, if you don’t mind. Then I can take care of you.”
“I’m fine.” She rolls off my lap, bouncing to her feet. “I’m ten minutes away from a wine coma anyway.” She wanders toward the light, and pauses, turning in the doorway. “But you’re setting up something for this weekend, right? Someone for me to play with?”
“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 13
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.
Him
I don’t understand my coc
k. 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.