My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3) (15 page)

I
WEAVE THROUGH THE
night traffic, trying to dodge not only speeding vehicles but also any memory of the hurt on Ian’s face or his stinging words. My erratic emotions have me driving at speeds illegal in any state, mainly because it’s frowned upon to drive twenty-five miles
under
the speed limit. This, of course, gets me another one-on-one with the state police. Even crying to the officer didn’t help, and almost got me arrested when he completely misread my emotional breakdown for possible intoxication. I mean who can walk perfectly straight along a white line in five-inch heels while crying like an unstable banshee?

I make it back to San Francisco close to midnight. I feel bad that I’m going to wake Brent, but I need to do this. I can’t wait for later to make things right. I’ve tried calling his cell, but it consistently goes to voicemail. I attempt to park the rental car in our designated building spot, but there’s a car blocking my way.

I’m boggled at how the building management could allow an unauthorized vehicle to park in the VIP penthouse’s reserved spot, but it’s also late. As soon as I settle my worried mind, I’ll come back down and complain.

I park in a visitor spot and head inside the high-rise. I frown at Mr. Sampson, the late-night security/doorman who doesn’t show any enthusiasm to see me. As much as he gets paid to be courteous, he sure is slacking on his duties.

I slide my card into the penthouse slot and the elevator takes me right up.

The drive, along with my emotional breakdown, has drained me, and I close my eyes, leaning back against the cool, mirrored elevator walls. The ding notifies me that I’ve arrived at the top floor. I push off the wall and head out. I might have to get few hours of beauty rest before I start my ‘it’s you not me’ speech. I slide my key card into the door and it opens, allowing my entrance into the condo. The sudden aroma of stale booze smacks me in the face the moment the door is fully open. I step inside and look around the normally pristine penthouse to what looks like the aftermath of an intense party.

“What the hell?” I mutter as I walk further inside.

Empty bottles and dirty glasses litter the counters and tables. The place is a disaster. I stumble over a pair of red heels, toppled on the floor. I bend over to pick one up, and the shoe certainly doesn’t look like any pair I own. Too big. Wrong brand. I hear giggling coming from the bedroom.

I stop in my tracks, waiting to hear the unwelcome noise again.

And there it is.

Fucking giggling.

And it’s coming from the bedroom.

Bubbling anger forms in my chest. I really don’t want to think what I’m thinking right now, but I am.

But he wouldn’t.

But then again, he would.

Because he’s a dick.

I try to convince myself to calm my hectically building temper that he’s not back there. And those aren’t females I hear giggling in the bedroom with him.

And yes, that’s
females.
Plural, as in more than one.

I drag my heavy feet down the hallway to the bedroom entrance. I open the door to find Brent stark naked in the middle of the bed, holding a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a woman’s unnaturally sized breast in another.

“What the fuck?” I choke out. My voice surprises the titty squeeze right out of Brent. He jumps, dropping the bottle onto the bed, expensive liquid spilling all over the Persian comforter.

“Shit . . .
oh,
shit . . .” He frantically tries to unlock his legs from the blonde underneath him. “Babe. Oh, shit . . . what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” I ask. “What am I
doing here?
” I repeat, the threat of death in my voice.

“Babe . . . hold on.” Brent slides off the bed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let me explain. This . . . this . . . it’s not what you think.” He’s pointing at the two naked bimbos sprawled on the bed, fighting not to giggle.
Not to motherfucking giggle.

And cue the dramatics.

“I knew it, you asshole.” I turn to the dresser to my right and pick up the first thing I can grab, which happens to be Brent’s $800 bottle of imported cologne.

And I whip it.

At his head.

Shame he has better reflexes than I hoped. He dodges and it shatters, splattering on the wall behind him.

“That was my Clive Christian!” he wails.

“Oh, was it?” I inquire, rage dripping off each word. “Oh, well then, how about this one?” I pick up his crystal bottle of limited-edition Tom Ford cologne.

“No . . . no. Christina, babe don’t. No, not that—”

I cut him off, forcing him to duck another flying object. One that also shatters against the wall. This time, those bimbos do not fight a giggle, more like a screech, as they’re sprayed with cologne.

“Oh, my God, it’s in my eyes!” one shrieks as she bounces off the bed, trying frantically to rub away the fragrance dripping down her cheeks.

“You fucking asshole,” I say again, more because it’s making me feel better. I’m about two seconds away from collapsing, I’m so physically and emotionally drained.

“Christina, I swear if you throw one more thing at me . . .”

Men just never learn. Women do not take well to threats. And I am no exception. I turn, eyeing the remaining items displayed on his dresser.

And I see the watch.

Bingo.

I pick up the Diamond Rolex that he probably paid more for than most people spend on their vehicles. I take the watch and dangle it on the end of my index finger. “You know what, Brent? Actually, I’m not mad. I get it now. See, we were on a break. But I’m gonna bet my right tit, we weren’t every other time. So thank you. Thank you for making me a little less guilty for my own actions.”

“Christina.” He says my name in warning. “Why don’t you put that down.” He attempts a few cautious steps closer, gauging if it’s safe to get within reach and take me down. But of course he’s a fucking pussy, and all I have to do is twirl the watch faster.

I smile as he backs up quickly to where he started. “That’s what I thought. Now, since you couldn’t give me the time of day to answer a simple fucking phone call, I am going to tell you to your pathetic ass face. We. Are. Done. Not only is our
break
over, but so are we.”

God, that felt good.

With nothing left to say, I whip the watch toward the bathroom. Brent leaps, but it’s too late. The watch soars past him and smacks the marble tile with a satisfying ping. The case shatters, scattering glass and sending all those precious diamonds in every direction across the floor.

Brent scrambles to his knees, with his two naked bimbos close behind. I don’t stick around to watch them try to scoop up his precious diamonds.

I turn and head back to where I came from.

Out the door and back down past the front desk.

I flip off Mr. Sampson, since now I understand why he wasn’t happy to see me, and leave the premises.

I’ve spent way too long trying to fight what my heart really wants. It’s always wanted Ian. It never truly stopped. My life was empty before Brent came along and even when he filled my bedroom, he never truly filled my heart.

As I rush home to Ashford, my only thought is that I hope it’s not too late.

I
T’S JUST PAST DAWN
by the time I make it back to town. I’m functioning strictly on nerves and power drinks when I pull into the driveway Siri found for me. I don’t think about the time or my less-than-presentable appearance. I just bang frantically on the cold wooden barrier until thankfully, I hear the sounds of locks being freed.

As the door opens, I’m rewarded by the heart-stopping view of a tired but shirtless Ian. His muscled chest, coated with a fine sprinkling of hair, rises and falls as he takes in my presence. I don’t miss his surprised look at seeing me on his doorstep. His brain must begin to register the time and my state because his look of surprise turns to concern.

“Chrissy, what are you doing here?” He pauses, looking me over. “Is everything okay? Is Pippa all right?”

I want to scream how nothing is all right and that I want to make
everything
okay at the same time. Instead, without giving him the chance to ask anything more, I throw myself into his arms and slam my mouth against his.

His body tenses at my unexpected move, but he doesn’t fight me long and gives in almost immediately, welcoming my soft lips.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .” I repeat over and over as I pour my heart out through my pleading lips, my kisses becoming frantic. “I’m so sorry, Ian—”

“Shhhh. There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he soothes.

“Yes, there is, so much to be sorry for. Please . . . please let me show you how sorry I am.” I’m desperate to be closer to him. To feel him all the way to my core. I need the touch of his hands to burn into my skin so I’ll always feel him inside me.

He’s only dressed in sweatpants. I grab at his waist, trying to undo the cord on his pants.

“Chrissy, hold on.” He tries to slow me down, but I’m on a mission. “Chrissy, stop,” he says again, trying to hold my hands away from his pants. He seems uncertain of what to make of this new side of me.

When I realize that his grip on my hands isn’t going to allow me access to what I want—what I need—I look up into his eyes and declare, “I swear, Ian . . .” I inhale and exhale, building courage. “If you try and stop me now, then I will walk back out of your life and you will miss the opportunity to see where this can take us.”

Shock? Confusion? Conflict? Yep, it’s all there in his expression. I know Ian wants me, wants this. But my outburst has him questioning. “Chrissy, I don’t understand. What’s gotten into you?”

“You, Ian Whitman. You have gotten into me.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks, still holding my hands, rubbing his thumb along the outside of my knuckles.

I’ve let too much time come between us to wait a second longer. “Positive,” I respond instantly.

I wait as he searches my face until he sees what he needs. And then I watch as the white flag goes up.

“Fuck, come here,” he growls, and scoops me clear off my feet. He carries me inside the house and to his bedroom like I weigh nothing more than a feather, and he tosses me onto his king-sized bed. My hair splays all around my head.

Worried I possibly resemble Medusa, I begin to pat my hair down.

“Don’t,” he says, stopping me. “Don’t move. I need to look at you. I need to first make sure this is real.” He practically groans his demand. “Then I need to undress you and get reacquainted with every single part of your body.”

Oh, God, that voice is getting reacquainted with my core as we speak.

He presses his knee onto the bed and crawls up my body until our noses are practically touching. “I’ve missed you, Chris.” His breath skims my cheeks as his confession skims my heart.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“If this isn’t what you want, this is your last chance to back out. Because once I get started with you, I won’t let you go.”

There is something so hot and manly about his statement. If I was wearing panties, they would be soaked. “Then you better get to exploring.”

And then he dips down and takes my mouth like it was meant for his lips. I sense he’s struggling to go slow, but it’s as if he’s a man who’s been starved of what he craves. As if he’s been fighting a temptation that has a whole new level of appetite.

And Ian is hungry.

His greedy tongue works my lips open and he dives in, tasting and teasing me. The way he’s working my mouth is pure perfection. I moan into his, or he moans into mine, I’m not sure. He breaks away to work his way down my neck as he sucks and massages my skin with his tongue.

“Oh, Jesus almighty.” I tilt my neck, giving him better access. I’m already feeling flushed, my skin buzzing with desire.

“God, you taste like heaven.” Kissing his way to my ear, he bites my lobe. His hands roam up my ribcage, and he lightly brushes his thumb along the side of my breasts. The tender touch causes me to whimper, each sound I make cracking Ian’s control. “Hands up, Chris.”

I obey his simple request and my hands go above my head. He raises his right hand, lacing his fingers with mine, and brings his beautiful mouth back down, aligning our lips perfectly to once more devour my mouth. With his free hand, he tugs at my shirt, pushing it past my stomach, exposing my overheated skin. He breaks our kiss to jerk my shirt over my head and toss it aside. He sits up and I feel his gaze lingering on my breasts, which have most definitely grown since the last time we were in this position.

I hear him groan as he bends down, pulling my black lacy bra away from my right breast and pressing his wet mouth to my nipple. His tongue tickles my sensitive skin as he licks and sucks—I’m sure leaving a mark. I don’t care. He does the same hot damage to my other nipple.

God, when did this guy turn into such a sex pistol?

He releases my hands and wraps his fingers around my back to unhook my bra. With one quick snap, it’s off. He continues to undress me, unbuttoning my pants and yanking them down my hips and off my body. The audible groan that leaves his mouth is not missed. I snap out of my lust-filled coma to see him standing above me.