Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,48
him as much as it scared me.
Rightfully so. After all, who fell in love with a person who should be your enemy? Who might very well be your enemy?
“Maybe I misunderstood something here,” I said finally. Silence met my words, as if he too were trying to figure out what I meant by that. But I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make me sound needy or desperate.
“It’s been fun, Emily, but—”
“It has been fun,” I said, cutting him off. I shifted, turning, leaning up on my arm so that I could look down at him, make out the shape of his face in the early morning light that broke through the shades. “You know, on Friday I was where you are now, I think. Scared by the fact that I actually liked the asshole that ruined my father. No, c’mon. Don’t say anything about that, unless you’re ready to have the real conversation. But, this weekend, sex with you was even better than it has been before. Seeing you in your element, Hartmann, is very, very hot.”
He was hot beneath my leg too and, despite the seriousness of our conversation, clearly turned on by my words. Just as I had wanted him to be.
“Frankly, I’m not really ready for that to end. I don’t expect anything from you but a good time.” I trailed my fingers across the line of his shoulder. He seemed like he wanted to speak, but also like he was enthralled with what I was saying. I had power. “I’m accepting your generous severance pay and gifts. I’m enjoying your company. But there’re no strings attached. There never could be between us.” I slanted him that actress smile, the one that made me mysterious, knowing, able to take on the world. I could almost, almost, believe my own words.
“Why not?”
I laughed at how insulted he sounded. Was he as confused as I was? Wasn’t this supposed to be the final weekend? Why was I trying to convince him that we shouldn’t end?
“I think it would hurt my father too much.” A good excuse. A truthful excuse but not one that seemed to stop my emotions from taking their own course.
He didn’t say a word and I lowered my head, found the spot of skin on his neck that I knew drove him wild and licked, nibbled. He seemed about to push me away and then he relaxed. A deep sigh escaped his mouth. His hands reached up and he held onto me, tight.
“This isn’t a game, Emily,” he said, low, as if the words were difficult to form. “I don’t want you to get too attached.”
I licked my way up his neck, to his jaw, found his mouth and pulled on his lower lip with my teeth. Then, with my thumb running over his jaw line, I met his eyes.
He still watched me cautiously. I needed to convince him.
“Not only do you not have to worry about me, baby, but you’re wrong,” I whispered. “This is a game.” I lowered my mouth back to his, moaned when he kissed me back. Moaned again when he lifted up, my world turning in his arms until I was on my back and he was above me, strong and in charge.
Happiness surged within me, made me buoyant and giddy. And yes—yes yes yes—I was a horrible liar. I did love him.
• • •
When we woke up several hours later, we didn’t talk about anything of importance, but there was a playful air to everything we did. Through brunch, then the ride to the airport, then even the plane ride back to Boston, we didn’t stop touching each other. I refused to think about any moment other than the present, refused to acknowledge the growing chasm within me, the spiraling up of desperation.
I made it from the car to the door of my apartment building, even smiled over my shoulder at him, waved him on to go. I made it inside into the hall and even into the elevator. Then everything was closed-in, whirring electrical sounds. The emotion hit my face from the inside, pulling me in all different directions. I started to slide down to the floor, caught myself on the wood paneling, pressed my cheek to it as I gasped for breath. My face was so hot I thought I would burn up and my chest—my chest hurt. My stomach hurt too.
The elevator jerked to a stop, bobbed and then opened. I took a deep