She needs to give a fuck. I need her to give a fuck if I’m going to help her save her marriage.
“I’m aware, Mrs. Carr. And so are you.”
Allison smiles the kind of smile that’s meant to be a grimace. The kind contorted by deep-seated hurt and shame. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That since I knew what kind of man he was from the start, yet married him anyway, I deserve this?”
“It’s not my job to think that, Mrs. Carr.”
“Right.” She smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”
I look at her—really look at her—and my head swirls with inner turmoil. Of course, she’s beautiful—they all are—but Allison is absolutely flawless. She wears very little makeup, and her face is unmarred by the telltale signs of plastic surgery or injections. Tiny, tan freckles dot her slender nose, giving her an almost innocent, youthful appeal. The fact that she hasn’t tried to hide or surgically remove a little piece of herself that society would deem a blemish, intrigues me. Shit, it makes her kind of badass. Such a small act of rebellion, yet such a monumental fuck you to a world that celebrates narcissism and bullshit images.
Allison’s fiery halo of red hair falls to her shoulders in deep waves. It’s full and healthy, but not overly styled with product and extensions. It’s . . . her. Simple. Classic. Perfection.
“What are you looking at?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
“You.” The word is out of my mouth before a lie can even begin to stifle the truth. Shit.
“Why?” Less annoyance, more amusement.
“You have freckles.”
She twists her mouth to one side and raises a cynical brow. “That I do. Would you like to count my moles? I may be able to scrounge up some scars for you too.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just . . . you didn’t get laser surgery or bleach them. You don’t even try to hide them.”
“Look, I know that I’m less than perfect, but you don’t have to be an ass—”
Just as she turns away from me, her face flushed with anger, I clutch her elbow. Our heated gazes collide before sliding down to her arm, where my hand is grasping her soft, ivory skin. I pull away before the act is misconstrued as inappropriate as my traitorous thoughts.
“I like it.”
Can’t. Stop. The. Word. Vomit.
I’m a lot of things—crass, stubborn, brutally honest, egotistical—but one thing I am not, is careless. I know my boundaries, and I never cross them. In a business where lines can be easily blurred, those boundaries are outlined in black Sharpie, traced in gasoline, then set the fuck on fire, ensuring that no one even gets close enough to inhale the fumes of temptation.
Yet here I am, touching, tempting, testing the limits. Begging to get burned by an angel with a halo of fire.
“My apologies, Mrs. Carr.” I straighten, my defiant hands balled into tight fists at my sides. “I assure you—”
“You like it?”
I meet her eyes, which are as big and bright as the moon, casting an ethereal glow across her face. This close, much closer than most people would deem innocent, I see they’re not quite blue, as I’d initially thought. Flecks of green and gold illuminate the irises, and I find myself getting lost in the liquid depths, wondering what secrets lie beneath. What past pain is hidden behind those long, auburn-hued lashes?
Yes, I like it. Much more than a narcissistic asshole like me should.
Liking these women isn’t what made me the man I am today. It isn’t what built my solid reputation. I’m not known for my bleeding heart of gold or sugarcoated tongue. What I am known for is results. And that’s all Allison—or anyone else, for that matter—will get from me, and not a damn thing more.
I’m facing the entrance to her suite by the time I realize I’ve abandoned her, leaving her mouth agape and her question unanswered. I imagine those blue-green eyes narrowed in confusion at my erratic behavior, but force myself not to look. There’s nothing to see there that I haven’t seen already. Just another poor, little, rich girl.
“Class is in session at ten A.M. Don’t be late.” My gaze stays fixed on the dark, cherrywood door. I am dying to break free. The walls are closing in, suffocating me, demanding I turn around and face my cowardice. That I confront my weakness, currently bubbling up like bile as I pass the threshold of her suite—away from those enigmatic eyes and the temptation to play connect the dots with those freckles, in hopes of uncovering more of her beautifully blemished skin.
Day-fucking-One. I’m so screwed.
Also by S.L. Jennings
Sexual Education Novels
Taint
Fear of Falling
Afraid to Fly
Dark Light
The Dark Prince
Light Shadows
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TRYST. Copyright © 2015 by S.L. Jennings. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-238973-2
EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2015 9780062389749
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