Love Chloe Page 2

  I smirked. Straightened the strap of my gown and looked out the window. “Shh. The driver will hear you.”

  “The driver’s job is to hear me. Now, get on your knees.” Vic’s hand landed on the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. I twisted away, shooting him a warning look.

  He leaned over, whispered in my ear, his breath tickling the wisps of my chignon. “Do it, and tomorrow I’ll fly us to Paris.”

  That got my attention. I turned, sliding across the seat, his hand immediately traveling up the slit in my dress, teasing the skin on my thighs, my legs obediently parting as he did what he did best and ran his fingers over the silk of my panties. “Private?” I asked, the negotiation eliciting a chuckle from him, his eyes darkening when my hips curved into his fingers, the steal of a digit sliding under my panties turning everything—for one exquisite moment—beautifully black.

  “Yes, we’ll fly private, you spoiled woman. Now, let me feel that delicious mouth.” His fingers gently played on my neck, a light reminder, and this time, I didn’t resist, sliding down, the limo’s carpet stiff against my knees, the beaded dress snagging on the edge of the seat before breaking free.

  I unbuckled his belt and looked up into his eyes, dragging the zipper down. Heavy and hooded, they stared at me as if drugged, his handsome mouth opening slightly when my hand stole into his tuxedo pants and wrapped around him.

  The car took a turn, my left hand gripping his thigh for balance, his finger tapping at the window control, a sliver of cold night air and city sounds pouring through the now-open crack, my eyes narrowing as I placed his cock in my mouth, showing my teeth, threatening him with my eyes.

  “Easy princess.” He smiled, his perfect grin white in the dark space. “Just adding a little atmosphere. Not enough for anyone to see in. Now, suck.”

  His order excited me, the dominance in his tone making my thighs clench, arousal growing. Arousal, which, knowing Vic, he’d light into a full-fledged fire by the time we hit his elevator. Arousal he’d put out with his fingers, his mouth, and his body. I closed my eyes and concentrated.

  I loved the power of having him in my mouth. I took my time, taking him deep and feeling him stiffen against my tongue, in the course of seconds, my oral ability proven in eight inches of reaction. I smiled around his cock and buried it down my throat.

  Fifteen blocks later, only minutes before we pulled up to his Fifth Avenue residence, he moaned my name, his hand tugging at my hair, the shudder of his body the final warning before he thrust into my mouth and came. Hot satisfaction of which I swallowed every bit, the small aftertaste well worth the worship in his eyes as he pulled me into his arms and kissed me senseless.

  “I love you,” he whispered, brushing the hair off my shoulder, the hair that had come undone somewhere around SoHo. “Oh Chloe. I love you so much.”

  And that, in a cum-filled nutshell, was my ex. Vic Worth. His family’s name was plastered on buildings all over Manhattan. A billionaire trust-fund baby, we met sophomore year at NYU. Dated eighteen months before I walked in on him mid-thrust into his maid. I dumped him, and he popped the question with a six-carat ring amid a flurry of exorbitant gestures. I said “no” in about four different combinations, most paired with an expletive or immaturely presented middle finger. He wasn’t deterred, his pursuit impressive in its effort, a pursuit that I had hoped, with a two-month hiatus since his last contact, had finally ended.

  Yet that afternoon, my high from my new job draining with every note of my ringtone, he called. I hesitated, then, despite my better judgment, dragged my finger across the surface and raised the phone to my ear.

  I barely had time to speak before Vic’s voice came through the cell, his words barking out with some degree of urgency. “Don’t get on that filthy thing. The subway? God knows what you’ll catch.”

  I spun around, peering up into the bright white square of sunlight, a swell of bundled New Yorkers pouring over its edge and hurrying down the steps, the vibration of the oncoming train pulsing under my feet. “Are you following me?” I hissed into the phone.

  “Hell no. I’m at the Bellagio about to clean house in blackjack. But Jake just texted me that he saw you going down to the six. What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Is this seriously why you called me?” The train approached, its brakes screeching as it came to a stop and was immediately surrounded, the crush of bodies swelling like a sea of maggots around a prize. I tapped my MetroCard against my leg, in no hurry to join the party.

  He sighed into the phone. “According to Jake, you’re in heels—and I know your heels. They aren’t built for actual use. Trot your sexy ass up those stairs and get in the warm car; let Jake take you home. Please. Then I’ll hang up and never bother you again.”

  “Never?” I challenged, the promise one I’d heard before.

  “I’ll try my best.”

  I twisted back and forth, my purse swinging with the momentum, from darkness to light. Though, in this twisted scenario, they were flip-flopped: the dark and dirty wheeze of the subway was where I should be going, the light and sunny street the path I should avoid.

  “Come on, baby. Let me do this one thing. Just one.” The beg in his voice, the crack on the word baby. It reached up my skirt and teased my skin, probed into my brain and lured out all of the times his gorgeous mouth had whispered the words.

  Come on, baby… his hand pulled me into a coat check closet, parting furs and pushing me back against the wall.

  Come on, baby… his tongue, soft on my inner thighs, the scrape of his five o’clock shadow tickled as his hands spread my knees apart and his mouth moved higher.

  Come on, baby… his hands up my dress, fingers digging into the meat of my ass, his mouth on my neck as we—tucked into the shadows of a club, music thumping, bodies everywhere—let passion override sense.

  Come on, baby…

  That was the problem with love. There was no OFF switch.

  I ended the call and hurried down the steps into the cold darkness.

  4. Girls Just Want to Have Fun

  My home was Cammie’s couch, a red leather sectional that was super stylish but really uncomfortable. She had offered to share her bed, but I’d heard of the gymnastics that had occurred on its surface… so the couch would work just fine for me. The apartment felt lonely without her, my Instagram strike broken when I drank too much of her wine last night and gorged on their South Beach photos. I flipped through image after image of gorgeous selfies with brilliant blue water behind them, their bikinis depressing when I glanced out her window at the NYC snow. It was official. Being poor sucked.

  Vic didn’t call back after I hung up on him. Which was a good thing, something that I needed to keep reminding myself. I doodled in the margins of my notebook.

  STAY AWAY FROM VIC.

  Putting it on paper seemed to help. The caps seemed a bit excessive but did properly emphasize the point. Maybe when I got an apartment, I could wallpaper the walls with that mantra. On second thought, that might scare off potential dates, give a bit of a crazy-girl vibe. I ripped out the notebook page and crumpled it into a ball. If I had any hope of finding love in this city, I needed to put my best foot forward. Outside, there was a short honk and I looked out the window, recognizing Cammie’s driver. The girls were flying home, and I was tagging along with the driver to pick them up. I grabbed my purse and cell, tossed my Vic resolution in the trash, and headed outside, waving a hello to the driver as I got in the SUV.

  I settled back in the seat, tired from my first week of employment. It was amazing how long eight hours could feel—each day stretching interminably before me, Nicole too busy to teach me anything, my hours spent puppy-sitting Chanel.

  Yesterday, I’d spent five hours looking at apartments, my lonely search through the snowy city a complete disaster. Every place was crap, the buildings old, rooms cramped, and neighborhoods sketchy. I never realized how expensive this city was before, never realized how a majority of New Yorkers lived, never realized how spoiled I was before. I decided to give Cammie’s couch a couple more weeks, get my bank account a little more flush, give my mind a little more time—then try again.

  There was a loud honk, and the SUV swerved, my hand gripping the center console as I tried to open a text from Benta, my eyes glancing briefly up at the traffic before looking back down at my phone. The text was short, letting me know they had landed and were at baggage claim. Thank God. After a week alone, I was convinced I wouldn’t make it in New York without these girls. Life sans them sucked.

  Granted, there were a few negatives about their return. I’d have to tell Cammie about the dress—her Nicole Miller number that I might have snagged slightly during my borrow. And I’d have to disclose the conversation with Vic. They had me on strict probation from answering any of his calls, so I’d be in trouble over that slip.

  The SUV rolled into JFK, and I could already see them, their enthusiastic wave barely visible through the snow. Only minutes until their bronzed and relaxed selves would hop inside, and I’d be back in my rightful place: the pasty white stressball in our trio. Granted, I had that title before they spent a week sipping margaritas on a Miami beach. Cammie’s ethnicity had blessed her with perfect dark skin and almond eyes that made my blond hair and blue eyes look bland. And Benta was from Spain; she looked like a tanned, dark-haired version of me until she opened her mouth and a ridiculously sexy accent flowed out.

  “I know you aren’t welcoming us back glued to that phone.” Benta crawled into the backseat, her gloved hand unsuccessfully swiping for my cell.

  I held it out of reach with a glare. “I’m still trying to catch up on your Instagram vomit. I swear, you guys woke up each day determined to make me miserable. Gi
ve me two minutes to get over my jealousy and pretend to be happy for you.”

  “Two minutes … ooh, that reminds me. Chloe, when we get to dinner I have to tell you about this ‘stud’ that Benta hooked me up with. The guy finished before I unbuttoned my shirt.” Cammie snorted.

  “Is there more to that story?” I glanced up from my phone.

  “Nope,” Cammie said cheerfully. “That’s about it. But ohmigod, wait ’til you hear…”

  I stuffed my phone in my purse and settled in, their excited chatter filling the car, a welcome distraction from my current issues.

  5. Kissing a Frog

  We didn’t head home, our first stop a bar in Chelsea, then a club in Midtown, dancing and drinking until 3 AM when we finally called it a night, stumbling out the doors.

  A hand caught mine as we stepped into the street, the pull interrupting my giggle at something Cammie had said. The hand was attached to a tailored suit, wide smile, and flushed face. “Hey beautiful,” he said, his breath frosting in the night air. I gently worked my hand free, feeling the flank of my girls rallying beside me.

  “Hey.” I smiled. “You good?” I stepped back, glancing up the street to make sure we weren’t all about to be run over.

  “I was hoping for your number, didn’t get it in the club. I’m Tommy.” He smiled, a grin that probably made his girlfriend real happy.

  “Nice to meet you Tommy.” I stepped back another pace. “I’m not interested.”

  He scowled. Held up a hand that swayed slightly, his friends pulling at his shoulder, sending apologetic looks our way while failing to move Tommy. “Awww… come on. One kiss, princess. If it’s not incredible, I’ll give you a thousand dollars.” He fumbled in his suit pocket, pulling out a thick wad of hundreds and holding them out. “Come on. One kiss.”

  I hesitated. Three months ago, I’d have laughed in his face. But with my low bank balance fresh in my mind, a thousand bucks was tempting. More than tempting. I stepped closer, Benta’s hand wrapping like a vise around my arm. “Chloe,” she warned.

  I hesitated. When Benta barked, I normally listened. Her authoritative tone was that of the dominatrix variety. But there, on that street, I stood firm.

  “One kiss,” I repeated, meeting his eyes. “For a thousand bucks.”

  “You’re probably worth it.” He shrugged, smacking the cash across his palm as he swayed slightly, the action drawing attention to the shine of his watch, the same brand my father wore. Or rather, used to wear. Behind him, his friends stopped their efforts, suddenly interested in the late-night negotiation.

  I examined him closer. He wasn’t terrible looking. Prep school pretty, I wouldn’t depend on him to protect me in a dark alley. I could tell you without looking that his nails were manicured, his palms probably smoother than mine.

  I risked death, tugging my arm from Benta and stepped closer, looking up at him. “Okay, Romeo. Give me your best shot.”

  He stepped forward with a smile, one hand gripping my shoulder, his lips pushing on mine and let me tell you right now, his best shot really, really, really sucked. A thick tongue forcibly rammed itself into my gum line, with a smack of extra saliva as he clamped his chops around my lower lip and slowly pulled away, my lip stretching out before popping free. He tasted like Red Bull and whiskey, sugary sweet with a foul aftertaste. I’d literally had gyno exams that I’d enjoyed more.

  I jumped back, shoving off his chest, my hand wiping across my mouth as I glared at him. “That was your best kiss?”

  He laughed, rubbing his own lips with a smile that reeked of asshole. I held out my hand, wanting the cash, and his eyes dropped to it with a sneer. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t from the four martinis I had downed inside.

  “Let’s go, Chloe,” Benta spoke quietly from behind me.

  “Gimme the cash. We had a deal,” I insisted, my palm still extended, my pride at an all-time low. The urge to cry pricked my eyes, and I swallowed hard, begging him with my stare.

  “He’s not worth it. Come on.” Cammie’s hand wrapped around my forearm and pulled, my heels tripping over the icy curb, her driver moving to open the back door for us. Before climbing in, I glanced over my shoulder and caught the trio of assholes laughing.

  The SUV bumped over a pothole, taking us home. I rested my forehead against the cold window, hoping to get the spinning to stop. That experience … it had been the first time in my life that I had ever felt cheap. God, the look in his eyes when he’d laughed at me. I must have looked so pathetic, holding out my hand, begging for his cash.

  I shouldn’t have even turned when he grabbed my hand. I should have listened when Benta spoke. I should have laughed in his face like I would have done three months ago.

  But instead, within a month of my trust fund’s disappearance, I had prostituted myself for a kiss. And hadn’t even gotten paid for it. I groaned against the glass window and felt the gentle pat of Cammie’s hand against my back.

  Maybe the cultured, confident woman I was before was just a product of my parents’ money. Maybe now, with my new life a train wreck, I would discover the real Chloe Madison. And maybe, I wouldn’t like her.

  Ugh. I rolled down the window and tried not to vomit at the thought.

  New Year’s Eve. The first holiday season spent without my parents, Christmas normally spent at our Aspen home, a picturesque cabin with six bedrooms, a hot tub, and theater room. Dad and I would ski through the Christmas tree fields until we found the perfect one; Mom and I would cook Christmas dinner in the chef’s kitchen, and we’d end the holiday with a pile of presents and lots of eggnog. That house, along with our Bahamas condo, was now the property of the government. I hoped someone was using it, the thought of our furniture under sheets, the hot tub frozen over, too depressing to consider. I didn’t even know where my parents were this year. They hadn’t called on Christmas Day, and we’d spoken once since my eviction, long enough for Mom to give me Nicole’s number, no apology or explanation given for their actions, their voices bubbly, lives busy, glamorous plans apparently still in effect.

  “Ms. Madison?”

  “Yes,” I said, stepping carefully toward the car, trying not to turn an ankle in my four-inch Brian Atwoods. “Are you the Brantleys’ driver?”

  “I am.” He didn’t offer a name, just opened the Escalade’s back door with a polite smile, supporting my hand until the moment when I released it to grip the door frame. “I’ve already taken the Brantleys to the event. I have instructions to bring you to the house, pick up Chanel, and arrive at the party by eight.”

  The same instructions Nicole had given me three times already, her over-enunciated words making it clear that she assumed I was an idiot. I nodded at the man, tucking my bag in the floorboard and bringing my feet in. He shut the door gently, then walked around to the driver’s side.

  The large SUV felt small with just the two of us inside. I opened my compact and checked my lipstick, glancing up front to the driver. “How was your Christmas?”

  “It was quiet.”

  Well, that was a conversation starter. I had expected for him to politely return the question, giving me an opportunity to share my own story. Cammie, Benta, and I had failed in our attempt to play house. Our turkey had burned to a crisp on the outside, but was rare on the inside, my soufflé fell, and Benta’s try at haricots verts produced water-logged beans as limp as drunk dick. We’d ditched the food, and settled on the couch with a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and two bottles of champagne. Adding Netflix to the mix, my first NYC Christmas had ended up being pretty damn awesome, my thoughts only flitting to my parents a handful of times. It had been nice, spending it with the girls. It felt so grownup, like we were finally adults, even if we had failed horribly in our cooking.

  I fiddled with my necklace and tried another tactic. “How long have you worked for the Brantleys?”

  “Three years.”

  Talkative guy. Any more chattering and I’d need to put in earplugs. It was too bad. His voice had a layer of accent that made it absolutely delicious.