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The slam of the door cuts me off. He’s gone. He seriously just…got up and left.
I sit stunned. Even if I could uncuff my wrist in time to catch him, I won’t move. I can’t. I feel weirdly empty. And ashamed. God, what have I done?
On numb legs, I stand and pluck off the blindfold, then lean over and flip on the light switch. The face that confronts me in the mirror dismays me. Flushed and disheveled, lips swollen, hair a ratted mess. I look like a woman who’s been fucked. Not well loved. Just…used. The way I’ve used him.
A fresh wave of guilt assails me.
Quickly, I untie the loose knot around my wrist and stumble to my bed as fresh, hot tears burn paths down my cheeks.
Noah
I damn near jump out of my skin when the doorbell rings.
Lauren has arrived. She’ll be here, under my roof. Finally.
The day dragged on interminably. Staring at Lauren, her hair falling softly over her shoulders, from across a conference room table wasn’t good for my concentration. Remembering the feel of her hot, tight pussy around me while I plunged as far into her as possible and wishing I could merge with her forever wasn’t productive when discussing the business’s bottom line and possible expansion plans. Wondering what she thinks of Mr. Mysterious’s impersonal booty call in her bathroom has worn my nerves thin.
Earlier today, I arranged for the delivery of a collection of erotic stories from Mr. Mysterious at her house with certain passages marked, scenarios that are rough, male dominant, and sometimes crude. I include a note that simply reads:
* * *
Next time I have an itch to scratch…
* * *
No signature. Has she opened the package and scanned the stories I flagged?
It bothers me like hell to treat her worse than the dozens of women I’ve nailed and forgotten in my past. The confusion and hurt in her voice still tear at me. The way she clung to me as I rose to dress nearly melted my resolve. But I held firm, reminding myself that the end justifies the means. I have a point to make. And I’m close—damn close—to my prize.
Focus.
Now it’s time to push last night, today at the office, and every other mental hurdle aside. At this moment, I’m not her boss. I’m not Mr. Mysterious. Tonight, I can just be myself and gently romance her—enough that maybe she’ll start getting the picture, but not so much that she’ll run screaming.
All the games and subterfuge have to end soon, and I hope like hell that I can finally make love to her as myself.
Smiling, I answer the door.
On the other side, Lauren stands with Emma on one side and Cass on her hip. For a single mom of two, she looks spring fresh and scrumptious with a gauzy cover-up that doesn’t totally hide her slinky black bathing suit and luscious body underneath. My mouth waters. Other parts are dangerously close to standing at attention in a very visible way.
“Hi, Lauren, girls. Come in,” I invite.
As they file inside, Emma sends me a very solemn look for a six-year-old. I wonder what it will take to make the girl smile again. Of everyone affected, the divorce hit this child the hardest. She reminds me of Tim—all drive, buried sense of humor, and damn smart. Still, I hope that she gives herself the chance to be a little girl before it’s too late. I’ll do my best to help her.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Emma says without a smile.
“You’re welcome. I haven’t used my pool much since I moved in. It’s getting lonely, so I had to invite some company over.”
Emma frowns. “Pools don’t get lonely. They get dirty.”
Definitely too serious. Over time, I’ll find a way to put a smile back on her face.
“Are you sure? I swear I heard it whispering to me… ‘Why bother if you never use me?’”
A corner of Emma’s little pink mouth twitches. “You’re silly.”
“Twim. Now!” Cass demands, wriggling on Lauren’s hip.
I scoop up the little blonde bundle with a laugh and a hug.
