Katrina
I haven’t had a chance to touch my phone all day. I had literally no space between calls to talk to Will…and I was actually really looking forward to chatting with him.
Now, while I’m rushing home, all I can think about is how he’ll smile when I walk through the door. I can’t wait to see that award winning, pearly white smile.
And maybe I’ll just throw myself on my knees and rip his pants down the second I walk in the door. I’m already missing the taste of his cock and the look of complete wonder he gets as I slide it down my throat.
I’m a woman with a hunger, and I know exactly what I’m craving right now.
Despite my talk with Sarah, I want to see him. I’m not totally sure what her game is, but I know enough about playing to just be cool and wait for the true motives to sift to the surface.
Maybe she’s super protective of Will. Maybe she thinks I’ll screw up the company if I’m busy fucking him. It doesn’t matter though—he’s the one I need to see, and this is on my own fucking time.
I’m having a great time with his body—and it’s not like I expected a man like him to be anything short of drowning in pussy.
But now? I own that dick now. It’s all mine. I paid enough for it—and just based on how things have been between Will and I, I’m confident that I’m going to keep it, too.
But as I come through the front door of my apartment, I can tell straight away that the place is empty.
A sudden burst of anger or maybe just utter disappointment blooms in my chest.
Gone.
All that sending him away I did at first…
Not calling him all day.
The shit with Sarah…
Why the fuck did I let myself even hope?
I know better than this.
Did I think just because a guy is delivered to my door tied up with a bow, he’s going to be perfect?
Well no, I honestly didn’t. I tried to keep myself out of it emotionally.
Just because the sexual chemistry is fucking insane, doesn’t mean I have to go and develop feelings for him.
I stand there, conflicted. I don’t want to admit to myself that this sharpness in my chest means I’m missing him, and not just his cock.
My eyes burn, but I don’t let myself cry. Fuck that.
I sit down at the coffee table and pour a whiskey. It burns, but I hardly feel it. The spreading warmth in my stomach offers a strange sense of relief.
Everything is okay. It really is. I know the truth about love, about men—I just forgot it for a short time.
Nothing wrong with a fun ride on a nice dick—and boy is it a nice, hard dick.
I let myself slip into thinking he’s something he’s not, and now, this situation is entirely on me.
I know I don’t have time for these ridiculous romantic entanglements. I know how they all work out. I was right the whole time, and I let my whole guard down over it anyway.
I pour another whiskey as I open the laptop.
I guess I’d better put my mind to something more useful than wondering about Will. I can get some work done real quick.
I’m planning a little research on company resources to track our competition, when I find myself lingering over the search bar.
All my life, I’ve found the answers myself.
I don’t listen to what people say, or at least, I don’t make my decisions based on their opinion.
I always get the facts.
I can’t fucking resist. Quickly, I type in ‘Will Ambrose’.
And there it is.
Photo after photo of Will with different models on his arm. Sometimes two at once.
Party pictures, half-naked on a yacht, opening a restaurant—all with different women in every picture.
I scroll down and find a few threads from some of these girls—Twitter feeds and Facebook rants.
‘We had the best sex, and he never called me back.’
‘I woke up naked on the beach.’
‘He left the hotel without saying goodbye.’
Page after page of results, I see the same things, almost all from different sources, and that’s when I know I can’t kid myself anymore.
How many of these can be real? Page after page of results, I see the same things, almost all from different sources, and that’s when I know I can’t kid myself anymore.
Fuck. I feel really fucking stupid now.
I’m reaching for my phone—when I hear the buzzer.
I can feel that icy calm coming over me, the one that hits me in board meetings and scares the living fuck out of every old, fat businessman I’ve ever seen.
It’s like controlled adrenaline, and I almost hope Will isn’t the one buzzing. It’s not going to be pretty.
I open the door, and there he is, Mr. Hard Cock, with glinting wolf eyes and a cheeky grin.
Oh fuck. My heart softens. I feel it.
Fuck you, traitor! I’m not ruining my life for a man!
Certainly not for this one.
“Honey, I’m home!” he says, walking in past me. “Miss me?”
I turn slowly, closing the door. I cross my arms and follow him to the kitchen counter where he starts unloading containers of Thai food and pulls a bottle of wine out of the bag.
“I thought I’d bring you dinner—and wine. Expensive as hell, but worth it. You like red, don’t you?”
He’s standing there, stupidly holding up the bottle and staring at me, realizing something is terribly wrong.
“What’s up, Kat?” he carefully inquires.
“I…I thought you were gone.”
My voice is dangerous and low.
“I popped out for dinner, Kat. Nothing more. It’s fucking cute that you were worried, though. Wanna eat?”
The look on his face is sweet—apologetic, even…
But it doesn’t make up for the chat that I had with Sarah earlier.
Or all those comments about him online.
“I had good reason to be worried,” I admit to him. “I’ve been hearing…a lot of things about you, Will.”
“Good things, I hope. Why don’t you get naked, babe? We can eat in bed if you want.”
I think that’s what does it.
Why don’t you get naked?
It’s like he knows exactly how to say the wrong thing at the exactly wrong time.
“What even are we, Will? Friends? Lovers? Employer/Employee? Am I just some kind of challenge for you? Is your sister in on it? Is this a family joke?”
“Whoa, baby, I don’t know what crazy train you’re on—”
“I’m not crazy, Will. I’ve seen the pictures on the internet! With the catty way your sister broke the news to me, I get the feeling she’s not thrilled with me either, but I can’t say I give a fuck.”
Will’s face falls. “Sarah talked to you, then.”
“That’s not the fucking point. The point is you come in here, ready to make another notch on your bedpost when I’m trying to make a fucking career for myself. How carefully did you plan this? Was it all just so you could have a laugh at the meeting the next day? Getting between the legs of your new CEO so you know you’ve got her tamed by your cock? Did it emasculate you too much to have a woman do your job?”
As I come down on him, his face slowly gets darker and darker.
His eyebrows lower, his jaw gets hard, and those gorgeous eyes go as dark as the sea before a storm.
“Look, Kat. You bought me. I don’t know where all this is coming from—but I have a fucking guess. Sarah has you convinced that this is some kind of conspiracy against you—but I need you to take off your tin foil hat for a second and listen to reason. I’m innocent in this. I don’t like being blamed for things I didn’t do. I should at least enjoy the sin, if I’m going to be accused. And you get this crazy side of yours back in the box, or this is not going to work.”
I lean forward, putting my hands on the counter.
If I take them off the counter, I don’t know what I’ll do next.
Kill him. Kiss him. Rip his fucking clothes off.
“I’m not fucking crazy,” I tell him, finally. “You’re the one with your playboy reputation splattered across the fucking internet—and your nasty little sister running around trying to tell me what’s what.”
“What are you saying, Kat?”
“I think you should go,” I tell him solemnly. “Until, at least, we’ve both sorted our shit out.”
He puts his hand on his forehead for a second and shakes his head.
“What the fuck is even going on right now? What’s your fucking problem?”
It breaks my heart to see him like this…but the way that everything is compounding, I know that we both need space right now.
“Look, this is my fault. I let a good fuck go too far—and it won’t happen again.”
“This was more than just a good fuck, Kat—and you know it,” he says, his voice shaking. “But if you want me out, I’ll go.”
As he walks away, he has the look of a puppy dog that’s just been beaten with a newspaper.
For a split second, I think I might be wrong.
But I can’t be. He’s a player—considering his reputation, it was only just a matter of time before I found myself played.
Right?