Off Limits (25 page)

No one else behind him looks familiar, but I haven’t exactly memorized the whole campus yet.

What have I done?

“I’ve got to go,” I call over my shoulder without turning around. I can’t let him see my face, and I don’t want to see his. If I do, if I look at him . . . This will all get way too real, way too fast.

“Wait,” he says, but I’m already flinging myself out of the booth, letting my now-very-mussed hair hide my burning face as best it can. The group who found us laugh and cheer as I race past, but I don’t stop for high fives. I make a beeline through the karaoke-filled living room, straight into the hallway. My coat swings on a hook there—I yank it free, throw it around my shoulders, and text Mary Kate from the hallway.

I’m going home. Sorry I can’t stay.

I know it’s a dick move, skipping out without a goodbye. But this is MK’s party. These are her friends. She’ll be fine.

I’m the one who needs the chaperone.

* * *

“
Y
ou don’t even know
his
name
?” MK exclaims as we meander toward our first class, the one I really ought to be conscious for. Twentieth-Century English Poetry, the subject I specifically came here to study, with the professor I idolize. Now, I’m going to look like a total wreck on day one. Great first impression.

The tall, crenelated medieval buildings of our campus look somewhat less inspiring at the ass-crack of dawn.

Okay, so it’s 8:00 a.m., but that feels impossibly early after I stayed up all night in the dorm room replaying the party in an endless loop of embarrassment.

Embarrassment, and some—what did he call them? Impure thoughts.

“I already regret admitting anything,” I mutter between sips of my espresso. Coffee here kind of sucks, but I’ve got to admit, their espresso is the shit. Or at least, it makes me feel marginally less like shit, which after a night like the last one, is a minor miracle.

“Oh, please. Nick already told me how he found you. Like I’d let you get away without answering at least some basic questions. How hot was he, scale of one to fuck-me-stupid?”

A group of girls crossing the green in the opposite direction, their patent leather shoes clacking on the cobblestones, glance our way. Were they at the party last night? Did someone tell them about me?

My cheeks flush.

“I told you, I didn’t see his face.”

The girls pass us without a second glance. I’m getting paranoid.

“
At all
?” Hearing her posh accent in such a shocked tone wins a slight grin from me. “Wow, Harper, I know you always tell me you’re trouble, but that’s a new high.”

“Oh shut up. You’d have been tempted too if you heard his voice.”

“The accent? I thought you were immune to such charms by this point. You’ve only been over here visiting me half a dozen times.”

“I’ve never heard an accent like his.” I catch myself, and clear my throat. Almost drifted into dreamy for a second there. I definitely
do not
have a crush on the sort of guy who would go down on me at a costume party in a closet. “It was fun, that’s all,” I say out loud.

MK points at a door that looks more like a hobbit hole than a classroom entrance. It’s so short she has to duck as she enters, though for little 5’5” me it’s nothing. We step through the arched stone entrance and into a room paneled in dark wood. A dais surrounded by chalkboards stands at the head of the room. Stadium desks rise around it, each one equipped with an uncomfortable-looking chair.

We slide into seats in the second row, high enough so that we’re looking down a few feet at the professor as he sets up.

MK elbows me and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Should I warn you to behave yourself again?” she asks with a grin in teacher’s direction.

Jack Kingston, leading expert in twentieth-century poets and a star professor of Merton College,
is
pretty damn hot, I must admit. Dark eyes that match his choppy, neck-length, jet black hair, and the kind of angled, severely masculine face you’d expect to see on billboards, not in front of a classroom. His nose is a little long, but it works on his face, gives him that distinguished academic air.

“I might be reckless, but I’m not
that
stupid,” I hiss back at MK. Dating professors is where I draw the line. Even back home with Derrick, I made sure he was only a TA before I let anything happen.

Only a TA. Are you listening to yourself?
I heave a sigh and sink lower in my desk chair. It’s going to be a long day.

While the rest of the students file into their seats, I flip open my notebook and jot down the notes already scrawled across the board. Because even more than escaping from my litany of exes, even more than spending a semester with MK exploring a whole new country, this class, this professor, is the reason I’m here in Oxford.

Back home, I’ve already declared my focus on T. S. Eliot, who not so coincidentally attended this very college. Professor Kingston is a leading scholar on his work, the author of the paper that inspired me to start studying Eliot in the first place.

I need to forget the hookup, forget everything except this class.

We’re starting with Seamus Heaney. We’d been assigned ten of his poems to read before class, and an essay on those same poems due in a couple of days. I have to admit, though, I only skimmed the last one, “The Gravel Walks.”
Someone
insisted on dragging me out to a party instead. I cast Mary Kate a sideways glance. She’s busy batting her eyelashes at Professor Dreamboat.

Finally, the clock on the wall hits 8:30 and Dreamboat breaks the hum and chatter of the room with a clap of his hands. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

My eyes snap forward, lock onto him the moment he speaks.

No.

He claps his hands and turns that stately, chiseled profile on us. “I recognize most of you from eighteenth century—glad you all decided my class was worth a second go-round. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jack Kingston; you can call me Jack, Professor JK, Prof, I really don’t care what, as long as you do the readings and participate.”

No way. No goddamn way.

“As you know—hopefully—we are starting with Seamus Heaney, one of the great Irish poets of our time. Heaney won the Nobel Prize in 1995, and penned, in my opinion, some of the greatest literature not just of the twentieth century, but the English canon on the whole. You’ll have read ten of his best in preparation for today’s class—in fact, one of the lines from one of those poems is the epitaph on his gravestone. Can anyone guess which line that was?”

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment he frowns, faintly, as though confused. Probably because I’m gaping at him in abject horror.

“How about you, Miss . . . ?” He lifts an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to tell him my name.

I can’t force any sound through my throat. It’s permanently closed. My brain has checked out. I manage to shut my mouth, open it again, then clamp my lips tight and shake my head.

Beside me, MK lifts an eyebrow, clearly wondering if I’m suffering a mental breakdown.

Professor Jack Kingston waits another moment, blinks a few times, and then calls on a boy across the room, waving his hand frantically in the air. “Yes, Henry?”

I already know what Henry’s going to say, even before he opens his mouth. I remember where I’ve heard that line of poetry now, too late to save myself. Far too late.

“‘Walk on air against your better judgment,’ sir,” Henry recites.

“Very good,” replies our famous professor, the man I came here hoping to study with.

The guy I hooked up with last night.

* * *

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* * *

I
dominate the boardroom
. I’m a Pierce—it’s what we do. But I never had a reason to bring that persona into the bedroom.

Until Genevive Fasbender.

She’s brash and bold and stubborn as hell, and she doesn’t believe it’s possible to satisfy her. But I’ve discovered her secret, one she hasn’t even figured out herself—she wants what I want.

And not only does she want it—I'll make her need it.

No matter what.

* * *

C
hapter
One

“Can you manage to keep your dick in your pants for one night?”

Hudson’s question is meant to grab my attention, and it does. To be fair, I heard most of what he’d said up to this point. The parts that were of interest, anyway.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t much.

“Probably not. I don’t sleep in my pants, for one, and I do plan on sleeping.” I pull next to the valet podium at the Whitney Museum of Art, and add, “eventually,” because I know it will rile my brother up.

His sigh is heavy with exasperation. “Can you keep your dick in your pants
at the gala
?”

I grab my phone from its dock, automatically switching it out of Bluetooth mode, and bring it up to my ear. I pretend to consider as I step out of the car and button my tux jacket. “Hmm.”

“Nice wheels,” the valet says, unconcerned that I’m on the phone.

I pull out my wallet and flash a fifty-dollar bill. “Take care of her and this is yours.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Pierce.”

If Hudson were here, he’d wince at the recognition. It’s possible the valet knows me from the latest list of “Richest Men Under Thirty”
—
it’s the first year I’ve hit since I only got my trust fund when I turned twenty-four a few months back. But one look at the tattooed, pony-tailed Italian says he isn’t the type to read
Forbes
, which means he recognizes me from the gossip sites instead. Honestly, I don’t mind that I have a rep. It’s the elder Pierce who seems to care.

Speaking of the elder Pierce…

“Can I keep it in my pants until after the gala?” I repeat his earlier question as I stride toward the entrance of the museum. “I don’t know. How long is this thing supposed to last?” I’m messing with Hudson. It’s too easy not to. And really, what does he expect me to say? It’s not like I’m planning to try to get a girl to blow me on the event premises.

Though, if one were to offer…

“And don’t hit on anyone while you’re there, either.”

Now he’s going too far. “Is that a baby crying?” I don’t really hear a baby crying, but the likelihood that there is one somewhere near him isn’t too slim. The recent birth of his twins is the whole reason I’m stuck going to this stupid shindig in the first place.

“I mean it, Chandler.”

As if on cue, a baby actually
does
start crying in the background. “Shouldn’t you go put a pacifier in it or something?”

Hudson ignores me. “This is an important event,” he chides. “Accelecom is about to strike a deal with Werner Media, and it’s crucial we make a good impression.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” It’s not like I don’t know this. He’s told me seventeen times just today, plus several hundred times earlier this week. In fact, every conversation we’ve had in the past few days has been about Accelecom’s charity gala tonight, which is more than a little strange, even for my work-obsessed older brother. Mainly because Werner Media isn’t a company we own. Sure, it belongs to family friends, but the Pierces haven’t been that close to the Werners since, well, around the time I graduated from high school. So why the fuck does he care so much about the impression I leave?

It suddenly occurs to me to ask. “What exactly is it you hope to gain from my presence here tonight? The Werner-Accelecom merger has nothing to do with Pierce Industries, does it?”

A beat goes by. “It’s a good opportunity for you,” he says finally. “There will be a lot of press there this evening, and if you play nice, you could get a good write-up, one that doesn’t involve the mayor’s daughter.”

His answer is irritating. Though he’s easing me into the family business, I’m technically an owner of Pierce Industries, just like he is, and I hate it when he treats me like an average employee.

But I’m not in the mood to argue.

I’m in the mood to deflect. “Man, that kid of yours is really howling. I didn’t know you subscribed to the cry-it-out method. I knew you were old, but 1990’s parenting? Come on.”

“Chandler.” Hudson’s tone is clipped and stern. He means it to be intimidating.

Spoiler: Hudson doesn’t scare me.

“I’m hanging up now,” I say, pushing through the doors of the museum.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes. I understand.
Dad
.”

I expect him to growl about my latest poke, but he’s distracted. “I’ll take him,” I hear him say, his words muffled as though he has his hand over the mouthpiece. Then, more clearly, “Chandler, I have to help Alayna with the babies.”

“Finally. Wouldn’t want to have to accuse you of child neglect.” Without saying goodbye, I click
END
and, after putting it on silent, slip my phone into my inside jacket pocket. Hudson’s children can only preoccupy him for so long. Sooner or later, he’ll be back to riding my ass, and even though I’m here at this event in his place, as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the clock.

* * *

T
he thing is
, Hudson’s concerns are somewhat legit. Not because I
can’t
keep my cock in my pants, but because most of the time I don’t
want
to.

What can I say? I’m a guy who loves women.

Lucky for me, women usually love me too. And why wouldn’t they? I’m charming, young, good-looking, smart. Decent at my job, despite what Hudson tells anyone. Oh, and let’s not forget, filthy rich. I’m shower masturbation material come to life.

Most impressive, though, is my bedroom portfolio—it’s not a secret that I’m a giver. Swear on the Pierce family name, I do not let a woman leave my sheets before she’s received at least two orgasms. The goal is always three, but I’m willing to concede that there are sometimes other factors besides me contributing to that outcome. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe her head’s too into it. Maybe she’s not good at relaxing. Whatever, I get it. But she’s getting two O’s regardless.

Before I start sounding too noble, let me clarify—the orgasms are for
me
. There’s nothing like the feel of a pussy clenching around your cock, milking you to your own climax—that’s got to be the best definition of heaven around.

But the biggest reason I deliver is because of the cost-benefit ratio. I’m a firm believer in
what goes around, comes around
. The happier she is, the happier she’ll want to make me. I’m talking Happy with a capital “H.” And while I’m a one-night-only kind of guy—a fact I always make clear from the beginning—I’ve done really well with referrals. Call it a successful “business” model
.

Sometimes
too
successful, considering the way some of the ladies are eyeing me as I glance around the museum.

It only takes one sweep of my gaze to know tonight is not going to create any problems for my brother. The room is filled with the kinds of women I’m one hundred percent not attracted to. Trophy wives looking for a distraction. Cougars who sit on the boards—and the faces—of whatever-and-whoever-is-
in
-this-week. Rich dames with so much Botox and spandex their bodies don’t even jiggle when they’re supposed to—and if she’s lying underneath me, it’s supposed to.

That just leaves the women I’ve already been with, and I don’t do repeats.

Well then, let’s make this trip an easy in and out, just like I like it. This time when I glance around, I look for the quickest opportunities to achieve the “make a good impression” edict that Hudson has given me. I make a plan. Mingle with the execs from my father’s country club, say hello to Warren Werner who I’ve just spotted by the fondue station, and then put in a bid at the auction in the adjoining room to make sure the Pierce presence is duly noticed.

But first, I need a drink.

A waitress passes by with a tray of caviar. “Excuse me. Is there a bar somewhere?”

She tilts her lip into a flirtatious grin as she checks me out. Now this woman might be an option…

But she’s working, and I’ll have to stick around until she gets off before I’ll have any chance of getting off myself, and I can already tell this thing is going to be a snooze-fest.

Especially when she answers. “There’s champagne floating around. And some punch that should be spiked if it hasn’t been already.”

“Well, shit. I should have brought my flask.” Though, if I had, it would have been filled with a single-malt Scotch and not something I’d ever mix, let alone with fruit punch. I wink. “But thanks for the heads-up.”

I can tell she wouldn’t mind more cozy conversation, but I slip away before she gets any ideas, and after a quick chat with some men I’ve done business with in the past, I run smack into Warren.

“Chandler! I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Where’s Hudson?” The man is practically a father to me, or rather, he was around while I was growing up about as much as my own dad was, which is to say, not much. In other words, I have to talk to him, but it’s going to be boring as hell.

I put on my friendliest grin. “Alayna had her babies early. He’s taking some time ‘off.’” I use air quotes around the word
off
because Warren and I both know my brother works in his sleep.

“Oh, yes. I recall hearing that.” He goes on to deliver heartfelt congratulations and the like before moving to the obligatory inquiries about the rest of my family, which I give, dutifully.

This kind of small talk is the worst. I’m dying inside with every polite word. I only manage to tolerate it by dreaming about the real drink I’ll get later at The Sky Launch or another one of the nightclubs where hooking up is practically an item on the drink menu.

Eventually, after Warren’s told me all about his upcoming plans to retire, I courteously ask about his daughter, Celia—Hudson’s childhood peer/possible lover/almost-baby-mama/part-of-a-complicated-friendship-that-I’ve-never-understood.

Though Warren’s expression remains warm, his eyes harden, and I sense he’d prefer not to talk about her with me. While I was too young to be privy to the rift that happened between our once-close families, I have a feeling most of the bad blood has to do with Hudson not marrying Warren’s daughter.

“Celia’s good,” he says curtly. “She’s in town at the moment. In fact, she was supposed to be here tonight but ended up canceling because of a headache.”
Or because she was afraid she’d run into Hudson.
“You know she’s married now to—”

His sentence is cut off by a younger gentleman tapping on his shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Fasbender is looking for you.”

Fasbender
. I recognize that name. He’s the owner of Accelecom and probably one of the people that Hudson would most prefer I be seen with tonight.