Caden
“So how long do you plan on staying with me?” Whitney purrs, wrapping her arms around my neck, her fingers diving into my hair. I’ve barely shut the door and she’s already pressed her body against me, her hips nudging mine.
I disentangle myself from her grip. The woman is like an octopus, hands everywhere, all at once. “I don’t know,” I tell her, dropping my bag on the floor right by the front door. “A few weeks? Maybe a month?”
The smile on her face is nothing short of pleased. I’ve been friends with Whitney Banks for what feels like forever. More like since we were little kids and we went to the same private school together. Her banker father—always loved that their last name is Banks, so fitting—got a job transfer just before junior high ended and she moved with her family to London. We would see each other on occasion when she came back to the States and one night, while she was in New York the summer after we graduated high school, we were at a party together and got drunk.
And we had sex.
Ever since then, whenever we see each other—which is rare—we usually end up fucking. I’m never with anyone and neither is she. We both have zero interest in relationships, but our friendship with a little fucking on the side works quite nicely.
Though right now I’m exhausted. The last thing I want to do is fuck. I need a shower first. And then a nap.
Whitney, on the other hand, appears raring to go.
“Put your bag in my room.” She comes for me once more, her arms going around my waist this time as she tips her head back, waiting for my kiss. I dutifully deliver it, dropping a quick kiss on her lips.
“You don’t want me in your room,” I murmur against her perfectly glossed pink lips.
Whitney smiles, her hands slipping down to grip my ass. “Oh, I definitely want you in my room. Easy access.” She is beautiful and she knows it. Perfect blond hair cut into a fashionable bob, plump lips, sparkling blue eyes, and a willowy body that can wear just about anything. She’s usually clad in as little clothing as possible and can get away with it, since she’s more on the slender than the curvy side.
I think immediately of Rose Fowler’s curves. She has a woman’s body. Full breasts, nipped-in waist, and rounded hips, and her ass is a perfect handful. Hard to believe I walked away from her like I did.
Not that I had a choice. I needed to get out of there. The lynch mob didn’t find me, thank God, and while I heard rumblings about the bracelet being stolen, there was no public notice made.
The rich do not like to talk about their goods being stolen—I discovered this early on in my so-called career. They’d rather sweep the embarrassing loss under the rug, collect their insurance payout, and move on. Dire stories on the local news about a jewel thief aren’t becoming, which is fine by me.
Their lack of talking to the authorities made my endeavors easier to carry out. Though I’m disappointed I didn’t get ahold of the Poppy Necklace. I’ve already heard from Dexter, my old contact who wants to add the piece to his collection. He’s displeased and has been urging me to go after it, but I put him off.
I stayed on in Cannes for a few days, cashing in the bracelet and collecting a hefty payment. Found out Rose Fowler left Cannes the day after I saw her, so that was a lost cause. I hung out on the beaches and flirted with various women, snagging a few gold pieces that were worth a decent amount. I garnered enough to pay for Mom’s expenses for the next five months at least, maybe six.
The relief of that is tremendous. I can finally relax and do something for myself for a little while.
“What brings you here?” Whitney hasn’t removed her arms from my waist or her hands from my ass, and I again have to pull myself out of her grip. I walk over to the couch and sit down, leaning my head back so I can stare up at the ceiling.
“I needed a vacation.” Not too far from the truth. Considering the bills are taken care of, I’m allowed a pit stop in London before I head home. My friend Mitchell, owner of the private jet, already planned to go to London and I decided to hitch a ride. Though I might end up staying longer, depending on what I find around here.
I need a change of pace, new scenery. Not only to get away from New York but also to lie low. I’d worked like a motherfucker the last few months, getting more daring with every job. To the point where I was probably starting to look suspect, so I reined it in. Went to parties and actually didn’t steal a damn thing before I up and disappeared for good.
A new place means new people. New valuables. New jewels. Considering London is fucking full of old money, this should be a field day. A summer in London sounded rather profitable. Don’t know why I never thought of it before.
“Well, yay for vacations. You’re always so busy. You never come to my side of the pond.” Whitney smiles and plops on the couch beside me, snuggling close, her head against my chest. She has no idea what I actually “do” and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m pretty sure she thinks all I do is fuck around all day, which is fine. That’s all she does too. She lives off her daddy’s money. “I’m excited that you’re here.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, my words sounding hollow. I’m glad to be here, thankful for Whitney’s hospitality and friendship. She doesn’t normally put conditions on it, but I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to fuck her for a bed to sleep in.
When she rests her hand on my cock and starts rubbing, I know she expects me to fuck her for a bed to sleep in.
“Whit.” I grab her hand and clasp it tight in mine. “I’m tired. I need to sleep before I can even think of doing … that.”
She smiles, flashing me her brilliant white teeth. “Exhaustion never stopped you before. I remember nights of getting high, getting drunk, and fucking for hours.” Her throaty laugh is telling me she enjoys those memories.
I remember them too. Fondly. “I’m not high and I’m not drunk. I’m just worn out.”
“Too much alcohol usually deflates a cock,” she says, like she’s making some major observation.
“Not mine.” I let go of her hand and trail my finger across her cheek but she jerks away from my touch, her lips pushed into a pout that usually works on me.
But not this time. Instead of sucking up to her and letting her get her way, I rise from the couch and stretch my arms above my head with an exaggerated yawn before I settle my hands on my hips. “Where’s your bathroom?”
She waves her hand toward the short hall to my left, her gaze not meeting mine. She’s mad, but she’ll get over it. “Down there, first door on the right.”
“Got extra towels?” I go to the front door and grab my duffel bag. I always pack light so it’s easier to make my escape if necessary.
“Of course,” she retorts with a huff. “What sort of hostess do you think I am?”
Going to the couch, I place a quick kiss to her forehead and cup her chin with my hand, forcing her to look at me. “A great one,” I murmur with a gentle smile. I don’t want her on my bad side, but damn it, I’m not interested in a summer full of screwing Whitney, either. We’re rarely together for a long period of time, so having a quick one-off is normal for us.
Spending weeks on end together? Not so normal.
Her mouth twists into a wry little smile. “Go take your shower. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Hell. She’s not going to let this go until I get her off at least once.
Locking myself in her bathroom, I flick on the light and take in the room. It’s white, with chrome towel bars and handles, a three-tiered chrome-and-glass shelf right next to the white pedestal sink, the shelves overflowing with fluffy white towels. I go to the tub and turn on the water, shedding my clothes with quick efficiency before I slip into the shower, pulling the curtain shut and letting the water pour over me in a steady stream.
It’s warm and the pressure is high, the water beating against my skin in pulsating jets. I wash my hair and then lather up, scrubbing my body clean, smoothing my hand over my cock. Closing my eyes, the image of a naked Rose Fowler pops into my brain. How wet her skin was, her hair slicked back from her angel face, the taste of her, warm and wet and with a hint of Champagne.
My cock lengthens, hardens. She’s been my beat-off material for the last few days. I have Whitney with her hands all over my dick and I barely react. I merely think of Rose and I’m hard as steel.
Leaning against the smooth white-tiled wall, I wrap my soap-slicked fingers around my cock and start stroking. My eyes are closed, imagining wet and sexy Rose kneeling before me, that pretty, innocent face staring up at me just before she lowers her thick lashes and leans forward, her perfect, lush mouth wrapping tight around my cock.
Jesus. I jerk hard, the orgasm coming at me fast. I can feel it forming at the base of my spine, like billowy clouds that grow dark and turbulent, heavy and swollen, eager to release the buildup of stormy rain.
This is me. My cock. Ready to fucking explode at any minute.
It slams into me, hard and fast, a little groan escaping me as my semen spurts out in long, ropey streams, hitting the wall before it’s washed away. I slump against the wall, my exhaustion taking over. Combined with the brief satisfaction I gave myself, I’m ready to collapse into bed.
I get out of the shower and dry off quick, changing into a T-shirt and sweats before I exit the bathroom, glancing into an open door to find Whitney lying on top of her bed. Completely naked.
Shit.
“Whit.” I stay in the doorway, my already spent cock half-heartedly rousing when she rolls over onto her back and spreads her legs, offering me a special view. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” She smiles, her hand trailing down to play between her legs. “I’ve missed you, Caden. I don’t know what else I can do to get that through your head.”
“Jesus, woman.” I drop my duffel just inside her bedroom by the door. I don’t want to stay in her bed. I don’t want her to get any ideas. “Let me get some sleep first.”
“No.” She sits up, scrambling to her knees, her expression fierce. “I thought by you staying with me, this was the sort of arrangement we would have. Am I wrong?” Hell. I didn’t think this through. I should’ve known Whitney would have expectations. Women are a pleasant distraction, one I haven’t indulged in for a long time. But I hadn’t planned on playing boyfriend/girlfriend with Whitney for the next few weeks.
I wish had a male friend who lived in London.
Deciding to hell with it, slowly I approach the bed, tearing off my shirt before I join her. “You’re not wrong,” I tell her, lying through my teeth. “But you want me at my best, right?”
She runs her hands over my chest before sliding one beneath the waistband of my sweats. “I want you any way I can get you. I’m horny. I’ve missed your dick.”
“What’s up with you? You’re not usually so—needy.” I choke the last word out when she wraps her fingers tight around my cock and starts to stroke.
“It’s been a while. Had a bad breakup a few months ago and no one has interested me since.” She’s pushing my sweatpants off, her fingers never leaving my cock as she continues to stroke.
“You had a boyfriend?” I’m surprised. We were always on the same page when it came to relationships. As in, we didn’t believe in them.
Shrugging, she removes her hands from my body and leans back against the headboard, suddenly looking vulnerable. “I thought we were in a relationship. Clearly I was wrong.”
“That’s where you made your first mistake.” The moment the words are said, I know I definitely made a mistake. She sends me a deathly glare, curling her arms in front of her chest as if she can ward me off.
“Maybe you should sleep in the guest room,” she says sullenly, kicking out her foot so she’s nudging my knee. Hard. “For now.”
Ha. Well, that worked and I didn’t even mean it to. “I’m sorry, Whit.” I grab my shirt and pull it back on. Whitney Banks is a spoiled little princess who always gets what she wants. So when she’s denied something, she lashes out. Sometimes physically. She slapped my face one time years ago and we got into a drunken shouting match.
“Ugh. Whatever. Don’t apologize. You’re probably right.” She pokes me in the thigh with her big toe, then scoots her leg away from me. She’s not inviting me back to her bed and I’m okay with that.
I get off the bed and go to grab my bag. She doesn’t say a word and neither do I, though I see her watching me, the scowl on her face unmistakable. Just as I’m about to make my way to the guest room, Whitney speaks up. “I’m going to dinner tonight with a group of friends. Care to join me?”
“That sounds good.” I glance at her from over my shoulder. “You don’t mind if I go?”
“Of course not. I’m sure my friends will love you. We’re going to a pub. I hope you like fish and chips?” She makes a little face.
“Do you like fish and chips?” I chuckle, thankful her anger seems to have evaporated quickly. Her rapid-fire moods can make my head spin and I want things easy between us, not a twisted-up, uncomfortable mess.
“Not really. The food here isn’t that great. I eat my way through Manhattan every time I go back to visit.”
The conversation goes on like this until I yawn and she shoos me away to take a nap. She’s still naked, not embarrassed in the least. I would never describe Whitney as modest. The girl had a wild streak when we were younger and she was always tearing off her clothes back in the day.
I open the guest room door and glance around in horror. There are shopping bags and shoe boxes everywhere. All from expensive stores or top designers, most of them are empty. It looks like this room has become Whitney’s closet—or more like her post-shopping dumping ground.
Pushing the empty bags off the bed and onto the floor, I leave my duffel bag on a nearby chair and then pull the comforter back, sliding in between the cool sheets with a contented sigh.
I’ve been on the go for months. Constantly tense, working every angle I have, and it finally paid off. Mom is financially secure for the rest of the year. I have cash in my pocket. I’m in London, where I can probably gain more pickups and possibly pay for a solid year of Mom’s bills. I wonder if she has a clue where I’m getting my money.
Probably not, I think as I drift off. And that’s for the best.
“We’re really going to take the Tube?” I sound like a whiner, but I’d rather take a fucking taxi than deal with London’s subway system in the early evening. I know it’ll be crowded with nine-to-fivers going home after a long, miserable day stuck behind their desks.
“Oh, stop being such a stuck-up asshole and deal with it.” Whitney races down the stairs that lead into the station and I follow her, not surprised at all by the amount of bustling, harried people crowding the place. The stench of sweat combined with too much perfume and a hint of burning rubber fills my nostrils and I wrinkle my nose.
Welcome to London.
I grab hold of the back of Whitney’s sweater as she leads me through the crowds, going through the turnstile after her when she scans her Oyster transportation card and pays for the both of us. A beautiful woman in a blue dress smiles at me as I pass by her and I smile back.
“Stop flirting,” Whitney chastises me.
“Do you have eyes in the back of your head?” I ask her. I’m amused that she even caught me.
“No, more like every woman you walk by is staring at you.”
“Now, now, don’t be jealous,” I tease, and she swats my hand off of her sweater.
We find our route and get on the packed train a few minutes later. When the doors shut and the train goes into motion, I rock back into the woman standing behind me. I offer her an apology and she shakes her head, murmuring an apology as well.
Hmm. This would be the perfect place to pickpocket the shit out of people.
The thought comes to me unbidden as I glance around. Not that I do that sort of thing, not anymore. I used to, when I was first starting out and feeling my way through my newfound so-called career. But what started me on the path of high-end jewelry was none other than the girl whose diamond earrings I stole one night at a party.
Thanks, Lily Fowler, for the inspiration.
“When’s our stop?” I ask Whitney when I hear the automated voice make an announcement.
“Covent Garden. Don’t worry about it—I’ll let you know when it’s coming up.”
The trip is quick, our stop announced less than ten minutes after I asked Whitney about it. I follow her out of the train and through the under-construction station, up the endless stairs until we pop up onto the street, miles away from Whitney’s flat.
“Who are we meeting tonight anyway?” I ask as we walk down the sidewalk, passing all sorts of shops and restaurants. The area is crowded, filled with the young and old, families and couples and a group of teens that go running past us, yelling at each other and laughing.
I remember when I was young like that, without a fucking care in the world. Wasn’t that long ago, either. Until everything went to hell and I was left having to pick up the pieces.
“A small group of people, mostly transplanted Americans. It’s so weird, how we all seem drawn to each other,” Whitney explains. “I can spot an American a mile away, I swear.”
“Like seeks like, I guess, right?” When she nods, I continue. “So where are we going?”
“Oh, it’s a really cool pub—you’ll like it. The White Swan. They have amazing beer and a great dinner menu. One of the better places to eat in this city,” she says with a cheeky smile.
Ha. I hope she’s not shitting me. I’m starving. “Will I know any of your friends?”
“Maybe? I’m not sure. Two of them—they’re a couple—I just recently met. They’re here in London temporarily and we were introduced through a mutual friend. But normally they live in New York.”
It may be a huge city but I swear Manhattan feels like a small town, especially with our exclusive circle. That I’m still allowed to be a part of it is some sort of miracle. Though I’ve worked damn hard to seem like I still belong. “What are their names?”
“Violet Fowler and her fiancé, Ryder McKay. You’ve heard of the Fowler sisters, right? She’s an heiress to Fleur Cosmetics. Anyway, she and her boyfriend are here working at the London office.” Whitney stops when she realizes I’m frozen on the sidewalk. “Caden?” She frowns as she turns to face me. “What’s wrong? We need to hurry so we can grab a good table.”
Fucking fuck. We’re meeting Violet Fowler and her boyfriend? Fiancé? Whatever the hell he is? I saw Violet when we were in Cannes, but I never spoke to her. I don’t know her, our paths have never crossed, and I sure as hell don’t know Ryder McKay.
I know her sisters, though. Lily is back in the States. Rose … I’m not sure where she is. Did she go back to New York? Or is she still in Europe somewhere, traveling? She can do whatever she wants. She definitely doesn’t need to work.
“Caden.” I glance up when I hear Whitney’s impatient voice. She’s already resumed walking toward the pub, waving her hand at me, the universal sign of “hurry up.” I go into motion, my stride easy, my smile firmly in place. No reaction, no anything. I’m my usual smooth self.
“Sorry, thought I saw someone I knew,” I lie when I reach her, curling my arm around hers. “Let’s hurry so we can go grab that table.”