Ruthless Rival

Simon: Most people don't interest me.

Vanessa: I'm special?

Simon: Extremely.

Vanessa: Are you still standing at the mirror?

Simon: In my armchair.

Vanessa: You have an armchair?

Simon: Sometimes, I sit in my suit and drink whiskey.

He's teasing me.

It used to be annoying.

Now?

It's fucking intoxicating.

Vanessa: Now?

Simon: It's too late.

Vanessa: Show me.

Simon: It's your turn.

Okay. It's my turn. I'm pushing it back to sex.

Because I want him.

Because this is our arrangement.

Not because I'm scared of falling apart in his arms.

Or telling him my secrets.

Because I want to send a picture that drives him out of his fucking mind.

The lights in the apartment are off, but I don't need them. I have the soft blue glow of the city.

I draw the blinds. Position myself in front of the window. Put my camera in selfie mode.

There it is, my reflection. No makeup. Hair in natural curls over my cheeks. Comfortable cotton tank hanging low over my chest.

It's not sexy. Not the way his silk pajamas and four-poster bed are.

But it's me. My room. My life.

I snap a picture, from the nose down, send it to Simon.

He replies a moment later.

Simon: You look gorgeous.

Vanessa: Thank you.

Simon: Take off the shorts.

Vanessa: It's your turn.

He replies a moment later, back at the mirror, now clad only in his boxers.

Fuck, Simon Pierce in boxers.

The picture is dark and grainy. A stranger wouldn't recognize him.

But I do. The posture. The broad shoulders. The sculpted v-shape of his torso.

And those muscular thighs—

Fuck.

I don't reply with words. I don't have them.

I slip my shorts off my hips. Snap another picture from the nose down.

Simon: Fuck, I love your thighs. I want to die between them.

My cheeks flush.

My chest too.

I can see the need in his eyes. I can hear his low, deep groan.

I need that.

I need more.

I toss my tank top aside. Turn to the camera.

Click.

For once, I don't think about my not quite flat stomach or stretch marks. I think about the desire in his eyes.

And I send him a picture of my breasts.

He replies immediately.

Simon: Fuck.

Then a picture message.

Him, at the mirror, from his chest to his thighs.

No more boxers.

His hand wrapped around his hard, thick cock.

Fuck.

I slip my hand into my panties. Take another picture.

Send it.

This is dangerous and foolish, and I don't care.

It feels good.

For once, I want to feel good.

I slip into my bed, push my panties to my ankles, take one more shot—of the underwear falling off my feet—and send it.

My eyes flutter closed.

I picture him here, in bed with me, tossing my phone aside, diving between my legs, licking me until I'm groaning his name.

In his bedroom, in some massive leather armchair, pulling me into his lap, sucking on my nipples as he plays with my clit.

Driving down on him again and again.

The tension in my sex winds tighter and tighter.

So tight I can barely take it.

I come fast. With intense pulses.

I have to put my hand over my mouth so I don't wake my guest.

Pleasure spills through my body.

I sink into the bed.

Soft and spent.

After I come back to my senses, I text him.

Vanessa: Perfect.

Simon: Better.

Vanessa: I'll see you tomorrow.

Simon: Sweet dreams.

I fall asleep fast.

Wake rested.

And naked.

With my guest awake in my kitchen, singing to herself, waiting to find me in sweaty, spent, post-orgasmic bliss.

Shit.

Chapter Twenty

VANESSA

I slip into my clothes, clean up in the bathroom, attempt a casual smile. Something that says I didn't spend the night masturbating with my fuck buddy, and I'm glad you're here, but I'm still on top of the whole keeping you safe thing.

Celine smiles as I step into the main room. It's friendly but awkward. She's trying as hard as I am.

She motions to the kettle on the stovetop. The mug in her hands. "I hope you don't mind."

"No. Help yourself."

"The water is still warm." She rises from her spot at the kitchen table. "Can I pour you a cup?"

I'm the host. I should fix her something. But I should be gracious too. "Thank you."

"You like it with milk?" she asks.

"Strong, creamy, and sweet."

"It's best that way."

"It is."

She moves into the kitchen nook, pulls two tea bags from the box, places them in a mug, pours hot water over them. She's already comfortable in the kitchen. Graceful. The way Lee moves.

"Are you a dancer?" I ask.

"How did you know?"

"My sister did ballet for years."

She presses her hand to her chest. "I thought you might say my feet." She raises her leg with perfect control. "Dancer's feet."

"My sister has them too." The crooked toes, bunions, bone spurts. "She had bruises on her feet until she was sixteen."

"She stopped?"

"An injury," I say. "She was devastated."

"People who don't dance think of ballerinas as soft, gentle, beautiful. We are. On stage. But the practice is brutal. It doesn't sculpt you into a long, lithe beauty. It destroys your body."

"How long did you dance?"

"I was in a company for a few years. Until I met my husband."