Rhett

“Here you go.” My assistant, Allison, stands outside my door Tuesday morning, shoving a white paper bag from the Apple store in my direction.

“You’re a saint, Ally. I ever tell you that?” I unbox the charger and plug my dying phone into the wall.

“Every day.”

“Some chick stole it last night.” I sigh.

She steps carefully into my apartment, closing the door behind her before keeping her hands at her side. She’s always so uptight, formal. Allison’s the definition of an Ivy League, high-strung overachiever. Her biggest downfall is she doesn’t have the confidence to apply for the jobs she’s really qualified for. She’s too good for this job, and I know it, and one of these days I’m going to lose her. Until then, I’ll keep paying her enough to keep her happy and selfishly hope she doesn’t find something better anytime soon.

“Who steals a phone charger?” she asks, nose wrinkled. “Maybe she wanted a souvenir and it was a quick grab?”

“Nah. I think it was an accident.”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve responded to almost every email in your inbox,” she says, always quick to get back to business. “Except the crazy ones. I deleted all those like you asked.”

“Good.”

“Also, I got a call this morning from People magazine.” Her meek, rushed tone is worrying. “They offered their condolences, and they know it’s a little soon, but they were wondering if you wouldn’t mind being interviewed.”

“For what?” I know damn well for what.

“They want to do a cover story on, um ...” Her words evaporate, and she won’t look me in the eye.

I snort. “No fucking way. Not a chance in hell. They’re fucking morons if they think I’ll ever want to commercialize the worst fucking week of my entire fucking life so they can sell magazines.”

“That’s what I figured,” she says. “I’ll call to confirm that you will not be doing an interview.”

My jaw clenches as I make a pot of coffee. “Want some?”

“No, thank you,” she says. “Also, ESPN is in the planning stages of a documentary on Bryce ... they asked if you wanted to be a part of it. The Spartans are going to be featured. They’ll be filming next month.”

“Hell. Fucking. No.”

“I’ll let them know.” Allison brushes her wispy blonde hair from her face, pushes her thick glasses up her nose, and repositions her bulky messenger bag over her child-sized body. “I’m going to head back to my office, if that’s okay with you.”

I nod, pouring black coffee into a mug the color of my soul.

The latch of the door follows next as Allison shuffles toward the hallway, but it’s the sound of women’s voices that captures my attention. Turning, I lift my coffee to my mouth, take a sip, and nearly spit it out when I see the girl from last night standing in my doorway.

“Looking for this?” She lifts my charger in her hand. “Sorry. I’m not normally in the habit of stealing things that don’t belong to me.”

I fight a smirk, placing my coffee aside. “Habit or not, you deserve to be punished, don’t you think? Stealing is a crime.”

“And so is your lame attempt to pick me up.”

“Who said I was trying to pick you up?”

She rolls her eyes, showing herself into my place and depositing the stolen goods on the counter. “Anyway, here you are.”

“You came all the way here just to give me this?”

She glances around, shrugs, then secures her gaze on mine. “Yeah. So?”

“I sent my assistant out to buy a new one this morning,” I say.

She laughs. “Silly me. Of course you have an assistant.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Kind of.” She bites her lip, and I want to pull it between my teeth. “Yeah.”

“Shut the door, Ayla,” I demand.

“What?” Her left brow lifts.

“Shut. The. Door.”

“Why?”

“So I can punish you for your crimes.”

“Are we seriously back to that?” She rolls her beautiful hazel eyes.

“Fine. I’ll do it.” I slam my mug on the counter, nearly shattering it, and head for the door. “Was that so hard?”

“Not a morning person?” she asks, eyeing me up, down, and sideways.

“I am a morning person,” I correct her. “I just don’t appreciate women who steal from me then find it appropriate to insult and mock me in my own apartment.”

“Sensitive much?” Her lashes flutter. It isn’t quite an eye roll, but it’s almost the same.

“Me? Sensitive?” I scoff. “You’re the one who got her panties in a bunch last night because some drunk guy was hitting on you in a bar.”

“Some drunk guy wasn’t hitting me,” she says, eyes glinting. “Some drunk guy flat out said, ‘I’m taking you home tonight’ and expected me to lift up my skirt and tell him where to stick it.”

“Classy.”

Her arms fold across her chest. “Are we fighting or flirting? Because I can’t tell, and I really need to know because it determines how easy I’m going to go on you.”

I hardly know this woman, but I fucking love her audaciousness.

“We’re not fighting,” I say, eyes locked on my target as I make my way toward her. “But please, don’t go easy on me. Believe me, I can take it.”

I still want to fuck her. I want to fuck her in a way I’ve never fucked anyone before. Detached. Unfeeling. Animal.

Screw roses and dinner dates.

Screw bended-knee proposals and Tiffany diamond rings.

Never again.

I want her body and only her body. And that mouth. God, I want that mouth.

“Good.” She opens her bee-stung lips to speak again, but I hold up a finger to silence her.

“Ayla, stop talking,” I command.

She lifts a single brow again, clearly not appreciating my directives today. There’s a hint of shock broadcasting across her face, and I imagine she wasn’t expecting that pathetic drunk from the bar last night to be anything like this.

“Anyone ever tell you how busy that little mouth of yours is?” I ask, lifting my hands to the sides of her neck. My fingers bury in her thick dark hair, and my thumbs graze the sides of her cashmere-soft face.

Ayla’s tongue glides along her lips, and I watch the outside of her throat constrict as she swallows.

“My mind never shuts off.” Her voice is quieter than it was before. “I talk a lot. I think a lot. I write a lot.”

“Ayla.” I shush her, my lips drawing closer to hers. Her heartbeat pulses against my palm as I guide her mouth closer. Her floral perfume fills my lungs, and though it’s a scent I’ve never smelled before, it feels like coming home. Shoving all the noise, all the thoughts and feelings from my mind, I punish her with a biting kiss, my fingers tangling in her hair. Inhaling the air she releases as she melts against me, it hits me that she’s the first woman I’ve kissed since Damiana.

There’s freedom in this kiss, freedom like I’ve never tasted before.

My hands fall to her hips, then slide beneath the hem of her shirt, cupping her waist. Her kisses are patient and sweet, a harsh contrast against all the things I’m going to do to her. Ayla’s hands glide from my biceps to my shoulders where they rest as she presses her body against mine.

“You’re good at this,” she says, breathless and fighting a smirk as she comes up for air.

“I know.”

I cup her perfect, pointed chin, directing her mouth back to where it belongs, and I crush her lips with another kiss, our tongues gliding against one another.

Pulling her shirt over her head, I toss it to the side and move for her bra. She doesn’t stop me. In fact, I swear I feel her lips arch against mine.

She likes.

With a single move, I unsnap the back of her bra, and she lets it fall off her shoulders, then to the floor. The creamy skin of her breasts mixed with their round, perfect handful size is a combination I’m powerless to resist. Gripping her sides, I lift her to the slick marble top of the kitchen island.

“This is insane,” she whispers. “You know that, right? Normal people don’t do this.”

“Normal people are boring.” I take the rosy bud of her nipple between my lips, sucking, then biting until she moans for more. Her fingers bury in my hair, her nails digging into my scalp, and it feels so fucking right.

Pressing my mouth against her soft skin, I trail kisses down her collarbone, between her breasts, then to her lower stomach, which caves in response to my touch.

My cock strains against the inside of my sweats, begging to be freed, aching for that mouth of hers. Reaching for her leggings, I peel them down her sides and slide her shoes from her feet, letting them drop. She isn’t wearing panties. Did she know I was going to fuck her on my kitchen island this morning?

Her pussy glistens under the dim morning light. She’s wet. All I had to do was kiss her and she’s fucking wet.

I knew she wanted to fuck me.

Lowering my mouth between her thighs, I spread her legs wide and drag my tongue along her seam. She exhales, three jagged little breaths, and leans back, propped on her elbows. Her taste is sweet, addictive, and I peer up, past her swollen breasts, watching how she nibbles her bottom lip as she anticipates my next move.

Plunging two fingers inside her pussy, my cock grows harder the second I realize how goddamn tight she is. Fucking her with my fingers and devouring her with my tongue and watching her wriggle and writhe as I take control of her body makes me harder for her, hotter for her.

Running my hand along her side, I reach for her wrist, pulling her up. Her close-mouthed smirk is uninhibited, her coppery eyes wild, and she slides off the counter, naked, her body brushing against mine, and she smiles when she feels the outline of my throbbing cock.

Her fingers tuck behind my waistband, and our eyes lock as she slides my clothes down my legs and to the floor, dropping to her knees to place the tip between her full lips.

“Oh, god.” I exhale, reaching for her hair and grabbing a fistful as she sucks and licks my length until my eyes roll to the back of my head. “Keep going, baby. God, you’re good at this.”

She sucks harder, faster, pumping my shaft in her palm and generously taking her sweet time. She’s good. She’s really fucking good. But I still want the real thing.

Reaching into a neatly organized junk drawer to my left, I pull out a rubber from my pre-engaged days and slip the packet between my teeth, tearing it open.

“Get up,” I say. I don’t have time to be sweet, and let’s face it, this little exchange between us has nothing to do with romance.

Ayla rises, wiping the corners of her mouth as I grab another greedy handful of her plump breasts, pressing my body against hers. Her soft curves against my hard edges should make for a dynamite combination between the sheets, but we’re not going to make it that far because I’m fucking her right here, right now, and then I’m sending her on her way.

“Turn around.” I slip the rubber over my cock, gripping the base as she turns her back toward me. Her elbows rest against the island, and she bends as I grab a handful of her peach-shaped ass. Not too hard, not too soft.

Ayla spreads her stance, and I reach between her thighs, gliding my fingers along her damp seam before coating them in her wetness and wondering if she always gets this turned on.

Replacing my fingers with the tip of my cock, I slide it against her, teasing her before I plunge the rest of the length deep inside.

Ayla moans, letting her head fall back between her shoulder blades. I hook a hand over her shoulder, steadying myself as I fuck her tight, clenched pussy.

This is it.

This is the life.

No girlfriend. No commitment. No cheating whore fiancée who gets herself killed all because she secretly wanted my best friend’s dick in her pussy.

Just this.