The cat litter tray is a fucking eyesore in my hallway. And don’t get me started on the weird fucking scent. And that’s before the little shit’s even used it.
Fuck. My. Life.
‘Wow, this place is unreal.’ Avery peers around the open plan living area of my penthouse apartment. She’s doing that psychoanalysing thing again. Like my Feng Shui might reveal my past trauma. Like she might be able to see it and fix me. Which is categorically not going to happen.
‘It’s kind of bare though, don’t you think?’ She struts around like she owns the place, swaying her pert ass like she’s on the catwalk.
‘I don’t like clutter.’ Or chaos. Or having a fucking ginger cat sitting on my chrome kitchen top. Or having to live with a woman who crawls under my skin and steals my senses, so much so that I think it’s acceptable to go down on her on the deck of a yacht while my men are twenty feet away.
Avery gravitates to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the River Liffey. ‘You know what this place needs?’
‘Nothing.’ If she’s getting ideas about filling my apartment with flowers and photos and shit, she can think again. I need to catch this stalker creep before Avery gets comfortable here. It was one thing seeing her beautiful body on my TV, in the newspapers, and on repeat in my fucking head for the past couple of years, but now I have to live with her too. I must have been a raging cunt in my previous life. Although, admittedly, I’ve done some pretty bad things in this one too.
My mind wanders to the rapist paparazzo sitting in the warehouse in Wicklow. Anton Roche’s hours are numbered.
‘Make yourself at home. There’s a gym. Swimming pool. Sauna and Jacuzzi. A cinema room. There’s only one room that’s off limits—my office.’
Her pupils flare. ‘Why? What are you hiding in there?’
‘Nothing.’ Liar—one step inside that fifteen foot space and she’ll know exactly how obsessed with her I am—and always have been. Every photo shoot she’s ever posed for is pinned to the wall like I’m a groupie with a crush. Or a stalker. The irony isn’t lost on me. The difference is, I wouldn’t actually stalk her–clearly. I was perfectly content admiring her from afar. It was safer for both of us.
I bristle. ‘I’ll show you your room.’ I motion towards the wide staircase. Walsh and Thomson put Avery’s belongings up while she was setting up that god awful cat tray.
‘Thanks, I’m whacked.’ She yawns, and I get a glimpse of the pink inside her mouth a split second before she covers it with her hand. What I wouldn’t do to slide my tongue in there again. Or better yet, the permanent semi I have when she’s around. I’ve fantasised about her plump lips wrapped around my cock for years. But it can never happen.
Yesterday is irrefutable proof of that.
Living with her is going to be torture.
‘It’s been a long day.’ I stride towards the stairs, my shoes sinking into the plush grey carpet.
‘Yep, and it’s barely eight a.m.’
‘Get some sleep. I have some errands I need to run.’
‘You’re leaving me?’ Her eyes widen and a flash of fear flickers over her face.
‘This place is like Fort Knox. No one can get in, bar me, Walsh, Thomson, Sterling and Collins. There are cameras everywhere. Fingerprint and facial recognition are the only ways to access this entire building.’ I stride along the wide corridor towards the nicest guest bedroom, coincidentally right across the hall from mine. I need to be able to keep an eye on her, after all. ‘Walsh and Thomson have their own rooms here. They’ll take care of you.’ While I take care of the rapist pap.
I open the bedroom door for her. She gasps as she takes in the décor, all silver, greys and soft furnishings. Sliding patio doors boast the same view as the lounge area. There’s a forty-foot walk-in wardrobe and an ensuite bigger than most people’s houses.
‘This is stunning.’ She steps in. I deliberately don’t follow her. I lost control once; I don’t entirely trust myself not to do it again. Especially now she’s essentially locked in my apartment. Which is why I need to put some distance between us.
‘My housekeeper, Anabelle, will be back this afternoon. She’ll fix you something for dinner.’ I pull the door closed, but before I can shut it properly, Avery calls me.
‘Wait!’ She closes the distance between us, lingering in the doorway. ‘You’re not going to be home for dinner?’
‘I’ll eat alone in my office.’
‘Do you usually eat in your office?’ She places a hand on her hip.
‘No.’
‘So, what, you don’t want to eat with me?’ She pouts.
I exhale heavily. ‘Avery, we are not friends. We’re not anything, so let’s not pretend. I have a job to do. And I intend to do it, so we can both get back to our normal lives.’
‘We might not be friends, but we are stuck together—like it or not.’ She smooths a hand over her crumpled dress. Dark shadows linger beneath her eyes. She looks like how I feel—wrecked. ‘You’re the only person I have for company right now. Please don’t make me eat alone.’ Her voice wobbles slightly as she says the word alone. Vulnerability flickers over her face, yanking something deep inside my chest.
What is it about this woman that’s so fucking hard to say no to?
What is it about her that makes me want to burn down the world for her?
To want to watch her while she sleeps.
To want to listen to the soothing rhythmic rise and fall of her full chest.
To eradicate every single person who ever wronged her–or fucked her.
I swallow hard. ‘Fine. We can eat together. I’ll ask Annabelle to have dinner ready for seven. But this’—I gesture between us—‘is not happening. It’s not a date. We are not friends. And you don’t get to ruin my dinner by asking me three thousand personal questions.’
Her lips tip upwards in a small smile. ‘Deal. I won’t ask you three thousand questions.’ She places a hand on the curve of her hip. ‘I’ll ask you three.’
‘Not happening Avery.’ I tut.
‘Oh come on, indulge me. I’m stuck here with you; we have to pass the time some way.’ Her gaze trails over my torso and lands on my crotch. ‘Unless…’
I groan. ‘Fine. Three questions—but that’s your daily limit.’ The woman should have been a terrorist negotiator. Which is worrying on so many levels, given my past. ‘My ex is off limit. And don’t even think about psychoanalysing me.’
‘See you at seven,’ she sings gleefully before slamming the door in my face.
By the time I get back from Wicklow, Annabelle has set the huge dining room table. The scent of garlic and thyme floods my nostrils as I wander through the apartment. The ginger fucking fur ball runs towards me and butts its furry fucking head at my ankles.
Huh. So, it’s true what they say; pets really are like their owners. This flea-ridden fucker is just like Avery—determined to get my attention and has zero boundaries.
I didn’t drag things out for too long at the warehouse. Our rapist friend confessed very quickly when I took a bolt cutter to his finger.
I don’t enjoy torture.
I’m not a sadist.
Some things, however, are an unpleasant, but necessary, means to an end. I would have killed him for what he did to Avery, but knowing that he got off with raping a minor made what I had to do a little easier on my conscience.
I check in with Thomson and Walsh, then head to my en suite for a shower. I wash the blood from my hands, then scrub my entire body from head to toe twice to ensure I removed every trace. The water pounds against my back, the heat and pressure relieving some of the tension in my shoulders. My mind drifts to Avery in the room across the hallway.
Is she still in bed?
Or is she in the shower too?
The idea of her naked and soapy has my cock rising quicker than a flagpole. I sigh and wrap my hand around the thick base, gripping tightly. It was always going to happen after yesterday on the boat.
I summon the image of Avery’s perfect, glistening pink cunt to the front of my mind. Having a photographic memory is useful sometimes. I can still taste her arousal on my tongue. Feel it gliding between her soft, slippery folds.
I pump harder, imagining it’s her hand working me. Her hand dragging me to the edge of oblivion. Precum trickles from my tip. I picture her on her knees in front of me, licking me with heat and hunger in her eyes. My balls tighten. My quads shake. My orgasm explodes at the precise second my ensuite door opens and Avery bursts in, wearing nothing but a tiny white towel around her torso. Her blue eyes widen as they fall to my cock. Cum shoots from my tip in rope-like spurts.
‘Fuck.’ Her eyes dart from my dick to my face and back again with fascination while I’m trapped in the final tremors of one of the best orgasms of my life—with the woman I’m fantasising about as a witness.
Yeah. Fuck is the only word for it.
I don’t bother turning away. It’s too late. There’s no point.
Her hand flies to her mouth and as she lifts her arm, the towel around her torso drops to the marble floor. Avery’s famous curves are bare in front of me. She really might be the death of me. I just hope to hell I’m not the death of her, because if she keeps distracting me like this, it’s a very distinct possibility.
I sigh as she snatches her towel up from the floor.
‘Ever heard of the word “boundaries”?’ I spit.
‘Ever heard of the word “lock”?’ She tucks the towel around her again, but her eyes shamelessly rake over every inch of my body like she’s committing it to memory for later.
‘What do you want, Avery?’ I force an air of boredom into my voice. She needs to leave before I drag her in here, bend her over, and fuck her so hard she won’t be able to walk straight for a week.
‘I er…’ she wets her lips, then tears her eyes away. ‘Shower gel. I was looking for shower gel.’
I reach for the bottle on the built-in shelf and toss it to her. Surprisingly, she catches it.
‘Thanks.’ Her focus returns to my cock again, and she shifts from one foot to the other.
‘Goodbye, Avery.’ I stare at her pointedly as the water cascades over my contours.
Her throat bobs as she swallows. She makes no attempt to leave. I arch a single eyebrow in question.
‘I mean I could…’ She waves a hand at my shower.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Even if it’s tempting as fuck. ‘As you can see, I’ve already finished.’
‘But…’
‘If you don’t get out in three seconds, you’ll be eating dinner alone for as long as it takes me to catch your psycho stalker.’
‘You’re no fun, you know that?’ She tosses her glossy blonde hair from her shoulder.
‘I never claimed to be.’
She spins on her heel and storms out.
I should be happy.
It’s what I wanted.
Yet, there’s no denying the disappointment in my core.
And in my dick.
