Love, Chloe
Page 55

He wasn’t pure gentleman, not the silver spoon assholes of my past. He had the fine edges but was something more, stronger. Maybe it was his mother, making him earn his keep, her stingy fingers tight on the purse-strings, this age-thirty-five rule a good one, one that shaped him into the complex man who sat before me.
“It’s okay.” I smiled, suddenly warming to the idea of his mother. I leaned forward and linked my fingers through his. “She’s protective of you. I get that.”
He looked at me warily, his next sentence stiff. “She hired a private investigator, Chloe. I just found out this morning.”
I pulled back my hand. “What?”
“She wants to know more about you. He’s been following you.” He leaned forward. “I’m so sorry. I’ve told her that I won’t—”
“For how long?” I saw spots between us, bits of black, my head spinning with everything that…
“I’m not sure. Two weeks at least.” His jaw was tight, eyes apologetic, but all I could think about was hugging my parents outside our building. Them getting in their car and making their escape. This investigator seeing it all.
“Are you mad?”
“I wouldn’t say that I am mad…” I said carefully. I swallowed and met his eyes. “What happens if she doesn’t like the investigator’s report?”
He didn’t look away. “If she doesn’t like you, I lose my trust fund.” The words came out matter-of-factly, as if his whole future wasn’t tied up in their vowels.
It was so unexpected; an outcome I had never imagined. I might have fallen in love with a poor man after all. And I might be the reason he loses everything.
My phone rang as I opened the door, and I answered it, stuffing it against my shoulder as I lifted out Nicole’s groceries.
“Chloe Madison?” a stiff male voice asked.
“Yes?” I said warily.
“This is Agent Peter Hertslem. I’m calling about your parents.”
I shouldered the door closed and leaned against it, my hands full with bags, my heart beating hard in my chest. “I don’t know where they are,” I lied. Dad had pulled me aside before they left, whispering their itinerary, which had included a stop in the Hamptons before their flight to Dubai.
“I’m not calling for that, Ms. Madison. We know where they are.”
“You do?” Dante paused, and I waved him on, my chest growing tight, the life of a fugitives’ daughter stressful.
“Oh yes,” he said, with an air of superiority. “I’m looking at them right now.”
The FBI picked up my parents at the airport just an hour after they’d left my apartment. Yet, it took four days to get that call from the FBI, one that was apparently “just for courtesy” to inform me of their detainment.
Four days since they had been arrested and flown back to Florida, and that call was the only one I’d received. One from a smug stranger. Didn’t prisoners get phone calls? They must have made theirs to someone else.
I wondered, for a day or so, if they thought that I’d turned them in, if that was the reason for their silence. But if they thought I was a daughter who’d snitch, they wouldn’t have come to say goodbye. And they certainly wouldn’t have told me their plans—my mind stalled, bits of the agent’s conversation coming to mind. The airport. Wait. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have flown to the Hamptons. They would have driven. Much less inconspicuous, much less chance of being caught—plus Mom loves that drive. And the Hamptons were northeast of the city, not south. They wouldn’t have been at the airport unless…
It took me longer to connect the dots than it should have. For the last hours, my mind had just conveniently skipped over the fact that my father had completely lied to me about their itinerary. Either as a safety measure in case I ratted, or as a way to throw the cops off their trail in the expectation that I would rat. Both options dismal signs of my parents’ faith in me.
Inside, I felt one of the last bonds between me and my parents break.
I was torn. I wanted to be selfish, to hold Carter tightly to me and never let him go. But then I’d be responsible for him losing his inheritance. How could I do that to someone I loved? Wasn’t the sign of true love putting the other person’s needs before your own?
A part of me was egotistic enough to think he’d be happier with me than with his trust fund. I looked at how much better my own life was without my parents’ money, and how much richer I was with him in my life.
Regardless, it wasn’t my decision to make. It was his.
93. Coercion is a Dish Best Served Wet
“Move in with me.”
The words didn’t register. Maybe because my head was tilted back, hard against the pillow, my nails scraping against the top sheet, trying to find something to hold on to. Or maybe the issue was the fact that his mouth was so far away, the heat of his words hot against my naked skin, his tongue finishing off the final syllable with a flick across my sensitive clit.
“Oh God,” I groaned when his tongue changed, from a flick to a flutter, soft and hot, the constant pressing going faster and faster, bringing me closer and closer…
I arched off the mattress, pushing myself harder into his mouth…
And he stopped. “Move in with me.”
My body yearned, the need intense, my hands reaching down, in between my legs, just a touch needed to…
He grabbed both of my wrists and slid forward, pinning them to either side of my head, my sexual haze lifting as I blinked at him. “Chloe.”
“Carter,” I shot back, struggling against his grip, my hips bucking off the bed, the orgasm still right there, just needing the right touch…
His body was now on top of me, a fine stretch of muscles that—at any other point in time—would have been celebrated. But right then, I could only think of one thing: my rapidly fading orgasm.
“Will you move in with me? You can have the big closet.”
“I’m so close.” I worked my legs free and wrapped them around his waist. Talk about sexy—having him huge and hard against me, each minute shift of his body a giant reminder of how lucky I was. “Please,” I begged.
I couldn’t even process his request. Couldn’t decide whether to be happy or freaked out. When a man like Carter moved his bare cock along your body, you didn’t think. You didn’t do anything but beg.
I tightened my legs and tried to change our angle.
I reached down and tried to grab him, to wrap my hand around his girth.
“Say yes,” he whispered, his weight on his hands, his head dropping down to brush over my lips.
“Why don’t you make me scream it instead?” The words were a challenge and I watched his eyes when they hit, the darken of his stare one that filled me with anticipation.
He sat up, his torso moving away and gripped my hips, positioning himself in between my legs, and I couldn’t help but whimper in relief as his fingers dug into me, his initial thrust slow and deep and perfectly in control.
After that, nothing about our sex was controlled. And my YES was a scream. A loud and long scream, followed by fifty or so short, concise versions, coming quicker and quicker before … I curled forward, my hands gripping at his shoulders, my body stiff as everything turned the most perfect shade of orgasm.
When I came down, limp against the mattress, it was settled. Moving in together. I steeled myself for panic, but there was none.