Dirty Boss (Dirty Rich 2)

His tip strains against me. Then it's one inch at a time.

Fuck.

He feels so good inside me.

It's perfect.

Blake guides my body over his.

I shift up, until he's barely inside me, then down, until he's filling me.

With his hands on my hips, he guides me up and down.

He goes deeper.

Harder.

I press my hands against his shoulders for leverage.

I rock against him, rubbing my clit against his pubic bone.

Pleasure whirs inside me. It builds with every shift of my hips. With every brush of my skin against his.

He digs his nails into my skin. He groans my name.

His eyelids press together.

His brow furrows.

He's almost there.

I watch pleasure spill over his face as I fuck him. I drive him into me again and again. Harder. Deeper. Faster.

My eyelids press together.

All the tension in my sex winds to a fever pitch.

I come in torrents. Pleasure rocks through my body. Up my torso, down my thighs, all the way to my lips and eyes and nose.

Every part of me is buzzing. Every part of me is spent.

I turn my attention to Blake. His lips part. He groans. His eyelids press together.

His hands dig into my hips.

He pulls back. Rearranges our bodies.

He's standing behind me.

I'm facing away from him, my knees on the couch cushions, my hands on its back.

I arch my back, offering myself to him.

He grabs my hips.

With one swift motion, he drives inside me.

It's so deep it hurts.

But in a fucking amazing way.

"Blake," I groan. I arch my back so I can feel every one of his movements.

His grip tightens around my hips. His breath speeds.

He's close. He's losing control. He's mine.

He thrusts harder. Faster.

It's too much. But too much isn't enough.

I claw at the couch. "Blake."

He drags his nails over my hips. His cock pulses. His thighs shake.

"Fuck. Kat." He drives into me as he comes.

It sends me back over the edge.

My orgasm is fast. Hard. Intense. I claw at the couch as my sex pulses. Pleasure spreads through my torso. It spreads out to my fingers and toes.

He thrusts through my orgasm.

Then he's there too.

Groaning against my skin as he comes inside me.

Slowly, he untangles our bodies.

I collapse face first on the couch.

He pulls his boxers on. Sits next to me. Wraps his arms around me.

This feels so fucking good.

But he's not mine anymore.

He's back to the stuffed shirt. I understand this Blake better than I did.

But his heart is still locked tightly.

This time, I'm the one who pulls away.

I push myself off the couch. "Do you have anything I can wear home?"

"Of course." His eyes turn down.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that's disappointment in his expression.

Does he really want me around?

Want our intimacy to last beyond our bodies being one?

It's hard to believe.

But it's tempting.

He shakes it off as he leads me to his office. There's a pair of sweats in the bottom of his filing cabinet. They're in his size, but the pants are drawstring. They work well enough.

Blake plants a kiss on my lips. "You're meeting Ashleigh at six tomorrow."

"I know."

"Good luck."

There's a note on the table at home.

At Sarah's to study for a test. Already had dinner. Love you, Lizzy.

I'm not sure if I believe her. She spends a lot of time at Sarah's. But Lizzy's eighteen. Going out is normal. Dating is normal. Sleeping with guys is normal.

She wants to be an independent adult.

That's normal.

Even if I hate it.

I change out of Blake's clothes and step into the shower. Warm water hits my head, my shoulders, my chest.

I shampoo, condition, and soap quickly. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts. I don't want to be alone, period.

When I'm done, I step into a robe, make a sandwich, and eat it by my computer.

There are so many art schools, but all of them want portfolio samples.

I haven't done any serious work since high school. Some of that stuff is decent, but it has nothing to do with the person I am now.

Maybe that doesn't matter. It's a college application. It's not like I have to bear my soul to some nameless, faceless admissions officer.

Still.

I want to show off my best work. Not the work I happen to have lying around.

I grab my sketchbook and a pencil and draw Blake from memory. It's not perfect. It wouldn't immediately read as Blake. But I have captured that impenetrable look in his eyes.

That lock around his heart.

I turn the page and try making it into something different.

Before the accident, I dreamed of drawing graphic novels. Capturing something real about life between the pictures and the words.

It's funny. Back then, I had nothing to say, and all the time to say it. Now that I'm bursting at the seams, I barely have the energy to pick up a pencil.

That's going to change. After this ruse is over, I'll have time and energy in spades. All of it will go to what I want. For Lizzy and for me.

I try drawing a comic version of Blake. He has broad shoulders, round eyes, a strong nose, and a square jaw.

It's not quite right. I play with the eyes until they feel like Blake. There. It's not perfect, but it's a solid start.

I draw a cartoon Kat. Overdone waves of hair, tight cocktail dress, sky high heels. The fake Kat. Super-Girlfriend.

There's nothing about me in that portrait. Nothing real. I try my hand at the real Kat with her mess of hair, her casual outfit, her inability to open herself up. But that's not something I can draw. Not yet at least.

But I'm going to get there.

I may never unlock Blake's heart.

But I will figure out mine.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ashleigh shakes her head. Irritation is written all over her face. "We spoke yesterday about this happening at six on the dot."

The salesgirl shoots back her best customer-service smile. "It's only 5:45, miss. Perhaps you'd like some champagne while you wait." She looks at me. "Miss Wilder?"

"No, thank you." I shrink into the corner. I'm not interested in this pissing contest.

She leans over the counter, whispering something to the salesgirl. Not my problem. This whole wedding gown ordeal doesn't have to be my problem, but I can't bring myself to put Blake in charge of this.

I doodle in my sketchbook—a four-panel comic of my arrangement with Blake. But how the hell am I supposed to draw the feelings whirring around inside me? Those don't fit on paper. They don't fit anywhere.

Four panels, all the same. Blake standing there, aloof and distant, with a wad of cash in his hand. I can help you.

It's sad. He doesn't realize he has more to offer than money. He doesn't realize how sweet he can be.

I check my phone. No word from Lizzy even though she's been out of school for hours.

I rip out the drawing of Blake and crumple it into a tiny ball. I'm not thinking about him anymore today.

This is about my dress.

This is going to be exactly what I want.

"Thank you, I will." Ashleigh sits next to me. She glances at the sketchbook. Her expression is curious. "Blake told me you're an artist."

"You could say that."

"Natalie is pulling the dresses for you. They were supposed to be ready." She slides out of her heels and rubs her feet. "Barely three weeks now. We need some

thing off the rack." She takes a quick scan of my body. "You'll look good in anything but an empire waist. Do you have any style of dress in mind?"

I stare at her like she's speaking another language. "I haven't thought about it."

"Given the weather, we might want to avoid a train. I'm guessing you're not too keen on dragging mud."

"Okay." I draw a circle in my sketchbook. That seems reasonable.

She frowns, pulls an iPad from her purse, navigates to a wedding website, and takes me through the different dress silhouettes.

Except for the sheath, they all flare somewhere and most of them flare dramatically. There's A-line, fit and flare, trumpet, mermaid, ballroom.

She goes over the pros and cons of each, but it all flies in one ear and out the other.

Lizzy is better at this kind of thing.

But where the hell is she?

"Miss Wilder." The salesgirl, Natalie, calls us to the dressing room.

It's huge. There are four or five stalls arranged in a circle. Mirrors on every door. Double set of mirrors in the middle of the room. And a podium on a turntable.

A great display case for a trophy-wife-to-be.

Natalie points us to a pastel pink bench. The entire room is pink. It's the picture of love and romance.

"These are beautiful dresses." Natalie wheels a rack closer.

There are a dozen dresses in different shades of white, ivory, and blush. There must be miles of chiffon and lace.