Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

My head practically spins from how quickly things move in the next days and weeks. Joel acts as a liaison between Hardline, Stark Security, the FBI, Homeland, and Interpol. His daily reports are detailed and thorough, and Matthew and I go over them line by line the minute each report arrives.

Trent and his cohorts—all now in custody—used the sterling infrastructure of the business that Matthew had worked so hard to build, to hide the rot they were growing underneath.

And dozens of women paid the price for that.

Jenny had paid the price.

I hate Trent. I hate everyone in his operation. I despise every last one of them. And I wish I could stand in front of them and scream. Scream for Jenny. For the girls they trafficked. For every victim now struggling to get her life back together.

I wish I could scream—and I wish I could deliver a killing blow, because those people shouldn’t even exist on this earth.

Lila, of course, is a wreck. I don’t like the woman, but I can see the pain on her face. The horror that she’d actually dated a man like Elias Trent. The fury that he’d fooled her. And she’s promised Matthew she’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that Elias hadn’t somehow used his connection to her as a means to infiltrate Matthew’s private files.

As for Matthew, his anger is twisted up with guilt. He blames himself, and no matter how much I try to soothe him and absolve him, he’s having none of it.

“I should have seen it sooner,” he tells me. “I should have stopped it faster.” And though I tell him that he did his best—more, he shut it down—that’s not enough for him.

But he’s not shirking away. No matter how much this whole debacle has crushed his heart, he’s stepped up and faced down the media that can so often be damn brutal.

He’s gone on every major news network, owning up to the fact that Hardline was exploited. Standing firm, he’s told the world that they caught it as soon as they could, that the perpetrators would be brought to justice, and that Hardline was implementing safeguards to ensure nothing like this could ever happen again. And that Matthew himself was overseeing that initiative.

On screen, he looks calm and composed in his suit and tie, the armor of a man in control. But when he’s not in front of the cameras, that armor slips, and the man I hold in my arms isn’t a god or an emperor or even a hardened businessman.

He’s just a good man, hurt by reality and by circumstances that he can’t go back and change.

“You’ve been a rock through all of this,” I tell him one evening as we’re snuggled together on the sofa in the treehouse. The video screen is down, and we’ve paused The Thomas Crown Affair , a movie we both love, so that we can read the latest report from Homeland on Matthew’s phone.

He looks at me. “A rock? No, baby, you’ve been my rock. My strength. My port in a storm. Call it whatever you like, but I couldn’t have gotten through this without you.”

He presses his lips to my forehead. “I love you,” he whispers, and I sigh with pleasure. He’s told me that so often since that night in the limo, but hearing it tonight brings tears to my eyes.

My smile is watery as I say, “It sounds silly because you’re only doing what should be done, but I’m so proud of how you’ve handled all this. I mean, you’ve stepped up so much more than so many people would.”

“No, I?—”

I press a finger to his lips. “Yes. You’ve helped the authorities, you haven’t spouted bullshit to the public, and you’ve put money and your own time into helping. What Elias Trent did wasn’t your fault.”

I squeeze his hand and keep my finger on those gorgeous lips. “But the way you handled it was your choice. And the fact that you’re the kind of man who would make those choices is one of the reasons I love you, too.”

“I’ve made a lot of choices in my life,” he says, his voice tinged with something dark. “Trust me when I say that not all of them would win your approval.”

I shrug. “Not the point,” I say, though the truth is I’m curious about that past that he holds in such disdain.

As if he’s read my mind, his mouth quirks into a half smile, and he offers a tiny shrug. “But no matter what I’ve done before, I do think I’ve taken the right path on this.”

“You did,” I say. “You helped so much. From funding rescue operations to rehab centers and all the rest.”

“It was the right thing to do,” he says. “And the good karma can’t hurt, either, right? Balancing the scale. Making up for my checkered past.”

He says it as a joke, but I can’t shake the feeling that he means it. That he truly believes there’s something horrible he has to make up for.

“Like what?” Bree asks the next morning as we’re sipping our Sunday lattes at Blue Bottle—a tradition we used to share with Jenny. I tear off a piece of chocolate chip cookie and munch on it. It may only be ten, but it’s never too early for cookies.

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

“Maybe he feels guilty. Hardline’s his baby, and that monster Trent was operating right under his nose.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I tell her. “He’s done so much and been so open with the media. I think it’s something far removed from the trafficking.”

“Hmm.” She sips her coffee. “Well, this is just gossip, but there’s always been a lot of buzz about the way he built Hardline. Shady deals. Less than conventional financing. Some folks say that his start-up capital was dicey, and that’s why he’s never gone public. Doesn’t want anyone looking too closely.” She shrugs. “I don’t know if anything was illegal per se. More likely he managed to cut through the usual paperwork and just bulldozed his way onto the scene.”

“But that’s ambition, isn’t it? I mean, unless you’re saying he stole money or committed fraud or something.”

She just shrugs. “I’m not saying anything. Rumors are rumors and the ones I’ve heard are so vague I can’t remember the details. But maybe this whole thing has made him think about how Hardline came into being.” She shrugs. “Although it hardly matters now. Hardline’s been a hit-making machine for years. Any funny business about financing would have taken place long ago.”

We share a glance. We both know that long ago doesn’t make anything okay.

I eat the last bite of cookie, then wash it down with my latte. “You might be right. He’s in the spotlight now for owning what Trent was doing at Hardline and using all his resources to try and make it right for the victims. So maybe he’s feeling guilty about whatever he did—or didn’t do—back when he was getting his start.” I shrug. “You think?”

She cocks her head. “You want to know what I really think?”

“Duh. Yes.”

“I think the only way you’ll know is to ask him.”

“Well, fuck,” I say, then sit back in my chair. “If he did do dicey stuff back in the day, he’s not going to want to tell me.”

“Yeah, but if it’s eating him up, he needs to get it out of his system. Be his sounding board. Remind him that you love him. Maybe wait a few days to ask. In the meantime, touch him a lot. And sex,” she adds with a mischievous smile. “Lots and lots of sex.”

I laugh. “That’s why we’re friends. I like the way you think.” She lifts her hand for a high five, and I give it a nice smack before saying, “There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” She glances up, frowns, then shifts her chair, trying to get back in the shade of the umbrella as the sun continues to move across the sky. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s about the house.”

Her shoulders sag, and she groans. “Dammit, Ari. Not again. I know you’re spending a lot of nights at Matthew’s, but you can’t go away and forget?—”

“What? No! That was one time. One. Time.” I’d left for a long weekend of skiing at Mammoth, and I’d stupidly left behind two open cartons of fresh donuts. Which, apparently, is like making everything for free at Ikea. The latter would get swarms of college kids. The house got swarms of ants.

“No ants? No bugs? Please tell me it isn’t mice.”

“Jeez. Your house is pristine, okay? And it will stay that way until you find another renter.” I buff my nails on my shirt. “I’m moving into this very cool treehouse property in the hills. It comes with a roommate, but the terms are pretty sweet.”

I’m still talking when she leaps from her chair, and by the time I’m finished, she’s on my side of the table giving me a massive hug. “That’s awesome. My little girl is all grown up and living the good life.”

“I am,” I say. But I don’t tell her the rest of it. That part of me is afraid that the reason he wants me to move in is more about masking his feelings of guilt over the trafficking scheme than it is about the two of us.

Matthew finishes taping the last of the boxes, then straightens, rubbing his back as his gaze flicks around my bedroom. Not that it feels like mine anymore, what with my life packed up in eleven boxes and a bevy of suitcases.

“You meant it when you said you don’t have much stuff.” He folds the last empty box and leans it against the wall.

“Easier that way.” I shrug, taking a seat on the edge of the stripped bed, then scooting over so he can sit beside me. “Did I mention that I’ve moved apartments almost as often as I’ve changed jobs?”

“And why do you do that? Rent issues?”

“No. Not like you mean. But my dad pretty much sold his soul so that we wouldn’t lose the house after the diadem was stolen.”

A shadow crosses his face, and I squeeze his hand, touched by how deeply he empathizes with the pain in my past.

“Dad worked crazy hours and borrowed from people he shouldn’t have, just so he could pay the mortgage.”

Matthew frowns. “He told you that?”

“Well, not me. I was a kid. But I’d overhear things. Made me scared, you know?”

He frowns, his brow furrowing into a crease as he nods. “That must have been hard.”

I lean across him for the Diet Coke I’d left on the bedside table. “I swore I’d never be in that position even if that meant living in tiny efficiencies and always chasing the lowest rent.”

Matthew’s brow furrows, his expression so sad it almost breaks my heart the way he’s feeling my pain.

He tightens his arm around my waist, pulling me closer as he brushes my hair off my forehead. “But that ends now. You have a home with me.”

“I do,” I say, tilting my head up and smiling at him and hoping he can’t see how nervous I am. It’s not a side of me I want him—or anyone—to see. That hidden part of me that knows not to put my trust in anyone or anything because it always falls apart. The Stair Man. The Cat.

Nothing lasts. Not really. And wishing won’t change that at all.

Except you trust Matthew …

The thought pings at my mind, undeniably true, and while I wouldn’t change anything between Matthew and me, some part of me wonders when and how exactly he managed to squeeze through my defenses.

I don’t know, but he did. And for that, I will always be grateful. Because not only do I want him desperately, but the fact that I let him in gives me hope that I’m not irredeemably fucked up.

“—the job?”

I shake my head, realizing I’d zoned out. “Sorry. What?”

“I said that I get the frequent moves. What’s the backstory for your job shifts?”

I grin. “Boredom.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“But also my dad again,” I admit. “He held the same job his entire life. Different titles over the years, but the same treadmill. He never said as much, but I knew he hated it. He was never eager to go to the office. Never excited by the possibilities in a new day. It was just a slog.”

I shrug dramatically. “I don’t want my life to be a slog.”

He squeezes my hand. “Does that mean you’ll be bailing on me and Hardline soon?”

I laugh. “Dunno. Lots of different jobs at a studio. Maybe I’ll go from being a PA to being a stunt double.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Yeah? I’d pay good money to see that.”

“Considering it’s your studio, I guess it would be on your dime.”

He glances pointedly at the bed, then back at me in that way he has, where it feels like he’s peeling back all my layers. Exposing me. “Instead of a stunt double, you could be a body double.”

I feign shock, my skin warm and tingly. “Mr. Holt, are you suggesting I get naked with other actors?”

He grimaces, making me laugh. “Clearly I hadn’t thought that through.”

“Well, I’m a bit intrigued now.”

“Are you?” His voice drops lower, a velvety rumble that does things to me that are usually only featured in my late-night fantasies.

“Mmm.” I pat the bed behind us. “It’s still mine for now.”

His lips curve into a devastating smile. “Why, Ms. Parker. Are you suggesting that you’d sleep with the boss?”

“Hell, yes.”

He chuckles. “I do like the way you think.”

In one quick move, he cups the back of my head, tugging me toward him until his mouth claims mine. Soft at first, but when I fist my hand in his shirt and groan with need, I feel the change throughout his body. His mouth going harder, more demanding. No longer teasing but craving.

His fingers twine in my hair, keeping me where he wants me, so close I can smell the lingering hint of cedar from his closet, along with the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

His lips are hard. The kiss wild. As hot and intimate as fucking, and I relish it, craving nothing more, and at the same time craving everything.

Craving him. Starved for him.

I shift on the mattress, moving to straddle his lap, my hands on his shoulders as I grind against him, his cock hard beneath me, his tongue fucking my mouth as my body cries out in desperate, sweet longing.

Without warning, he flips us, and I gasp as I find myself on my back, his knees on either side of my hips as he looms above me. His lips curve into a sensual grin that sends heat racing through my veins. “I think,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, “that you’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Mmm. You should probably do something about that.”

His brow lifts, but he says nothing. Just reaches for the hem of my tank top. His knuckles brush my skin, sending a ripple of heat through me, and I raise my arms as he pulls the tank over my head, his gaze never leaving mine as he tosses it aside.

The tank has a shelf bra, and now I’m naked from the waist up, my hard nipples acting as indisputable witnesses of what I want.

“You’re stunning.” His words are reverent, almost a whisper, but it’s the way he looks at me—like I’m something precious—that makes me shiver … and the touch of his hands cupping my breasts that makes me moan.

I close my eyes as he cradles my tits, his thumbs teasing both my nipples and sending sparkling, golden threads of heat racing through my body to gather at my core. “Matthew,” I whisper, “please.”

“Please what?” His voice at my ear is low, barely a whisper, and his sultry tone coupled with the tickle of his breath sends shivers of longing through me.

“Just … just please. ”

I hear the low rumble of his laughter, a sound of pure pleasure mixed with vibrant heat. And before I have a chance to beg again, his lips find mine in a kiss so wild and deep I feel it all the way to my core.

His hands slide down my sides, setting my body on fire. He’s holding me. Possessing me.

I arch back, wanting what he’s giving—and what he’s taking. Wanting to be possessed.

To be his.

His mouth claims mine again. Wilder this time, and I moan as our tongues and lips dance and tease. I spread my legs, my hips arching up, craving the press of his body against mine. And craving more the feel of him deep inside me.

“Please,” I murmur, so drunk with lust I’m not even sure I said the word aloud.

I groan when his lips leave mine, then tremble when he trails a line of kisses down my throat. Over my collarbone.

I cry out when his mouth closes over my nipple. The sensation is exquisite, sharp and sweet and I feel it all the way down to my core. My clit throbbing. My body craving. He isn’t even touching me there, and I’m right at the precipice, every cell humming as I teeter on the edge.

“Matthew.” His name is little more than a gasp.

He lifts his head, his eyes locking on mine as his hand slides down my body, slipping just beneath the waistband of my leggings, then stopping. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Beg me,” he whispers. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.” No single word has ever held that much truth, but he just shakes his head.

“Right now, baby. Tell me. I want to hear you tell me.”

“Touch me.” I beg. “Fuck me.”

His smile is sensual sunshine. “Whatever the lady wants,” he murmurs as his clever fingers dip lower into my leggings, brushing over my slick heat.

“Yes. Please.” My eyes are closed, my head back, my hands on my own breasts as my body strives to reach that singular place that is clear, pure pleasure. “Don’t stop,” I murmur. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Not a chance,” he says, his voice a promise that sends another wave of heat coursing through me. He shifts, his free hand catching the edge of my leggings and tugging them down in one smooth motion, leaving me naked before him, every inch of me exposed. But I don’t feel vulnerable. Quite the opposite. I feel strong. Powerful.

And loved.

“Christ, you’re beautiful.”

I feel the heat of a full-body blush in response to his words. I know I’m attractive, but the way he says it is unlike anything anyone has ever said to me. As if he doesn’t mean the way I look, but the way I am . Like he sees me in a way no one else ever has.

“Oh, yes,” I whisper as his hands slide up my thighs, his touch igniting every cell in my body as he moves higher and higher until he finally reaches my core.

He settles between my legs, his fingers brushing over my center, teasing me until I’m squirming beneath him, desperate for more.

“Matthew, please,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the word.

He doesn’t make me wait. Slowly, deliberately, he slides a finger inside me, then another, his touch both gentle and commanding. My hips move instinctively, seeking him, my body desperate for the rhythm he’s setting.

“You’re so ready for me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “Do you know how hot that makes me?”

I can only whimper in response.

He flashes that cocky grin, then quickly sheds his clothes. And though I mourn the loss of contact, I can’t deny that I enjoy the show.

I enjoy it much more when he returns, his thumb brushing over my clit, sending sparks shooting through me. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I gasp, barely able to form the word as his touch sends me spiraling higher and higher. “I want you.”

His eyes hold mine, and with a groan, he leans forward, his hand replaced by the hard, unrelenting press of his cock against my core. He pauses, his gaze searching mine, giving me the chance to stop this, to stop him.

But stopping is the last thing I want.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the wild beat of my heart. “Don’t you even think about stopping.”

His groan is low and guttural and wildly sexy as he thrusts into me, filling me completely, and I gasp, my hands clutching at his tight ass as my body adjusts to the feel of him. He pauses, giving me a moment, and then he begins to move, slow and deliberate, each thrust sending a new wave of pleasure rippling through me, taking me just that much higher with every motion, every sensation.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his voice raw, that single word holding a world’s worth of emotion.

I cling to him, lost in pleasure, as he drives me closer and closer to the edge, his pace quickening, his movements more urgent as his own control begins to unravel. I claw at his back as those glorious, wild sensations build inside me. Wilder and wilder until I can’t contain myself anymore and I shatter, my orgasm ripping through me in waves. I cry out his name even as he cries out mine, his own release exploding on the tail of mine, so that our bodies tremble together and all I can hear is the low, guttural murmur of my name on his lips, and all I can feel is the soft glow of heaven.

For a moment, neither of us moves, the only sound in the room the mingled cadence of our ragged breaths. Then, slowly, he lifts his head, his lips curving into a lazy, satisfied smile that makes my heart skip a beat.

“So,” he says matter-of-factly, “you looking forward to moving in with me?”

I laugh. “You know, I think it’s going to work out just fine.”