33. Jenna
JENNA
I wake up to the sensation of someone watching me.
It’s McCarthy. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for him to open the door, drag me to that broad chest, and kiss me like he’s starving for me.
He doesn’t actually care about me, I remind myself.
But I open my eyes anyway just to see the all-consuming desire on his face, just for me, like I’m the most important person in the world.
The center of his universe.
Brock’s muddy-brown eyes glare at me through the dark window of the car. He laughs when I scream, scrambling for my phone, which I’ve dropped somewhere on the dark floor of the car.
“McCarthy. McCarthy! ” Still screaming, I smash my hand on the lock button, jamming my finger hard against the door. “McCarthy, help! Help! Where’s my phone?”
Brock’s pulling at the door handles as I’m trying to fish my phone out from under the seat. A foot smashes through the driver’s-side window, then the doors click, unlocked.
I don’t get to my phone. I do get my Stanley cup and start whaling at the hands that grab at me and wrap themselves in the silky fabric of my pajama shirt.
“Jenna, fuck.” He grunts when my cup connects with his wrist.
“You think I wasn’t going to find out?” he’s yelling at me.
The top of the cup flies off as I whale at the broad chest that appears in the door of the car, spilling sticky raspberry lemonade all over the white dress shirt.
“I bet you’ve seen him here before, haven’t you?”
“McCarthy?”
He’s pissed, violently angry as he drags me out of the car. My Stanley cup bounces to the concrete, the charms breaking on the floor.
“Fuck you, Jenna! Answer me .”
“I—”
“Brock.” McCarthy shakes me. He’s holding me up by the front of my shirt, my feet kicking helplessly, bare toes flailing at his shins. “You’ve seen him here, haven’t you?”
“Ma-maybe?” I stammer out.
“That’s it,” McCarthy spits through blood-flecked teeth.
Looks like I got him in the mouth.
“I’m so fucking done with you.” Hand under my ribs, he carries me to the elevator.
“You better figure the fuck out why he was here!” McCarthy screams at the guards as he practically throws me into the elevator.
The floor is cold under my feet .
“You can’t force me to stay in your penthouse.” My voice sounds small.
McCarthy is silent as the doors open up at the penthouse level. The guards are nervous and alert as he half drags me out of the elevator.
“Are you locking me in here?” I’m still shaken from seeing Brock, from seeing McCarthy’s anger.
He reeks of raspberry lemonade as he picks me up and deposits me in the living room.
“I have guards posted outside. You’re not getting far.”
He pulls off the sticky drink-soaked shirt and undershirt, wadding them up, the muscles and tendons in his arms knotting.
“What are you doing?”
Truman is pawing at my legs. McCarthy’s gray eyes slide over me, then he turns on his heel.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I have work to do. I’ve wasted too much time today on you and your bullshit.”
“What about me?”
He turns to look at me over his shoulder.
“You refuse to stay in a bedroom, so you can sleep on the floor if you’re going to be stubborn, but you’re not leaving.”
“What about me having to beg you?” I race after him to his study while Truman runs after us, thinking it’s a game. “Hey! You can’t just unilaterally decide to keep me here.”
McCarthy stops abruptly in the doorway, and I almost run into him.
“Clearly your stupid dog has a better sense of self-preservation than you do, so I’ve decided that you live here now.”
“To do what?” I squawk. “Sleep with you? ”
“You didn’t take a bath today,” he sneers, looking down his nose at me. “I don’t want you in my bed.” He turns away from me.
“Y-You had your tongue—” I stammer, trying not to say it.
“In your pussy?” he says, unhelpfully.
“Yes, that. And now—what? You’re just suddenly not interested? Now you’re being charitable and gentlemanly? I don’t believe it.”
McCarthy takes his wallet and phone out of his pocket and tosses them on the desk.
“If you want me to fuck you, then get on your hands and knees on the floor.”
His phone goes off, signaling a text.
“ Sable St. James. ” I snatch it up while he just watches me.
“Nice tits.” I huff. “Look expensive.”
Another photo comes in.
“Oh my god, that’s her full-on vagina?” I slap the phone into his hand.
“Guess some women find assholes attractive.” He smirks.
“Some women have low standards.”
“Cupcake, we all know the type of men you find attractive. ‘Low standards’ is severely understating your taste in romantic partners. And you weren’t just fucking them. You got engaged to these assholes.”
“Yes, I make a lot of thoughtless decisions when it comes to toxic men, but I’m learning. I’m never getting engaged to you, after all.”
Stupid, stupid thinking about engagements and marriage with him, my client. Though that’s not even the worst of it.
McCarthy is a self-absorbed asshole .
Huffing, I run back down the hall and throw open the front door.
The guards look up at me. There’s a whole group of them now, all arguing in a video conference call with the man I recognized from the Rainier Investment offices. Crawford, McCarthy’s half brother.
The men stop what they’re doing to stare at me. Finally, one of them asks, “Can I help you?” Then he adds, “Ma’am.”
“Do I look like a ‘ma’am’?” I shriek at him. “I’m not that old.”
The young guy shuffles nervously. “Miss?” he says unconfidently.
“I’m leaving. I’m going to a hotel or my friend’s house or something. I don’t know, but I’m not staying here.”
As a group they watch me walk to the elevator, press the button…
Press the button…
“Is it broken?” I jam my finger on the down button.
“Oh no.” Two of them jump in front of the door that leads to the emergency stairs. “Mr. Svensson isn’t going to allow that.”
Damn him.
I slam the front door behind me, hands on my hips, looking around the living room.
Should I be more worried that Brock is somehow in the tower? Yeah, but all my brain can fixate on is that McCarthy and Sable have exchanged numbers. She is in his contact list. They are calling and texting each other late at night.
Maybe that’s why McCarthy’s suddenly so uninterested.
I need to get the hell out of here. I’m not going to sit awkwardly in his guest bedroom while he and Sable fuck each other’s brains out .
For someone who doesn’t cook, McCarthy has his kitchen stocked up—eggs, steak, potatoes, cheese—all the fixings.
I mix the potatoes with cut-up bell peppers and onions and fry them up on the stove while the steak sears.
I even find fresh sourdough bread… I’ve never seen McCarthy eat carbs, so I don’t know why the universe decided to waste such a perfect loaf of bread on him.
I slap cheese on the slices of bread, let them crisp up in the pan, then assemble the sandwiches with strips of juicy steak and a fried egg.
I toss Truman, who has a vantage point on top of the fridge, a bite of steak as I wrap up the sandwiches in foil then cut them in half.
The guards visibly sniff the air when I walk out with my tray of food.
“There’s some coffee here; looks like you boys have a long night ahead of you.” I’ve got my happy, chirpy PR face on.
One of them reaches for a sandwich.
“Nuh-uh! I will give this to you if you pretend you don’t see me.”
“Yeah, totally.” The guard swipes his card on the elevator interface. The button lights up. Then the guards all crowd around me.
“So good,” one of them groans after biting into the sandwich.
“Tristan fucked up, so we can’t even leave to get food,” one of them complains before he knocks back a cup of coffee.
“Where’d you learn how to cook like this?”
“These potatoes are dope. ”
“Is there any ketchup?”
“On the tray.” I sidestep to the elevator. Finally. “Well, enjoy the food.”
The front door opens right as I step onto the elevator. A hand grabs the back of my PJs.
“Put me down!”
McCarthy tosses me easily over his shoulder. “Thanks for the tip.” He nods to the guards.
“You ratted me out! You ate my food and ratted me out!” I shriek at them.
“This is a great breakfast sandwich,” one of them says apologetically.
“The best.”
The door slams behind us, cutting him off.
McCarthy locks it then throws me onto the couch.
“What part of ‘you are not leaving’ did you not understand?” He pushes me back when I stand up, looming over me.
My mouth is dry. He grabs my hair, and I inadvertently lean forward.
“Like I’m actually going to suck your dick,” I say, more to myself, before my fingers can grasp for his fly.
“You’re not getting on your knees.” His teeth scrape my nipple. “Unless it’s with your legs spread so I can take you.” He’s tugging at my shorts, pulling them down, his teeth still on my nipple.
I can’t stop the moan, can’t stop my fingers tangling in his hair.
“I’m not having sex with you.” I pant, though the feeling his fingers pushing under my panties is about to convince me otherwise. “Go jerk off on FaceTime with Sable. I’m sick of your games. ”
“My games?”
My sleep shorts are down around my ankles. His mouth is hot through the thin fabric of my panties. The strap of the fabric digs into my hips.
“I’m the one playing games? After you dated other men?”
“You and I are not dating!” I shriek.
His hand is on my throat, and I’m pressed back against the couch.
“You let them give you jewelry.”
“An engagement ring isn’t jewelry.”
“But you complain when I want to keep you safe here with me and refuse”—his fingers slide into my mouth, the weight of them on my tongue somehow doing more than his mouth between my legs—“anything I try to give you.”
“I took those books,” I try to say around his fingers.
“You didn’t read those. If you had”—his hands are hard on my tits—“then you would have thrown yourself at me.”
“You’re a walking tornado of red flags and concerning behavior.”
Gray eyes flick to my mouth. He presses his thumb against my lower teeth, opening my mouth. “And you want it bad.”