“Are you ready?”
I nod, and he impales me.
I lose the capacity to breathe as pleasure surges through me. My legs are limp. My feet tremble. My stomach quivers. And in between my legs, I’m stretched full, bursting; hot and tight and roaring. Then he starts to move, and I am screaming.
Sex has never felt like this. Like we’re one person—two halves of a whole. I rock my hips, arching off the mattress because I am desperate—aching—for more of him. Above me, leaning on sinewy arms, Marchant’s eyes are wide open. He’s watching me—watching my every groan.
“Tell me you like it,” he purrs.
“I love it.”
“Tell me that you want me deeper.” I lift my hips as he thrusts deeper in.
“I want you deeper,” I cry hoarsely.
And then he angles himself just so, so the base of him slides slickly over my aching, swollen clit, and I roll over the edge with an animal roar.
It’s not until sometime later, when the buzzing in my head is quiet and my body has stopped glowing, that I realize he must have come when I did. He’s lying on his side, the condom gone, his cock still long and mostly hard, his chest within licking range, wearing a Cheshire cat grin. He looks gorgeous enough to stop hearts.
“Oh my God.” I’m panting. I realize suddenly that I’m spread out, totally nude, and grope for a blanket—but the covers are thrown off the mattress, hanging down onto the floor. “Damnit. You’re a Beast in bed. I mean…whoa.”
“Best you’ve ever had?” His smile widens just a little.
“Yes.”
“You were pretty good yourself. Passionate. We fit together well.”
I smile. “I think so.” I’m about to confess that I’ve never done anything like this before when he leans forward, looking into my eyes with his dark ones.
“I enjoyed this so much that I’ve changed my mind. You can stay here—if you want to. You’ll stay until we’ve run this dry and then, if you’re not finished with the job, I’ll go. To one of my other houses. Does that sound like a deal?”
I nod. I don’t see where I can go wrong, and even if I can, after the sex we just had, I’m not sure it’s possible for me to turn him down. “Sounds good to me.”
“There’s only one thing you need to keep in mind, and that is: this is just sex. I’m not in the market for a relationship.” He says the word as if it’s something dangerous. “If you find yourself developing…feelings, or, in fairness, if I do…I can go.”
“Where?” The question just pops out.
“I have a cabin in Wyoming.” Before I can comment, he’s rising up off the bed, slipping into a robe I didn’t even see him grab. “Do you agree to let me know?” he asks. “If you find yourself wanting more than sex?”
I sit up, glancing around the plush rug for my own discarded clothes. “I do.”
“Then lie back down.”
He takes my shoulders gently, easing me down onto my back, and spreads my legs again.
*
MARCHANT
I’m weak.
So fucking weak.
I should have tossed her out the door, but I had to take her to my room. And fuck her. And find that, just like last time, she fit perfectly around my cock.
I rub my eyes and tell myself I won’t let it get personal; she already knows I don’t want this to get personal. No getting to know her, and definitely no letting her know me. I’ll give her perimeters for the job and let her at it, and when she’s got down time, I’ll fuck her senseless. The sex is as much a part of our deal as the contract she’s signing at Rachelle’s cottage right now for the design job. I remind myself that it, too, is business. A cock and a cunt. Nothing but biology.
Except that as I showed her out the door, I had a vivid memory of her eyes. They were unhappy. So was her mouth, and that’s because she was talking to a nurse in the ER. She was talking on my behalf—talking about needles.
Next I remember watching from across a hotel lobby as she passed her credit card across the desk. Which led me full-circle, since earlier today, my memory of our hotel room encounter returned.
I fucked Suri Dalton—manic as sin; out of my damn mind. I fucked her hard. And then I left her there. I’m not sure what bothers me so much about that. I’ve done the same with other women—just taken off, with no explanations and no apologies—but it does. And it’s triggering as hell to know I fucked her while I was manic. Triggering because it reminds me of Marissa.
So today, I was a little rough with her. Damn right. I wanted to drive her off, and if not—obviously not—I wanted to show her I’m not like her Adam. Not like Carlson, or any other man she might have climbed in bed with. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want her heart and soul, and I damn sure don’t need saving. Not right now, anyway. The only reason she’s still here is I could use a few good fucks to chase away the remnants of my darkness.
Half an hour later, I’m feeling steady again. I’m watching something on the Science channel, still glowing my post-fuck glow, when I get a text from Juniper: ‘Mr. Obar coming this evening. Which cottage?’
A quick call to Rachelle, another call to my grounds manager, and shit! I’m out of cottages.
I put Juniper in the rear room of a cottage Leslie is using, and work on pacing a hole in my floors. Suri Dalton will be back with her bags in a few days, and there’s nowhere for her to stay.
I call Rachelle once more, just to confirm the grim news—but I’m correct. Stacy returned from a brief vacation and is taking clients in a cottage with Alicia, while the third cottage across the yard is closed because of sewerage issues. Which means the only spare room on the whole damn premises is inside my place.
I’m not sure I can stand to be so close to her. If I’m honest with myself, I guess I just find it…fucking weird that she wants anything to do with me. I mean, yeah, I’m in pretty decent shape and I’m not too tough on the eyes. But she pulled me out of a fucking pool.
I guess objectively, that’s not too weird. Not unless you know what I know: that I drowned that night on purpose. Because without Lithium, I do that sort of thing.
I’m wondering if I can keep my shit together, wondering if I can share my space with her and keep my secrets tucked away, when I get a text. I slide the lock key on my phone, wondering for a moment if maybe she’s canceling. But it isn’t her.
The first clue it’s something strange is that it comes from an unknown number.
I open the text, wondering if I gave my number to any of the escorts my bank statement tells me I ordered after getting back from El Paso.
What greets me makes my head feel too light. Like a balloon that just might float away.
“You going to pay me, or should I take down something dearer to you than your precious whore house?”
I lie down on the couch and stare up at my ceiling. Then, instead of calling Suri Dalton, telling her not to come back, I call my financial coordinator.
I give him Hawkins’ bank account number, the one my P.I., David, dug up, and have him deposit the amount I owe, plus twenty-five percent. I’m not sure anymore what’s dear to me, but I’m not taking chances.
16
SURI
After I leave Marchant’s cottage, I have coffee with Rachelle and her partner, meet the team of gem-finders I hired to find Gran Gran’s ring, and take a quick flight back to Napa.
I spend three days getting the house in order, collecting my “toolbox” full of fabric and textile samples I think would interest Marchant, and lying low.
Most of the lying low is because of Adam and Brina. My sisters have given me the heads up that Brina is parading Adam all over town, and the last thing I need is a run-in with the two of them. I’m ashamed to admit, I’m hiding from Lizzy, too. Because once she knows I took the Love Inc. job, she’ll know about Marchant and me. I just know she will.
When she texts me the first day I’m home, I tell her I’m chin-deep in a new project and need to talk later. When she ca
lls the second day, we talk for half an hour, focused completely on how she and Hunter are dealing with the pregnancy. (Hunter is playing the part of nurse but not saying much about the baby, which is fine at the moment because Lizzy has just started getting morning sickness).
I spend the third day at Crestwood Place cleaning. I’m kind of a neat-freak, and I can’t leave the house without cleaning it. I’m feeling even tidier than usual because moving around helps me avoid dwelling on Marchant. Not that I don’t want to think about him. Because I do. I just don’t want to dwell.
Finally, it’s go time.
The plane is in the air just a few minutes after ten on Monday morning. I spend the flight jotting down design ideas and indulging a rare classical music mood with a little Chopin.
The CRV I rented this time is white and waiting for me at the little private airport about twenty minutes from the ranch. I stop by a little grocery store before heading toward Love Inc., still feeling good about things.
But by the time my grocery-laden Jeep is bouncing down a ribbon of freshly paved county road, it’s mid-afternoon, and I don’t feel relaxed. My heart kicks into an erratic rhythm as I turn onto an even smaller drive. As I follow it through a grove of trees, toward a small, square parking lot, I try to convince myself that I took this job for personal reasons. Because I need a few weeks to lie low. Because it’ll be nice to get out of my big, lonely Crestwood Place for a little while. Because the job will look good on my resume.
I see a swatch of stone through brush—one of the cottages—and my stomach knots, because I know I’m lying to myself. I’m here because Marchant Radcliffe offered me the job. I’m here because, despite all logic, I enjoy sex with him.
He’s obviously got problems, but when I’m kissing him, I don’t think about anything but him. I don’t worry. I don’t feel lonely or sad. In a way, he is like my drug. His skin and his scent. I like the way he moves, the way he speaks. He intoxicates me, and like an addict, I’m parking my CRV and opening the door because I’m back for more.
It’s not just his body that intrigues me. I want to know his secrets, too. What does that tattoo mean? Why the drug problem? I want to fix him. And that’s not just stupid, it’s reckless. Yet I’m hoisting my duffel bag onto my shoulder, scooping up bags of groceries. Walking down the little pebble path that leads from this discreet parking lot to the row of cottages. To his cottage.
It’s my choice. I can choose to be stupid if I want to be.
Before I see his cottage, I see the main house, and whoaaaaa. During my breakfast with Rachelle the morning I was here last, when she told me the main house would be built in under a month, I didn’t believe her.
But...whoa. I’m not construction site-savvy, but I’ve worked on a few new builds with clients, and there have to be at least five crews working on this building. And what they’ve done in four days! There are walls now. Scaffolding walls, but walls nonetheless. Stone is piled high around the newly resurrected building skeleton; stone and shingles and shutters.
Marchant’s place is on the end of the row of cottages—the one that’s closest to the pond and the new “main house” at Love Inc. As soon as my eyes hit the front door, my pulse goes crazy and I start to sweat.
I tell myself this can’t end badly. He’s a pimp. I could never fall in love with a man like him. But I can have fun. And I’m overdue for some fun.
Marchant meets me on his porch. He’s wearing dark slacks and a white shirt. His face sports stubble that’s making its way into a beard. His eyes are sharp. I can feel him look me over. Can literally feel the heat.
I smile a little, but his lips don’t curl at all. He looks…like a hungry tiger. It’s a long moment before he takes the groceries from me. Our bodies brush, and I have a hard time making my legs carry me through the door he pushes open for me.
“Let’s put your groceries in here,” he says. “I’ve got the contractor waiting for us so we can talk about the timetable.”
I watch the way his back ripples under his shirt as he puts my orange juice, butter, milk, and eggs into his wide stainless steel refrigerator. I watch the way his strong hands flex as he lets go of the other bags, leaving them lined up on his counter.
“I’m excited to meet him—or her.”
“Him,” he tells me, leading the way back to the front door. He’s walking slightly fast, a step ahead of me; when he looks at me, he’s glancing over his shoulder. I get the strange sense that he’s wound up. Slightly tense. Is it possible I’m making him as antsy as he makes me? With his history, it seems doubtful. But still, I entertain the idea as I follow him out onto his porch and stand behind him while he locks the door.
I watch him slide the key into his pocket, noting the small, manatee keychain, and when he turns to me, our gazes collide. I take a small step back. A second passes as he seems to collect himself.
“Shall we?” He nods at the construction site two or three hundred yards through the trees, and I say, “Sure.”
We walk close together, shoulders and elbows bumping once or twice. Past the pond. Past the grove of trees. He tells me about the construction crew—one big crew that typically does big, casino-style jobs—and the timeline as we move within sight of the pool.
He’s saying something about, “Tom, the main guy,” and how his last project was a dog track, but I’m not really listening. I’m imagining him on the concrete, shirtless and pale. I have a strange memory of myself, lying on my back, choking on blood beside my own pool. March 15. I wonder for the jillionth time what that date means to him.
“Suri?”
“Yes?”
He’s standing in front of me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t think about that.”
I feel a blush cross my cheeks. “How did you know?”
“You look like someone just killed your kitten.”
I scrunch my nose. “I’m more a dog person.”
“Then puppy,” he says.
Behind him, men and women move about the cement and plywood site, but all I see is those brown eyes. Hypnotic eyes. Heat flows from his palms, through my blouse, into my shoulders, spreading downward. I can barely find the words to reply, “That’s not how I look.”
“It is,” he tells me softly. “Don’t.”
There’s a hint of something stern in his voice—almost harsh. A warning? Don’t make this into more than what it is, he’s saying.
“I won’t.” I toss my hair—to…what? To show him that I’m not getting too serious about all this.
“I mean it,” he whispers. “I want you to forget about that. Forget everything that happened before right now. If you need help,” he says with a smug look, “I’ll help you when we’re done here.”
I’m so rattled I can barely manage a nod. A few seconds later, a tall African-American man strides over with his gloved hand outstretched. Tom.
We spend the next half hour walking the site, with Marchant introducing me to his construction crew and me asking questions. I discuss some of my ideas, little things to make the original design a little cozier, a little sexier, and Tom tells us how long it would take to make them happen. Since the escorts’ dormitory building also got damaged, it’s being gutted and expanded slightly, with new suites carved out for the girls (and guys). For coordination purposes, the building on the right, the one with the library, salon, doctors’ office, and whatever else is there, will be getting new décor as well.
By the time our conversation with Tom is over, I’ve decided I’ll probably be here at least three weeks. Maybe four. And I feel giddy. Middle school crush giddy.
The feeling quickly dissipates, leaving cold anticipation as we walk back through the grove. He feels it, too. I can tell. And I think it’s just sexual tension—same as what I feel—until we reach his door and he turns to me. “Suri…there’s been a change. You’ll be staying here with me.”
*
MARCHANT
I watch her eyes widen. Pretty eyes. She looks startled.
/> “If that doesn’t work, there’s a decent hotel about seven miles away. I can book you there.”
The sun is going down, casting a red sheen over her face. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. But I’m on edge, waiting for her answer.
She smiles. “You don’t have to do that. I’m okay here. But where will you stay?”
“I’ve got a suite downstairs in the basement.”
“Oh.” She nods. “That sounds fine. Did you run out of rooms?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I could do the hotel if that’s easiest.”
“No—you’re fine.”
I lead her inside and wave toward my room. “I’ve got another bedroom by my room, but it’s kind of bare bones. My room is yours if you want it.”
I watch the uncertainty flit across her face, followed by a long look into my eyes. She’s trying to see what I want, but I keep my face neutral. I want to see if she’ll take the lead.
“Um, okay. If you’re sure?”
I like the way she hesitates. Polite. I don’t see that often in Vegas.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” I tell her, as I step to the couch where I sat her bag. I throw it over my shoulder and lead her down the hall. Turn on the light to my room. It’s large, with a bed, a bookshelf, a dresser, and a couch.
Truth is, I don’t like being in it. Not after the last few weeks. I need a break. And there’s something good about seeing her in it. I have the preposterous thought that the room deserves an occupant like her—to sort of clear out the bad vibes. But that’s just fucking stupid.
“Bathroom’s in here,” I say, opening that door. “I already got my stuff out. Just use what you want.”
She gives the bathroom an appreciative glance—it’s large, and done to the nines—and I realize I left my medicine in the medicine cabinet. Stupid!