Mr. Corporate (Mister #3) (27 page)

It’s not just the way she arches her back in response. It’s not just the primal feeling she brings out inside me. That feeling of pure lust and longing for more of this, and that, and everything we’ve ever done.

It’s not just because she’s beautiful on the outside. I love her for the person she is on the inside. Flaws and imperfections. Fears and insecurities. I love her for her weakness and strength. Her beauty and pain. I love her because there is no other person on this earth who can make me ache for something the way she can.

I’m after that love in return. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from her.

We move together like our love-making has been choreographed. Like we are dancing our way through the last act, and no one is watching but us. And we don’t care. Because we don’t do anything for the accolades, we only do things for us.

The slow begins to wear off the way it does and the world begins to catch up. Tori is moaning and her hips are pressing against mine, urging me to take her harder. Push deeper inside her. Give her more.

So I roll us over and let her take control. She laughs, breathlessly, her smile contagious. And she begins to move her body in a different way. She’s gripping the hard muscles of my biceps like she needs them around her. She needs me to hold on and never let go.

I reach up, place my hand on the back of her neck and force her down onto my chest.

“Yes,” she says, her heart racing against mine. They race together. Like we are both trying to get across some imaginary finish line. “Yes,” she moans as I grip her hair, keeping her in place. I don’t want her to get too far ahead of me. She might take off and never come back if I let her do that. So I hold her prisoner there. In my grip. My cock buried deep inside her pussy. My lust out of control, my desire off the charts, my want… God, why does it feel this way to want someone so much?

“West?” she says.

Fuck. Stop being so damn dramatic, Corporate, and fuck your girlfriend the way she wants you to.

“West…” she says again.

“Come,” I say, pumping harder. So hard my balls slap against her skin. I reach down and play with her asshole. “Come, baby. I need to feel it. I need to feel your love so bad.”

We come together, that final rush of adrenaline the shot I need to put my fears aside. Put the last few days aside and just give in to her completely.

“I love you,” she says a few moments later when we are hot, and sweaty, and breathing so hard, it feels like our hearts might explode. She places my hand on her breast to feel the thumping. And then she places hers over mine.

We lie there, looking up at the ceiling of a six-million-dollar yacht, as those final thoughts of the day race across that finish line.

Victoria Arias walked into my life on my darkest day. Even though everyone thinks the darkest day came two days later with those rape charges, that was nothing compared to the kind of soul-crushing defeat I had to accept under that tree as I tried to drink my problems away. And this girl… this
angel
… appeared with a sweet voice and a talent for listening.

I think I won.

And it scares me.

Because someone else thinks I won too. And that’s why all this shit is happening. It’s not Perfect’s fault we got charged with rape. It’s not Romantic’s fault we got charged with rape.

It’s mine.

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Victoria

The closing of our cabin door jolts me out of my sleep. West sits down on the edge of the mattress, making it dip from his weight. He’s got his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, turning to look at me over his shoulder. “We’re at the marina in West Palm Beach, so we gotta get up and get dressed now. The jet is about thirty minutes away. We should be in California this afternoon.” He gives me a half smile. “You’ve got a dress in that closet. It’s not purple, which sucks. But it’s clean, which is a plus. My clothes are in the next cabin over, so I’ll meet you up top, OK? Don’t be long.”

He gets up and walks out.

Hmmm.

Not even a kiss? Does my breath stink or something?

I sigh, then throw off the covers. “Fucking Weston Conrad. He’s back to his usual self, I guess.”

I’m still not sure what to make of this whole trip. Of all that stuff that happened back in the Bahamas. Or the rescue. Or his friends, for that matter. Mr. Mysterious does not exactly come off as a friendly guy. No. He would never be called Mr. Friendly.

And I have no idea what to think of Five. As Vlad the pilot he came off as some kind of slacker in a tropical shirt. Some guy who lucked out with pilot lessons when he was young and won a cool float plane in a poker game.

Yeah, that’s how he came across. But I’ve heard stories of Five. Not in a long time, mind you. But West called him ‘a privileged asshole who is too smart for his own good.’

Vlad didn’t have that vibe at all.

So. Five is a man of many faces.

Good to know.

I open the closet to the clothes I’ve been provided. Just as West said, there’s a pink sundress. Pink is not my color and I frown as I pull it off the hanger and check the tag. I hope my tits will fit in this thing.

I go into the bathroom, wash up, finger-comb my wild hair, then give up. It’s no use. I am stuck with the feral look today. Which might come in handy if I have to set these men straight when they start getting bossy. I want to know just what the fuck is happening.

I wiggle my girls into the dress and slip my feet into the sandals at the bottom of the closet, and grab the light sweater off another hanger, just to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.

My poor purple bra was blown up.

It hits me then.

Someone tried to kill us yesterday.

“Don’t think about it yet, Victoria.” And I don’t. It’s no use worrying. I wasn’t kidding last night when I said I feel safe. So far, anyway. There’s more to this story than I know and all the answers come from the three Misters who will call their little meeting to order this afternoon.

So I’m gonna wait them out. Just sit tight and listen. Watch everyone as they talk. See how they act. And then I’ll start to worry if I feel it’s necessary.

I’m a fighter. I’m not some weak little girl who bends over to get fucked.

Well… haha. I laugh. I do that too. For my man.

Is he my man?

Jesus fucking Christ, Victoria Arias. Get a hold of your wandering stream of consciousness.

I leave the cabin and find my way to the stairs. This thing is huge for a boat. I’ve never been on a yacht, so maybe they all look like this. I wouldn’t know. But I’m impressed.

I have been on Weston’s jet though.

And I’m actually looking forward to that kind of luxury today. Even if it ends with a serious meeting I might not want to be a part of.

I wonder if Jerry and Jonathan still work on the jet?

“Well, finally,” Mysterious says as I climb the stairs and come out in the main living room.

“Fuck off,” West says to his friend.

Vlad—Five—smiles at me and says, “Ready?”

“Are you going to fly the jet too?” I ask, walking over to West, letting him take my hand. I look up and smile. He smiles back, but I can tell there’s an uneasy tension in the air and I just interrupted a conversation.

“No,” Five says, walking towards the doorway. “But the car is waiting and we need to get the hell out of Florida before they realize we’re back.”

I look up at West, but he mouths the word,
Later
, to me.

I shrug. What am I gonna say? I don’t even have a ride home to New York. I was supposed to call my secret boss for the return ticket once the whole Wallace Arlington thing was over. I’m stuck with these guys whether I like it or not.

We leave the boat and it’s still dark outside. The sun is just barely starting to think of coming up in the eastern horizon over the ocean.

The car is long and black and we all slip in, silently. Mysterious and Five are on one bench, West and I are opposite them.

We stare at each other in uncomfortable silence.

I try to ignore that and look around the interior. It’s nice. Two leather bucket seats are built into the benches, so it really only seats four people. There’s a bar, which no one makes a move for, even though Mysterious strikes me as the kind of man who has a drink before breakfast. And the accents are all in that upscale sleek burl wood pattern that you only see in luxury cars.

“So,” I say. “Aside from traveling to San Diego, what’s the plan?”

“We could start with the truth,” Mysterious says.

I raise my eyebrows at him. West grabs my hand. “Don’t listen to him, Tori. He’s an asshole even on a good day. And I think he’s having a very bad day right now.”

“Because of you,” Mysterious says.

“I thought you guys were friends?” I ask.

“Friends, enemies…” Five says, closing his eyes and leaning back. All three of them have suits on. Black suits with black ties. “It’s nearly the same thing with this team.”

Hmmm. “Is this your uniform? When you guys are in Mister mode?”

Mysterious narrows his eyes at me.

I narrow mine back.

“Miss Arias,” Five says. “I think we’ll get through this trip a lot easier if you don’t pry too much.” He opens his eyes and stares at me. “Until we ask you for your side of the story, that is.”

“My side of… what story?”

“How you got involved in this whole Wallace headhunt,” Five replies.

Oh. I clam up fast.

“Yeah,” Mysterious says, looking over at West to my right. “I thought that might shut her up.”

“Don’t talk to her,” West growls. “Either of you. I’m fucking serious right now.”

“Hey,” Five says, sighing like we’re keeping him awake. “Let’s just all calm down and take my advice. Both of you shut the fuck up,” he says, opening his eyes briefly before closing them again. “We’ll sort it out in San Diego. I’m fucking tired and you do not want to piss me off when I’m tired.”

Mysterious takes his attention to the view out his window and West puts a protective arm around me.

I look at Five again. Who is this guy? Should I be afraid? Is he like… mafia?

He doesn’t look like mafia. He looks exactly the way West described him all those years ago. Privileged asshole. I can totally see it.

We are all silent for the rest of the ride to the airport. And even though Five was the one who said he was tired, it’s Mysterious who grabs some z’s. Five has to punch him in the arm several times to make him stop snoring.

I am just happy to get out of that car when we pull up on the tarmac. And I’m even happier when I see Jerry standing at the bottom of the jet.

As soon as the driver opens my door, I scramble out of the car and walk briskly towards him, smiling big.

“Miss Arias!” he says, giving me air-kisses to each cheek. “How have you been?” He holds me at arm’s length for a few moments, like he’s scrutinizing me after a long absence.

Which he is.

I laugh. “Jesus, Jerry. You never age! You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you.”

“Ditto, you sweet flower. Now, you come with me and I will set you up in the master bedroom for old times’ sake.” He shoots a wink over his shoulder, presumably to Weston, and then we trek up the air stairs together.

When we are back in the private master bedroom at the rear of the jet, Jerry closes the door and looks at me.

“What?” I ask.

“What’s going on? They are furious with Mr. Conrad.”

“What?” I scowl. “What do you mean? Define furious. Because I get that they are upset about something—”

“It’s beyond upset, Miss Arias. When Mr. Shrike called to schedule the jet last night he was yelling. At me!” Jerry says, pointing to himself with surprise. “I know he’s not mad at me. But he’s never been a man to treat people badly. He was beyond angry. What is going on?”

“I don’t really know. We were—”

A loud, hard knock on the door stops me mid-sentence. The door opens without waiting for an invitation. Weston is looming in the door, looking pissed off and very tall. Has he always been this big? Why does he look so angry?