LIVVY SMILED as her client pirouetted in front of the floor-length mirror, admiring the watercolor lion Livvy had put on her skin. For most of the day, Livvy’s entire focus had been concentrated on the expanse of the girl’s side, the perfect curves and lines of the design, each pigment, blur, and fade. Her adrenaline was running high now, flush with the rush of a job well done. The girl had been a perfect canvas, quiet and relaxed. “Like it?”
“Love it. It’s perfect. Exactly what I had in mind.”
“Good.”
The bubbly girl grabbed her purse and coat. “I can’t wait to show everyone.”
“Gabe’s in the front and can get you all sorted out. Give a ring if you have any questions or problems.”
“Oh, I will. Definitely. Thanks!”
The curtain rustled as the girl bounced out to the reception area, and Livvy began the process of cleaning up her workspace. She’d requested more shifts for the past week. The work was good on a number of fronts: brought in some extra cash and let her avoid the monotony of her mother’s home and their depressing inability to speak to each other.
It also keeps you from typing out ten million texts you’ll never send to Nicholas.
Well, clearly.
The curtain rustled, and a large man walked into the back room. “Nice job on that lion. Damn, you’re good.”
She stood and stretched. “Thanks.” Her skill at watercolor tattoos gave her a niche not too many artists had. Unlike regular tattoos, with their hard lines and edges, watercolors incorporated blurred lines and gradual spatters, for a vague, airy quality. They were perfect in their imperfections. She’d fallen in love with the designs as soon as she’d seen them and worked under artists all over the country to perfect her skill.
Gabriel Hunter crossed his massive arms over his chest, the flannel of his shirt rolled up to reveal colorful tattoos. With his dark auburn hair and matching beard, the man looked like he should be chopping wood in a cabin somewhere, but Livvy had watched his big fingers maneuver some of the tiniest, most detailed tattoos she’d ever seen.
Gabe was the one who had originally hooked Livvy on the art—his mother had been the Kanes’ housekeeper for as long as she could remember. Gabe had been a few years older, friends with Paul and Nicholas.
She wondered if he’d spoken to Nicholas since the accident. She didn’t think so, given his close bond with Paul.
Everything leads back to Nicholas, damn it.
“The customer asked how long you’d be here for. I told her I wasn’t sure.”
Livvy eyed her boss. “Do you need a definite date? Because I’m still not sure when my mom . . .”
“No, no,” Gabe rushed. “I only wanted to tell you that if you decided to stay longer, I’m game. That girl came from three hours away and wants to bring her friend up next weekend. It’s like I have a guest celebrity artist here.”
Livvy blushed but lifted her chin, pride making her want to beam. Celebrity was overselling it, but she did have a small but fierce following. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Gabe’s green eyes warmed. Despite his outwardly physically intimidating appearance, the tattooed lumberjack was and always had been a pussycat. “You okay closing up?”
“Yup. Got a hot date?”
He winked, the move devastating. Or at least it would be if her body could seem to want anyone other than one particular, terrible-for-her guy. “Only with my remote control. Wanna join me?”
She smiled. His teasing flirtatiousness was second nature to him. She’d never take him seriously, and he’d never crossed the line into sleaziness. “Not tonight, thanks. See you tomorrow?”
“Sure thing.”
She finished cleaning up and was about to go lock up when the bell above the door rang. She glanced at her watch and grimaced. Her back was aching. Maybe it was simply a consult? She could hope.
She rose to her feet, but faltered when the curtain split and Nicholas walked in.
Goddamn. All he had to do was appear and her body sat up and panted, lips tingling, nipples hardening, the muscles in her thighs twinging. Like she hadn’t had her fill of him a few days ago.
You’ll never have your fill of him, you fool.
His gaze was locked on her. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she returned, too stunned to say anything else. What was going on? She hadn’t summoned him in her sleep, had she?
“I, uh . . . I didn’t see your car outside. I thought I’d check anyway.”
“My car wouldn’t start this morning.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It can be temperamental.” She’d considered using her mom and Maile’s car, a little Kia that sat mostly dusty in the garage, but it would have required talking to her mom, which would have resulted in Livvy being on the receiving end of that indifferent stare, which would have resulted in her being sad, and she didn’t want to be sadder. They lived under three miles away. Walking hadn’t been difficult.
“You called a cab?”
“I walked.”
“You walked, in this neighborhood?”
She was about to roll her eyes, but then she had to admit she wouldn’t have been caught dead in this neighborhood when she was in the same social strata as him. “It’s not so bad.”
He looked around, like he expected a meth addict to jump out at him from behind a chair. “Right.”
“Did you come here to ask me about Ruthie?”
“Ruthie?”
“My car. Her name is Ruthie.”
“No.” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “I, uh, came here to give you these.” He extended the hand he’d had behind his back and thrust the flowers he held at her.
Yellow roses.
She hadn’t touched yellow roses since they’d broken up.
Slowly, like one might approach a predator, she walked over to him, and took the bouquet from his hands. The cellophane crinkled in her fingers. The white tissue was crisp and watermarked with something. She tilted it to the light and made out a simple C shape.
The logo cut her to the core. She’d recognize it anywhere. Chandler’s had kept the same font C&O had used.
The pain was so overwhelming she had to remind herself to breathe. In order to cover the hit she’d taken, she spoke in a deliberately light tone. “You came all this way to bring me grocery store flowers?”
“Our floral department is considered pretty high-end now, actually. We do weddings and deliver daily and have top-notch designers—”
She forced a smile. “I don’t need the corporate rundown.” Though she wanted to appear indifferent and uncaring, she couldn’t resist bringing the flowers to her nose and inhaling deeply. She’d considered incorporating yellow flowers into her vine tattoo, but ultimately decided that was too obvious.
When they’d been dating, she’d had a never-ending bouquet of yellow roses. He’d brought them from their store then too. His store. It’s his store now. In case the lone Cs on the tissue paper weren’t enough of a reminder. “What’s this for?”
Nicholas rubbed his finger over his nose. “Why does any man bring a woman flowers?”
“Because he wants to get in her pants. Or soften her up. Or impress her. Or because he knows she really likes flowers.”
His smile was faint. “I know you really like flowers. I also want to soften you up.”
He didn’t say anything about wanting to get in her pants or impress her, she noticed. “For what?”
“My sister sends her apologies. She told me what she said to you, and I’m mortified. I apologize as well. She said she’d be happy to tell you this in person, if you ever wanted to meet with her.”
Oh. This was about his sister. “No big deal. She needed a target.”
“You shouldn’t have been her target.”
Livvy shrugged. “She’s young. She’ll learn. Is that all? That’s not really rose worthy.”
Nicholas frowned and rocked back on his heels. “You don’t think—” He stopped, his frown deepening.
“Yes?” she prompted him.
“You don’t think I ever used you as a target, right?”
Livvy cocked her head. “Are you asking if I thought you were hate-fucking me all these years?”
He glanced away, his gaze lighting on everything and nothing. “Yes.”
“No. Were you?” She was proud of how measured her voice sounded. As much as it ached to only get the physical crumbs of his affection, she’d rather be an object of lust over an object of rage.
“No, never.”
The ever-present knot in her stomach unraveled at his immediate rejection. “Oh. Good.”
“Was it penance?”
She blinked at his brusque question. “What?”
“When you fucked me.” He looked down at her. “Did you sleep with me only because you felt guilty? Like you owed it to me for what your father did?”
She jerked back. “What kind of question is that?”
“A valid one, I think.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to be a guilt-fuck any more than you want to be a hate-fuck.”
“I never slept with you because I felt like I owed you my body. It was always because I wanted it.”
“I know I was rough last week.” A muscle in his jaw clenched, his eyes dipping over her face and body. A trail of fire followed in their wake.
“Rough . . . physically?” Because she’d felt totally abraded mentally and emotionally too, not that she was about to tell him that.
A dull red flush covered his cheeks. “Correct.”
She squinted at him. Did this need to be said? “Uh. I guess I didn’t make it clear enough when I moaned every time you spanked me, but I enjoyed myself quite a bit.”
“I’ve never . . .” He tunneled his hands through his hair. “I’ve never raised a hand to a woman in my life.”
“You were pretty good at it.” Amusement crept through her disquiet. “Ten out of ten at spanking, I’d say.”
“You ran out. I thought maybe I’d traumatized you. I wanted to call or text you, but I didn’t want to know if you’d already changed your number like all the other times I’ve—”
She stiffened. What was he about to say? That he’d reached out to her in the past? When? “I was following our usual script,” she said.
“What script?”
What script? The unwritten script they’d been following their entire lives. “We screw. We part ways. That’s the script.”
“Not like that. That’s not our script.”
Her eyes narrowed. Now she understood. “Because you always leave. Not me.” They’d fall asleep together after multiple orgasms, and he’d sneak out while she slept. Or sometimes, pretended to sleep. She nodded when he looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, I initiate, and you terminate. You’re right, that’s our script.” She pivoted and walked to her table, placing the flowers there, trying not to care when the petals smooshed against the hard surface. “Sorry to fuck up the order of things. I adapted the rules to suit our hometown playing field, if you know what I mean.”
“There were never any rules.”
“Guidelines, then. Patterns. You love those, don’t you?” She shrugged, hoping she looked lighthearted. “I can see where you might have misconstrued my bolting, but trust me, I was fine. No trauma. I liked every second of sex we had.” She folded her arms together, trying to affect some cool. “Gawd, now you’ve made this all weird.”
He stared at her, and a deep rumble filled the room. It took her a second to realize it was coming from him. He bent over double and grasped his knees, his breath gasping as he laughed. And laughed. Each belly-chuckling laugh made her face turn hot.
She hadn’t heard him laugh like that in . . . well, forever. She drifted closer, each peal wrapping around her heart. “I don’t see what’s so funny—” But that only set him off again.
Finally he subsided, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. He shook his head, a heartbreaking smile still on his face. It lacked cynicism or icy control. It was young and boyish and happy. “Jesus Christ, Livvy. When has this not been weird?”
Despite herself, a smile tugged at her own lips. “Touché.” She tried to sober. “I should close up. You want to reestablish our usual roles? You can leave now.”
She turned away to her table, waiting to hear his footsteps, but they didn’t come. Instead, she counted each breath he took in the near silent room. “I . . .”
“What?” she snapped, when he trailed off.
“I don’t want to leave.”
He means now, so quit that little wriggle of happiness in your heart. He’d leave her eventually. “Is that right?”
“I want to stay.” He said the words quietly, and then repeated them louder. “I want to stay here with you.”
She picked up a pen and put it down again. “What do you want to talk about?”
A long silence stretched out. “Anything. Whatever you want.”
She glanced over her shoulder. No clear objective? No agenda? That was unlike him.
She’d vowed not to see him again, ever, not more than five seconds ago. But then he said, “Please,” and she wavered.
She couldn’t detect any manipulation or ulterior motive in his gaze. Earnestness. Caution. Maybe a touch of confusion, as if he didn’t fully understand himself.
As someone who felt perpetually confused, that was enormously endearing. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
A blank check to discuss whatever she wanted with him? After years of biting her tongue around him, he couldn’t have offered her a more seductive offer. Well, maybe if he’d paired it with his beautiful penis, but it was still pretty damn seductive nonetheless.
The weak-willed part of her that could never deny him blinked awake, and she nodded to the chair. She hated herself for giving in. She wasn’t capable of not giving in.
Argh.
“Take off your shirt.”
“Take off my . . . why?”
Because I really, really like how you look without your shirt.
“I told you. You want to talk to me, you have to get a tattoo.”
His lips didn’t move, but his eyes warmed. His fingers rose to the knot of his tie.
She turned away, because she couldn’t stand to watch him undress, and busied herself with rummaging through her markers. When the rustle of clothing stopped, she turned back with a Sharpie. She patted herself on the back for not swallowing her tongue at the expanse of lovely chest that lay before her.
“How are you getting more muscular every time I see you?” she asked, with a touch of annoyance.
“I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve been working out.”
Her shallow first reaction: Keep doing that.
She hooked her stool with her ankle and kicked it closer to the chair, then adjusted his seat so he was reclining. “Maybe try some warm milk.”
“I’m trying to sleep, not vomit.”
She bent her head over his shoulder and ran her palm over the upper muscle of his chest. His pec tightened. Hot. Hairy. Hard.
She swallowed her drool and uncapped the Sharpie. She started on his left side, drawing a large fin coasting over his chest.
“What are you drawing?”
“Shh. You trust me, remember?” In this, at least.
“It took me forever to scrub that naked woman off.”
“She was a naked fairy, thank you very much. Didn’t you see her pointy ears?” Livvy filled in the detail of the fin, drawing each scale carefully. “Besides, this will be under your shirt. People will only see it when you go swimming or want to bang someone.” That’s good. Keep pretending you can think about him banging someone without it bothering you one tiny bit.
Nicholas craned his neck. “A mermaid?”
“Shh. Wait and see.”
She took her time carefully drawing in the scales of the mermaid. On someone else, with her actual needle, she’d do this in iridescent blues and greens so it popped when the person moved. The green marker made her feel a little sad, but this wasn’t the right tattoo for Nicholas.
She cleared her throat once she was half done with the fin, unable to keep silent forever. “So, like, what’s keeping you awake?”
She looked up at him. His eyes were closed, like they had been last time, furrows deep on his brow.
His lips parted, and for one bright, shining moment, she thought he would say it, that he’d confess it was her keeping him awake, but then the words came. “Work stuff.”
“Oh.” She started to work on the torso of the mermaid, giving her a slender physique and small breasts. Not covered by a silly seashell bra, of course. She assumed mermaids didn’t put stock into absurd human concerns like covering lady nipples at all costs.
Livvy couldn’t even stand underwires. Why would a majestic merlady put seashells on her boobs?
A loud vibrating pierced the silence. Nicholas shifted, his chest rippling under her palms, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and silenced it.
“You’re not even going to see who it is?”
“It’s someone who wants something from me.”
She wanted to make a sarcastic heavy is the head that wears the crown comment, but couldn’t bear to do it. Not when he looked so utterly exhausted. “That’s the job of the guy in charge, isn’t it? To be in demand?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he rested his phone on his leg. “Uh-huh.”
The phone lit up again, and she was in the right position to see the caller. Grandpa.
Pain blossomed in her chest. “You may want to get that.”
He looked at the phone this time, then surprised her by shaking his head. “No.”
“You don’t pick up calls from your grandfather anymore?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not when I know he only wants to bitch about my dad.”
She raised an eyebrow at the shit-ton of bitterness behind that statement. “Oh. Do they . . . do they not get along anymore?” Brendan and John had always struck her as a mismatched father-and-son duo, but she’d never seen them actively battling.
Nicholas’s laugh was short. “You could say that.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmured. “Was there a falling-out?”
He didn’t answer for a beat. Curious, she prodded. “You said I could ask you anything.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He cast her an unreadable look. “Yes. Your family.”
Her hand jerked and the mermaid’s shoulder got messed up. She’d have to give her long hair to cover it. “What?”
“Your family caused the fallout.”
“How so?”
Nicholas sighed. “When my dad bought your mom’s share of the company—”
“When he stole it, you mean.”
He didn’t argue. “It left my father and grandfather in equal power. They haven’t been able to talk to each other without fighting since that day.”
Shocked, she stopped drawing and stared up at him. “What? Why?”
“Because my grandfather can’t forgive my dad for cutting your family out.”
“John wasn’t a part of that?” She hadn’t even seen John from the time of the accident to when she’d left. He’d been too sick, and Brendan hadn’t permitted any non-family visitors to the hospital.
“No. Of course not. He didn’t even know until he was discharged from the hospital. His health was so fragile. It didn’t take much for my dad to convince us telling him could kill him.”
“Wow.” She simply hadn’t considered John wasn’t in cahoots with his son back then.
“If he’d been there, he would have blocked my dad. I couldn’t, but he might have been able to.”
Another jerk of her hand. “You tried to stop Brendan?”
He went silent.
The day they’d broken up, she’d met him in the woods and tried to make sense of her upside-down world. What’s Paul talking about? He’s stomping around and yelling at Mom and saying your dad stole the company from us. That’s not true, right? You wouldn’t have let him do that. Nothing’s changed.
Nicholas had moved away. What’s done is done, Livvy.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” She’d had another tiny piece of her heart shattered, thinking Nicholas had betrayed her whole family.
His chest rose and fell, the unfinished mermaid looking utterly silly. “I assumed it wouldn’t matter. Would it have made a difference to you?”
It’s impossible for us to be together now. They won’t let us.
“Are you asking if we would have stayed together?”
“Yeah. Could we have survived my father taking your family’s company? Even if you knew I’d opposed it?”
Livvy had seen the finality in Nicholas’s eyes when they’d ended things, had felt the creeping foreboding when she’d met him that day in the woods.
She’d never met her grandpa Sam, but she’d heard stories about the man and the odds he’d overcome to become a wealthy businessman. One of Sam’s favorite sayings had been Nothing’s over ’til you quit.
Nicholas had quit. It was over.
“Probably not.” Which wasn’t a total lie. She sniffed, hoping that the tickling at the back of her throat didn’t actually become tears. God, would that be embarrassing. “I’m real glad John doesn’t hate us. That’s . . . that’s cool to know.”
“He wants to see you. He asked me to arrange a meeting.”
Yearning made her heart clench. John had been a surrogate grandfather to her, showering her with as much love and kindness as he had his own grandchildren. “He knows I’m here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No.”
No, he wouldn’t have. She was Nicholas’s dirty little secret.
Don’t get snarky; he’s your dirty secret as well. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“He would be kind to you. I promise.”
She took pride in her steady hands, but they were shaking now. “If he’s not?”
“We would leave.”
“You’d come with me?”
“Of course.”
The immediate agreement shouldn’t have soothed her, though she knew his main goal in chaperoning was to protect his grandfather, not her. “I have to think about it.”
He tilted her chin up and her breath caught. His eyes were soft. Warm. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her like this, without his guard up and a layer of frost in place. She wanted to savor every second of it as much as it terrified her. “He missed you.”
It was sad how much she wanted him to replace that he with an I. Pathetic. “If . . .” She trailed off, the words clogging up inside her throat.
“If what?”
Fuck it all. No ifs. Ifs opened a land of possibility, led to a universe where anything was doable. Where the children of feuding families could unite and overcome the odds and ugly history between them. If was a word for fairy tales, not reality.
If was to be avoided at all costs.
You said you were done for good.
But that look he was giving her, exacerbating her need for ifs. It was short-circuiting her brain.
She did what she always did when she stopped being able to think around this man. She kissed him.
FOR THE second time in a week, Nicholas found himself swept into the hurricane force that was Livvy. She took his lips—forcefully, perfectly—leaving him without a need to think. With a jerk, he pulled her off balance and dragged her up and over him so she was straddling his lap.
She tore her lips away. “The door. Let me lock . . .”
“I already did it when I came in.” He’d flicked off the neon Open sign too.
Someone might call him presumptuous, but he hadn’t anticipated their lip-locking. He simply hadn’t wanted anyone to interrupt them.
She didn’t seem to mind his foresight. She went back to kissing him, her tongue slicking over his.
You shouldn’t be doing this. Don’t do this. Why are you doing this?
Because he really couldn’t help himself, and neither could she. Their conversation had been raw and real and without snark or animosity, something neither of them had engaged in since . . . well, since well before they’d broken up.
And all because he’d indulged one feeling—the desire not to leave her.
Each honest word he’d spoken had made him feel better, calmer, stronger. It had always grated on him, the betrayal in her gaze when they’d ended things, the knowledge he hadn’t corrected her when she said he wanted the takeover. He’d kept the truth in his heart, unable to utter it. My dad’s blackmailing me to stay away from you, and I can’t stomach the thought of you fighting in vain for us when I know I can’t be with you.
He’d made the rational choice, acting as cold as he could, convinced he was ultimately making the right, least painful decision for everyone involved.
Who’s being rational now?
Not him, and he didn’t particularly know if he cared.
Her fingers tunneled through his hair and tightened on his scalp, and he bit her lower lip, trying not to leave a mark but hoping he did anyway. His hands slid down her back, under her skirt. The thong she wore gave him complete access to her round flesh, and it overflowed his palms. Her touch ghosted over his chest, his stomach, to the fastening of his pants. A butterfly caress trailed over the thickness of his cock, and he sucked in a breath. She pulled her mouth away and pressed a hot kiss on his neck.
There was a spot—yes, there. He groaned and arched up, his cock pushing against her palm when she licked the hollow of his throat, then nipped the same spot. She rubbed the bulge in his pants, rasping the cotton of his boxers over his hard, ready flesh.
He tilted his head back to give her better access, closing his eyes to block out the harsh fluorescent overhead lights. He could pretend they were somewhere else. A soft bed in a nice hotel. His place. Her place. Places where lovers went to have sex. “What do you want?”
She sucked his neck, and he bit the inside of his cheek. “I want your dick in my mouth.”
His dick was in perfect agreement, hardening to a painful degree. That would feel so good, her slick, wet tongue slipping over him, cheeks hollowing with suction. Too good.
He gripped the back of her neck and pulled her away from him. “How about you come on my tongue first?”
Her brow furrowed, and she sat back on his legs. “Why do you always do that?”
He struggled to concentrate, which was hard when he had Livvy perched on his lap. “What?”
“Every year, you would go down on me. Always. But the instant I tried to get my mouth on you, you’d haul me up. Distract me. Why is that?”
Discomfort gripped him. He shrugged. “I got older. I’m not some twenty-year-old who can get it up multiple times.”
She snorted. “I don’t think getting it up has ever been your issue.”
“Do you not like my tongue between your legs?”
“See? Distracting me with silly questions.” She fiddled with the button of his pants. “When we were dating, you used to break speed limits to get to me if I ever so much as teased you about a blowjob.”
Truth. “Let me,” she’d whispered in his ear one night in his car, her hand rubbing his cock through his jeans.
How could he have denied her then? “I did love it. I’m just . . . not accustomed to it anymore.”
She blinked. “Are you saying you don’t let anyone go down on you?”
He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Not in a long time.”
“How long?”
Since you. But he couldn’t admit her mouth had been the only one on his cock. That was far too uncomfortably revealing. “A long time.”
She searched his gaze. “Do you not like it?”
“No. It makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Vulnerable.” He’d always felt powerless during their encounters. He couldn’t stop himself from coming to see her or leaving the next day. He couldn’t stop himself from having to go back to his passionless, unexciting life.
He hadn’t wanted to give up any more power. Even if that meant cutting out something he’d once adored.
He didn’t know how to explain all of that. It wouldn’t make sense to most people, maybe not even her. He opened his mouth to stutter out some sort of explanation, but she spoke first.
“I get it.”
He blinked.
She slipped her thumb over his lips. Up and down, side to side. Unable to look away, he bit her thumb, laving the spot with his tongue.
“Can I . . . ? Can we try? If you hate it, I’ll stop.”
Nicholas swallowed. The silence stretched between them. She didn’t push or prod, merely sat on his legs and waited.
That patient, calm waiting was what convinced him. Livvy wouldn’t get mad or sad or make him feel like less of a man if he demanded they stop. “Yes.”
Her hand left him, and she gathered her hair up high on her head, securing it with a ponytail holder on her wrist. His body went taut with expectation beneath her, and her lips curved in a knowing smile. “You couldn’t not get hard when I was putting my hair up, could you?”
Going down on him had been the only time, save when she was working out, that Livvy had ever put her hair in a ponytail. It had gotten to the point that he damn well couldn’t see her jaunty little hairstyle without wanting to see her on her knees. “You always had one of those elastics on your wrist.”
“I always will. Sometimes tying my hair up is the only task I can accomplish in a day,” she joked. Or at least, he thought it was a joke.
She shifted, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, and slid down until she was between his thighs. He wanted to close his eyes from the potent picture she made, her body tight and toned, dressed in black leather pants—where did one even find black leather pants?—and a long-sleeved, low-cut gauzy top. Her fingers danced over his fly, unbuttoning the placket, letting his cock jut out. Her cool hand wrapped around it, stroking the hot flesh. He groaned and tipped his head back.
Her fingers ghosted over his hipbones. “Do you know my favorite part of your body?” she mused, with a dreamy air.
“Are you holding it?”
“No, baby.” Before he could recover from the casual endearment, she traced her free hand over the indentations at his groin. “I never know what to call these dips right here. One of my friends said they were come gutters.”
He huffed out a laugh, as always amused and mildly scandalized by her ribaldry.
She stroked over the second dip, her expression absorbed. “I think the proper name is Apollo’s girdle. I like hip-dip sexy things. What do you think?”
Think? How could he think when her mouth was level with his cock? “I don’t care.”
“You have good ones, whatever they are,” she breathed, and ran her tongue over the dips in question. “I approve.”
He tightened his hands on the seat’s armrests. “Fuck.”
“Ask me.”
There was a steely command in her voice. He stood poised on some precipice, one where he handed her all the power, where she turned his ordered world into chaos, and he couldn’t stop.
“Suck my dick,” he said, his voice guttural.
Those red-slicked lips grinned, and she rubbed her cheek affectionately over the bulge of his cock. “Whatever you want, sir.”
She licked the underside, tracing the vein. “I like doing this too,” she whispered, her breath a puff of air on his cock head. “I’d always get so wet when I sucked your cock, remember?”
God, he did remember. Nothing had felt better than sinking his fingers inside her after she’d gotten off her knees. Knowing his pleasure had gotten her excited had been its own form of arousal. “Livvy.”
She traced the tip of his cock over her lips, leaving them shiny. Shiny with him. “Do you feel out of control yet? Helpless?”
“Yes.”
“Is it so terrible?”
“It’s . . . unusual.”
“I’ll let you have some power.” She pressed dainty, tiny kisses down the shaft. “Pull my hair.”
He exhaled. “Are you sure?”
“You know I like it rough.”
“I don’t want to feel like I’m using you again.”
“Maybe I want to be used.” Her dark eyes flicked up at him. “Maybe I get off on that.”
He raised both hands and slid them over Livvy’s scalp. Her head felt small in his hands, the hair like coarse silk against his fingertips. He used one hand to gather up the strands and wrap them around his fist. All the while, he was cataloguing her reactions, so apparent in her expressive face: the way she bit her lip, the way her eyes narrowed in pleasure, how her short lashes fluttered. He used his grip to pull her away from where she was teasing his dick, leaving his cock just out of reach of her lips.
“Suck my dick.”
Her lips curved. “Whatever you’d like. Sir.”
It was the sir that broke him, that made every dark fantasy he’d ever had about being serviced flare to the surface of his mind. Livvy on her knees in his office, his car, her bed. Her lips surrounded the head of his cock, and he arched his hips higher, letting her take him deeper. He used his grip on her hair to move her how he wanted, when he wanted.
It had been so long since he’d had this, he felt awkward at first, but they found their rhythm.
“Remember when I would sneak into your room?” he rasped. “You’d be waiting for me with your hair tied up.”
She moaned around his cock, and he groaned in return, his hips picking up speed, working in tandem with his hands on her head. He was full-on fucking her face now, possibly too savagely, but just when he grew worried that he should slow down, he noticed her arm shifting.
“Are you fucking yourself?” he said, the question more of a statement, because yeah. Her fingers were busy and hard at work, her leather pants unzipped just enough to let herself play. The knowledge that this was turning her on as much as it turned him on had him fucking her mouth harder and faster, the wet tightness and suction making his head spin. Her moans grew, the vibration of the sound sending tingles of pleasure straight to his balls. For a second he wondered if he should withdraw, but she shook her head, taking him deeper, her throat closing around the tip of his cock, and he exploded, spurting on her tongue. It took him long moments to recover, and he tilted his head back, gasping. “God. Thank you.” A thank you wasn’t enough. Not only for the orgasm, but for the heady, brief moments of freedom he’d found with her mouth.
He’d been powerless and, yet . . . powerful.
He hadn’t felt both those things at once in years. It was thrilling and scary and exciting.
Clothes rustled, and he opened his eyes to catch her shimmying out of her pants, her strong muscles flexing, the ink covering them dancing. A dragon wound itself around her right leg, the scales blue green and vibrant, eyes blood red. A flame licked her upper thigh, a blur of crimson and orange and yellow.
That dragon had appeared on her body four or five years ago, but it had always been too dark for him to see it properly. He wanted to inspect every scale, but she was moving, climbing on top of him. She faced away, her legs draping over his thighs, his sensitized cock brushing the small of her back. “You want to thank me properly?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
He nodded dumbly. She grabbed his hand and brought it between her legs. He took over, and slid his fingers under the lace waistband, lifting her panties away from her skin, to catch a glimpse of her mound.
She let him play, her hands reaching over her head to grip his neck, nails digging into his skin. He looked down her body as it moved and writhed on top of his, loving every inch of her pleasure. Her moans grew louder and faster, her breathing deepening, and he followed her cues, his cock perking up at the way she was massaging it with her back.
Recognizing the signs of her impending release, he pressed his lips against her ear. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Come on me. Let me feel that pussy squeeze.”
She inhaled deeply, her body bearing down on him. “Give me more.”
“More what?”
“More fingers. I need you to fill me up.”
He thrust three fingers inside her, widening them. “There. Better?”
“Yes.”
“Better than my cock?”
She whimpered, her hips moving faster. “No.”
He pressed his thumb tight against her clit and sent his fingers deeper, curling them to hit the spot that always made her body rock. She cried out as he massaged that flesh, not giving her a second of reprieve. He bit her neck, harder than he’d ever previously dared, and her body bowed, her inner muscles tightening and releasing on him.
When she was finally done, he stroked her flesh softly, loath to leave this wet, warm place. He wanted to do everything to her.
Every little thing. Every sexual act he’d missed and hadn’t had in so long with this woman.
His phone rang, puncturing their bubble of sexual bliss. He cursed it mentally, because she immediately slid off his legs, grabbing her pants. Whatever this interlude had been, it was at an end. He sighed and buttoned up his trousers, grimacing at his renewed erection.
His phone stopped ringing, then started again.
“You should get that,” she muttered. “Sounds urgent.”
Annoyed, he pulled his phone out from where it had fallen in the crack of the chair and glanced at the display. His father this time. His grandfather, he could ignore. Brendan, not so much. The man wouldn’t quit calling until he picked up, even if it was for the tiniest of details.
With a rough sigh, he stood and turned his back on Livvy. Though he wanted nothing more than to watch her ass jiggle as she wrestled her pants on, he couldn’t do that and speak to his father.
“Yes?” he answered the phone shortly.
“Nicholas, what the fuck is this?”
“What?”
“These protestors. We have ten stores now with picketers. An anonymous source leaked that we’re selling countless products made by prisoners. Who the fuck did that?”
Nicholas straightened, eyes narrowing. “Countless? No one knows that we’ve confirmed the two products except for you, me, and Grandpa.”
“Well, those two have been blown up to hundreds and thousands. There’s a fucking hashtag calling for a boycott. Why the fuck is there always a hashtag?”
Because hashtags got people to listen, but he wasn’t about to sit here and explain social media to his dad. “Listen, I’ll handle it. We’ll issue a statement tonight. Say we’re committed to our mission statement, as always, and while we have identified a couple of products, we have no evidence of any others.”
“Say we’re discontinuing those products, effective immediately.”
“That’s a good idea. I could also say we’re going to do a comprehensive review of all suppliers to ensure no others are engaging in practices that run counter to our policies.” He held his breath, ready to launch ten million arguments to achieve the outcome his grandfather—and he—wanted.
“Yes, fine, whatever. Just make this go away, for crying out loud. I’m getting harassed on every end here.”
“Yes, sir.” Without bothering to say goodbye, he hung up, and only then saw the string of texts he’d received in the last half hour. Had he checked his messages first, he would have seen a rundown of the situation from their public relations vice-president. He responded with instructions.
When he heard footsteps behind him, he pivoted, having temporarily forgotten where he was or who he was with. Livvy was fully dressed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her face wary. “Sounds important.”
He lifted his phone. “I’m sorry. Small emergency at work.”
“Hmm. Well, uh. I gotta get home. This has been real fun and all.” She scooped up his shirt and tossed it to him.
It hit him in the chest, and he grabbed it automatically. “Listen—”
“You’re gonna want to cover up that tail.”
He looked down at his chest, having forgotten the mermaid. Even in permanent marker, the drawing was cute. Not something he’d want on his skin permanently, but Livvy’s talent was evident in the mischievous look in the sea creature’s eyes, the fluid lines of her body. “I’ll drive you home.”
“You’re busy. I can walk.”
Making certain to imbue his voice with every ounce of command he possessed, he repeated himself. “Not that busy. I’ll drive you home.”
It was the tone that got people to jump and scrape the second he spoke to them, but she looked unimpressed. “There’s no need—”
“If you don’t let me drive you, I’ll creep along beside you while you walk home,” he said flatly. “It’ll take ten times longer, and we’ve established how terrible I am at lurking.”
Her lips twitched. That was one of the things he’d always appreciated about Livvy. No matter how stubborn or angry she got, she never lost her sense of humor. That hadn’t changed. “I guess you wouldn’t look so handsome in an orange jumpsuit.”
“It’s not my color.” He caught her wrist before she could move away. “You asked if it was so terrible to feel helpless.” It should have been. For a man obsessed with control, who used coldness to keep himself from falling apart, he should have been terrified.
One feeling.
Yes, the Pandora’s box was open, and he could sense all those emotions he’d carefully kept locked away struggling to get out, but he’d ignore them for now. He’d focus on that one feeling, that desire to be with her.
Her lips quivered, but then they firmed. So tough, she was. Tougher than him.
He stared into her dark eyes. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t terrible at all.”