Chapter Nine

Maren

Casual is the kiss of death. I know this. I've done it way too many times.

Brock, my loser apartment manager-slash-fling, wasn't even the worst of them, though he was the skeeziest. The worst was Damon, the British guy who didn't even like coffee. No, this guy drank tea with milk—which would have been a hard pass, except that I loved his accent and could have listened to him talk for hours. So I gave him a chance, and then he showed me just what those British guys like to do on the other side of the pond.

Let's just say that when Damon said he liked eating peaches, he was not talking about the fruit. My no-relationship rule went out the window as I entertained a global love affair with a lifetime supply of mind-shattering orgasms.

Unfortunately, there would be no his-and-hers luggage in my near future as Damon took my no-relationship rule seriously. When it came time for him to leave, he did so without a second glance—my texts left on read, my calls unanswered, and no access to his social profiles, cluing me in that I'd been blocked.

It was rejection times ten and a perfect example of why I don't do relationships.

Which is why it took me by surprise when I found myself considering a relationship with Mac that first night I met him, and why I'm now nervous about this casual arrangement I've agreed to.

I also didn't expect for him to cash in so soon. After that damn kiss in the alley, I could barely think, let alone add some sense to this crazy situation. He left before I could offer any kind of argument. But when he texted me this afternoon, telling me when and where to meet him tonight, I texted back with a few hard stop ground rules.

1. It would be a secret from everyone. That meant no PDA (sexual and non-sexual), no dates, no telling anyone. Nothing.

2. It would be on neutral ground and coming out of his pocket.

I mean, the guy stole my home out from under me. Plus, the watch in his wrist alone tells me he can afford it. He owes this much to me.

In theory, I should be able to treat Mac like any other shag (as Damon referred to it), but I also know that Mac isn't like any of the other guys. Despite the fact that I hate this man, I can't deny the hold he has on me. I want him, just as bad as he wants me. My mind may have a list of reasons to stay away. My heart might be building a fortress to keep him out. But my body? It's already screaming his name, and he's hardly touched me.

Hardly. My lips still feel bruised, the memory of his kiss tattooed all over my mouth. I had to go back to work like that, my core aching as I counted down the minutes to clock out. And now, here I am sitting in the parking lot of the Seafarer Hotel, my sweaty hands gripping the steering wheel as I summon the courage to get to the room, my legs clenched together in anticipation for what's to come.

NCG: Coming?

The single word text from Mac makes me bite my lip.

Me: Not yet.

NCG: You will be.

Fuck me. I can't with this man. I look up at the tall hotel building, then I take a deep breath .

"This is just a fuck, Maren," I remind myself, "nothing more." Another deep breath, and I unbuckle my seatbelt, grab my overnight bag, and head for the stairs.

Me: Here

I text as the elevator approaches his floor, then I walk the hallway, inhaling the clean scent as I take in the art lining the walls between rooms. When I reach the number he gave me, I lift my hand to knock but see that the door is ajar, resting on the latch to keep it from closing. I nudge it slightly.

"Mac?" I wait a beat, then push it all the way open. I'm not sure what I expected, but it isn't this. The only places I've ever stayed at were seedy motels that looked straight out of the 1970s that probably hadn't been cleaned since then either. This place is breathtaking and a little overwhelming. From where I stand in the doorway, I can see straight to the windows that overlook the ocean. The moon is shining bright, illuminating the rippling water, creating an ethereal glow that complements the soft glow in the room. To my left is the bathroom, which is about the size of my bedroom. There's a giant soaking tub that's separate from a massive glass shower, and double sinks under a wide mirror framed by a dozen lights.

"Wait till you see the bed."

I jump at the sound of Mac's voice. He catches me as the door closes behind us, then his mouth is on mine, his hands in my hair, my back against the wall as I drop my bag and grip his shirt just to keep myself steady.

I didn't know how this would go, but it wasn't exactly like this. Even though I am melting under Mac's touch and the way he's claimed me with just a kiss—a fucking hot as hell kiss, a kiss that is going straight from my head to between my thighs, making me feel swoony and weak.

But this isn't my usual way of doing things. I'm usually the one in charge, the one who makes the moves, the one on top. The rooftop bar, the alleyway kiss…so far I've let Mac be alpha, giving him way more control than I've ever given anyone in my life. It's time to turn this ship around.

I plant my feet and pivot, catching him by surprise so that it's now his back against the wall, and I'm more in control. I bite his lip lightly, tugging at it between my teeth as I start unbuckling his pants. I like that Mac started without light conversation or any kind of mood lightening experience. But now it's my rules.

He catches my hands in his and tears them from his body, moving so quickly that I'm surprised when I'm on my back on the bed, my hands pinned above my head, his legs straddling my hips so that I can't move .

"Wait." The word escapes my lips before I can stop it. He stops immediately, loosening his hold. I could slip my wrists from under his hands, but I leave them where they are, breathing heavy. I got my way, he stopped. But I can't help feeling like I lost something in the process.

"What do you want?" He licks his lips, his hands remaining loose in their hold.

I don't speak. I can't. How do you even say it out loud, that you want to be the director of this unfolding scene? I've never had to say anything before. I'm starting to think I never chose a man who would even think to question me if I took charge.

Mac is not that man. But damnit if I don't try again.

I wriggle out from under him, moving him so that he's on his back and I'm on top. He catches my hands again before I can even move to undress him, and I can't bite back my groan of my frustration.

"What. Do. You. Want." He repeats each word slowly, his eyes burning into mine in a way that leaves me feeling naked, even though not one stitch of clothing has been removed.

"I want…" I breathe hard out of my nose, wrenching my wrists from his grip. He just lies there, a slow smirk spreading over his face. I'm still straddling him, and I can feel him growing hard under me. The bastard is actually turned on by our battle of wills .

I leap off him but he's quicker, grabbing me by the waist and sitting me on the bed. He towers over me, his hands on each side of my hips. I hold my ground, refusing to budge even as his face draws closer.

"You like to call the shots, don't you?" His eyes gleam as they hold mine, and my breath comes out in short pants at his proximity. I bite my lip, fighting the intense urge to just let him have his way with me. "Say it, Maren."

It's his way of swinging the pendulum in his direction. I know this, but I answer him anyway.

"I want to be in control."

"No."

The word shocks me. I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back and give me the reins. But he doesn't.

"I am not a man who is told what to do, in bed or out, and if that makes you uncomfortable, you should walk out that door right now."

"And what if I stay?" I bite back. I should leave. I have the freedom to leave. And yet, I stay where I am, his face inches from mine. He's close enough to kiss. Close enough to slap. "If I stay, what say do I have?"

"If you stay, you're agreeing to this. You're agreeing to submit."

I bristle, averting my eyes. He takes my chin and moves it so that I'm looking at him again.

"You don't like that word, do you? "

I shake my head. I try to move my head again, but his grip is firm.

"Do you have any idea how much power you actually have when you submit?"

The question catches me off guard. When I think of submission, I think of dependency. I think of all the times I've been let down in life when I've depended on anyone. The word submit is dangerous to me. It's not one of power, it's one of weakness.

But I can't say this to Mac. I'm willing to fuck him; I'm not willing to let him in my head by knowing any of my secrets.

I get up from the bed, and this time he steps aside to allow me to pass. I don't leave, and I wonder if that surprises him. Instead, I move to the windows, watching the waves crash under the moonlight.

"What are you thinking?"

I sigh at his question, then slowly turn around. I lean against the window, the cool glass seeping through the thin fabric of my jacket.

"This is new for me," I admit. "Not the casual sex, that's all I ever do anymore. But the roles. I don't…" I pause, trying to find the right words for what I'm feeling, because I'm not even sure I know. "Just like you, I don't like being told what to do," I finally say.

He nods, moves toward me and takes my hand. This time I don't fight back. I let him lead me to the bed, and he sits next to me.

"What if I ask you instead?"

I look at him, eyebrow arched, trying to decipher what he means.

"I won't tell you what to do," he explains. "But I'll ask for your permission."

"Demonstrate." The word wavers off my lips as I try to make sense of the rules my body is begging me to obey.

"Can I…" His words fall away as he lifts his hand. "Can I touch your cheek?"

His hand hovers over my skin, and I can feel the heat from his body, making me tingle. I nod, then draw in a breath as his finger lights on my cheek, brushing my hair away from my face.

"Can I touch your mouth?"

I nod and he traces the outline of my lips with the soft half-moon of his fingernail. I part my lips, and his finger finds the tip of my tongue. I hold his gaze, falling into the ocean in his eyes as I draw his finger into my mouth. It's his turn to inhale, and when he regains his finger, he traces a wet line down my chin toward my neck.

"Can I move my hand lower?"

I nod again, closing my eyes as his finger leaves a tingling trail in its wake. He traces my jaw, his hand lightly circling my neck in a way that makes me want to beg for more .

Beg? I don't beg. And yet, here I am, impatient for his next question.

"Can I undress you?"

I keep my eyes closed, my hands gripping the blanket under me as I whisper, "Yes." I squirm where I'm sitting as he moves to kneel in front of me, sliding my jacket down one arm, then the other, the fabric trailing across my skin. Then he slides off my shoes and socks, pausing to caress the arch before pressing his thumbs into the balls of my foot. I've worn heels for so long, they hardly affect me, and yet his hands massaging my feet make me never want to wear shoes again. He finds aches I never knew existed, kneading them between his expert fingers until I'm moaning.

And I'm still wearing all my clothes.

He makes quick work of that situation, however, his eyes asking the questions now before he removes each article of clothing. A breathless yes to each as my answer. My shirt? Yes , and he takes his time with each button before exposing my lacy black bra underneath. My skirt? Yes , and he has me stand before him as he unzips it and lets it fall to the ground. I remain in my lingerie, full of lace and barely there, while his eyes skim over my body.

"Jesus, Maren," he breathes and falls again to his knees.

As if he's the one submitting. As if I'm in control. But I'm starting to understand the rules to this game, and I don't move as his hands find my hips. I long to see him undressed, to see the hardened body that exists under his white shirt and black slacks, to run my hands along the tattoo I saw on this morning's coffee stroll that's now hidden under his businessman attire.

I let him take control instead. My stillness is my permission as he slides my panties down my hips, his hands gripping the lacy material until his knuckles turn white. As if it's taking all his restraint to not rip me apart. And fuck if I don't want him to rip me apart.

He stops, studying my sex with enough intensity that, I swear, I'll burst into flames. My core aches, especially when he takes a finger and traces it with a soft outline. I release a moan, my pleas on the tip of my tongue.

"Can I…"

"Yes, please. Don't stop," I beg.

With a growl, he has me on my back and my legs spread. He dips his face between my thighs, lapping the wetness I can feel puddling underneath me. I anchor myself by clutching the blankets as I throw my head back, crying out as he feasts.

"Fuck, Mac. Please." I don't even know what I'm begging for. What he's doing is blowing my mind. But I want more. The orgasm builds, and I don't hold back as it shudders through me. Gripping his hair, I hold him in place as he sucks on my clit, as he slips a finger inside me, as he draws out every drop, leaving me spent on the bed.

Mac rises from his knees, wiping his glistening grin with the back of his hand. The finger that was inside me is now in his mouth, and I groan again, sure that I could come just from watching him enjoy my taste.

He crawls over my body, his tongue bathing me in the process as he licks the salt from my skin. I can feel his mouth even after it's left my body, and I arch my back to receive more of him. He takes the moment to unclasp my bra, leaving me completely naked while he remains clothed. His mouth finds my nipple and draws lazy circles around it before grazing his teeth over the nerve-filled peak. The contrast of pleasure and pain sends ripples through my body, especially when his fingers slip inside me. He alternates pumping his hand with the delicious pressure of his mouth clamped on my breast, and it takes no time to get me writhing again.

"Mac," I moan, needing more. More. More.

"Ask me," he commands, his mouth on mine, my taste all over him. I am lightheaded and unable to form a sentence, let alone two words. But somehow, I manage.

"Will you fuck me?"

"Yes."

His clothes are off faster than I can recover, his cock sheathed with a condom as he crawls back over me. He stops and neither of us move, our gaze locked in on each other, our chests rising with each heavy breath. Then he plunges inside me. I gasp, locking my legs around him as he moves with purpose, a mission. Each thrust is made with precision and calculation, tearing me apart from the inside out as I let him have control.

I submit.

He slows, and when I open my eyes, I see he's watching me. His beard brushes over my breasts, sending electric shocks over each peaking nipple. I snake my hand over the smooth valley in the center of his chest until my fingers find the dark blonde curls on his chin. Tugging, I pull his mouth to mine, and he answers me with a sensual kiss, his tongue seeking instead of demanding. Exploring instead of forging ahead. It becomes a dance—our mouths tangled, our hands memorizing the nuances of the other's body. I run my hands through the wavy hair on his head, loosened now from the ponytail it was in. His locks fall around me, our hips moving in time, and he grips my thigh as he drives into me deeper.

"Mac," I breathe, as he kisses my throat, "I want to feel you come."

It's the closest thing to a command. But when he lifts his head, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth, I see no sign of an argument. He raises his body, one hand going for the headboard as the other grips my thigh. Then he fucks me hard, plunging into me like he's aiming for the ground. I cry out, the feel of him deeper than anything I've ever experienced. And yet, I want more. With Mac, I will always want more. I meet him with each thrust, driving him deeper still, no longer asking, but demanding with my movements.

"Maren," he groans, and I feel him swell inside me. Then he's the one moaning into my neck just as another orgasm rips through me. The bed is annihilated, the blankets all over the floor. His hands find my tangled hair, becoming my pillow as I fall back on the mattress. Our bodies are slick with sweat, and I give in to my urges and lick the salty moisture from his shoulders, his arms, the tattoos on his chest. He's spent, but I can't get enough of him. I straddle him, the energy inside me pulsating into another quick orgasm almost as soon as I slide him back inside me. I ride the wave, his hands gripping my hips as he remains hard inside me, thrusting with every move I make until my orgasm fades into oblivion.

When it's over, I collapse on top of him, my body shaking as I come back to reality. He slides his hand around my waist as I listen to the thrum of his heart. Just moments ago, I felt like I could rip trees from the ground by the root. Now, I feel as weak as a kitten, held in place by the security of his arms wrapped around me.

I should go, but I physically can't move.

And so I stay, our breath slowing to an identical cadence as I slip in and out of sleep. I'm vaguely aware when he finally slides me to the mattress, covering me with the blanket. I'm half in a dream when he positions himself behind me, his body conforming to mine, his arm pulling me until I'm flush against his chest. And when I fall into sleep, I fall .

When I open my eyes again, the first signs of dawn are reflected on the ripples in the ocean outside our hotel room. Mac's body has left mine, his arm under his head as he faces away from me. I watch the soft rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath. I study the tangles in his wheat-colored hair, longing to work them with my fingers before letting him take me once again.

He took me , I did not take him. And while vulnerability wraps around me like a cloak, I am surprised that I don't hate the feeling.

I should. This man took away my independence the day he sold my apartment without even caring who it affected.

But the way he broke down so many of my walls…

No.

I can use him for his body, for the way he moves me, for the way he has me screaming his name. I can use him for the money he owes me for selling my home. I can fuck him just as soundly as he fucked me over.

But my heart stays out of it. Because this is just a fuck .

I keep telling myself that as I gather my clothes, my eyes searching the still dark room for every piece of my black clothing. It's like trying to find a guitar pick in a junk drawer. But I finally do, dressing as I watch the slowly brightening sky, Mac's deep breathing the soundtrack of the room.

Then I slip out of the hotel room and into the early dawn.

I stand at Nina's kitchen window later that morning, coffee in hand, scanning the street even though I know there won't be any sightings of a near naked man doing his daily coffee stroll. My lips still feel swollen, and muscles I didn't even know I had are now screaming with every move. It's a luscious reminder of everything that happened last night, and as much as I'm trying to keep my cool, I'm fighting the smile that keeps rising to my lips.

I can't with Mac. We're from different worlds. He makes himself rich by selling off people's homes.

But the things he did, the words he said…

Can I undress you?

Never have four words been so fucking delicious to my ears, let alone my body. If this is casual, I have been doing it wrong all my life.

And if I'm not careful, I'm going to fall for the Viking .

"How's Ragnar?" Nina asks, grabbing a mug from the cabinet.

"Who?"

"You know, the Viking."

My eyes widen, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. How did she know?

Then Nina peers out the window and I realize she's talking about Naked Coffee Guy—same man, different context. She has no idea I was with him last night.

"He's a no show," I say, pulling away from the window.

"Really?" She keeps looking, as if I'm lying to her. "He's been doing the same thing every day for a month. I wonder where he could be."

In bed, smelling like me. I sip my coffee to keep from grinning at the thought. Honestly, I haven't stopped thinking of him since I closed the hotel door behind me. The way he took me. His mouth on every part of my body. How his beard felt trailing across my skin. How he was capable of tearing me in two and mending me together, just by thrusting inside me, over and over and…

"What's wrong with you?" Nina asks, looking closer at me.

"Nothing," I stammer, slamming my mind shut as I pour another cup of coffee, "What's wrong with you?"

Nina stares at me for a moment, her stony face studying me. Then she nods.

"There you are. You were starting to look happy for a second, which is so unlike you."

I shoot her a look. "I'm happy. I'm just not thrilled about losing my own apartment." I glance at Nina's clothes forming a mountain on the couch, and her dishes from last night glued to the coffee table. I'm not happy about that, either. But I figured I'd give it some time before nagging her about it. After all, she's saving my ass from being homeless.

Because of Mac.

How can I lust after the same person I hate? This feels complicated, and I don't know if I like it or not.