21. Renee

Another week, another gala, another avalanche of suffering through terrible jokes and shaking clammy hands while consuming lukewarm sparkling grape juice and soggy hors d’oeuvres.

I have thrown myself into the life I agreed to become a part of. Even now, a few days after the should-never-have-happened encounter with Weston in that office below the stadium, I’m doing my duty, smiling like I’m the happiest soon-to-be wife in the history of holy matrimony.

My only rebellion—if it’s even rebellious enough to be called such—is that I sleep at night cuddled with the stuffed Firebird-jersey-wearing bear I bought when I was shopping with Sutton.

If this is all my life is going to be from here on out, then so be it. At least I’m safe. At least I have a home. At least no one is trying to have me thrown in jail.

It’s enough for me.

It has to be.

That’s my new mantra. Because once a girl gets a taste of passion like the kind I had with Weston, it’s going to take a lot of convincing to make her believe that life without passion is sufficient.

When I get back home, I shower and change into a bathrobe. As I’m stepping out of the bathroom, someone knocks on the poolhouse door. I reluctantly walk over and answer.

Laurette, one of the housekeepers, is standing at the threshold. She’s holding a box marked Fragile. “From Miss Medina,” she explains with a smile as she passes it over.

Sutton has been sending me gifts regularly. It’s one of the few remaining bright spots in my life.

I take the box. “Thank you.”

Laurette curtsies, then turns and retreats back to the main house as I shut the door. I go with the box into the small living room and stare for a minute at the label.

Something seems off about it, but I can’t put my finger on what exactly. It’s just a plain brown box about the size of a microwave with the flaps neatly taped down. Nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.

I pull it open, expecting makeup or candy or something like that. But one thing immediately becomes clear.

This sure as hell ain’t from Sutton.

Inside there are two solid gold vibrators, nipple clamps, red leather handcuffs with a matching blindfold, and a note with my name in a familiar masculine scrawl.

To tide you over until I get back.

I don’t have to guess who it’s from.

If I wasn’t pregnant, I would pour myself something from one of the decanters on the cart by the door to try to calm the rage bubbling in my belly. How dare he imply that I need one of his toys? That I want him to ponder my sexual activity?

Before I can stop myself, I pick up my phone and smash the FaceTime button because I want him to see how angry I am. I want him to know that I don’t need his “gifts.”

I just want him to leave me the hell alone.

It takes a second for him to answer, but when he does, I see he’s bare-chested and wearing nothing but a towel.

“You smug jackass. I don’t need your box of sex toys.”

Weston tilts his head to the side. I see the long, lickable line of his neck and my heart races. “Sounds to me like you do. Sounds to me like you need to use one right now, actually.”

I want to reach through the phone and wipe that smile right off his face. “Well, I don’t. And I don’t need you commenting on my… my anything.”

“Princess, commenting isn’t even half of what I want to do to you.” His voice is that familiar low purr that makes my body tingle.

“What exactly does that mean?”

There’s a wicked part of me that wants him to be very, very detailed in his answer.

He grins at the screen and sets his phone on the table beside the bed as he stretches out on the bed. The towel is long gone and he begins to stroke his cock. It’s hard and long and thick as ever. “It means that I want to lay you back on the bed, drag my hands down to the waistband of your panties, and peel them down your legs, then kiss my way from your ankles up to your pussy. I know it’ll be wet for me.”

Oh, God. Hang up, Renee. Hang up and abort this terrible mission RIGHTFUCKINGNOW.

But even though I should…

I don’t.

Because I can’t.

My mouth is dry, but all the other parts of me that can get damp do so. My breath is coming in painful, barely-there gasps and my legs no longer feel up to the task of keeping me upright. I plant a hand on the top of my dresser as I sag down.

“Did you see anything you like in that box?” he rumbles.

I shake my head. “N…no. No.”

He grins viciously. “Liar. Take out one of the vibrators. Let me watch you use it.”

Oh, God. This is the worst idea in the history of ideas. But that voice screaming, “Run,” is getting farther and farther away.

“Come on, P. Let me watch you. I know you want to show me.” He’s still stroking his dick, which is somehow getting even bigger with every passing second.

My hand floats on autopilot toward the open box. I run one finger down the length of the cool gold shape. It’d be so easy to obey him…

He lets out a low moan. Fuck me. How can I resist that?

“I see the look in your eyes, P. You want this as bad as I do. You want—ah, fuck, baby. I’m imagining how good your pussy would taste if I pinned you against the wall right now and wrapped your thighs around my head. You’d moan so sweet; I know you would. You’d melt in my fucking hands and I’d lick up every last goddamn drop.”

I feel like I’m floating out of my body. I’m no longer me. No longer in charge. I’m a puppet and Weston Scott is holding all the strings.

He knows it, too. That grin of his spreads a notch wider.

“Sit down on the bed.”

I sink to a seat. My robe is hiked up and splayed out right over the tops of my thighs. At some point, I don’t know when, I picked up the vibrator. It’s heavy in my hand.

“Weston…” I croak.

But he presses a finger to his lips. “Shh, baby. I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen.” He’s still jerking his dick slowly up and down. My mouth waters. “Pull down the shoulder of your robe. Slowly. One first, then the other. That’s a good girl. That’s such a good girl.”

My tongue darts out to wet my lips as the top of my robe falls. “Undo that top tie. And then one more. And then—no, that’s good. Stop there. Tease me with it, baby. Fuck, you make me so hard.”

I’m teasing the tip of the vibrator against my aching hard nipples. The pace of his fist around his cock increases to match my speed. It’s so hot watching him this way, hotter knowing that he’s doing it for me. When he moans, I do, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby.” He uses his free hand to cup his balls and give a squeeze. “Now, make that vibrator wet then put it in your pussy and flip it on.” I stick it in my mouth and watch as he continues to jerk his cock. “Oh, fuck, Renee.”

When I shift my panties aside and slide it in my pussy, he moans, loud and long and his eyelids flutter closed.

“Watch me, Weston.”

They’re the only words I’ve managed to say and I’m already so close to coming when I realize that this thing has a turbo function. I flip it on and moan as my body tightens to a tight coil.

God bless turbo mode.

Weston’s lips part as his stroking increases to a blur. Then he comes, erupting all over his abs with a snarl.

After that, my own finish takes no time at all. I cry out and every cell in my body bursts with pleasure. Drool slicks my lips as I let my head loll back while the sensations crush me.

The orgasm is violently hard and brutally short. One second, I’m incoherent. The next, I’m snapping back into my body and wondering what the hell I was ever thinking.

Weston is pushing himself upright and wiping his torso with a rag. His grin is permanent, it seems.

When I’m halfway put back together again and the vibrator is banished to the other side of the mattress, he looks at the camera, still smirking. “Now, what was it you called to tell me?”

My mind is right again. My mind remembers who he is and what he did. “I called to tell you that you’re not my boyfriend and I don’t want your gifts.”

“Can’t return it now. It’s used.”

“You’re a jackass.”

“Yeah, I think we covered that.” Finally, that smirk fades. “I don’t want you to marry that bastard, Renee. I’m not going to let it happen.”

I shake my head at his audacity as I cinch the robe tighter around myself. “I don’t care what you want. You can’t stop me.” But as soon as I say the words, I have visions of Weston being the guy at the back of the church, standing, waving his arms and hollering his objections while the whole crowd gawks.

“It’s never gonna happen. Don’t buy the wedding dress.” He’s firm but still smiling. “You won’t be needing it, Princess…”

“Don’t call me that. I don’t like it when you call me that.”

Lies. Filthy, nasty lies.

“Then come stop me.”

“Let me go, Weston.”

He shakes his head, serious as hell now. “Not a fucking chance. This isn’t over, Renee. I won’t stop until you’re mine again.”

Part of me hopes he’s telling the truth. The other part of me says… Game on.