Engaged to Her While Loving Me (Too Late to Keep Her #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Casey

Boston in February hit like a bitch in the dead of night. The apartment heater cranked way too high, turning the bed into a goddamn inferno.

Paul's hands found my legs first, those long, sleek lines I'd worked hard to sculpt.

He toyed with them like they were his new favorite plaything, fingers tracing the taut muscles of my calves, slow and deliberate.

His lips followed, tongue flicking out to taste the skin, then teeth grazing just enough to sting.

He pushed upward, palms pressing into the sensitive spots behind my knees, making me squirm.

The mix of pain and tease clashed hard with how I tried to hold it together, my body betraying me with every shiver.

No sweet kisses from him—not really. He preferred marking me up, teeth sinking in lightly on my inner thighs, tongue swirling over the bites to soothe and torment all at once.

My toes curled into perfect arches as tension built, my breath hitching from the nerves and the rush.

His mouth inched higher, right to the crease where thigh met everything else, nipping and sucking until I was a mess.

Then that thick, throbbing cock pressed against my soaked entrance.

No hesitation, no gentle bullshit. Paul hoisted one of my legs over his shoulder, splitting me wide like he owned every inch.

He drove in deep, brutal, filling me to the brink.

The initial rip and swell hit like a shockwave—I trembled hard, but he swallowed my gasp with his mouth, devouring it.

He paused for a beat inside me, letting me feel the stretch, then went wild.

No rhythm at first, just chaotic thrusts, but aggressive as hell.

Every slam buried him deeper, his tip grinding right on my G-spot, making stars explode behind my eyes.

His hands clamped my slim waist, fingers digging in, leaving bruises I'd feel tomorrow.

The pain mixed with pleasure, pushing me from taking it to craving more.

I wrapped my legs around his solid waist, feeling those ripped muscles grind against me, rough and raw.

"Fuck, Paul, harder," I gasped, my hips bucking up to meet him.

He growled, flipping me over onto my knees, ass up.

One hand pinned my neck down, keeping me from looking back, the other kneading my firm, round cheeks, spreading them.

This angle? Deeper than sin. He slammed in, our bodies slapping loudly, my wetness splashing everywhere, soaking the sheets in a mix of sweat and slick.

His cock pistoned fast in my tight heat, pulling out strings of my arousal with each retreat.

"Shit, you're so fucking wet for me," he rasped, voice thick with lust. I moaned, pushing back, "Don't stop, pound me, make it hurt so good. "

He did—relentless, the bed creaking under us.

My arms shook, but the angle hit every nerve, building that coil tight.

Then he yanked me up, flipping positions so I straddled him, riding that massive dick.

I braced my hands on his hard chest, my heavy breasts swaying heavily with every shaky breath, nipples tight and aching for attention.

"Ride me like you mean it, Casey," he growled, his voice low and commanding. His strong hands gripped my waist as he thrust up hard from below, slamming that massive cock deep into my soaked core. The fat head punched against my cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me.

"Ah, fuck!" I cried out, my hips instantly going wild.

I started riding him frantically, sliding up and down his shaft, swallowing every veiny inch before lifting almost all the way off and slamming back down.

My ass cheeks slapped loudly against his thighs, wet, filthy, while my juices coated his cock and dripped down his balls.

He met every downward plunge with savage upward thrusts, driving into me so deep I saw stars.

His hands slid up to my bouncing tits, grabbing the soft, heavy flesh greedily.

He squeezed and kneaded them roughly, fingers sinking deep into my breasts, thumbs and forefingers pinching and twisting my swollen nipples hard, sending sharp sparks straight to my clit.

"Shit, your tits are so fucking big and soft," he groaned. "Look at these hard little nipples… You love having your tits played with, don't you, you dirty girl?"

My movements grew crazier. I twisted and rolled my waist in frantic circles, grinding my swollen clit against his pelvis while my inner walls clenched and fluttered around his thick cock.

"God, your cock feels so fucking good inside me," I panted, my nails raking red lines down his chest. "It's so thick… you're splitting me open…"

He smirked, thrusting even harder, his hips snapping up violently. "Yeah? Then take it all, you filthy slut. Ride me harder—milk my cock with that greedy little pussy."

Sweat poured down our bodies, making our skin slick and slippery. The room reeked of raw sex.

Suddenly, he surged up, biting down hard on my shoulder, teeth sinking into my skin as his thrusts turned feral. "Come for me, Casey. Scream my fucking name!"

I shattered instantly. My pussy clamped down like a vice around his cock, spasming wildly as a powerful orgasm crashed through me. Hot juices gushed out, soaking his groin while I screamed his name at the top of my lungs, my whole body shaking uncontrollably.

With a deep, guttural groan, he followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and flooding my womb with thick, hot spurts of cum, filling me full.

February in Boston had this brutal edge—no romance, no postcard bullshit, nothing for the tourist ads. Charles River froze in half-melted chunks, and streets turned to slushy mud. The whole city looked like a hungover mess sprawled on the bathroom floor, dignity long gone, zero spark.

But me, Casey White? I sprawled on Paul Vincent's bed, blissfully checked out from it all.

"Temporarily," because for the past stretch, my brain ran on pure pleasure mode—with him, sex shut down every worry, every "what the hell am I doing" question.

Now I rolled onto my side, face buried in his chest, his skin still hot, heartbeat steady and strong.

Wind off Charles River rattled something outside, the bedside lamp casting everything in warm gold. If life was a movie, this shot could've been the poster.

"Hey," I said, keeping it casual, "tomorrow's my birthday."

Deep down, I nursed this tiny hope—not for some big gesture, just a sign he cared. Even "Oh really? Where should we celebrate?" or some bullshit question about my wants.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He didn't move.

"Okay," he said, lazy, arm tightening around me.

One word.

I scored it in my head. Zero. Retake the test.

"You know," I lifted my head, chin on his chest, "normal people say something to that."

He glanced down, mouth quirking in that infuriating, irresistible half-smile. "Like?"

"Like 'Oh my god, really? Where we celebrating?' or 'What do you want for a gift?' Anything over two words, and I'd skip the zero."

"Happy birthday."

I sat up. "It's not till tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Paul, 'oh' is one word. I gave you three for happy birthday, but that 'oh' docks it back."

He laughed for real, pulling me closer, chin on my head. "Fine, happy birthday tomorrow. Total score?"

"Six. Passing grade."

"Where's the other four?"

"Pending. Based on follow-up." I propped on my elbow, eyeing him. "Like asking where I wanna eat—that initiative bumps it to ten."

He thought it over, drawling, "Charge whatever on my card, pick the spot, you decide."

I rolled my eyes inwardly.

Charge my card. So my twentieth birthday ranked as a business expense in Paul Vincent's world. Line item: Employee perk. Note: Birthday bash. Amount: As incurred.

"You know the problem?" I said.

"You don't wanna charge it?"

"The problem is, you didn't even ask where I want, just dumped the emotional work on me." I poked his chest. "That's dodging, Mr. Vincent. Emotional dodging."

"I'm respecting your choices."

"Wow."

"What?"

"You can MBA-explain anything. It's impressive," I said. "If I cried, you'd call it 'investing in your emotional equity'?"

His hand toyed with my hair, absent. "Where you wanna eat?"

"Too late now. Minus five."

He tilted his head, eyes a mix of exasperation and indulgence, the kind that always made me swallow my arguments.

Phone buzzed again, twice. Texts.

I felt him tense, just a flicker—so subtle, you'd miss it unless you'd studied the guy for years like I had.

I looked up, ready with something sassy to yank the vibe back from HR memo territory, but his eyes stopped me.

He stared at the ceiling. Not dreamy, lost in thought. Distant, mind elsewhere, soul checked out to some place that had zero to do with me.

I swallowed my words. Then the phone rang a third time.

Paul rolled to check the screen. I followed his gaze.

"Elizabeth."

No emoji, no label like "Mom" or "Sis" to ease the mind.

Just the name, white on black, stark and blinding.

He answered.

"Hey." His voice shifted.

Not tone or style, but something deeper, like an internal switch flipped channels.

He tossed the covers, got up, back to me, heading across the room, voice low. I caught fragments. "...I know... no... I said..."

I sat up, wrapping the sheet around me, watching his back.

Paul Vincent's back was a sight—broad shoulders, clean waistline, skin honey-gold in the light. First time I saw him was at the library cafe, him at the counter waiting for a latte, me behind. Thought hit: This guy's back has a story.

Prophet, me. Story? Yeah, just not the plot twist I expected.

He talked maybe two minutes, hung up, stood silent a few seconds like psyching himself up, then turned, hunting clothes.

"Family emergency," he said, calm. "Gotta head back now."

He had a place south of the city, twenty-minute drive. Lived there for years. I'd never been, never invited. Fact sat quiet in my brain—till now.

"Emergency," I echoed, flat. "What kind?"

"Family stuff," he said, shrugging on his shirt. "You know... family."

I knew. Bullshit. But weirdly, I had no urge to push. Not 'cause I didn't care, but 'cause I sensed the answer wouldn't be what I wanted. Draining realization.

I tugged the sheet higher. Wind slipped through the window crack, Charles River chill burrowing into my bones.

I watched him button up. Fingers quick, eyes elsewhere, mind clearly spinning.

Scene sparked a random memory. Last March, for the first time, he asked me to a classmate reunion thing. I'd had plans with friends for Saturday. He said, "Can you shift? Just this once, help me out."

I did. Then twice, three times, four.

Whenever he needed a "date" for some event, he'd call. My plans turned flexible; his were set in stone.

Once I pushed back, he gave that soft, confused look: "You don't wanna? No biggie, go do your thing, I'll solo."

Then I said, "No, no, I'll come, just saying."

And I went. Always.

Another gust hit, and I shivered, hugged the sheet tighter, alone in the bed's middle.

Then the thought hit. No dramatic epiphany, no soundtrack swell. Just a plain idea, drifting in, settling.

In this thing, I was always the one bending.

Paul dressed, last button done, grabbed jacket and keys, and headed out.

At the door, he paused, glanced back.

For a second or two, something flickered in his eyes. Apology? Maybe. His lips parted, like words were coming.

I held my breath.

Nothing.

He turned, opened the door, and left.

I sat there.

Knees hugged, in the empty bed, footsteps fading down the hall.

Snow started outside, and I saw flakes build on the glass, tapping silently.

I sat in that choking quiet maybe two minutes, then got up, grabbed his forgotten plaid cashmere throw from the couch, draped it over my shoulders, and went to the window.

Watched his black Audi pull away. Phone in hand, chat open, cursor blinking blank.

What to text?

"Text when you're home." Nah, not his mom.

"Family okay?" Worse, laced with snark I didn't want.

I flipped the screen down on the sill, looked out again.

Boston snow at night had this weird beauty, streetlights turning flakes gold, world hazy and quiet like a blurred film photo.

I used to love it, dragging roommates to wander Charles River, noses red, hot cocoa in hand, bitching about life, laughing till tears.

Then Paul. Then more waiting on his texts, less time for what I loved.

When did it start?

Honestly, no clue. Bit by bit. Tiny bends, little "whatever"s, "just this time". Till one day, the line's shifted way back from where you'd sworn it stayed.

Worst? You did it willingly, called it mature, understanding, "I'm a reasonable adult woman."

Mom used to nag, "Casey, you're too soft, nice guys finish last, learn to say no."

I'd blow it off—old-school crap, irrelevant to modern dating.

Now, here, wrapped in his blanket, staring where he vanished, Mom seemed smarter than I'd thought.

My breath fogged the glass in a blurry circle. I drew a line with my finger, nothing else, watched it fade.

Then I remembered the promise.

Last summer, Cape Cod, that Airbnb facing the Atlantic, wooden deck out back, night breeze salty with waves, moon huge like a stage prop.

He turned to me, eyes dead serious, the kind you couldn't doubt. "Once I get my MBA, we'll go public, take you to Hawaii, watch the whales."

My reaction? Head on his shoulder, world feeling right.

Casey White, you idiot.

Hawaii, whales, going public.

Lined them up in my head, stared hard, then laughed—a bitter, absurd huff, not joy.

That promise now, after the "Elizabeth" call, him dressing, "family emergency," bolting? Sounded like some alternate universe tale, not mine.

Phone lit, buzzed.

I grabbed it.

Paul: Can I call tonight?

Paul: Home. Happy birthday tomorrow.

Just that.

I stared forever, screen locking, relighting, locking.

Set it back on the sill, looked out.

Snow kept falling, silent, blanketing everything white, clean like nothing had happened.

But once you start thinking about some things, you can't unthink them.