Chapter 34
“Call It What You Want” - Taylor Swift
Maeve
I rush through my shower, and don’t you dare ask me why. I don’t normally enjoy turning myself into a waterlogged prune, but tonight I’ve managed to cut my time under the hot spray to five minutes. If I can keep up this pace, he might still be here when I’m finished.
Wrapping a fluffy white towel around myself, I step onto the plush bathmat. As I’m applying moisturizer to my face and neck, I manage to knock one of my earrings onto the floor. I bend over to pick it up, and my gaze catches on the small rubbish bin under the vanity.
I reach for the only thing inside. Confusion swirls through my mind as I stare at the lavender silicone object in my hand. How did this end up in the trash? I definitely didn’t throw it away. It’s not like I use it very often, but I certainly didn’t toss it during a mad decluttering spree.
Which leaves only one explanation.
Tucking my towel tighter around my chest, I walk to the doorway of my bedroom.
Pierce is still here, and at the sight of him, my heart picks up speed.
He’s lying back against the pillows, reading a book with a bright red cover and wearing a black T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and those obscene glasses.
It’s completely unfair that he looks this good.
“Why was my vibrator in the trash?” I hold up the toy in question, a little mortified that he evidently found it in my bedside table, but my anger is squashing all other emotions at the moment. How dare he go through my things, let alone have the audacity to dispose of them at will?
He glances up from his reading with a bored expression on his face. “You don’t need a fucking vibrator.” Then he flips another page as though this conversation is over.
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ll be the one to determine that, thanks.”
His eyes cut to mine, fingers stilling on the corner of the paper. “Explain to me why you need it.”
“Uh—” I start, but the ridiculousness of this situation is making it difficult to form an answer. “Because this is the twenty-first century, and if I choose to masturbate, that is my right.”
The book shuts with a soft snap that makes my heart jolt. Pierce swings his legs over the side of the bed and approaches me with the precision of a jungle cat. I consider bolting to the bathroom and locking myself in, but he’ll only stay by the door until I come out. I’ve tried it before.
He stops once he’s directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell his stupid fucking cologne and feel the heat of his body against my bare skin.
He’s still wearing those stupidly sexy glasses, which only infuriates me more.
It’s like he wears them on purpose whenever he wants to win a fight.
Faster than I can blink, he grabs the vibrator from my hand and tosses it onto the bed behind him. “I’ve told you before, your orgasms are my responsibility.”
I suck in a breath, my brain gravely starved of oxygen. Taking a step back to put some much-needed distance between us, I cross my arms over my chest. “And what if you’re in a meeting?”
He laughs humorlessly. “I hate meetings.” This is, in fact, the truth, but it does nothing to prove his point.
“You expect me to believe that you’ll walk out of a meeting to give me an orgasm?” A short laugh escapes my mouth.
Now it’s his turn to fold his arms over his chest, and his biceps strain at the fabric of his shirt sleeves. Again, absolutely unfair. “I’d clear the room and fuck you on the table if that’s what you needed.”
Images of him doing that exact thing flash through my mind, and I remind myself that I have a fight to win.
Now is not the time to imagine Pierce going down on me in a boardroom.
“What if it’s a really important meeting?
” It’s a stupid thing to say, but you try arguing with a Greek god in glasses and see what you come up with.
“How is that relevant?” he asks, inclining his head until I can see flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
I shrug, then quickly grab my towel before it can slide off. “I just think that, depending on the importance of the meeting, you might change your mi—”
He bunches the terrycloth in his hand and yanks me against his chest. “Maybe you didn’t hear what I said. Every orgasm you need, you will get from me.” With his other hand, he tilts my chin up so that I have to meet his eyes. “Understand?”
Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I say, “What if—”
But then his mouth is on mine, his tongue pushing into it and stealing all my words. With a quick tug of his wrist, the towel falls off my body and pools onto the floor. Moving my face upward with his hand, he uses the leverage to press even deeper.
His hand travels up my hip and over my side, moving slowly, as though he’s touching the softest velvet. When he reaches my breast, he cups it and teases the nipple, which forms a hard peak under his fingers.
I moan into his mouth, and he pinches my nipple.
He pulls back just far enough to ask, “Are we clear?”
I murmur something that sounds like agreement but wouldn’t hold up in court.
“Maeve,” he warns, moving away from my greedy mouth. “No more vibrator unless I’m the one holding it. You text me any time you need me, and I’ll come. Got it?”
God, he’s really not going to let this go. “Yes,” I say, and hungrily lurch for him. I need his mouth on me, I need his hands on me, I need his body pressing down on me. I need him like you need black Louboutins—eessential, necessary, vital.
I know it’s a bad position to be in—dependent on another human being. It will come back to bite me in the ass. But right now, the only ass I’m thinking about is Pierce St. James’s, and holy fuck, it is a fine one.
* * *
Several hours of mind-blowing sex later—including one vibrator-induced climax that far surpassed anything I’ve ever given myself—Pierce and I are brushing our teeth at the double sink.
Our gazes snag in the mirror above the vanity, and the moment feels so intimate, so domestic.
He spits and rinses, then tosses the toothbrush into the holder with a clatter.
I pause midscrub, mouth filled with foam. “What are you doing?”
He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and gives me a skeptical look in the glass. “Putting my toothbrush in the cup?”
“You don’t have a toothbrush,” I say, then rinse the paste from my mouth. He asked for an extra one earlier, but when I gave it to him, it wasn’t an invitation to leave it here.
“I do now.” He winks and walks out the door.
I rest my palms on the counter and lean against it for strength. What is happening here? Staring at the blue toothbrush next to my purple one in the holder, I feel a cloud of anxiety press down on me.
I know what happens when you start keeping things at each other’s houses. Feelings get involved, and feelings mean messiness. Pierce and I can hardly function like normal human beings under the best of circumstances. Put us both at our worst, and someone’s likely to die.
This is supposed to be a benefits-only relationship, but it’s starting to feel like a . . . relationship relationship.
Should I feel flattered that he evidently wants more than I’m willing to give?
Probably. A thousand women would kill to be in my position.
Not only is he one of the wealthiest and most powerful people in this country, but I genuinely enjoy spending time with him.
At least when he’s not making me want to rip his head from his shoulders, so like 5 percent of the time, but that 5 percent is incredible.
But I’m not willing to give him what I know he wants from me.
He won’t ever be happy with only a piece of me.
A man like that never is. They want everything from you—body, mind, soul.
And I just can’t do that. The only thing I can give is my body.
If he wants it, it’s his. But if he wants more, he’s going to be disappointed.
I grab the latest issue of Vogue France and join Pierce on the bed.
It’s late, but if I go to sleep now, he’ll either leave or slip beneath the duvet too, and I’m equally terrified by both prospects.
It’s completely moronic, but neither option brings me comfort.
So I flop down on my stomach and flip through the glossy pages.
In truth, I’ve already read this issue, but if I don’t have something to distract me, god only knows what I’ll let him do to me.
Seconds later, his fingertips begin tracing the curve of my spine. I’m wearing a backless slip in midnight-blue silk. His attention is back on his book, but his hand casually drifts up and down my back as he reads.
Goosebumps break out across my skin, and I fight the urge to shiver.
His touch is electric, and for a brief moment, I let myself imagine what life with him would be like.
Would we spend our evenings like this, touching each other like our existence didn’t depend on it, brushing past each other in the bathroom, planning our weeks around and with each other?
It’s not a bad picture. It’s actually quite lovely, if I’m being honest. It’s the thought of doing those things with Pierce that sends a bolt of terror through me.
He wouldn’t allow me to lead, to be in charge.
One minute with the guy will tell you as much.
And I need control, need it like oxygen.
The only reason this situationship has worked so far is because both of us have retained power. If I were to give it up to him—
“I have one more question.” His voice startles me, and I look up.
His eyes are still on the book in front of him, so it must not be important. I make a noncommittal sound and return my gaze to the magazine. The way his fingers are traveling over my back has me in a near coma.
“Who did you think of when you used it?”
My hand halts mid page-flip. “What?” I glance over at him, genuinely confused. “When I used what?”
“Your vibrator.” He continues stroking my skin, his eyes still glued to his book, although the set of his jaw tells me he’s not reading a word. “Did you think of him?”
My blood throbs so violently through my veins, I feel like I might spontaneously combust. We’re treading dangerous waters, and it both terrifies and excites me. One wrong move and I’ll send us both over the edge, but isn’t that the fun of it?
“Who?” I say innocently, and continue poring over the pages of Vogue. I know exactly who he means, just like I know exactly what he’s asking. It doesn’t mean I’m obligated to answer him.
“You know who,” he says through his teeth.
I smirk at the restraint he’s obviously exerting as he pretends not to be bothered by this conversation. A conversation he chose to start, I might add. Flipping to a spread of Imaan Hammam, I shake my head and say as nonchalantly as possible, “No, I don’t.”
His book closes with a snap, and I bite back a smile. “Fuck it, Maeve. Do you think of that lowlife with a wife when you’re getting yourself off?” Pierce withdraws his hand from my back, evidently no longer able to concentrate on anything but the subject of my vibrator.
“That really bothered you, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, it did. Now answer the question.”
I can feel his eyes on me, and I swallow under the weight of that stare. It’s my turn to pretend to be absorbed by a publication. “That’s none of your business.”
“Regardless, I need to know.”
Tilting my chin up, I steel myself to meet his eyes, knowing the power they have over me.
“Need and want are two very different things. Didn’t they teach you that in primary school?
” He’s still wearing the glasses. Fuck my life.
“And for the love of god, can you please take those off?” I add, gesturing at them.
He frowns and adjusts the black frames. “Why?”
“Because they give you an unfair advantage,” I snap, without thinking.
Realization dawns on his face like the sunrise, and I immediately kick myself for once again opening my mouth when I should have kept it shut. “An unfair advantage,” he muses. “Your entire body is an unfair advantage.”
My cheeks heat, and I drop my gaze back to the magazine in my hands.
“Maeve, answer the question.” Pierce’s warning tone sends a bolt of pleasure to my core. “Do you get off imagining him doing that to you?”
He’s not going to let it go. The only way out is through. “No,” I say, my voice small.
“Who then?”
God, I should have known that answer wouldn’t be enough for him. He always wants more than I can give. “Can’t you be satisfied knowing it’s not him?” I turn the next page so violently it rips.
“No, I can’t. Not until I know who you envision,” he says.
“Why? What are you going to do when you find out?” I glare at him. “Hunt him down?”
Pierce’s face is as hard as stone, nostrils flaring with everything he’s holding back.
“I’m done with this conversation,” I say, flipping another page and tearing it, too.
“You’re done when I say you’re done.” He snatches up the magazine. “Who is it, Maeve? Just tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me. Now.”
My breath catches in my throat. Part of me wants to tell him. Another part of me thrills at this game, the one neither of us ever seems to win, but which neither of us can stop playing. “I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” He tosses the issue of Vogue aside, and it hits the floor with a thump.
I swallow again, but the lump in my throat has doubled in size. “I—”
His eyes narrow and grow several shades darker, as if he can sense that I’m considering lying to him. Fuck it. He’ll never leave if I don’t just tell him the truth.
“Fine. I imagined you. Happy now?”
He doesn’t smile or look relieved. Instead, the lines on his face only grow deeper, and the hardness in his eyes increases. He fucking glowers at me.
“Are you—mad?” I ask, incredulous. Why is he upset about this? He should be overjoyed. I gave him the answer he wanted, and fortunately for both of us, it also happens to be the truth. There is no one else in the world who can make me come faster than Pierce St. James.
“I’m fucking pissed.”
I gape at him, no longer able to suspend my disbelief. “Why? I just told you it was you—”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, grabbing my chin. “I’m pissed because those orgasms belonged to me.”