18. Eighteen
Eighteen
Ainsley
Okay Payton: What mean things have you been thinking about me today?
I snort as I read his text while sipping coffee at my desk. We should both be working, but this insolent fool wants me to tell him I’m thinking about him, just like he has the last few days. This morning he sent me a text that said “Hope thoughts of me didn’t get you too worked up last night. I had the best dream of you, though.” I’d replied, “Only my nightmares feature you, and thankfully, I’ve been sleeping soundly.”
Looks like I need to take him down a peg. Again. I smile as I type out my response.
Me: I’m sorry, do you actually believe I give you any time or brain space when you’re not driving me crazy with texts or in person? That’s hilarious.
He’s quick to reply.
Okay Payton: I feel like pizza tonight. I’ll pick you up, and we can get Napoletana to go and come back to my place. I want to see your blissed out on pizza and pleasure face.
What the actual fuck. Is he Netflix and chilling me, but with pizza and…orgasms? That has to be what he means by pleasure, right? Jesus, this man is too much. I kind of love it. But I have to shut it down.
Me: ?? We have to fake it in front of people so Harlowe believes this. Going back to your place isn’t helping that plan, and no sex.
The Atlanta Haute List ran a Spotted story about our dinner together at Rare and our double date at Dionysus. They shared photos of us looking very cute and cuddly, our hands all over each other. I was completely unaware that I could look at someone with that kind of expression, all rapt and enamored, but apparently, when Payton talks, I lean in and listen like he’s the most important thing around. Those are the kinds of outings he needs to convince Harlowe, no matter how disturbing it is for me to see myself like that on a gossip blog.
Okay Payton: We’ll send her a selfie from my house. She’ll love it.
Okay Payton: Besides, we don't need to have sex to see your pleasure face, Princess. You can be my needy little cumslut while still being a cocktease and never getting the brat fucked out of you. But if you’re a good girl, I’ll make you come before taking you home and you still won’t know what my cock feels like in that greedy little cunt.
I drop my phone onto my desk when I read his text, flipping it over for good measure. I look around the quiet newsroom where only a few of my coworkers remain. There’s that commanding tone and his degrading words again. Without even hearing his voice, he has the same effect on me, causing a low moan to build in my throat as a part of me wants to take him up on this salacious offer. So badly. I want to see what he can do without fucking me that would have me coming but know I should stay so far away from that temptation and keep my brain and heart from getting my feelings all tangled up in something that is fake, fake, fake. I pick up my phone again and angrily type out a reply.
Me: I have an article to write. I don't have time for pizza and chilling, you presumptuous prick.
Okay Payton: Write the article at my place. I need to read it before you publish it, anyway. See you at six. Hope you like pineapple on pizza. I want something sweet and you know what they say about eating pineapple ??
When he knocks on my door at six sharp, I’m in an oversized, off-the-shoulder T-shirt that says I Beg Your Parton with Dolly’s face on it over tight, pink shorts. I’ve scrubbed off my makeup and my hair’s messy from work. I went out of my way to ensure he knows I don’t consider this a date by any means and haven’t put any effort into my appearance for him.
I’m extra annoyed because, with every post about us on the Haute List, I get more vile texts from unknown numbers—Archer’s doing—which has me on edge more than ever. I can’t win. Fulfilling my part of the bargain with Payton means lots of public outings with him and inevitably having my photo and name slapped alongside his in gossip blogs, which makes Archer attack me harder. He’s even sending copies of the Haute List photos, and more that I haven’t seen, with his demeaning messages. His cyberstalking is getting worse and it’s making me uneasy that he's escalating. I'm just glad he's in New York and I don't have to worry about running into him here in Atlanta.
I sling my work bag over my shoulder, turning to look at Payton. He, of course, looks incredible in charcoal pinstripe slacks that hug his thighs perfectly, his white button-down so crisp it doesn’t look like he spent a full workday in it already. His dark hair is slightly mused like he’ s been raking his hands through it, but otherwise, he’s perfect. It pisses me off.
“Let’s go, asshole. I want to finish my story and get back home.” I push him out of the way and pull the door closed to lock it.
“That’s it, Spitfire, get pushy and mean. I want to play. Get the fuck over here and let me get a taste of my gorgeous little whore.” He grabs my hips and pulls me back into his body, my hands still on the keys in the door.
I melt into his body at his commanding words, feeling him all along my backside, his lips at my ear, thumbs massaging my sides. It takes a moment to realize I’ve arched my back and pressed my ass into him. Apparently, I like having him absurdly close behind me like this. His lips and tongue are traveling along my neck, sending shivers through my body as I roll my head to give him more access. I don't complain when one of his hands splays across my belly, pulling me tighter in a possessive movement that makes me whimper. When my stomach lets out a loud grumble, he finally pulls away with a chuckle.
“Sounds like I need to feed you. But thanks for feeding me, first. You’re a fucking delicious snack.” He bends and licks along my neck as I bat at his face, belatedly realizing I should discourage him when we’re alone.
“Hands to yourself, weirdo. Save it for an audience.”
My words are steady, but my heart’s racing. I liked feeling him against me and being in his arms far too much. I need to get it together and remember this is temporary. It’s for show. All fake and not something I need to confuse with the real thing, no matter how good it feels. Besides, I shouldn’t even want this, regardless of what my inner slutty koala seems to think.
“I’ve missed you, Muffin. I want to eat you up. Now let’s fucking go.” He straightens and grabs my hand, pulling me out to his Range Rover.
He drives us to a popular pizza restaurant that The Atlanta Haute List has reported his family frequents. When he parks and rounds the car to my door, I balk at the hand he offers.
“I thought we were just picking up pizza to-go, why am I getting out of the car?” Now my heart’s racing for a completely different reason. If I get photographed looking like this , I’ll be absolutely mortified.
“We are picking up a pizza, but we have to go in and it might take a bit. I ordered it when I got to your apartment. So we’ll wait inside where it’s cooler. Besides, it’s another chance to show you off.”
“Payton,” I start, venom lacing my tone. “I look like absolute garbage. I don’t want to be shown off looking like this.” I indicate the state of my appearance. I wouldn’t have gone to the lengths I did to discourage him had I known we’d be seen together in public . This is so fucked up.
“You look incredible. Perfect for a pizza run. Now get your ass out of the car or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and walk you into the restaurant in a way that’s sure to get more attention than you think you will like this.”
“You’re impossible,” I grumble, stepping out of the SUV, and waving off his offer of help. He grabs my hand and laces our fingers together anyway.
Payton walks right up to the host stand and lets them know we’re picking up a pizza. The girl leaves to check on our order, only to let us know we have another ten minutes to wait, just like Payton predicted. I’m miserable.
The restaurant is packed. The tables are full and so is the lobby, couples and families waiting to be seated milling about. Payton leads me to the bar and finds one spot open. He sits and pulls me into his lap as I squirm and protest.
“Don’t fight it. This is the only spot and I want you to relax. Either you sit on my lap now like a good girl, or you get your ass spanked raw when I get you back to my place. Your choice, Princess.”
I freeze, turning to see if he’s joking. He smiles that sinfully sexy smile. He’s been in a completely different mood tonight, more commanding, dominant, playful but with an edge that’s been missing from his usual lighthearted teasing and innuendo. He’s in his Dom persona, I realize belatedly. Fuck me, it's sexy. He told me he wanted to play. I just hadn’t realized it would be the kinky variety. A shiver runs through me at the thought of exploring some of my interests with him. I kind of want to see what those spankings Della loves are all about, but I don’t want it as a punishment for this. I work to relax my body, knowing people are watching, seeing the unusual sight of two people occupying a spot meant for one in a classy pizza restaurant. I lean into the protection his body provides.
“I don't like public displays of affection,” I mutter. “This is weird for me.”
“Good thing we’re in public and you know your role,” he replies, his voice smooth and low. He kisses my hair and wraps his arms around my middle, holding me close and looking like, for all intents and purposes, we’re a happy couple who can't get enough of each other and relish the idea of sharing a chair in a busy restaurant.
The relief I feel when our pizza is brought to us is immeasurable.
Payton’s loft is incredible. It’s industrial without feeling empty and soulless. The walls are cement and exposed red brick, some areas walled off, but the majority of the space is open and airy. I’m cataloging everything, from the expansive views of downtown Atlanta through the huge windows, to the two-story fireplace. I immediately gravitate to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that flank the fireplace, pulling out a book and noticing it’s been read. It’s a coding book because Payton’s a nerd and reads these types of things, of course. The next one I pull out is by a popular mystery writer, and it’s also been read, given the tiny tear in the dust jacket. I scan the shelves and see a variety of topics and different states of wear. I turn, finding him watching me, a small smile playing over his lips as he leans against the wall, his arms crossed.
“You've read all these books?”
He pushes off the wall and walks over with an unhurried grace until he’s standing in front of me. He places his hands on my shoulders and spins me back around before pulling me into his body, his arms crossing around my shoulders. My hands naturally gravitate to his forearms where they rest across my chest, holding on to the flexing muscles as he rests his chin on top of my head.
It feels comfortable to be held like this. Familiar. It’s practiced and easy. I stay silent instead of giving in to the instinct to immediately push him away and say something vile. It might be the first time I accept his touch and physical intimacy without argument or wanting to be prickly. He’s getting under my skin. Warping my armor and igniting the part of me that craves this attention and wants nothing more than to be the object of his desire.
Fake , I remind myself as I swallow audibly.
“Most of the books. A few were gifts that didn’t really interest me or I haven’t gotten around to reading yet. If I’m not working, I’m probably reading.”
I tip my head back and look up as he peers down into my face. “I can't even make fun of you for being a voracious reader. If I had a house with all this space, I'd fill countless shelves with books, too.” The admission is quiet, honest, and raw. Payton seems to know what it took for me to say it and knows it’s a rare compliment freely given. He smiles indulgently.
“If you were mine, I’d build you a library and buy every book you could ever want,” he says, kissing my forehead before letting me go and walking back to where he set the pizza. He’s nonchalant as fuck like he didn’t just say something completely insane and far too real for this fake scenario we’ve gotten ourselves into. “Make yourself comfortable. We have pizza to eat.”
I follow him to the kitchen that’s suited to the loft with black cabinets set against the wall and a large island separating the kitchen from the rest of the open dining and living area. Payton puts the pizza box on the island and pulls out a stool for me. I hop up and set my bag next to me, watching as he moves through the kitchen, gathering what he needs. He puts plates and linen napkins on the island, fills two glasses with a red wine that smells full-bodied as he pours, then opens the pizza box and I can’t help but laugh.
The pizza is covered in pineapple. Not just a single topping that was sprinkled onto it, but like half a pineapple was chopped up and scattered on top of the crust. It’s a wonder I can see cheese and sauce under what has to be the world record for the amount of pineapple on a single pizza.
“Are you kidding me? That’s a lot of pineapple. Are there any other toppings, or was there no room because of all the pineapple? ”
Payton grins like we’re sharing a joke. “Pineapple makes cum sweeter. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask for extra.”
I groan. “You’re insane. Is everything about sex with you?”
“When it comes to you, maybe.” He shrugs, his smile devilish. He turns to the pizza and dishes up slices for each of us. “Now be a good girl. Eat that pizza so you get it nice and sweet for me, Princess.”
I roll my lip with my teeth and quickly look away, setting my pizza down and eyeing it dubiously while contemplating his words. They sent a tremor racing through me in anticipation. He’s in one of his boundary-pushing moods tonight, ensuring I'm on the edge of discomfort with everything he says to see where I stop him.
I just don’t think I want to stop him all that much. In fact, I want to push him.