It was Sunday, and I had to clear my head before I left to meet them.

My hope was that this would help.

Leaning back in my chair, I tilted my head down. My neck was rigid as my gaze traveled over my flinching pecs, my palm running over my clenching abs as I felt myself getting closer.

Like the one at Hoult Tower, the office in my TriBeCa loft was located at the highest point of the building, in a sky-lit room with walls of windows facing both south and west. My chair was turned toward them as I sat with my legs wide, and my thighs flexing as I jacked my cock at a furious pace.

I was still thinking about her.

I couldn’t stop.

Fucking generally helped in these situations, but apparently, this one was an outlier, and I probably should have guessed it would be.

I’d fantasized about Sara at length for almost two weeks after we met. The explicit images started the second I laid eyes on her, and they continued onto her first day of work. After what we did in the elevator, I’d closed the door of my office and jerked off like an animal in a three thousand dollar suit.

In short, I’d spent a lot of time thinking about how incredibly good it would feel to fuck her.

But combined, none of those fantasies came close to how good it actually was.

Her pussy was so tight but eager, a perfect fit for my cock. I could have taken her again on Friday – all night, if she had let me. But she wound up doing what no woman had ever done to me after sex, and that was volunteer to leave. I had gotten another taste of her mouth and the sweet little spot under her jaw before she rushed out with her lips swollen, her bra on my floor, and the buttons barely done on her shirt.

Yet another image for me to get hard over.

“Fuck.”

I rolled my head back, my every muscle flexed tight till the second I pumped thick jets of cum from my tip, catching them in her panties. Breathing hard, I held the deep frown in my brow as I tipped my head forward again to stare down at my handiwork. Ropes of thick white on her fine, black silk.

God, I wanted to cum on her. Inside her.

I wanted to rub myself into her skin and watch it shine under light.

Now that I’d had her, the fantasies had only multiplied, and for fuck’s sake, I couldn’t afford that – especially not today. For that reason, I was almost thankful when about ten minutes later, as I was standing in my closet, Emmett called.

“What?” I answered.

“Think it’s cool if I bring a girl again this week?”

“No. I think it's cruel, actually.”

“To who? The girl?” Emmett asked. In the background, I could hear him making his first protein shake of the day. “Or Mom?”

“Mom. You’re teasing her with the idea of marriage despite the fact that we all know you’re going to take another fifteen to twenty years for that.”

Emmett set his blender off, and I winced as I removed a light blue shirt from its hanger.

“You guys give me no credit,” he said once the grating sound was finished. “I date a lot in order to effectively assess my preferences, as well as her true potential. I’m sure you can understand that, especially since I phrased it in Julian-speak.”

“Very nice.”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that I’ll still get married before you.”

“Unlikely,” I hit back, but I paused in the midst of buttoning my shirt, realizing that my instinct to fight Emmett came out before I recognized that he was baiting me. “If you ask about her again, I’m going to kill you the second I see you,” I said between my teeth.

“Would that be worth it though? Jail time means no fucking Sara.”

“Don’t talk about fucking her.”

“I’m talking about you fucking her, asshole.”

I growled when I realized I’d missed a button. “Don’t talk about her in general is what I mean,” I muttered, glancing at the time. “And in case you still smell like last night’s tequila, I suggest you shower now and get going so you’re not thirty minutes late like you were last week.”

“Fine. Hey, anyone ever tell you how much fun you’re not?”

I whipped a tie out of my drawer and rolled my eyes.

“I’m hanging up, Emmett. See you at the stadium.”

* * *

“Who’s that?”

I looked down at my phone. I’d vaguely registered the sound of its ring, but there was too much on my mind to fully process it till my mother nudged me and asked the question. It was Turner calling. I looked away.

“You’re not going to pick it up?” Mom asked.

Her sixtieth birthday was last week, but she still looked every bit the regal, bright-eyed girl my father called princess since the day he met her. I turned from the game to face her with a quizzical look.

“Since when have you been eager for me to take work calls on Sundays?”

“I’m not,” she said, moving her hair with her as she shrugged. She still wore it down and curled just above her shoulder like she did when Emmett and I were kids. The only difference now was that it was tinted silver-grey instead of blonde. But whatever color she wore, she looked classically beautiful. The only time Lia endeared herself to me was when she said Mom reminded her of Grace Kelly.

I had always thought the same, though I would admit her voice was a stark contrast to the wispiness of old Hollywood.

When she spoke, my mother’s voice was blunt, borderline harsh. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I just figured it might be someone important calling. And yes, I know, ‘it’s always someone important calling,’ but considering you’ve let two whole calls go to voicemail since we’ve been here, I thought maybe something, or someone had taken your mind off of work for once.”

“Emmett introduces you to a new girlfriend every week. Why not pin your hopes of grandchildren on him instead?” I teased.

“Because of that reason exactly. He’s not going to settle down with anyone anytime soon.”

“You don’t know that!” Emmett called over his shoulder at us. He was down front in our suite behind home plate, one arm hugging Ozzy to his chest and the other draped over Grandma’s diminutive shoulders. Last year, she wouldn’t go near Emmett’s dog. Now, she had the thing eating peanuts out of her hand. “Gram, no more,” Emmett groaned, turning back around.

Mom laughed at them both, but I could see that look casting over her, and her smile fading slowly as her lake blue eyes floated toward the outfield.

Not now, Mom. Please.

I wasn’t prepared for another trip down memory lane, but it had happened during last Sunday’s game as well, so I probably should’ve known it was coming.

Following my mother’s gaze, I looked out toward the back of the stadium.

We used to sit out there a good twenty, twenty-five years ago – back when the Hoults “rolled deep” as Emmett said. Our family took up a big chunk of right field every Sunday, when we packed our things and made a day of going to the stadium. It was our grandparents, my family, two pairs of aunts and uncles, and their children. Over the years, we became friends with the other season ticket holders in the bleachers, as well as their own kids, and it practically felt as if we owned the outfield.

Unlike Grandma, Mom never cared for baseball. She said she went to the games every Sunday to play with the kids. It worked out well. No one’s love for baseball matched Grandma’s, and no one’s love for kids matched my mom's. Everyone was happy.

Back then at least.

With a glance at me, Mom gauged that I’d followed her eye line and thus, her train of thought.

“You were so good with them,” she said. “You always helped me keep the little ones behaved.”

“Despite being a kid myself. I was ten when you had me babysitting everyone.”

“But you had fun, remember? You loved making up games to keep them distracted. I can’t even count the number of tantrums you saved us,” she laughed to herself. It wound down to a sigh. “You’re like your father. Very stern, very serious. But you light up around children.”

“Mom,” I warned.

“Okay, alright.” She held her hands up, her voice quickly losing its dreamy quality. “I’m sorry. I was just going through the old photo albums last night, and I found so many baby pictures,” she explained. “I actually have a nice one of Lucie. I don’t know if you might want that.”

I turned to face my mother, unsure if it was a serious question. “No. I don’t want that.”

“Okay. Sorry.” She was genuinely apologetic this time. I could feel her watching me for the next few seconds that I kept my eyes decidedly on the game. Reaching for my hand, Mom squeezed it. “Listen, Julian,” she started seriously. I feared the speech she was preparing to launch into. But with a smile, she said, “Ozzy’s my grandchild.”

I broke into a grin. My eyes slid over to Ozzy.

“Yes. Your drooling, orange grandchild,” I said, amused as usual by the Staffordshire bull terrier staring back at me over Emmett’s shoulder. It was always wearing the same stupid perma-grin as my brother, and the two were both simple, easygoing – generally motivated by food, so they really did bear a father-son resemblance.

“Anyway, I meant to tell you I made a reservation at Greta’s for Father’s Day next week, since that’s Dad’s favorite. All six of your cousins will be in attendance this year. Significant others, too.”

“That sounds good,” I lied, catching the tennis ball Emmett lobbed at me without warning. I tossed it somewhere safe for Ozzy to fetch. “There’s a slight chance I’ll be away on business, but I doubt it’ll fall on Father’s Day.”

“Oh.” Her voice was deliberately flat. “Are you finally selling the thing?”

The thing. That was what she called that multi-million dollar resort in Biarritz. My teeth clenched at first, but I relaxed.

“Yes. As soon as possible, and hopefully to Turner and Carter Roth. You’ve met them.”

“Oh yes, I remember those two.”

“Yeah, they’re… idiots. But idiots that can do a lot of good for this stadium. Their resources can help us make this stadium what we all dreamed of,” I said just as Ozzy jumped on me with the tennis ball half-annihilated in his mouth. Mom barely flinched as she wrestled the slobbery thing out from his jaws and tossed it at Emmett.

“You’ve been working so hard,” she said, watching Ozzy dart around. “They would both be so proud of you, Julian. I sincerely hope you know that.”

It was as much of a compliment as it was a request that I relax at some point, and let everything go. I wasn’t sure if that was going to happen, nor did I want to entertain the discussion. Thankfully, Mom let me off the hook to lecture Emmett.

“Emmett, maybe you should get him a brother to play with.”

“Ma, you gotta be kidding me. Ozzy’s three. I can’t handle another one now.”

“I read somewhere it’s not good to keep a dog without giving it a friend.”

“Mom.” Emmett groaned to the skies. “Stop with the grandkid thing,” he said. “Ask Julian about a girl named Sara.”

Mom sat upright to stare at me.

“Who?”

Little shit. I directed my death look at Emmett before promptly excusing myself and striding out of the suite before I could be questioned.

I sent the text to Emmett as my footsteps echoed down the empty hall. He fired back fast.

He ignored my last text, which annoyed me, because it left the conversation about Sara unfinished, and I was having a shit enough time as it was trying to think of something, anything besides her.

The fact that we had our next meeting with the Roths tomorrow was eating at me now too, because while I loved watching her put on a show for them, I also hated it. I hated watching their tongues hang out of their mouths as they dragged their greedy eyes all over her body, and I hated anticipating the ways they would try to touch her, get closer to her.

But I’d put myself in this position.

I’d asked for all of this, and I tried reminding myself of that as I stood in the empty hall. Of course, the attempt was in vain, because when my phone buzzed in my pocket, I picked up with a tart, “What?”

“Jesus Christ. Hello to you too, Hoult.”

I recognized Turner’s voice and exhaled.

“Sorry. I thought you were my brother.”

“Emmett? Love that guy.”

“You would,” I laughed, almost genuinely.

“Yeah, I don’t even know how you two are related,” Turner snorted, some girl’s voice in the background. “Anyway, listen, I know we said we were gonna meet tomorrow…”

“You’re not going to cancel on me.”

“Easy, Hoult. I wasn’t going to cancel, I was gonna say I know we set it for noon at your office tomorrow, but some… thing just came up for me,” he said, sounding half-assed. “I’m in Miami right now, and I’m actually going to be flying back to New York at around five tomorrow, so what do you say we all meet up around six?”

I couldn’t help suspecting that Turner was only in Miami to party, and that he preferred a late meeting tomorrow because it took us out of the conference room, and more than likely, somewhere with more distractions.

“Where do you want to meet?” I asked.

“I really liked that hotel you set me up with a couple weeks back. When I fucked that thing with the ass?”

“Cass.”

“Jesus, you really don’t forget shit. Yeah, her. They have a few rooftop bars there. A few pools. Figured we could have our meeting on a nice part of the roof with a good view – get ourselves some sun to set the mood to talk Biarritz. Right?”

“It’s going to be ninety degrees out, Turner.”

He laughed for longer than I cared to hear. “Oh, I know. Did you hear me say pools? Besides, you can just wear a T-shirt and shorts – you know I don’t give a fuck. Keep it casual for once,” he said, quickly muttering to the girl with him before coming back to me. “Matter fact, I have a surprise for Sara, so you should both bring swimsuits, actually. Or something you don’t mind getting wet.”

It was my turn to laugh. “That’s not happening at all.”

“Don’t say that to me. Also, I sent a little gift basket to your office. Should get there by tomorrow morning.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Anthrax – the fuck do you think it is? It’s surfing gear from my line. Shit that sold out in stores the week it hit, so you’re welcome,” Turner said. I held the phone away from my ear as he suddenly groaned. I didn’t know what the fuck he was doing with that girl, but I didn’t want to know.

“Jesus Christ, Turner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Six o’clock at the top of The Victorian,” I said as he chuckled, still half-groaning during his goodbye.

“See you there, buddy.”