Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
W ork became my sanctuary. It was the only thing that would keep my mind from wandering. I'd at one point considered calling one of my regulars for an afternoon blow job, but that was enough to lose all interest. I didn't want them; I wanted what I couldn’t have—Olivia.
"Good morning, Mr. Pearson." Hannah breezed into my office, her heels clicking against the marble floor in a rhythm that matched my growing headache.
I glanced up from my laptop, biting back a comment about her questionable wardrobe choices for Olivia. "Morning, Hannah."
She dropped a thick file onto my desk, the thud making my coffee ripple. "Here's the paperwork you asked for." Her nails drummed against the folder. "How's Olivia?"
"She's fine." I reached for the file, hoping my curtness would end the conversation.
Hannah lingered, adjusting her bracelet. "That's good; I was worried she would be discouraged after last night."
“Discouraged?" My brows furrowed.
"You know, from the opposite sex," she stated as if I had any idea what she was talking about. "I'm saying this in the nicest way possible because I like Olivia, but the girl is socially challenged."
I remained silent. I couldn't comment; I hadn't seen Olivia in nine years. I didn't know her anymore. The last time I saw her, I never thought she would have turned into the beauty she’d become or that I'd be as attracted to her as I was.
"It's almost like she's never been in public or around people before."
That couldn't be true. Olivia was 21 and had graduated her first four years of college. Certainly, she'd been around people. I still didn't respond though because I didn’t know.
"Well, I'll let you get back to work."
"Thanks, Hannah." I sighed as the door shut behind her.
The sun had long since set behind the office towers when I finally signed the last document. I'd been using work as a shield, but at 7:05 PM, I'd run out of excuses to stay.
Running my hands over my face, I gathered my coat and briefcase. "Keep it together," I muttered, jabbing the elevator button with more force than necessary. The ride down gave me time to establish ground rules: Look, don't touch. Be polite, avoid being alone with her.
In the back of the car, I rehearsed a mantra. "You can fantasize all you want, Nick, but you can't touch her." My knuckles whitened against the leather seat. Desire was one thing; acting on it was another. She was living under my roof. The complications would be endless, and I didn’t want to hurt her.
By the time Jackson, my driver, pulled into the driveway, I'd armored myself with resolve. Three deep breaths. I could handle this. Then I walked in and saw her curled on the couch in shorts that barely qualified as clothing, and my carefully constructed defenses crumbled like wet paper.
"Hey." she looked up from the book in her hands. "I was starting to wonder if you'd be coming home tonight."
I stood frozen, suddenly wishing I'd slept at the office. The close quarters of the house felt suffocating, charged with something I couldn't—shouldn't—name.
"I had some late business." The solution hit me like a lifeline. Other people. Noise. Distractions. "Go get changed. We're going out tonight. I want to introduce you to my friends." In public, surrounded by others, I could keep my distance. Even the risk of paparazzi seemed preferable to another night alone with her in this house.
"Uh." Her posture stiffened, shoulders drawing in slightly. "What should I wear?"
"Dress casually, and don't worry, they'll love you. It will be fun!" The words came out too bright, too forced.
When she disappeared upstairs, I exhaled a breath of relief.
It only took a few minutes for me to change into a pair of faded denim jeans and a black polo. However, it took her slightly longer.
The floorboard creaked above me. I looked up, and the air vanished from my lungs.
She descended the stairs one careful step at a time, one hand trailing the banister. Faded jeans hugged curves I'd been trying to ignore. A thin strip of skin peeked between the hem of her tank top and her waistband each time she took a step. Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the light from the chandelier.
My mouth went dry. Blood rushed south so fast I had to shift my stance to accommodate the sudden tightness in my jeans. This was not happening. Could not happen. I reached for my keys, dropping them once before managing to grip them with suddenly clumsy fingers.
We needed to leave before I lost not just my control but my sanity.
The neon sign for "The Shit Hole" flickered against the night sky, casting intermittent red shadows across Olivia's face as we pulled up. The place lived up to its name—cracked concrete, peeling paint, and the kind of authentic grime that kept the paparazzi at a comfortable distance.
Inside, cigarette smoke hung in layers beneath the low ceiling, and the jukebox waged its eternal battle against conversation. Through the haze, I caught Justin's wave from our usual corner. He'd claimed one of the wobbly high-tops, surrounded by the usual suspects: Liam slouched over his Guinness, Andrew and Lisa sharing their typical conspiratorial whispers, and Sam tapping her rings against an empty glass in time with the music.
"Well, bloody hell." Liam's beer froze halfway to his lips, Irish accent thickening with surprise. "Hell must've frozen over."
I clapped his shoulder, squeezing harder than necessary. "Everybody, meet Olivia Ryan."
My hand found the small of her back as she navigated around the crowded table. The protective gesture wasn't lost on anyone.
"We grew up together," I added.
Silence stretched thick. Chairs scraped. Glasses clinked. Around the table, shocked expressions melted into poorly concealed curiosity.
Samantha broke first. "Nice to meet you, darlin'." Her Georgia drawl wrapped around the endearment. She gave Lisa the universal let's-go nod and threw an arm around Olivia's shoulders. "We need to get you a proper drink."
When I directed my attention back to the table, I realized all eyes were on her, which annoyed me slightly.
Justin leaned back, whiskey swirling in his glass. His gaze tracked Olivia through the crowd like a wolf sizing up its next meal.
"I see." His lips curled into a familiar smirk. "Not your usual type, but for me?—"
"Not this one." The words came out as a growl. I shifted, blocking his view of Olivia's retreating figure.
Justin's playboy smile faltered. He studied my face for a moment before understanding dawned. "Shit." He straightened. "You're serious."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to.
We spent the next few hours hanging out. I watched as, one by one, Olivia socially destroyed any man that came near her—spilling drinks, tripping them, and forcing awkward conversation or jokes that no one but her laughed at. It was so strange because she wasn’t like that with me, but I understood now what Hannah was saying.
"She's beautiful and smart, but she doesn't have a lot of grace with the guys," Sam stated as we all watched her.
I couldn’t watch it anymore so, I spent the rest of the evening running interference between Olivia and every man who even looked like he was going to approach her. My friends caught on quickly, turning it into a competition for who could craft the most creative deterrent. "Sorry, mate, she's studying to be a nun," Liam told one persistent admirer, earning howls of laughter from our table and we managed to do it without Olivia even knowing what we were doing. Between the protective maneuvers, we drank and talked until the bartender's last call cut through the haze.
"Time to pack it up," Justin announced, throwing cash on the table. Sam hugged Olivia goodbye, whispering something that made them both laugh.
The raucous energy of the bar evaporated the moment Jackson closed the car door behind us. The privacy screen hummed into place, sealing us in silence broken only by the purr of the engine. Without the buffer of friends and strangers, the backseat suddenly felt claustrophobic. Each streetlight we passed painted Olivia in alternating strokes of gold and shadow. The scent of her perfume—something like vanilla—mingled with the leather seats. A turn sent her shoulder brushing against mine, and the careful distance I'd maintained all evening crumbled.
Her fingers traced patterns on the leather seat, inches from my thigh. What was she thinking? Whatever it was, it couldn't match the dangerous path my thoughts were taking.
When we finally pulled up to the house, relief washed over me. Distance. That's what I needed.
"Goodnight," I mumbled, heading for the stairs the moment we were inside. Three steps up, I heard a thud and a soft curse behind me. I turned to see Olivia listing to one side, her hand grasping at empty air where the railing should have been.
She hadn't had much to drink—two cocktails, maybe three—but on her small frame and with her inexperience, it was clearly enough. The rational part of me screamed to keep walking, to let her figure it out. The rest of me was already moving back down the stairs.
"Come here." I caught her elbow as she swayed, my other arm instinctively sliding around her waist. The heat of her skin seeped through the thin fabric of her top, sending a jolt up my arm. "Let me help you."
"It's okay, I'm fine." Her fingers grazed the banister, missing it entirely as her boot caught the edge of the step. She pitched forward with a small gasp.
Quickly catching her, I pulled her back up. This was taking too long. I needed to get her to her room. I scooped her off the ground and ran up the stairs. Bumping the door to her room open with my hip, I considered tossing her on her bed and making a run for it, but I didn't; I was frozen. Instead, I set her down on her feet and stupidly left her body pressed against mine.
“Olivia,” I whispered.
When she looked up at me through long dark eyelashes, nervously chewing on her bottom lip, I lost every bit of sensibility I had and kissed her.
The kiss was desperate and messy as I sucked the air from her lungs. Her arms circled my neck, and I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her tighter against me. I ran my tongue along the crease of her sweet lips until she finally opened and met me with a deliciously hot tongue.
My dick throbbed painfully for her as I pressed it against her stomach. My hands roamed their way to her ass, grabbing a handful. I lifted her off the ground, pulling her legs around my waist and moving toward the bed. I wanted her! Climbing up on the bed, I laid her down beneath me, breaking from the kiss long enough for my senses to return.
"Oh fuck." The words scraped against my throat as I wrenched myself away, the loss of her warmth like a physical blow. "Olivia, I'm sorry!"
"Nick." My name fell from her swollen lips in a shaky exhale, her fingers still curved in the empty air where my shoulders had been.
My hands raked through my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. Each backward step felt like moving through concrete. "I shouldn't have done that."
"It's okay." Her chest rose and fell in quick bursts, matching the frantic rhythm of my own heart.
"No, it's not." My head shook in a desperate rhythm as I retreated toward the door, putting precious inches between us with each step. "Space, I need space." The words tore from my throat as I backed toward the door, fumbling for the handle behind me. My feet carried me to my room on autopilot, the lock clicking into place with a finality that did nothing to slow my racing heart.
I'm so FUCKED !