Undertow Page 3

  I didn’t. Day nine, I called, an efficient female taking down my information in a manner that guaranteed no call back. Day ten, she called back, five times friendlier and set a lunch appointment for Stewart and I, three weeks later. I repeated the date uncertainly, expecting for her to be mistaken, and her cheerful tone hardened slightly as she informed me that he was a very busy individual, and she had shifted an entire day to accommodate that time frame. I took the date. Thirty months later, I don’t need her to shift schedules. I get my stolen time in the middle of the night, or during a business dinner, or if an appointment cancels and I am in the area to grab a quick bite or a fuck on his desk.

  Snow. Falling snow is what brought us together. That and his hurried life, which collided us in the first place.

  8

  Venice Beach, CA

  HARPOONING: [verb]

  Copping wood while surfing.

  I am woken in the night, a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. “Maddy.” Soft lips brush my neck, the rough scruff of unshaven skin tickling my cheek.

  I roll, pulling up on the sheet, the cool night air cold on my bare chest. “Stop,” I mumble.

  “Come on,” Paul whispers, sliding under the sheet, the warm heat of his skin settling over mine, his weight gently supported by his knees and arms. The hot nip of his lips travels up my stomach and over my breasts before settling on my lips.

  “I’m sleeping,” I whisper between long kisses as his body settles deeper, pinning me to the bed, my legs spreading and wrapping around him.

  “No, you’re not.” He grins, pulling the blanket over both of our heads, his face close in the darkness.

  “Yes,” I reply firmly. “I am.” I reach between our bodies and adjusts his cock so it lies against his stomach in a position which will better stimulate me when it hardens. He grinds slightly against me and I tighten my grip, feeling the reaction in his cock, the thickening.

  “I like you when you sleep.” He leans down, taking a long taste of my mouth and slowly thrusts his pelvis, the firm friction right there against my clit as it should be. I release his cock and wrap my arms around his neck. “Waves are at eight feet,” he says against my mouth, a flash of teeth shining in the darkness.

  “So ride them.”

  “I’d rather ride something else right now.”

  “Me too.”

  I don’t need to move his cock. His hips take care of that, a small downward shift and his hardness makes the transition easy, my wet entrance more than ready for fulfillment. He resumes his strokes, slow and perfect inside me. The air under the blanket heats.

  Strokes quicken.

  I pant.

  The bed shakes.

  My heels dig into his back.

  “Don’t stop…” I beg.

  I yank the blanket off his head, frantic for the cool air as we both arch into the darkness of oblivion.

  I dress, slipping on bikini bottoms and a surf shirt, linking my hand through his and jogging down the garage steps. We grab our boards and move, quiet through dark streets, nodding to the familiar faces of homeless and beggars, the world that never sleeps, discomfort or addiction keeping them awake. When our feet hit the sand we run, eager to fly.

  The water is frigid, and I fully wake up, paddling out into the darkness, following the glint of Paul’s board. We ride until the waves calm, then we lay back on salty boards and watch the sun rise, reflecting sparks of fire across the tops of ripples.

  You don’t understand the true awesomeness of nature until you watch the sun rise on water that stretches across half the world. Or until you lay back on the board in the pitch black of night and listen to the world sleep. Until you feel the tug of water and know that you are dancing with a partner that could dip you into death should it feel the need. It is intoxicating, the heartbeat of the ocean. It flows through my blood; it sucks at my heart and pumps breath through my lungs.

  I hear Paul’s call and turn, realizing that he is already halfway in, waiting for me. In an hour, the crowds will come, hordes of tourists who have traveled across the country to play in our backyard. I roll to my stomach and paddle toward him.

  9

  Hollywood, CA

  SPEEDBUMP: [noun]

  Someone who stands in the way of a good ride.

  DANA

  Some might call my behavior stalking. I’m of the opinion that, if you love the person, it gives you some justifiable leeway. My behavior this evening … leeway doesn’t really excuse it. It’s borderline creepy. I sicced my assistant on Stewart. Told her I’d give her two hundred dollars for each event where she could reasonably predict his presence. It took her three weeks, but she found one. His business partner’s birthday party at Livello on Friday night. She called the restaurant, verified that the reservations were at nine o’clock that evening, and we discussed the chances of him being present. A hundred percent chance of him being invited, and we were thinking a twenty-five percent chance of attendance. I was grasping that narrow percentage with the tenacity of a drowning woman.

  It’s ten, and I am huddled in the back corner of the lobby, nursing a bottled water, a gossip magazine held open before me. My mission is simple. If he is alone, approach him. And if he is with someone, scope her out. I’m giving myself ‘til eleven, then I’m going to toss Belinda her two hundred bucks and go home to soak my feet in Epsom salts. I curse the three-inch heels I put on this morning and vow to wear flats on my next stakeout.

  The door opens, and in a burst of cool air and perfume, they enter.

  God, three years hasn’t changed him. He is smiling, and that is the first thing I notice. Holding the door open for her, his hand moves to cup her waist when she moves through the door in front of him. Their cheeks are flushed, her giggle reaching back into the dark corner where I sit, a curl of jealousy snaking through me at the sound. I sink in my seat, watching them closely and noticing everything. The brush of his hand against her ass, the look in his eyes when she grabs the fabric of his shirt and presses into his chest, his head dipping down for a kiss. They are quickly escorted into the restaurant, away from my eyes, and I strain for a final glimpse of him, blocked by the Maître d’.

  I exhale, setting down the magazine and lean back in my seat with a heavy sigh. I pick up my purse. There is no point in staying to see them leave. I saw everything I needed in that brief moment. The look in his eyes … she is not a fling. Not an escort who he hires for events. That was the look of love.

  My hands tighten around my clutch.

  10

  2 years earlier

  MADISON

  It didn’t take long for Stewart and I to fuck. The sweet circumstance of our meeting quickly turned to heat, chemistry sizzling across the linen tablecloth of our first date. For the second date, two weeks later, I told his icy secretary I’d meet him at his place, intent on putting the little time she had penciled in to good use. She extended the appointment, giving me a full two hours, which I took as a good sign. Two weeks later, I handed my keys to a freckle-faced valet, signed in with the security desk at Stewart’s condo, and was yanked inside the moment he opened the door.

  He crab-walked me backward and I reached for his face, pulling it to mine, our first kiss frantic. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he rushed out between kisses. “Is this too fast?”

  I bit back a laugh, unbuttoning the front of my shirtdress and dropping the material to the floor, nothing but bare skin underneath. “You tell me, is it?” I stepped away and his eyes devoured me, his expression turning dark, his hand running roughly through his hair.

  Then his mouth and his hands were on me. We started against the wall with frantic kisses as I yanked at his shirt, belt and pants until he was naked before me. My breath caught at his build. He was a tight coil of muscles that all seemed to center and point on a package that would have made my first boyfriend duck his head in shame. Stewart lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carried me to a bedroom.

  I didn’t notice the h
eated floors or the custom blinds or the ten-thousand-dollar rug. I only noticed the heat of our bodies, the perfect fit, the exact blend of control and fury that took my body from above, behind, and from below.

  Forty-five minutes after I set foot in his condo, he straddled me. Breathing hard, his face tight in concentration, his hands running over the skin of my breasts, he leaned forward and kissed me, pushing away my hands when I reached for him. His cock bobbed between us, brushing my stomach, a plastic slap of latex against my skin. “Don’t,” he groaned. “I’m too close. Give me a moment.”

  But I was high on orgasms and anxious to see the result of our work. I smiled at him and slid the condom off, exposing his slick head. I worked my hand up and down as I watched him.

  He squeezed his eyes tight, his breath coming out in short spurts. “I can’t, you’re—” He bucked his hips, groaning my name. I quickly jerked his shaft, watching in excitement as he released multiple shots on my chest. His head dropped back as he finished, a long sigh releasing. He collapsed to the side, his limbs heavy on the bed, his eyes closed, a smile on his face.

  I rolled, unmindful of the sheets, and rested my head on his bicep, relaxing.

  Minutes passed with no sound other than our breaths and the whip of the fan, neither of us feeling the need for compliments or unnecessary conversation.

  Then he rolled to his side and studied me. “How are you single?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t need a boyfriend.”

  “Women rarely need the things they want.” He ran his fingers gently along the inside of my arm.

  “I’m not exactly normal,” I offered. His mouth curved at the words, light entering them, a sarcastic response on the tip of his tongue. I waved his comeback off. “I don’t mean that in a good way. You and I? Having sex so quickly? It wasn’t because of your penthouse or your gorgeous blue eyes. It was sex, great sex, but just for pleasure. What we just did … I’m not expecting anything from you because of it. I don’t need to make ‘this’ anything more than what it is right now.”

  He frowned. “So you want to use me … you are using me. For sex.”

  I laughed. “Oh, please, it’s every man’s perfect scenario. Don’t give me that guilt trip.”

  His frown twitched slightly at the corners. “And what if I want more?”

  “I don’t think you have time for more.”

  From the start, I knew what I was signing up for, and I made sure he knew the same. I was a sexual creature and wouldn’t stand by and wait to be beckoned. So, I lived my normal life, with bits of Stewart’s cock sprinkled in when he had time. And that lasted for a bit, until he started getting attached and decided he didn’t want me screwing strangers any more.

  11

  2 years earlier

  “I want you to find a boyfriend,” Stewart said gruffly, while I was pinned against the wall of his office, his rigid cock inside of me. It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday night and everyone with any sanity was gone, save a uniformed cleaner who’d already stuck his head in and caught us in the act.

  “What?”

  He thrust upward, the depth making me ache. “A boyfriend. Someone to fuck you when I am busy, someone who can take you on dates and rub your feet and listen to you talk about your day.”

  “I already fuck when you’re busy.” The statement caused his eyes to darken and his thrusts increased in force and speed.

  It wasn’t new information, he knew I wasn’t exclusively his. It was a choice he made, his addiction to success and files and stock prices too time-consuming to allow for more than a night or two a week with me. And our time together was often like this—squeezed in at a time when stress lined his face, and meetings or emails were only a step or two away.

  “I don’t like you screwing a bunch of strangers. It’s not safe. And you deserve more than that.”

  I wished he would stop talking. The words were halting his movement, his serious expression putting a damper on my arousal. “Let’s discuss this later.”

  He continued on, ignoring my suggestion. “You deserve someone who will be there for you. Who will take you on dates and watch out for you. Take you to the doctor when you’re sick.”

  “So you want me to ditch you for someone with more time?”

  He scowled and lifted me up, my arms wrapping around his neck for security, as he carried me across the room and deposited me on his desk. “Fuck no. I will never allow someone to take you from me.” He ran his hands possessively over my front, pulling up my tank top and caressing the bare breasts beneath, his hands firm and strong, cupping my breasts like he owned them. I sighed when he dropped his face down and took one in his mouth. “But I don’t want to lose you because you need time and affection. Get an everyday man to satisfy those needs.” He met my gaze as his pace resumed, that dark glitter of intensity that I loved returning to his eyes. “But I will always own your heart. And he’d be second to me there.”

  I smiled, wrapping my legs around his hips and squeezing. “You can’t control my heart, Stewart.”

  He lowered himself to me, bending over the desk as he thrust and withdrew with deep, possessive fucks. Gripping my arms and pinning them to the desk, he took a long, deep taste of my mouth before breaking away and staring into my eyes. “I can sure as hell try.”

  I closed my eyes, gripping his hips, and let him fuck me through another two orgasms before he came in my mouth, his eyes glued to mine as he pumped himself onto my tongue. I thought he would drop the ‘boyfriend’ talk—assuming it was mid-sex ridiculousness that would never be spoken of again. But he pressed the issue, revisiting the topic enough times that I realized his sincerity. He worried about my safety and happiness. Stressed over losing me due to lack of attention. He wanted me to have a steady fuck, wanted someone to make up for the slack he couldn’t provide. He wanted someone safe and friendly, someone I wouldn’t leave him for, but that would make me happy.

  He wanted Paul, I just hadn’t found him yet.

  So, I continued screwing strangers, my libido as aggressive as ever. Valet boys with pretty hair. Businessmen at bars. Sunburnt tourists on Venice Beach.

  And then, on that day in Santa Monica, I met Paul.

  I fucked Paul.

  And he was different. As he stared into my eyes and fucked me in the surf, Paul was someone Stewart would approve of.

  Safe.

  Friendly.

  Sweet.

  Paul has changed since that day. He’s more possessive of me than he once was, his cock claiming me as if he has something to prove. He is not safe, and Stewart has every cause to be worried. They both own my heart now, an equal division fought over by two sets of blue eyes.

  12

  Venice Beach, CA

  My phone rings and I glance at it. LOVER displays across its front. Stewart. I opened the phone. “Hey babe.”

  “Hey. You free Thursday night? I have a work thing … need a date.”

  “Sure.”

  “Perfect. I’ll connect you to Ashley.” There is a click and a few tones before the cheerful voice of his assistant fills my ear. We chat for a few minutes, and then I hang up.

  “Was that him?” Paul continues his slow patient swipes of wax protection, across the surface of his bright red board. We are in the garage, the door up, our cars pulled into the alley. Every few minutes, bikers pass through the open space. I’ve already waxed my board, my job quickly and haphazardly done with no real care. But Paul takes his time and stretches the task out, his eyes careful, his strokes sure and familiar.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a thing to attend tomorrow night. I’ll be back in the morning. When do you leave for Costa Rica?” I watch his shoulders for tension, his jaw for rigidity, but he is calm, peace in his eyes, an easygoing manner in his movements.

  “End of next week. I’ll be gone four or five days, depending on the flight.” He sets down the wax, walking around the board and leans against my car, pulling me by the waist, into his arms. “I’m gonna miss you, Madd.”


  I smile, leaning into his chest. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” I lift my chin, and he kisses me, his mouth greedy. This is Paul’s worry, that one day he’ll return and I will be gone. He’s afraid I will choose Stewart and not him.

  He doesn’t mind sharing, but losing me terrifies him.

  I flip through book titles, pulling out spines and sliding in new ones, running over the alphabet in my head, making sure that everything was in its proper place, J.D. Robb sitting after James Patterson and before Nora Roberts. I feel him before I see him, the creak of the floor behind me announcing a visitor’s weight, the air carrying the scent of sunscreen and sweat.

  I don’t pause, intent on filing these last three books before my mind gets sidetracked, and I have to start the whole damn alphabet again.

  “You know ebooks are going to replace these pretty soon.” Paul’s confident drawl sounds, and I smile despite my best attempt to keep a cool exterior.

  I squeeze the last book into place and turn to face him. “Easy—words like that’ll get you killed around here.”

  He scoffs, crossing his tan arms across a broad chest, covered in a blue Billabong tank. “You don’t have a dangerous bone in your body.”

  I walk around the rack of books between us, until I stand in front of him. “You’re right about that. I’m in sore need of a dangerous bone inside of me.”

  He groans and his eyes turn from playful to feral in a moment, as he reaches out and pulls me tight to him. I can feel his pelvis tilt, our fit tight enough that the ridge of his erection digs into me. He lets out a shuddering breath as he lowers his mouth to mine. “You want me to fix that situation?”