Chapter 10

Tanner

What the fuck just happened?

As I turn my back on her, walking in the opposite direction towards my apartment, I immediately regret what I said.

Why did I say that? Maybe, next time… What the fuck?

I almost turn around, change my mind, and let my desire for her take over. But I don’t. I keep going forward and forcing myself to get my shit together.

I need to stop thinking about her, and why I didn’t go in—why I didn’t say yes. I wanted her to ask me. And I wanted to go with her.

Everything in me wanted to fuck her against those familiar walls, her bed, the kitchen counters—like we’d done so many times before in her apartment. And then she did, she asked me. Like I told her to.

I shake my head in disbelief. What I thought would give me pleasure—a vindictive type of pleasure—did the exact opposite. I wanted her to beg for me, because I wanted to see that look on her face—the one filled with want and need.

The look on her face was priceless. Not going to lie, it did feel fucking great to see and hear it. When would it not?

But when she asked, when she finally fucking listened to me—for once—I had to fight everything in me that was screaming yes.

Fuck, why didn’t I?

I had her right where I wanted her. But I’ll admit, it was more than this night that I wanted to say yes to.

I wanted to say yes to more, with her. More than we’ve planned for, and more than this arrangement is supposed to allow. So, I had to fucking say no.

But now, I feel even shittier then I did when the suits forced me into this arrangement. Though, admittedly, I was a little excited when they did.

I breathe in the cool night air, and run a hand through my damp hair, hoping that it’ll calm and still my very hot and bothered self. I honestly thought I would like this game, but it’s so much more frustrating than I would’ve ever imagined.

I laugh, recalling just how irrationally I was thinking earlier tonight, with my hand between her legs, massaging and playing with her. My body shivers, and I stick my hands in my pocket to move my cock in a more comfortable position. It immediately becomes hard, as I playback my touching her in my mind.

I have to slow my stride to accommodate for its stiffness—it’s almost agonizing. It’s not like it’s been a while since I’ve had release with a woman. I’ve had my fair share of sweet cunts since hers, but hers is one of the sweetest.

And definitely not in the pleasant way someone would describe a woman, because she’s the farthest thing from being sweet. Rather, it’s a taste that’s addicting. It’s a sweetness that you’ll always remember, and always crave to have.

Just like any other addiction, you search for anything, something to replace your craving, but, to your dismay, you can’t find anything like it. Nothing can give you that same fix. To have her sweetness again, makes me pulsate in anticipation.

Addiction is real. And I know, I won’t be able to keep myself from taking her next time. It’s too much willpower for one person to take, and I’ll be damned if I make myself exercise it again.

Reaching the lobby of my apartment, the regret continues to eat at me, and it grows with every passing floor that lights up as the elevator arrives at my floor.

I open my door, and the feeling intensifies, almost to the point of nausea. Never in my wildest fucking dreams, would I have thought saying no to that damn woman would make me feel this way. But now, I’m fucking sulking, beating myself up because of it.

I let the door slam behind me, and I head straight to the bar, and pour myself a whiskey neat, wanting to numb this gnawing ache. Swallowing it in one gulp, I pour another. Warmth slides down my throat, and quickly envelopes my body.

I say a silent thank you to the brown liquid as it makes me feel normal again. Somewhat. I’m distracted by the whiskey comfort, when my back pocket vibrates.

I instinctively roll my eyes. The last thing I want to do is talk to someone, or deal with whatever situation is on the other side of my phone.

The past few days have been enough for me. And then leaving Elsa like that tonight, was the fucking cherry on top of the shit show sundae.

Yeah, I know it was my fault, but I can’t regret what I ordered.

I walk into my office, leaving the lights off, and fall against my large leather office chair, rolling it away from my desk.

Shit.

I grab onto the edge of the cherry wood desk, set my whiskey down, and pull myself forward, throwing my phone next to my drink. Refraining from picking it up, I glance at the screen when it lights up. The notifications require that I scroll down to read them all, and I notice two emails from my office and a shit ton of google alerts.

I ignore the most annoying ones—from my office specifically—and read over some of the alerts.

Not surprisingly, most deal with Elsa and I, speculating over the nature of our relationship. So far, it looks like everything is going according to our plan—well, the suits’ plan. And I find myself amused at some of the headlines.

Some fall right into our hands, questioning if we ever did break up: “Were they ever on a break? A timeline of the infamous lingerie CEO’s relationship.”

While others are much more scandalous: “Who needs lingerie? The lingerie CEO’s sure don’t, watch as they explore what’s underneath the silk fabric.”

There are even a few clever ones: “Another publicity stunt? Or a couple’s disagreement? What do these photos tell you?”

And then, there’s the one I was expecting, from The Capitalist Chronicle and Lis Langely. She’s teasing an expose on our relationship, promising to release it tomorrow morning: “Lis Langely’s firsthand account of the on-again feuding Lingerie Lovers. They’re back! But, what does that mean for their respective lingerie lines?”

From the moment we saw her tonight, I knew the clock on this article would begin ticking. The paparazzi definitely gave that away.

I laugh loudly, it’s almost like we wrote the article ourselves. I mean, we basically gave her the story.

So much for good, investigative journalism.

Reading over these headlines, I feel an odd sensation go through me.

I’m not pissed at them, or at the treacherous paparazzi that hounded us and took these photos—even if we planned it—but there is something nagging at me.

After all, we wanted them to speculate, and to have them think that we’re ‘on’ again, or that we never were off in the first place.

So, maybe, it’s seeing us in print that pisses me off, or is fucking with my head.

Seeing the name ‘Lingerie Lovers’ back in the headlines, as Langely so eloquently names us, has me thinking about me and Elsa…again.

Though to be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about her.

Memories flash through my mind, recalling the times we had, when we were officially that infamous couple—not just for show.

And how she used that damn mouth for more than just to yell at me.

Feeling her right underneath my hand tonight, begging for my touch, and the pulse of energy surging between us, as our bodies fell into each other in the alley, on the bench, makes my cock twitch.

Frustration builds, and my muscles tense.

I can’t fucking think about anything other than Elsa and her tight body, moving against me. My cock bulges against my pants, aching for a release. I unzip them, and grab my cock, slowly stroking it, imagining her wet, hot cunt greedily clenching around it.

Visions of her rocking into me, her tits bouncing, as our bodies collide against each other, have my nerves raging.

I stroke and tell myself, that I’ll never deny myself of her again.

Moving my hand harder, faster, a drop of precum escapes the head, and I lather it into my skin, lubing the friction.

The wetness makes me think of her tongue, and the way she bites and licks her lip. Tasting and drinking my cum, taking my cock into her warm, inviting mouth.

Next time, I will fucking take what I want…

I imagine my cock hitting the back of her throat like it used to, and my balls begin to squeeze.

Tightening my grip, I play Elsa’s highlight reel on repeat—her tits, cunt, mouth, ass—and me pounding into her.

My body stills with my hips thrusting into my hand, and I come, aggressively harder than I have in while.

Fucking Elsa.

I shake my head and release my hold, falling back into the chair, breathing heavily.

I moan, feeling relieved for the moment, though I know it won’t last long.

Leaning back, I finish my whiskey—a weak compromise for what could’ve been a perfect nightcap—and I promise myself that there will be a next time with Elsa.

I will take what I want—and I want her.