Vicious: Chapter 16

ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT was getting into bed with her. I didn’t want to talk to her about life. I didn’t want to get to know her better. Already, I was breaking approximately five thousand different rules by spending the day with her. Every minute spent outside of bed was risky. But it seemed like the more I acted like a blunt, disgusting pig, the more she asked about my profession, my hobbies, my preferences.

People had never given a shit about those things. Ever. Her interest in me didn’t make me feel good. It made me feel weird.

We were headed to Broadway next. I prayed she didn’t really plan for us to go see a play. I had nothing against Broadway shows, but when one was standing in the way of me and her long-awaited pussy, I was just about willing to burn the whole fucking street down. I’d already started doing the math in my head. Calculating the sentence for setting an occupied building on fire. Arson, possibly attempted murder. Those were heavy felonies. What was I looking at here? Hard time. Fifteen years, minimum. Different states varied, but New York was hard on its criminals.

Fifteen years.

Still fucking worth it.

“Vicious!” Emilia snapped me out of my reverie. I walked faster than her even though I had no idea where we were going. I just knew I wanted to get it over with.

“What?” I hissed.

“Did you listen to anything I just said to you?”

Of course not.

“Absolutely.”

“Really?” She stopped in her tracks, folding her arms across her chest. “What did I say? Where are we going next?”

It was already past six o’clock and tomorrow was the last day of work before Christmas. I wasn’t in the mood for quizzes.

I looked above her head at the flashing neon sign for a tattoo parlor and blinked once. “You want to get a tattoo,” I said flatly.

By the surprised look on her face, I knew I got it right.

“Of what?” she insisted.

“Of…” I gave myself some time to think about it, even though I didn’t need any. I knew her. Better than most people, actually. “A cherry blossom tree.”

“Screw you.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do here all day. Where are you getting this tattoo? I don’t want it to get in the way of our fuck session.”

“Nape of my neck,” she replied. “Don’t worry, it’ll be pretty small.”

I nodded, my dick twitching twice. Apparently, she got its approval too. “Let’s get you inked.”

I really was a lucky bastard because the parlor was mostly empty, despite it being one of the best places in the City. I didn’t know why Emilia chose to take me with her for her first tattoo, but hell if I cared.

She sketched her tattoo on the stencil paper over the counter, the tip of her tongue peeking out of her red mouth as she scrunched her nose and drew. There was a heavily made-up Goth girl leaning against a barstool. She looked at us like most people did. Like Emilia had kidnapped me or like I was her sensible brother. We were so different it was borderline comical. Me with my custom suit, expensive coat, and rich asshole air about me and her with her burgundy-wine sweater, beanie, Christmas leggings, and army boots.

When Emilia was done and showed her artwork to the girl—it even had coloring and shades—the girl nodded and took the sketch to the back room. Emilia chewed the pencil she’d used, and I took it out of her mouth and shoved it into my pocket.

“Hey, it’s not even ours,” she protested.

“They don’t need this shit with your saliva all over it,” I clipped out.

“Oh? And you do?” She grinned.

I didn’t reply. She was goddamn ridiculous. A big guy with a black goatee and matching long hair—completely tattooed from head-to-toe—stepped out of the back room, flipping aside a black vinyl curtain, and nodded hello to us.

“Name’s Shakespeare. ’Sup?”

We all shook hands. Then he proceeded to go over the process with Emilia. Since it was her first time, he explained the full procedure in detail. And when the fuck would this thing be over? It felt like days had passed since we’d agreed on screwing each other.

Shakespeare—whose goatee actually did make him look like an Elizabethan playwright—asked Emilia if she’d like me to tag along and enter the room. She started answering, “Well…”

Which was obviously not the right answer, so I answered on her behalf. “I’m coming in.”

The tattooist ignored me, moving his eyes between her and me, and tilted his chin down. “He doesn’t have to if you don’t want.”

Fuck him. He made it sound like she was a battered wife.

“Actually, I don’t care if he joins us. I know he loves watching me get hurt.” She winked at me, but she wasn’t smiling, and that thing in my chest sank a little.

Fuck her too.

We walked into the room. The floor was black and white, with red furniture everywhere, and there were framed pictures of Shakespeare’s work. He was good. I took a moment to appreciate his ink.

Shakespeare tossed his iPhone across his desk and dropped to his swivel chair in front of the adjustable tattoo table Emilia was already perched on. “What’s your poison?” he asked, sending her a wink.

I’m going to cut his fucking goatee off and feed it to him.

Emilia chose “Nightcall” by Kravinsky. He hooked his phone to a USB cable, and the music started blasting from every corner of the room. Shakespeare asked Emilia to take off her sweater and bra and lie on the table on her stomach, and to brush all her hair away from her back. She lifted her sweater, exposing her silky olive skin for the first time in front of me. My cock begged for my mind to do something, anything, to lure her to third base like we’d shook hands on.

When she reached for the back of her bra to undo it and turned her back to me, I snapped.

I pulled my wallet out of my pocket. “Here’s my credit card.” I extended the plastic to Shakespeare, waving it between my fingers like a bribe. “You can use it for whatever you want. Just give us ten minutes alone.”

Shakespeare opened his mouth, not touching the credit card, glancing between me and Emilia, who looked just as shocked as he did, if not more. But it was too late to take it back, and I didn’t want to anyway.

Come the fuck on, Goatee. Turn around and walk away.

“Anything,” I stressed, my face still blank. “Go get yourself a new chair. Or a table. Or ink, whatever the fuck it is you need. My treat. Go order food for the whole building. Buy the stray cat down the road a bed to piss on. I’ll give you ten minutes with my credit card if you give me ten minutes in this room with her. Alone.”

“Is your boyfriend always so aggressive?” He arched an eyebrow in Emilia’s direction, throwing her a questioning look that asked: Do you want me to leave you alone with this asshole, or do you want me throw him outside and call NYPD?

She laughed her syrupy Southern belle laugh that always seemed to stab straight to the pit of my fucking stomach. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Shakespeare’s eyebrow shot up. “You should tell him that. Doesn’t seem like he got the memo.”

With a huff, I shoved the credit card into his chubby hand and wrapped his sweaty fingers around it. “Hey, Dr. Phil, get the fuck out of here.”

Shakespeare did as he was told, the door closed, and it was just Emilia and me. She held her sweater to her braless chest and sat on the table, grinning at me.

“Third base?” She bit her lower lip.

I nodded, approaching her in steps that were restrained and even. I didn’t want to pounce on her like a maniac. I mean, I did want to, but I couldn’t scare her away. Not after today.

Something had changed, whether I liked it or not. She knew my secrets. Some of them, anyway. I didn’t understand why I told her everything I did, but alarmingly, I didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

Just when I was inches from her body, watching her bare ribcage rising up and moving down to the rhythm of her heartbeats, I took a sharp right and walked to Shakespeare’s phone.

“Where are you going?” Her voice broke mid-sentence, and I suppressed a chuckle.

“I’m not eating you out to the sound of Kravinsky.”

After all, this is Emilia. The most important meal of the day.

And Kravinsky sucked ass, but I wasn’t going to argue with her over music. I switched it to “Superstar” by Sonic Youth, the song playing when I’d tried—and failed—to kiss her the first time ten years ago. When I turned around back to her, I saw in her eyes that she remembered it too.

“Apologize,” I ordered, striding in her direction once again.

“What for?” Her gaze shifted, and she looked like she was about to throw a punch at me.

“For not kissing me back when you clearly wanted to, you little liar. For fucking one of my best friends. For making that year the worst year of my life since I was nine. Apologize for not being mine when you should’ve been. Because Emilia, baby…” I tilted my head sideways. “It was always fucking us and you know it.”

“I won’t apologize unless you do too. For stealing my calc textbook. For treating me like trash…” She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. “For throwing me out of Todos Santos.”

I reached for her, placed myself between her legs, and yanked away the sweater she held to her chest. I stared straight into her eyes. “I apologize for doing all those things to you in high school, but now we’re grownups, and I think I’ve met my match. Your turn.”

“I apologize for being too fucking irresistible for you to maintain your sanity.” She rolled her eyes.

I knew how rare it was for Emilia use the F word. I loved it on her lips. I stood there staring into her face for a few seconds before I let my eyes drift down. Her breasts were better than I expected. Slightly smaller than I’d imagined, but with pinker, smaller nipples. They were truly PPPs.

Perky. Pear-shaped. Perfect.

My pulse quickened and blood rushed to my swollen cock.

“May I?” I asked. Why the fuck did I ask? When did I start asking for stuff, anyway?

“You may.”

I lowered my face to her right breast and flicked it with my tongue, tasting her tight nipple, teasing. She sighed and ran her fingers through my hair. My whole back broke into chills. I sucked on her, barely applying real pressure, as I moved my hand to her waistband. I shoved my palm in, moving my finger along her cotton panties.

“Jesus, Vic,” she murmured, clutching my head to her chest and loving every moment of it. “Jesus Christ.”

I moved to her left tit and sucked harder, and she reacted exactly as I wanted her to, moaning louder this time. That was my cue to nudge her panties to the side. My hand still tucked inside her leggings, I dipped one finger inside of her.

So tight.

So warm.

So mine.

“Emilia,” I whispered into her mouth before kissing her again. “How many times did you imagine me fingering you when you secretly watched me play football in high school?”

The music was slow and seductive, and we were completely fucking drunk.

Emilia cupped my face and stared at me, her eyes sparkling, like she was awestruck. Alcohol? Hormones? Who cared? She was vulnerable. For me.

“Please, don’t.” She moaned the words.

“Answer me,” I prompted, thrusting another finger into her. She was so soaked. I wanted to tear her stupid leggings to shreds and ride her on the table.

“All the time.” Her voice was strangled. “I thought about it all the time and hated myself for it.”

The song ended and I knew we had about five minutes more, if not less. Not nearly enough time for me to do what I wanted to do. So instead of feasting on her pussy, I fingered her faster, plunging deeper into her. She unbuckled me, slipped her hand into my briefs and squeezed the head of my cock, twirling a drop of pre-cum around it with her thumb. I groaned and devoured her mouth while she jerked me off.

Who would have thought. Emilia LeBlanc from Richmond, Virginia. So sweet. So proper. So fucking out of her mind for me, in this small tattoo shop on Broadway a couple of days before Christmas.

We were rubbing each other and moaning each other’s names into our mouths—both of us desperate to make sure it was real…

I realized I was about to come all over her Rudloph and his fucking red nose. I stopped her hand on my cock, still honing in on her throbbing clit. What the fuck was I doing? “Don’t,” I barked. “I’ll come.”

“And?” She smiled into one of our dirty, hot kisses.

“And I’d prefer not to come in your hand like a twelve-year-old,” I said. Barely.

“Ask me nicely, or I’ll continue.”

Was she fucking threatening me?

“You’re going to regret—” I started, but she started pumping faster, and I caved. Like a pussy, I gave her what she wanted. “Fine, fuck. Please.”

“Please what?” she teased, and holy hell, she was filthier than I’d imagined. Not at all the innocent little damsel in distress.

“Please…” I cleared my throat. “Don’t let me come all over your hand.”

That was the moment when Emilia LeBlanc jumped from the table with a naughty grin I’d never seen on her face before and got on her knees for me, her beautiful lavender hair in my fist, pumping my dick as she clasped the head of my cock between her lips.

“Come,” she mouthed on my cock.

And I did. Before she even finished the word.

It was stunning, the best thing I’d ever done with a woman in my entire life.

Three hours later, we walked out of the tattoo shop. She had a cherry blossom tree on her skin. It wasn’t that small. The nape of her neck was where the brown trunk stood tall, strong, with thick roots adorning her shoulder blades. Pink and purple blossoms caressed her thin, delicate neck.

And I was fucked.

So. Fucking. Fucked.

It was weird to have her in his penthouse.

Over the years, I’d brought girls to Dean’s apartment plenty of times. I took them in his kitchen, Jacuzzi, bathtub, the balcony overlooking Manhattan, and even got one flexible Juilliard dancer to do it on his very narrow, very packed wet bar. I didn’t think much of it. He did the same in my condo in LA. It was just the way we were. But when we finally got home, at close to midnight, I knew exactly where I had to take Emilia LeBlanc.

On her ex-boyfriend’s bed.

It wasn’t malicious. Not at all. She was right. This was too important to be done in a hotel or some random Starbucks. This was going to happen in a bed. She wasn’t a nameless one-night stand. She was a fantasy, and like all fantasies, she was meant to be savored, cherished, and treated with caution and respect.

Besides, Emilia didn’t know it was Dean’s bed, and I didn’t see how withholding the information from her could hurt her. It made no difference. At least to me.

She looked a little tired in the elevator, so I decided to wake her up by sucking on her neck, mere inches from the bandage covering the pink flowers. I crushed her body to the wall of the elevator and lifted her by the back of her knees, tying her legs around my waist.

“Does it still hurt?” I asked, brushing my fingers lightly over the wrapped up tattoo. She whimpered into my mouth and dragged her tongue over my lower lip but didn’t answer me. I wanted her words. I shouldn’t have cared, but I did.

I dry-fucked her, slow and lazy, through our clothes until the doors glided open, then I carried her the rest of the journey to Dean’s door while she was still wrapped around me. It was with great sadness that I had to let her go so I could unlock the door, and when I pushed it open, something occurred to me.

I’m a fucking idiot.

“Close your eyes,” I ordered. Shit. It sounded like I had a surprise planned for her, but the only thing surprising was that I was a complete and utter amateur. Goddammit.

“Why?” she questioned, sobering up a little from her alcohol-induced exhaustion.

“Because I said so,” I snapped.

“Try again. The non-jerk version this time,” she said sleepily.

Fuck, it was like behavioral boot camp with this woman. I took a deep breath. “I want it to be perfect,” I explained, almost softly.

Her eyes fluttered shut and I took her hands in mine—I fucking held her hands, another first—and led her to the master bedroom as we passed by pictures of Dean with his extended fucking family, smiling at us from every corner of the room.

Dean had a perfect family life. Amazing parents, two over-achieving sisters. The whole deal. But as great as his family was, it wasn’t interesting enough for me to keep the mementos of them in what was supposed to be my apartment. I couldn’t explain these pictures to Emilia, and I didn’t want to tell her it was Dean’s place because I didn’t want her to think I was fucking her to avenge what happened when we were teenagers.

Because I wasn’t.

I was fucking her because I’d wanted her pussy ever since I first saw her standing outside the library door and knew those peacock eyes were going to haunt me.

I lowered Emilia to the bed and ordered her to keep her eyes closed as I rushed to the living room. I grabbed the framed pictures of Dean and his family and shoved them all into his pantry. There were plenty of them, too. All over the living room, hallway, and kitchen area.

Fuck! Why couldn’t he have had a shitty family like mine? He could bring a whole FBI unit, fifty CIA agents, and fucking Nancy Drew to my condo and none of them would know I lived there. The guy’s place was more family-orientated than a Chuck-E-Cheese restaurant.

It took me ten minutes to get rid of Dean’s crap, and when I walked back to the bedroom, breathless, I saw Emilia lying flat on the mattress, her arms stretched out like a snow angel, snoring softly.

Snoring.

As in, not awake.

Snoring.

As in, she fell asleep.

Goddammit.

“Thanks a bunch, Cole,” I muttered, biting my own fist to suppress a frustrated scream.

This day was for nothing. We weren’t going to fuck. Well, not tonight, anyway. It wasn’t that today was torture—far from it, I’d mostly had a good time—but the only reason I agreed to it was because I knew what was waiting for me in the end.

For a slight second, I contemplated whether I should accidentally wake her up by breaking something or turning on the music because I simply didn’t know she was asleep, but apparently, even my assholeness had its limits.

I covered her with a blanket—again—and strode to the walk-in closet, pulling out my work-out clothes. The night was young, and sleep wasn’t on the menu for me, as usual.

I worked out at the indoor gym Dean’s building had to offer, then went back up to the penthouse—she was still asleep—and took a shower. When I was in my jeans and plain black tee, I padded barefoot to the living room and started going over documents for work. There were two agreements I needed to draft before New Year’s Eve. Easy Peasy. It wasn’t like I needed to spend some time with my family.

At four in the morning, I felt her arms wrap around my shoulders from behind as I sat on the sofa, scrolling through one of my client’s files.

“Do you have insomnia?” she asked bluntly into my ear before blowing on it teasingly. “You never sleep. Ever. I’m starting to think you’re not human.”

“My stepmom seems to share the sentiment.” I set my laptop on the coffee table and got up, spinning to face her. She looked how I felt. Pretty goddamn tired.

“Well, do you?” she probed.

“No,” I lied. “It’s four in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired anymore,” she protested. “And my new tattoo burns.”

“Pretty sure that’s not unusual. And you can go to sleep or let me fuck you, but we’re done talking for the day.”

“You know what, Vicious? I’m trying. I really am. To take you as you are. But sometimes, even I’m not immune to how horrible you can be.” She turned around and walked to the bedroom.

I watched her ass disappear down the hallway before she came back out with her courier bag and threw it across her shoulder. Her shoes were on. Why the fuck were her shoes on?

“Thanks for a mediocre day.” She collected her hair into a messy, high bun. “See you tomorrow at the office.”

She was leaving?

I felt like a chick. This was the male equivalent of being fucked and dumped. Some men called a taxi to pick up the women they screwed after sex. But she…she just wanted to leave after milking the longest date in the history of dates out of me.

I grabbed her by the ass and pulled her into my body until our noses touched. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I breathed hard into her face.

“Home, Vicious. I’m going home.”

“You know, Emilia, I feel a little robbed today. Can you see why?”

She blinked at me a couple of times. “You came in my mouth.”

“You came on my fingers,” I countered. “Yet, here I am, still ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent virgin, according to you, waiting for you to pop my cherry.”

She threw her head back and laughed, allowing me the opportunity to admire her straight white teeth.

Then she stopped laughing altogether and sighed. “You need help. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. In my apartment. Goodbye.”

Without thinking, I pushed my shoulder to her midsection, lifted her up fireman style, and carried her to the bedroom. This, right here, was what I’d wanted to do to her so many fucking times when I spotted her on the bleachers at one of my football games. I tackled big sweaty guys when, really, it was a cute fun-sized girl I wanted to take down.

To bring her down with me and drag her to my bed like a caveman.

I sauntered into the bedroom, pinching the sensitive flesh behind her knees and breathing her in. A throaty giggle escaped her.

I knew she had a great view of my ass. I also knew she was not going anywhere. Not this time. It was happening.

“Let me go, Vic,” she ground out. Lying. Again. She didn’t want to leave, and we both knew it. I didn’t answer. “I’m not going to sleep in your bedroom.”

Dean’s bedroom, but again, there was no reason for her to know that at this point.

I threw her on the bed, then bit my lip as I watched her sprawled on it, staring at me wide-eyed. Her purple hair was everywhere, and it was about to be tangled in my fist.

“That really hurt my tattoo.” Her hands moved to the back of her neck instinctively before she remembered she shouldn’t touch it. She rubbed her thighs instead.

“Strip for me,” I croaked. It sounded almost desperate to my ears. “Now.”

“I’ll take the non-jerk version, please.” She started with this again.

“Fine. Please, take off your clothes.” I pressed my palms together. I’d have gone down on my knees if I needed to. I didn’t want to do it myself. I wanted her to come to me willingly. To ask for it. For what she clearly wanted all those years ago.

To stop lying.

For the first time, I wanted her to invite me in, not to be the one to burst through her door.

“No,” she said, smashing my fantasy to pieces.

“No?” I lifted one eyebrow. “Then I guess I’ll have to chew them off of you.”

“Be careful,” was all she said, nodding.

Stupid tattoo.

I lowered myself to the bed, grabbing the hem of her red sweater and slowly peeling it off of her, inch by inch. Every sliver of skin was important. Like a blunt at the end of a stressful week, like a meal after days of starvation.

I. Was. Going. To. Savor. This. Woman.

She moaned when her sweater fell to the floor, and I licked an arrow straight to her belly button. I used my teeth to get rid of her stupid leggings and cotton panties while she watched me in awe. Then unsnapped her bra between groveling kisses.

She was naked.

She was mine.

This was happening.

I got up, standing on my knees on the bed, and simply stared at her for a few seconds, taking it all in. I was going to fuck this girl until there was nothing left for the next guy who came after me.

Hell, just thinking about it made me want to kill him.

I crawled onto the bed between her thighs and placed my groin over hers. Grinding slowly, building pressure, I kissed her mouth deep and licked her neck, her shoulders, the hollow at her throat. She sighed and grabbed my ass through my jeans, kneading, before unbuttoning the denim and pushing my jeans down along with my boxers. My flesh met her hot skin, and she was smooth, smoother than I’d imagined all these years. When she grabbed my shirt, I clasped her little hand in mine and bit her wrist softly.

“I don’t do shirtless,” I whispered. It was the truth. No shirtless. No dates. No relationships. These were the rules.

She shook her head no. There was something almost violent about that movement.

“You’re not going to have me unless the shirt comes off.”

I didn’t budge. I didn’t want to tell her to fuck off. For once in a very long time, I didn’t want to deal with the consequences of being an asshole. But I didn’t want to take off my shirt either.

“I don’t care about your scars, Vicious,” she stressed, searching my eyes. “They make you you.”

A moment ticked by. I took a deep breath. I’ve never fucked a woman with the lights on. Ever. By the time I started having sex, my skin was already so stained with Daryl’s abuse, I couldn’t bear it. The shame. The weakness it conveyed. Letting her fingers run freely against the bumpy scars was like giving up something that was completely mine.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” she insisted, cupping my cheeks and pressing our lips together. I frowned, breathing her in, my eyes squeezing shut, but Emilia continued.

“We’ve waited a long time for this. I want the real thing. Not the watered-down version. And the real thing is not only beautiful. It is also ugly. I want your truth.”

The head of my cock was already poking at her entrance, so I tried to convince myself I didn’t have any other choice.

Yes, I hated my scars. They were pink against my white skin, impossible to miss and loud, so fucking loud. But my need to be inside her was louder, to the point I was going to go deaf. I groaned and pulled the shirt over my head in one fast movement. Like removing a Band-Aid. I was about to push into her when she stopped me again.

“Condom,” she warned.

Right. Right.

I reached for the nightstand and patted inside the first drawer, knowing Dean kept them there. It was the first time I’d forgotten about wearing a condom since I started doing it, and I didn’t like it at all. My mind was not in the game when Emilia’s pussy was involved.

After tearing the wrapper and sheathing my cock properly, I closed my eyes, finally sinking into Emilia Leblanc. Her nails clawed into my back softly. I tensed when I felt the scape on my old wounds, but I let her. I was sinking into her, while she was sinking into me.

“Breathe,” she whispered into my ear.

I thrust once, surprised at how surreal it felt. I never gave two shits about what women thought of me in bed. But with her, it somehow mattered.

She moaned, encouraging me to go on, stroking my marred flesh. Yet she didn’t make me feel like a freak. Not Emilia. She never made me feel that way.

I thrust again, picking up the pace.

She writhed under me, arching her back, asking for more. We were compatible. I knew we would be. Her skin warm and soft. My hard body enveloping hers perfectly. She was sweet and wet for me, and tiny, but not so tiny for it to be painful for her.

I thrust again.

“Vicious,” she cried out, digging her fingers deep into my skin. Creating new, temporary marks that I loved. That I wanted to exhibit proudly. To wear like fucking trophies. “Oh my God.”

I thrust again.

It felt like stepping into heaven and closing the gates behind me. This was it. I didn’t want to leave. Not this bed, not this city, and worryingly, not even this girl. I felt her quivering beneath me, and my arms flexed as I pushed into her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I closed my eyes, sighing, feeling her. Not just her body. Her. The girl from the servants’ house with the gabby mouth and the hearty laugh who ate like boys weren’t looking and always carried the faint, pleasant smell of sweet butter.

Then I felt my balls tighten and the familiar welling pressure through my shaft.

No.

I froze. This was not happening. Not with her, and not at all.

After a few seconds of me failing to move, Emilia nudged me, still trapped between my arms. “Vic? Are you okay?”

My jaw flexed. I was the opposite of okay, and fuck, that was a first too. She wasn’t kidding when she joked about taking my virginity. I’d pretty much experienced everything I avoided during my youth, but in one day and in one night—at twenty-eight years old. And I hated it.

“If I move, I’ll come,” I said, and tick went my jaw again.

She laughed with her whole body shaking, a happy laugh that wasn’t mean or judgmental.

“Then do. We’ve got all night. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since I was fifteen and did lose my virginity, I came in less than ten minutes. Usually, I was famous for my stamina.

But usually, I didn’t go to bed with the woman I was obsessed with.

We did it three more times before the sun came up, and those times I redeemed myself, my reputation, and my cock’s dignity.

Still, it dawned on me that Emilia now had an even worse secret on me than knowing about Daryl Ryler.

I’d come after five seconds.

Like an amateur.

But hell, it was worth it.

It was a good morning.

Christmas lights decorated every building and tree in Manhattan and the streets smelled like vanilla Starbucks coffee. I picked myself up a cup of the good stuff on my way to the office—sans the vanilla because, surprisingly, I still had my balls—while Emilia went downstairs to shower and dress for work. The idea of buying her a cup crossed my mind for exactly two seconds before I crushed and burned it. She was not my girlfriend. She was not my friend. She was not even my fuck-buddy. She was just a woman I’d screwed until I took what I wanted from her.

And she’d done the same to me.

Even so, the morning was cold but crisp, and the office was nearly empty. Most people already had taken off outside the city to visit their families. I enjoyed working in silence but knew that unfortunately my deadline was approaching. Dean was sure to return to New York sometime after Christmas, reclaiming the office I’d stolen from him, and that meant I needed to get my ass out of this place and take the LeBlanc sisters with me.

Emilia couldn’t stay here. She had to serve me. After all, I needed her cooperation with Jo.

When I saw her in the security screen, I found myself taking one last sip of my coffee and throwing it in the trash, smoothing my shirt with my palm.

She passed reception and paused in the hall, looked toward my office. Our eyes locked through the glass wall, but neither of us smiled. She offered me a little wave and disappeared behind her own door. Thank God she didn’t think she could barge into my office and act like my girlfriend all of a sudden.

I was swamped with work for four hours before I saw her name on the screen and answered my cell phone.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Only for your pussy,” I deadpanned.

Silence.

“On a scale of one to ten, what are the chances of me convincing you to go to McDonald’s with me for lunch?”

“Zero,” I fired back, without thought.

“Come on,” she said. “You tore me away from my parents.”

“Are you going to guilt me into doing shit for you all the time? Because by now, you should know I don’t have a conscience.”

But that wasn’t necessarily true, and even I was beginning to admit it. The more time I spent with her—especially after the Met, where I admitted why I hated her so much—the more I realized I’d made a mistake forcing her to leave Todos Santos. A mistake I wouldn’t repeat if I could turn back time.

“I’d go there alone, but the lines are always so long, and I won’t be able to do that and pick up your lunch in time.”

I had the same sandwich every afternoon. She already knew my routine.

“Too bad,” was my response.

“Or…” her voice was hesitant. She was nibbling on her lips, I knew, and my cock swelled. “You could give me a two-hour break today. You know, because it’s practically Christmas Eve and all.”

“No,” I said, then realized I had the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. It was negotiation time. And I was really good at negotiations.

“Get in my office, Miss LeBlanc. Now.” I hung up.

When Emilia walked into my office, I stopped her before she reached my desk.

“Stay by the door.”

I wasn’t particularly against people seeing us fuck. I didn’t mind the crowd, but the lawyer in me knew it could result in a lot of paperwork. She stood by the door and watched me, a playful smile grazing her lips.

“You needed to see me?”

“No. I needed to taste you,” I corrected, closing the merger folder on my computer and getting up.

She stood still, pressing her back to the door, her face tight and wary. She hugged her arms to her chest and watched me. My predatory steps made her eyes narrow, and I loved how impatient she was, her foot tapping against the wood of my floor. When I reached her, her hand moved to my slacks and she cupped my balls.

I stopped her with a tsk-tsk and a shake of my head. “Fucking wet and ready for me, even from across the hallway.” I smirked. “Don’t you need a little foreplay?”

“I’ll have the non-smug, non-jerk version please. And objection.” She blushed. “Lack of foundation. You have no way of knowing that.”

She was lying. Again. My pretty little liar. I shoved my hand under her dress and nudged her boyfriend shorts, which I knew she wore because she gave zero fucks about whether I might favor lace to them—Emilia was a sensible 100% cotton girl—and thrust two fingers into her at once.

Soaked.

Dragging my fingers deliberately slowly from her tight sex, my eyes holding hers, I brought them to my mouth and sucked them clean, my lips quirking into a smile. “Fine, I’ll rephrase. Is it true that you’re always wet for me, Miss LeBlanc?”

She rolled her eyes. “We’ve been sleeping together for less than twenty-four hours. So at this point, yes, I guess I am.”

“And is it also true that because of that, you’ll do non-work-related tasks for me, even if you don’t want to?”

She halted. “That depends on what the tasks are and whether you’ll go to McDonald’s with me.”

I licked her neck and collarbone before dropping to my knees. Thank fuck she’d worn a dress today. Thank fuck it was long enough so that she didn’t wear leggings underneath. And thank fuck she was wet enough not to resist my request.

I peeled her panties from her body, pressed my thumbs to the lips of her sex and opened it wide, kissing it gently while still holding her heated gaze. “I will go to McDonald’s with you if you do as I ask,” I promised.

“What do you need me to do?” She toyed with my hair, sighing in pleasure.

I peppered kisses all over her sex before sliding my tongue into it, flicking her clit with my thumb. She groaned, tugging on my hair harder and melting into the door. I pressed her flat against the wood. Then I grabbed her thigh and draped it over my shoulder for better access and plunged my tongue deeper into her, thrusting so fucking hard I felt her thighs quivering. Her pussy tightened against my mouth, and she moaned so loud I knew people were bound to hear.

And I wanted them to. Because there’d be less paperwork if they did. Consent wasn’t an absolute defense against sexual harassment, but it never hurt.

“Scream my name,” I ordered.

She arched her back and pressed herself into my face, and hell, I loved how her pussy smelled and tasted on my tongue.

“Vicious!” she moaned, crying out again and again. “Oh my Lord, yes. Please. More.”

She gasped when her orgasm slammed through her tight little body, and she clenched so hard around my tongue I thought I’d never be able to pull it out. But I did. I stood quickly, unbuttoning my slacks and ripping a condom open with my teeth at the same time.

“You were going to ask me something?” she murmured, still coming down from her high.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I thrust into her and pounded her against the door, her back colliding with the wood again and again, the noise leaving no room for any doubt about what was going on. I wanted everyone on the fucking floor to know.

“Come back to LA with me,” I said, gripping her ass tightly and going at her more furiously than ever before.

“What?” It sounded like she was yelling at me, but if she was that pissed off, she wouldn’t be bucking her hips forward every time I drove into her.

“This city has nothing to offer you. Come to LA when I switch back. Work for me. You’ll get to see your parents all the fucking time. I’ll get to bang you until you’re all stretched out. It’s a no brainer for both of us, Emilia.”

“No,” she chanted. “No. No. Rosie’s school’s here.”

“She can transfer,” I groaned, and shit, no woman had ever felt so good.

“I love New York,” Emilia panted.

“You haven’t even been to LA. You’ll like it more.”

“I’m not leaving,” she said, to which I replied, “Fuck, Emilia, fuck!” slamming my palm above her head but continuing to slide into her at the same time.

The thought of parting ways with her in three or four days was a reality I knew I had to face. I needed to go back to LA, and she wanted to stay here. I didn’t need her for my plans until my dad dropped dead. Then, I’d drag her ass back to California to scare Jo off before my dear stepmother got any ideas about claiming my dad’s money.

But I couldn’t…

I wouldn’t…

Fuck.

I thrust harder into her and felt her clenching around me. I was close. So was she. She loved torturing me. I couldn’t believe we’d once mistaken her for an innocent little Southern girl. She was wicked mean deep inside.

“You think you can do without this?” I ground into her body until every inch of her flesh burned. I knew she was probably still hurting from the tattoo, so I grabbed her head and pushed it to my chest, swirling my tongue around the shell of her ear, as I made sure her throbbing inked skin was nowhere near the hard wood. The door, not my cock.

And since when do I care?

She moaned again, her hips rolling to meet more of me, demanding I bury myself deeper inside her, and I did. The hallway outside the glass walls on either side of the doors was quiet, and I knew why.

Let them know. I didn’t give a damn.

“I was just fine before you came here.” She grazed my chin with her teeth and sank her claws into my back, her nails scraping through my dress shirt. “And I’ll be all right when you’re gone. You drove me away, Vicious. You don’t get to order me back just because you’ve had a change of heart.”

We both came at the same time and grabbed on to each other like we were about to collapse on the floor. It took us at least a full minute to recover from our orgasms, gasping while holding each other tight. She didn’t giggle or smile like she had last night when we’d gone round after round after round. I didn’t see the charm in our situation either.

Things were starting to change already, and I didn’t know what to make of it.

“So…” She was the first to speak, clearing her throat. “McDonald’s?”

“Deal’s off. You said no.” I got rid of the condom, tossing it a nearby the trash can, tucked my shirt back into my slacks and straightened my tie. I turned around and walked back to my desk. “Go get my turkey and cranberry sandwich, Miss LeBlanc. And be quick. There’s a lot of work to be done before Christmas, and I expect you back here within thirty minutes or less.”

My eyes dropped back to my computer and the merger file I was reading through when I heard the door to my office slam shut.

I was pretty sure I also heard her mutter, “Jerk.”