This is my house. I’m twenty-f**king-eight years old. I shouldn’t have to sneak around like some sort of teenager out screwing around with my secret girlfriend.
But here I am. Sneaking.
I’m still shocked over how Ivy kicked me out of bed before the come dried on her skin; she was that ruthless about the entire encounter. Crude, I know, but true. I’d been ready to wax poetic and go on and on over how amazing that entire experience had been. Because as quick as I’d come—embarrassingly quick, I’ll admit, but damn I was overwhelmed with the fact that I was actually inside her—sex with Ivy had been mind blowing.
I wanted to tell her how much I wanted to do it again. Clutch her close and cuddle for Christ’s sake. I don’t f**king cuddle. I’m the one who kicks them out of my bed. I’m the one who says, Hey, it’s been real, but you need to get your pretty little ass out of here.
Always, I sleep alone. For once, I wanted to sleep with someone else. Really and truly sleep. Hold her close, feel her skin on mine, smell her. I can still smell her. Feel her. Taste her.
She gave me the boot instead.
Yeah. Bizarre. I feel like the tables have been turned on me completely. I don’t like it. Not one freaking bit.
But since I saw her earlier this evening at the wedding reception, she’s flipped me on my head. What’s up is down and all that other bullshit. I haven’t felt right since. It f**king sucks. I have a business to run, employees to take care of, the potential to open another Hush location on the horizon and a volatile father to handle.
The last thing I need is some woman twisting up my insides.
I stride inside my bedroom, slamming the door behind me and head toward the bathroom. I need a shower. Maybe if I wash away the memory, the feel of her skin on mine, her scent, her taste, then I could forget her. Ivy.
Doesn’t help. As I stand under the scalding hot water battering my body and scrub at my skin, I can still smell her. Hear her panting, frantic breaths, the way she said my name just before she came. Smell her flowery, delicious skin, taste her greedy lips and tongue . . .
Fuck. I glance down, the water beating a rapid tattoo on the top of my head, and see my erection. Fucking stupid thing. No wonder women loved to go on and on about how men only think with their dicks.
They’re pretty dead on in that observation.
Restraining myself, I refuse to jerk off. I just came not fifteen minutes ago, you’d think I’d be over this. Over her.
Apparently not. Having her once wasn’t enough. I want Ivy again.
I furiously wrench the faucet off and grab a towel, rubbing it haphazardly across my skin, not really drying it. The soft terry cloth slides across my erection and I grimace. Pissed that I’m teasing myself. What the hell is wrong with me?
Ivy Emerson is what’s wrong with you, jackass. She’s played you at your game and actually came out on top. Where does that leave you?
Miserable. Pissed. Eager to go back to her room and have my way with her again . . . slower this time. So I can linger over her body, see what she likes, where she prefers to be touched, taste her between her legs and see how long it takes to make her come with just my tongue . . .
Rubbing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I blink them open, stare at my reflection in the steam-covered mirror in front of me. I’m a wreck. Eyes wild, skin still wet from the shower, mouth and jaw so tight I look like I might shatter. Rigid and tense.
All over a woman.
I let loose a loud, growling “Fuck!” and hit the lights off, stride back into my room. Climb into bed nak*d and still damp, yanking the covers over my head in the hopes I can shut off my whirling brain.
Doesn’t work. I want her with me. Snug against me. I need to come clean with myself. I’ve lusted over her for years. Since her high school graduation, like some sort of pervert, considering I have a solid four years on her and the last thing I should’ve been doing was wondering if she could possibly be nak*d beneath her ceremony gown.
Of course, she wasn’t. She’d been eighteen and pure and beautiful. She’d given me a hug and thanked me for coming and all I could think about was how much I wish I was coming. Inside of her . . .
Yeah. I had it bad for her then. I still do. And I shouldn’t. I’m not the relationship type. My parents warped me for good. Ruined me for any woman. I might be able to hold my shit together for a while, but she’d wear me down eventually and discover the real me.
I’m not worth it, not worth making it last. I’m selfish. A complete prick. She’d find out quickly, if she doesn’t know already, and she’d bail. Wonder why she wasted her time on me, if she’d even consider me, that is.
And then there’s that stupid, f**ked-up bet I made only a few hours ago. A million dollars rides on the idea that I won’t let any woman trap me.
The crazy thing? I know Ivy Emerson is worth a million dollars.
But am I?
Chapter Six
Ivy
SOMEHOW, ARCHER ARRANGED for a fresh set of clothes to be waiting for me when I opened my bedroom door earlier. They sat in a neat, folded pile, tucked in a bag that was set in front of my door. A pair of black cotton cropped pants, a bright pink T-shirt, and a pair of my favorite brand of flip-flops. All in the proper sizes, all of it cute and something I would probably pick out on my own if given the chance.
How the hell did he know my sizes? Sorta scary.
I never heard anyone pass by the door either. And I would’ve. I tossed and turned, hardly getting any sleep, what with my thoughts consumed by what happened between Archer and me.
Images had flashed all night. The way he looked at me. How he touched me. The things he said to me.
I can’t f**king wait to be inside you.
God, I melt just remembering how dark his voice had sounded, the way he whispered those words close to my ear, his hands all over my body.
A shudder moves through me and I let loose a frustrated huff, then proceed to take a long shower in the hopes the hot water would wash away all of my useless and overwhelming feelings for a man I have no business feeling anything over.
Unfortunately, it didn’t work. Considering I’m in Archer’s house after being in his arms the night before, he permeates everything.
I both secretly love it and openly hate it.
I get dressed quickly, pulling my wet hair into a low ponytail with a band I found in the bottom of my purse. Slicked on some lip gloss because that’s all the makeup I brought with me.
No one’s called me, no Gage, no Archer. No one has even knocked on my door, and finally curiosity gets the better of me. I open the door and peek my head out, glancing left, then right, but the hall is empty. Gage’s door is closed. The house is quiet; it’s like I’m staying in a museum or something and I step fully out of the room, contemplating going to knock on Gage’s door.
What if he’s still sleeping? It’s already past nine and Gage isn’t one to sleep in. Deciding I need to know what’s up, I approach the door and knock, stumped when he doesn’t answer. No way can he still be in bed. And if he is, what a total bum.
“He’s outside, waiting for you.”
I jump and turn at the sound of Archer’s deep voice, surprised to find him standing in the middle of the vast hallway. Like a ghost, he magically appeared. And what a good-looking ghost he is too. He’s dressed in jeans and a black polo shirt, his dark hair is still damp, as if he just came out of the shower and oh wow, he looks amazing. I’m filled with the urge to take him by the hand, drag him back into my bedroom, and strip him. Run my hands all over his delicious body. Ride him into oblivion.
Stop!
“Oh.” I can’t come up with anything better to say so I don’t. Ridiculous how I thought a little sex between two age-old friends—acquaintances, really—would be no big deal, but it’s like the giant elephant filling the entire house, sitting directly between us. I meet his gaze and all I can do is remember how close his face had been to mine a few hours ago as he thrust deep inside my body. How I craned my neck and met his mouth with mine, our tongues sliding against each other’s.
Yeah. This is . . . awkward.
“We’re leaving for Hush soon. Are you ready?” His velvety smooth voice sends shivers running over my skin, and I press my lips together, searching for composure.
So far, I can’t really find it.
“I need to grab my purse.” I gesture toward the open door, then let my hand fall helplessly at my side.
“Did you sleep all right?” His question is innocent and courteous considering I’m his guest. But he mentions sleep, which makes me think of a bed, and then I’m remembering how he was in my bed and how fantastic he felt between my legs.
“I slept fine. Great,” I lied. “Um, thank you for the clothes.”
“You’re welcome. You like them?”
“They’re . . . perfect.” I frown and he does as well. “How did you know my sizes?”
“I took a wild guess.” He said this with a shrug, looking a little sheepish. This of course makes me skeptical. Just goes to show how well Archer knows his way around the female body when he can guess my size accurately.
My gut clenches at the realization.
“Oh.” I’m at a complete loss of words. His explanation makes perfect sense. Our being together makes absolutely no sense. Clearly, we made a huge mistake. And now we’re paying the price with the awkward silences and uncomfortable vibe between us.
“I’ll get my purse and then I’ll be ready.”
“Meet us out front then?” He smiles at me but it’s grim. And it doesn’t quite light up his eyes.
“Yes. Give me just a second.” I nod once, shooting into the bedroom the second he turns away from me.
Going to the bed, I sit on the edge heavily, chewing on my thumbnail as I give myself a mental pep talk.
You can handle this. So you’ve seen him nak*d. So what? And you know what he looks like when he comes. Big deal. Focus on the old days. When he used to be such a jerk to you and treated you so terribly. Remember how you felt last night at the reception, when he first talked to you and called you “chicken.” Jerk. Yeah, he irritated the crap out of you. Hold on to that feeling. The Archer Bancroft-drives-me-out-of-my-mind-he’s-such-an-a**hole feeling.
Forget all about the Archer Bancroft-drives-me-out-of-my-mind-when-he’s-kissing-me-senseless-and-f**king-me-into-oblivion feeling. That is so the wrong feeling to hold on to.
Picking up my purse, which I left on the bed, I stand, tug at the hem of my new, cute T-shirt, smooth a hand over my hair, and decide to go face my reality.
I can handle this. Because really, I don’t have a choice.
Archer
“WHAT THE HELL is taking her so long? I’m starved.”
“Grumpy bastard,” I mutter, irritated with Gage’s incessant miserable chatter. He hasn’t quit griping about his empty stomach since the moment I ran into him in the kitchen. I offered him an apple but he wouldn’t take it. Heaven forbid he eats something healthy. And besides, it’s not my fault his sister is taking so long to get ready.
Why, I’m not sure. I saw her no more than five minutes ago, looking absolutely gorgeous in the simple outfit I left for her to change into. I’d been half tempted to grab her by the waist, walk her backward into the bedroom, lock the door, and have my way with her for the rest of the day. Talk about an ideal lazy Sunday.