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XVI WASH US CLEAN (AUGUST)

XVI

WASH US CLEAN

(AUGUST)

I'm making a colossal mistake.

If this were a corporate contract, I would halt it immediately, figure out where things derailed, and correct course.

But Elle isn't a damned project.

I can't rewind time.

And I still can't call this something that went wrong.

Rather, it's the setup for something terrible later on, when Elle either betrays me—or I betray her warmth and trust when I can't accept the honest sweetness she gives me.

Right now, though, my mind is somewhere else as I lick the water away from her skin and she wraps her legs around my waist and buries her face in my throat with soft cries of August, August, August.

How can a mistake feel like it's the only truth I've ever known?

This feels more right than anything I've ever known in my life.

Like she's the only good, true thing I've ever known.

When we come down from our high, we stay silent under the shower spray with my lips pressed to her brow. It's hard as hell to pull away from her.

Hard to want to move at all, but we can't stay like this forever.

Slow kisses and light touches become murmurs, soap, all warmth and lazy caresses with warm towels until I'm not sure if this is bathing or foreplay.

Later, when we're clean and tired and sated, I wrap her in my robe and carry her to bed.

Not the guest room tonight.

I can't stand more space between us.

Tonight, I need to hold on to this messy thing of ours like it's something I want to cherish for the rest of my life.

Elle forms a small bundle against me, sleepy and soft and just right, her head pillowed against my stomach as I turn on the bedside lamp and open an old leatherbound copy of Robinson Crusoe.

I barely manage to read I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York before she's gone.

This strange, quiet angel rests against me with her starry lashes trembling against her cheeks and her lips parted.

I turn the light off, but I don't sleep.

I'm still a nocturnal animal, and tonight I've captured the sun.

I just watch Elle dream, clasping her tight until the hours run long and the morning comes to steal her away.

Unfortunately, morning does come.

And with it, an absolute brat of a morning lark that's been cursed upon my life.

I don't have to open my eyes to know it's too bright, and I'm not just talking about the sun for once.

I mean the fucking madwoman who's been poking me in the head for the last five minutes despite my dogged attempts to ignore her and keep sleeping.

"Gruffykiiins," Elle sings for what must be the fifth time. "Wake u—EEP!"

That's it.

I've had it.

I drag one eye open and snap my teeth at her finger.

This time, I catch it.

She freezes, staring at me with wide eyes, while I hold her finger prisoner between my teeth, biting down just hard enough to taste the warm salt of her skin and keep her from escaping.

"Go back to sleep," I mutter incoherently around her finger.

Elle smirks. "You have to let go if you want me to understand what you're saying."

I do let go—just long enough to speak.

"No. Mine," I say, barely giving her a second to realize she's free before I capture her finger again and flick the tip of my tongue against it.

Her face goes crimson.

Even if her cheerfulness annoys me, she's adorably sexy this morning, shamelessly nude and sitting cross-legged with her hair a mess of gold falling down her shoulders. The red undertones in her hair almost match the warm, well-loved pink of her nipples.

Blushing up to the tips of her ears, she's still grinning. "Don't stick it out if you're not going to use it—oh God."

That oh God is my fault.

Because the moment she chastises me to use it, I do.

Pushing myself up, I capture her mouth in a kiss.

Just a glimpse of her wide eyes before they sink closed and she sways into me, catapulting me into heaven.

She tastes like everything made to ruin a man.

Submissive and sweet and so damned needy.

Even when she melts against me, she's never shy about demanding what she wants. Her lush little mouth begs me to slip deeper inside her, to take more, to storm her with a pleasure that could keep me here all day.

It's too easy to ignore the entire world when I'm this addicted to the way her lips give every time I gently sink my teeth against them for slow, teasing bites that coax small moans from the back of her throat.

She's easy to fall into.

She could almost make me stop caring that it's not noon yet.

I'm still drowsy as I slip my tongue slowly inside her mouth to glide against hers, savoring every moment before I draw back to take in the stunned, confused look on her flushed face with as much satisfaction for her dazed eyes as for the wet, plumped gleam of her lips.

"Now, what's that face for?" I ask softly.

Elle blinks rapidly and shakes herself. "I just ... I wasn't expecting you to ..."

So brazen, most of the time.

Yet so shy when she has to admit how she really feels around me.

"I know." I catch a lock of her sleep-wild hair and tuck it behind her ear. "I don't know what we're doing, Elle. I wanted to kiss you, so I did."

Her smile peeks out slowly like the sun finding its way past the clouds.

"Well, I could be okay with that."

I smile and kiss her forehead—then sprawl back against the bed again, draping an arm over my eyes to block out the damnable light. "Could you be okay with turning off the sun and letting me go back to sleep?"

"Nope!" she chirps—and this time she pokes me in the ribs. "If you get up, I'll make breakfast."

"You can cook?" I lift my arm, just enough to peer at her.

"Hey!" Elle folds her arms over her chest. Pity. I was enjoying the sway of her naked tits. "What makes you think I can't?"

"You're a chaos monster." Grumbling, I push myself up on one arm. "I don't trust you not to burn down my kitchen."

Her delectable lower lip thrusts out. "Oh, please. I've never burned down anyone's kitchen. Only set one on fire once. Singed a little. A lot. A little a lot. Gran only had to replace three cabinets, I think?"

I stare at her flatly.

Elle lets out a dramatic sigh, slumping forward.

"Fine. You cook breakfast."

With another look, I drag myself out of bed.

My entire body feels heavier before noon, slow and dull and sluggish. Sunlight is my kryptonite.

"Looks like I may have to if I want my house to survive intact."

Elle grins and bounces out of bed, splendidly naked in the morning light.

The sunlight isn't so terrible after all when it highlights her ass.

"Got you out of bed," she gloats.

I'm torn between watching her peach curves and reaching for my dresser and something to cover my own nudity when the reality of this little monster's manipulative ways truly sinks in.

Narrowing my eyes, I yank the drawer open and pull out a soft-worn button-down that's been retired to housework, and I fling it at her head.

"Wretched girl."

"Eee!"Elle squeals, flailing at the shirt. She ends up with it draped over her head and giggles, yanking it down. "You're twice the asshole in the mornings, you know."

"Just mornings?"

"You're slightly more tolerable at night." A sly smile tells me exactly how tolerable I am when she knows I sent at least six orgasms crashing through her last night. She wriggles into the shirt, then turns and sprints toward the door, the unbuttoned shirt flapping around her. "First one to the kitchen gets to cook!"

"Elle, you're not—"

Too late.

She's gone.

Thank God I've got excellent homeowner's insurance.

I stare after her for a moment, then chuckle helplessly and pull a pair of pants out of the drawer.

This girl.

Life hasn't been the same since she literally crashed into it—and I wonder if it ever will be again.

Right about now, I'd kill for a little normalcy.

Or perhaps I'm just feeling extra homicidal today.

You'll never force me to admit aloud that I enjoyed frittatas and coffee with Elle this Monday morning, while she flicked through—cartoons.

Of course.

Coming in to work was actually pleasant with her excited chatter stealing my attention, one eye on my laptop and the other on her throughout the drive.

She was thrilled. Aunt Clara asked to see her pitch portfolio, which features her original characters, versus her work portfolio, which has a variety of styles and mediums tailored to win over new clients. Before I could express my curiosity to see it myself, Rick let us off at the office.

Where my lawyers are waiting.

With Marissa Sullivan and her lawyers.

I've been so wrapped up in Elle Lark that I half forgot we're meeting this morning. The moment I walk into the office and see Marissa sitting in the reception area, impatiently tapping her heels, I know she's bombed out again.

Piss-donkey drunk.

Her eyes are dilated, her lips slack, and her scowl is comically childish. The two men flanking her on both sides look uncomfortable. She's every bit the spoiled Mafia princess with her handlers, minus the street wars and bloodshed.

Too bad she still raises enough corporate hell to count.

The moment Elle and I step off the elevator, her head comes up sharply. Marissa's sharp glare hits me first before she turns it on Elle.

"You," she slurs, pointing a manicured nail at Elle, "are wh-whey too perky."

Elle smiles.

Perkily, I might add.

"Hello to you too, Marissa," she says. "You're looking nice this morning."

"Don't you try to sheet-talk me!" Marissa snaps. The two men with her look uncomfortable, stirring in their seats. She flicks her glare back to me. "You guys are late."

"I am perfectly on time," I counter cooly, glancing at the receptionist.

She offers a nervous smile of agreement. "The legal team is already waiting in the conference room with refreshments, Mr. Marshall."

"Very good, thank you." I catch Elle's arm lightly and lean in to kiss her cheek. "Go see Aunt Clara. I'll see you at lunch."

"Gotcha." She winks, and I have to fight not to smile as she bounces back into the elevator, her pretty bright-blue skirt swirling around her.

"Bitch. Way too perky." Marissa aims a disgusted look after Elle.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and turn to push the door to the main office open. "If you'll come this way, please. We can make this quick."

I have no damn intention of entertaining what will no doubt be an insultingly low buyout offer to prevent this from going to court.

I wouldn't listen even if she offered up her entire company for a dime.

It's tense and silent, save for the click of Marissa's heels as she stalks after me.

I can feel every eye in the room on us and low murmurs in our wake.

"Get off me!" Marissa hisses at her lawyers every now and then. I suppose it's when they reach out to steady her.

Holding in a sigh, I deliberately thread a path through the open-plan workspace so she has more space to wobble around without crashing into anything.

I won't be liable for damages if she falls and breaks something.

My legal team—Mr. Oxford, Miss de Silva, and Mr. Tanden—are already seated at the long, glossy walnut table in the window-studded conference room. They're crisp and professional with their heads bowed together as they pore over briefs and whisper conspiratorially.

The murmurs stop as soon as we enter. With smooth precision, the three rise, smiling coolly.

Smiles that falter as Marissa staggers in and slams her purse down on the table with a loud slap! Just walking, her stylish grey pantsuit has come half-unbuttoned at the waist and looks completely wrinkled.

"What firm you with?" she demands harshly, glaring at my lawyers. "Bet've never heard of 'em." She plants her hands on her hips with a triumphant smile, while her own embarrassed team takes tense flanking positions again. "I came prebeared. The besht lawyers in Sheetle."

Sheetle?

God help us.

Thankfully, Miss de Silva shakes from her frozen, thin-lipped smile and says, "Our private practice exclusively serves Mr. Marshall. We aren't publicly advertised, although I'm sure your lawyers are all skilled professionals." The way she stresses professionals leaves no doubt about her opinion of Marissa's behavior. "If you'll all take a seat, we can begin. Would anyone like coffee?"

No one wants coffee.

I don't think anyone wants to be here a second longer than they have to be.

Marissa's lawyers settle down stiffly across the table.

I take a seat next to my team, while Marissa stumbles into a chair opposite me like a petulant child and glares.

She was the one who called this meeting, dammit.

I'm simply obliging her stupid request.

And I refuse to let this situation get out of control again, so I take the lead, steepling my fingers over the glossy wood.

"Miss Sullivan," I begin. "I believe I can offer you an acceptable agreement. Your intellectual property claim has no merit. However, I can understand the pain and suffering that your father endured after his partnership with my aunt ended, and the subsequent addiction that resulted. While the statute of limitations on an emotional distress case wouldn't extend this far, I'm willing to overlook that to offer you a generous posthumous settlement on his behalf. Drop the copyright case today, and I'll gladly negotiate a number with you."

My lawyers offer affirmative murmurs.

This is the best strategy we came up with to stop the circus. A reasonable sum to solve a very big problem.

Marissa's lawyers look relieved. I don't doubt they'll advise her to take the deal and scram.

Only, Marissa Sullivan is smirking.

An ugly, lopsided smirk that ruins her magazine-perfect beauty and turns it into a caricature. "You think that's it? You think I want your money?"

She's still intoxicated, but suddenly she's speaking clearly. Determination gives her words clarity and force. She practically rips her purse open and pulls something out.

A battered sketchbook, its cover worn and its pages tattered.

She flings it down on the table so hard the resulting smack makes Miss de Silva jump.

"What's this?" I stay motionless, eyeballing Marissa.

"My father's sketchbooks," she announces. "Proving a copyright claim."

She flicks the pages open. The sketchbook stops on a page full of concept drawings, clearly showing iterations working up to—Inky the Penguin.

It's all there.

Motion sketches, base geometry, various phases of the big magic ink spot on his belly. It's clearly developmental work refining the ideas into the finished chubby character we know today.

Only years of practice keep me expressionless.

The fury boiling inside me feels like an unsheathed sword.

Fury, and pain.

This can't be real.

I refuse to fucking believe it.

"And you can prove that these sketches predate Clara's ... how?" I ask sharply. "None of these are dated. Do you intend to carbon-date Lester Sullivan's sketches versus hers right down to the day of creation?"

Marissa's expression falls, then tightens into a sneer. "Oh, I don't need to. This is enough that even if I lose the case, I'll create a big shitpile. I'll ruin you, Marshall. I'll ruin her. Tear her shitty fucking legacy down brick by brick till there's nothing left. Your precious IP—your stupid fucking penguin—will be worthlessh then!" Her voice descends into another snarling slur as she snatches the sketchbook back, holding it protectively. "Save yourself the trouble. Sell Little Key to me and sh-sail away."

My lawyers look troubled.

Her lawyers look pained and embarrassed.

I don't know how the hell I look.

But I know I feel like a chainsaw-wielding maniac.

I keep myself contained—barely—as I meet Marissa's eyes without blinking.

"Leave," I clip.

She recoils. "Excuse me?"

"I said leave," I repeat firmly. "This meeting is done. You're once again not in possession of your full senses, and I won't talk deals when you're under the influence and unable to consent to anything legally binding. Leave, Miss Sullivan. I will ignore the insult of you appearing for this discussion drunk, and hope that this time you can make your way home with assistance." I can't resist the pointed reminder. "Perhaps we'll have a more civil discussion another time."

She gapes at me.

Her lawyers shift uncomfortably.

I narrow my eyes.

"I am not above having you escorted off the premises, Miss Sullivan," I growl.

Marissa makes a flustered, angry sound and jumps to her feet.

"You'll regrets this!" she snaps. "I will ruin you, you preppy fuck. Tear your fucking aunt apart! She took everything from my family—you understand? From me!"

Her voice cracks.

Real emotion.

Genuine grief.

I hate this shit.

Hate the complicated history that makes her feelings valid even while her actions are unconscionable.

Or are they?

I damned well intend to find out.

All I say is "Good day, Miss Sullivan."

She stares at me for another bitter moment, trembling with rage.

Then she turns and storms out on unsteady steps, her hair whipping behind her with the toss of her head.

Her lawyers stand. One sighs wearily and nods.

"Mr. Marshall," he says. "Thank you for your patience and your time."

He turns to follow his colleague and client out, then leaves us alone.

As the door to the conference room closes, Mr. Tanden sighs. "That went well."

Oxford shakes his head. "I expected a disaster. She's been publicly falling apart for months."

"Indeed," I answer. "I just wonder what's triggered her downward spiral." I swivel my chair toward my team. "Would you be able to contact a private investigator without that information becoming public?"

Miss de Silva winces. "That ... I don't know what you're thinking, Mr. Marshall, but stalking your opponent in a civil suit for damages usually doesn't look good in front of the judge."

"Then it's best if the judge doesn't find out." I stand, barely able to contain my movements, my teeth grinding hard enough to make my jaw hurt. "Make it happen discreetly. Get me in contact with someone who can find out what the hell's driving Marissa Sullivan to an early grave."

I turn to walk out.

"Mr. Marshall? Where are you going?" Mr. Tanden calls after me.

"To find out the truth," I fling back, right before I slam the door open and step out onto the office floor. I beeline for the elevator, ignoring a voice trailing in my wake.

There's something Aunt Clara isn't telling me, and I have to find out what it is.

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