58. Renee
This has been the best time of my life. It’s why I left my old life behind. It’s the new start I wanted, the one I would’ve never gotten had I stayed at home, let my parents choose my life for me, played my part in the family drama.
I’ve never been so glad I set fire to the old me.
“Hey, beautiful.” Weston comes into the bedroom where I’m snapping the final earring in place. “You look amazing.” He stands behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead tonight.”
It’s the night of the auction and I have seen to every. Last. Detail. I’ve agonized over table linens and learned more than I ever wanted to know about silver service. Napkin and fork on the left, knife on the right, goblets on the… left? Right? Center? Shit, I’m getting muddled now.
I push the anxiety down. It’s going to be good. It’s going to be so, so good. It’s going to be a raging success and we’re going to make a lot of money for the children’s hospital and every little thing is gonna be alright.
“What time are you gonna get there?” He’s coming a little while after me, because I have to show up early to make sure the placecards are set out and those damned goblets are on the right. No, the left.
Dammit.
“I’ll be there on time.”
“Don’t use your calm-the-crazy-lady voice on me,” I snap. “If I’m crazy, there’s a reason. My job depends on making tonight a success. Not only my job, but Michelle’s and Danni’s, too. We’ve worked hours and hours of overtime making sure we’re ready.”
He chuckles and smooths his hands down my bare arms. “I know. It’s going to be a smash hit.”
I sigh. “What time?” If he could just tell me, it’s one less worry. He still has to be around for team and auction photos even though he isn’t one of the bachelors being auctioned.
“Around eight.”
“Seven would be better.”
“As you wish, Princess P. I’ll be there at seven. Now, let me get a look at you.” He turns me around so I’m facing him. The dress I’m wearing is silver, sparkly, and on the shorter side. When his eyes go bright with that mischievous gleam, I know what he’s thinking before he even says a word.
I start to warn, “Weston…”
Sure enough, his hand snakes out to steal up underneath the hem. “Whatcha wearing under there?”
I slap his hand away. “I’m wearing perfectly respectable panties, for your information. Very boring. You’d hate them. Wouldn’t fit in your collection at all.”
But he doesn’t look dismayed in the least. “Are they wet?” I don’t answer because he’s already feeling them. “Oh. Mhmm. Yes, indeed. So very fucking wet.”
He pushes them to the side and rubs a finger down from my clit to my pussy, then pushes it inside me as his mouth claims mine.
I shouldn’t be standing here kissing him. I should be out the door, hailing a cab, driving to the Beverly Hills Hotel to do my damn job. Instead, I’m standing in the bedroom in front of my mirror, kissing the one man I was never supposed to touch.
But when he does that move with his fingers, I’m utterly at his mercy.
“Oh my God, West?—”
He pulls back and spins me again by the shoulders. “Turn around and watch in the mirror.” He lifts the hem and holds it up with one hand, then tugs my panties down with the other. “Watch me finger-fuck you.”
His mouth fastens at the crook of my neck as he toys with my pussy and my nipples at the same time. I’m wriggling in place as the sensation builds low in my gut. I clamp his wrist, not to pull him away, but to keep him right where he is so I can grind myself to the finish I want so, so badly.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” His voice is hard and hot on my skin.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t.
“Oh, God, yes.”
My head lolls back against his shoulder. I can’t see what he’s doing behind me, but I hear the zipper of his pants, then I feel him line up behind me and push his way into my aching core.
It has the frantic intensity of a quickie. He’s pulling me back onto him and grunting, “Take it. All of it. Like a good fucking princess.”
He’s pounding into me, moaning and grunting while I whimper and cry out. Finally, we come. My legs buckle and he holds me up while he thrusts a final time and his body goes tense.
When he pulls out and stands, I adjust my dress and head to the bathroom. I probably should’ve—scratch that, I definitely should’ve—said no to that little rendezvous.
But telling Weston Scott “no” is getting harder and harder these days.
“Now, I really have to go,” I mutter as I emerge from the bathroom looking more or less put-together.
He grins at me. “Now that you’ve gotten off, I’m no good to you anymore?”
“On the contrary, you’re bad. You’re very, very bad to me.”
“Sit beside me at the auction and I’ll show you ‘bad.’” His voice is a low purr full of promise.
“Don’t you dare. This is a work function. Act accordingly.”
But the cat-that-ate-the-canary smirk on Weston’s face tells me what I already know: he’s never met a rule he didn’t immediately want to break.
At precisely seven, after the water goblets have been placed (on the right, as it turns out) and the guests have been seated and the bidding is about to begin, a hand slides around my waist.
I look up, not startled. I felt him the minute he walked in, the familiar shiver of awareness, the skitter of attraction when my gaze met his, and now, the scent of his cologne.
“You have to get pictures taken soon,” I inform him.
He nods quietly. There is nothing in the world like black-tie Weston Scott. Only one real word comes to mind: wow. The suit is fitted to his body perfectly. He’s chiseled and appropriately scruffed—not so much as to be a beard, not so little as to make him lose his edge. The jacket makes his shoulders and chest broader, his waist tapered and thin.
“Ms. DuBois, you’re staring.”
I grin sheepishly. “Yeah. Guilty.”
I’m not just staring, either—I’m fantasizing. Surely there’s a broom closet around here somewhere we could borrow for a few minutes…
But then a chime rings out, signaling it’s time for the auction to start.
The closet quickie will have to wait.
The crowd gets herded through to the seats arranged in front of the stage, Weston and I caught up in it. As everyone gets settled, I see two women with their heads put together, looking over the brochure detailing the player bachelors who’ve volunteered to be auctioned off tonight.
One of the duo, dressed in head-to-toe Prada, shakes her head. “No Weston? Boo.”
I grin wickedly and keep on walking.
“You look smug,” he whispers in my ear. “Do you like keeping me all to yourself?”
“I’m just having a really good time in my official capacity,” I say in a prim and proper voice that doesn’t match the heat in my insides at all.
We take our seats. The team files onto the stage, one by one, to be “sold.”
Everything goes quickly and smoothly. The crowd laughs in all the right places as the MC raffles off five of the Firebirds’ finest. I’m doing math on a notepad, and as the numbers climb, my grin spreads wider.
In bachelor funding alone, we have doubled our goal, and there are still the silent auction items, which should bring in a lot more money.
When the final clack of the gavel rings out, though, there’s more work yet to be done. Photos to be taken, asses to kiss, gratitude to spew.
I focus on my job and take pictures, shake hands, meet donors, participate in all the small talk. And then I’m almost free, standing in a small circle with Danni, who’s making eyes at Jonah Martingale—she and I are going to have a chat about that—and Michelle, who’s speaking to a woman I haven’t met yet. I’m watching Weston from across the room while he talks to a couple of the players.
Patrick Forrestor, the team owner, walks over and pats me on the back. “I understand that you three ladies are the ones to thank for tonight. I’ve been congratulated on how smooth everything is running more times than I can count.”
“Thanks, Patrick,” Michelle says with a reserved smile. “We aren’t the kind of team who does anything halfway.”
“I can see that.” When he turns to me, he offers his hand. “And you must be the new social media coordinator I’ve heard so much about.”
As we shake hands, I smile. “Renee DuBois.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’ve heard many wonderful things. And this event is certainly a testament to your talent and work ethic. Well done to all of you. Take the rest of the night off, ladies. Have fun. Enjoy the spoils of your labor.” Then he saunters right back off.
Could be worse, I guess. Based on Weston’s stories, I thought he’d be blowing his nose in million-dollar bills, drinking champagne blended with the tears of orphans, and wearing a suit made out of baby seals that he clubbed himself.
He just seems like a run-of-the-mill rich asshole, though. Lord knows I’ve met my fair share of those.
Weston materializes as soon as Forrestor is gone. He slides his arm around my waist and plucks the glass of champagne from my hand to set on the tray of a passing waiter—the same one I just took the glass from.
“Excuse us. We’re going to dance now.”
He doesn’t give me much choice in the matter. He drags me to an empty spot on the dancefloor, then reels me into his embrace. The same giddy heat I always feel when he puts his hands on me flashes to life.
“I’ve been watching you,” he croons.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. And I’m not alone. Every man in this room has been watching you. You’re beautiful.” His voice is low and deep, husky. It’s his about-to-take-you-to-bed voice.
But as I’m about to suggest exactly that, his agent—a tall man with hair that needed a cut a month ago and is now unruly and overgrown, and a pair of jeans that makes him look like a 1970s hipster—walks over and hooks Weston by the elbow.
“There’s a couple sponsors here looking to talk to you, Weston.” He tugs and, because Weston is holding onto me, we both inch toward the agent.
Weston shoots him a glare, then sighs and looks down at me. “Ten minutes, okay?”
I nod. “Go. Do your thing. I’ll get more champagne.”
“Okay. I’ll find you. Don’t disappear.” I grin when he leans down and brushes his lips across my cheek.
Then he’s whisked away.
Still blushing from the heat of his kiss, I go to the bar at the nearest corner of the room. The bartender smiles at me when I pick up one of the pre-poured flutes from a tray at the corner. I take a sip and sigh happily.
I feel a hand flat on my back. “Back alread?—?”
But when I turn, it isn’t Weston.
It isn’t Weston at all.
It’s a man I never wanted to see again.
“Hello, Renee.” My father leans in on a cloud of expensive old man cologne and presses his dry, chapped lips to the same cheek Weston just kissed. “You remember Deacon, of course.” He moves and I get a full view of the other man I never wanted to see again.
Deacon Carrington. Tall, dark, beautiful, arrogant Deacon Carrington.
The man I was supposed to marry.