Hi! I've been thinking and I thought stuff it, I'm going update everyday if I can. I am still editing chapters and taking people's opinions into consideration. I would like to pre warn people before the next chapter tomorrow, it is for mature audiences. I have debated on wether to upload it or not so if you don't feel comfortable reading feel free to skip it or if you read it and feel as though it shouldn't be in the story people let me know and I will remove it.
Thank you for reading!
Tobias
"Are you sure you aren't in love with her?" Uriah shakes his head ridiculous. "If you aren't, you wouldn't mind if I—"
"Fuck off."
He chuckles you're too easy and holds up his drink to toast.
"Isn't it bad luck?" I hold up my glass of sparkling mineral water. Other people opt for more interesting beverages, sparkling apple cider or iced tea or the appropriately named mocktails since they're mocking anyone drinking one, but why bother? The only thing in the same league as alcohol is coffee.
"Only if it's plain water." He taps his glass against mine. His bourbon, neat, shakes. He typically prefers gin and tonic, but this place doesn't have the right tonic water. And, of course, there's the matter of testing me by consuming my drink.
My eyes go to Tris as she walks into the room.
Everyone's eyes go to her. She steals all the attention.
Fuck, that dress.
Right now I don't give a fuck about Uriah's drink. About any drink. About anything except spreading her open and having my way with her.
He takes a long sip. "You really don't deserve her."
For the first time in forever, I'm barely interested in the alcohol three feet away. I'm not thinking about the taste of bourbon on my lips.
The taste of her is much more appealing.
I always want her. And, according to my therapist (another requirement of an agreement with, though this time I can thank Zeke), I did a bang-up job replacing alcohol with sex. Only no matter how deep my craving for control, it never replaced my desire for a drink.
It's always there, in the back of my mind. Only right now, it isn't. Right now, there's only one thing in my mind.
Tris.
She stops at the host stand. Points to our table.
From across the room, her eyes meet mine. She holds up her bag—a tiny black thing with a silver clasp—then she holds it against her chest, daring my eyes to follow her movement.
They don't need the help. That thing is cut almost all the way to her belly-button. Soft silk skims her slim body. Shows off inches of skin.
She turns, points out something to the host. God knows what it is. God knows what my fucking name is. The dress is backless. It swoops low, to the very top of her ass, then drapes over her legs.
My gaze stays fixed on her as the host leads her to our table. Fuck, the way the fabric falls over her thigh as she walks. That slit is high. High enough I could do things to her, under the table.
I should push her to the edge and leave her wanting. I should punish her for daring me. I should hate that she's daring me.
But I don't. I love it. That's the Tris I know. The girl who disarms people with a smile so they barely notice her fierce, defiant nature.
She plays nice on the surface, but underneath—
She's playing dirty with me. Which means I can play dirty with her.
Blood races south. I swallow another sip of sparkling water. I'll have her later. This is practically an admission of intent. She wants to play this game. She wants to dare me the way I've dared her.
Which means she wants me to break and beg for her touch.
I won't. But it will be fun watching her try.
"Miss Prior." Uriah stands and offers his hand. "Lovely to see you again."
She shakes. "You too." She sets her purse on the table. Turns to me. "Is it the three of us?"
"No." Uriah shakes his head. "A colleague is joining us." His eyes go to his designer watch. "He's late, actually." He looks to me. "Aren't you going to help your fiancée into her chair?"
"Thank you, but I can handle it." Tris moves around the table, to the seat next to mine—
I stand. Stop her. "No. Allow me." I take her hand. Pull out her chair. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you." Her dark eyes fixed on mine. "It was a long day, between the dress, the hair, the makeup." She reaches to her head. Pats her fancy updo. Then the clip. "I'm not sure I'll go through that whole song and dance every time I have dinner. But it was an experience."
"Oh," Uriah interrupts. "You don't enjoy pampering?"
"Pampering, yes? Someone tugging my hair—"
"That sounds like a good time," Uriah says.
She laughs knowingly, but I can't tell if it's a put-on or not. "Yes." She looks to me and raises a brow. "It does."
I can't stop staring at her.
"That is fun. This, not as much. More makeup brushes and hot rollers. I like the end results, but it's a chore getting there. I keep things more practical."
"Impractical is fun sometimes," he says.
Her eyes stay on mine. "Sometimes, yes."
I bring my hand to her waist. Right now, I don't care about Uriah. I don't care about convincing anyone. I don't care about anything but her body against mine.
Which is bad news? No, the worst news.
I need to stay on task.
I need to win.
My body ignores my protests. Without thinking, I pull her into a tight embrace. Her pelvis against mine, my hands on her hips, her chest raised with inhaling.
She looks up at me.
I tear my eyes from her chest. Fuck, I need to push that dress aside. I need to see her, feel her, taste her.
Now.
Her expression gets curious. Unsure. Then she leans into her desire. Or maybe she leans into the fantasy. The pretending.
My eyes close. I pull her into a slow, deep kiss. My lips against hers.
She melts into me, slowly. Her soft lips part for my tongue. She groans against my mouth, inviting me into her body.
It's only a kiss. Only for appearances. But I feel it everywhere.
She pulls back with a heavy sigh. Fake or real, I'm not sure. I suppose it doesn't matter. As long as she can convince that bastard.
That's all that should matter.
I help Tris into her chair. Then take mine.
Uriah shoots me a well-done look. I wave him away. Yes, I invited him here for his assistance. But the whole cocky charm thing—it's not helping.
"A drink?" Uriah offers as the waiter passes. "Another round," he says to the waiter. "And for the lady?"
"Mineral water." Her eyes shift to my glass. "Thanks."
"That isn't necessary," I say.
"Even so." She nods a thank you to the waiter. Turns her attention to Uriah. "Is this a social dinner or business?"
"I'm not sure your fiancé has social dinners. Not anymore." He refers to my reputation for romancing women.
Tris just barely frowns. "Yes. I suppose I've taken all that time."
"It's not hard to see why." He takes another sip. "Beautiful, smart, acquainted with helicopter rides. The total package."
She laughs. "What makes you think I'm smart?"
"Your dress," he says.
"Really? This dress." Her expression gets curious. "That's not the reaction I expected."
"Don't worry. I'm thoroughly distracted. And everyone else will be as distracted. You understand why Tobias invited you to this dinner. You're using your assets to your advantage in a way that won't threaten the fragile male ego." He holds up his glass, toasting to her. "Smart."
This time her laugh is deeper. Enough, it makes her body shake. Somehow, the fabric of her dress stays glued to her skin. "I suppose that's one way to put it."
"If you were engaged to someone a bit more tolerable, then you'd really be a genius," he says. "At least someone who prefers tea."
"Not everyone can see the light." She turns to the waiter as he drops off our second round. Another bottle of Perrier. Another bourbon for Uriah.
And Eric Coulter's drink. "White wine." The waiter motions to the entrance as Mr Coulter steps inside.
He's an older man. He wears it well, but not in a silver fox way (at least, not according to Tori). Neat hair, smooth suit almost hiding his belly, stern expression.
He's not a saint, but he's no sinner either. I should know. I had Uriah look for dirt on everyone on the panel. There was plenty of the usual—affairs, secret children with maids, apartments for the other woman, teens in rehab—but nothing worth using.
Not with the risk of that bastard discovering my blackmail and releasing those pictures. If he's caught, he'll be ousted from any respectable community, thrown in jail, forever an embarrassment.
But the pictures will be out there. Everyone will know the ugly truth. They'll look at me with pity. Whisper about the awful things I've been through.
That can't happen.
Besides, I know how the world works. He'll find a way to release the pictures without outing himself. He'll find a way to dishonour my mother's memory, fuck over Zeke, and ruin my life.
Again.
He's the gift that never stops giving. He really is.
My eyes flit to Uriah's bourbon. The white wine. Tris. She's still more interesting than the drink.
And I still want her more than I want alcohol. But I want too much. Not just her sweet lips against mine. Her dress at her waist, her hands all over me and her eyes filled with desire.
She wants that too. I'm not sure if she realizes it, but she does.
"Mr Eaton, Mr Pedrad, always a pleasure." He offers his hand. Uriah and I stand to shake, then Eric looks to Tris. To her chest, though it's hard to blame him. "You must be the future, Mrs. Eaton."
"I must." She stands. Offers her hand.
To his credit, he shakes instead of offering some ridiculous hand kiss. Or some attempt to hug her so he can feel her soft body against his. "Eric Coulter"
"Nice to meet you, Eric," she says.
"Mr Eaton seems rather excited about your engagement."
"Can you blame him?" Uriah chuckles. "I'd be excited too."
"You're going to settle down?" Eric asks.
Tris' eyes go to Eric left hand. She eyes his wedding ring. Looks to me for insight.
Somehow, I understand what she's asking. Is he the kind of guy who really believes in true love and fidelity or the type who sees marriage as a business partnership and a status symbol?
The truth is somewhere in between, as far as I can tell. Like many rich men, Eric has had affairs, but he's also devoted to his wife and children. He had all sorts of emails to his last mistress—a woman twenty-five years his junior, of course—going on and on about how he loves his wife and he'd never do anything to hurt her.
Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn't care. Maybe she has her reasons.
It's not as if I can promise Tris a life filled with love. But I still judge Eric for his decisions.
He has a devoted wife and a heart with a capacity for love. He should be faithful.
He should be honest.
I'm a hypocrite, yes, but I don't give a flying fuck.
I nod about what you'd expect.
She smiles of course. Turns to the conversation. Starts asking about Uriah's type.
Eric chuckles as I fill her in on Uriah's reputation for inexperienced young women.
Her eyes go wide. She looks at Uriah like she's not sure what to think of him. Or maybe she's playing her part. The devoted fiancée, who can simply not imagine her husband-to-be hanging out with a man so promiscuous.
The conversation shifts to business. She's perfect here too. Asking questions as if she's interested in the details. They aren't interesting to most laypeople. Zeroes on a merger. The conglomerate that owns this company has all sorts of say.
"Yes, sometimes, we have strange terms on our agreements." Eric's statement pulls me back to attention. "Especially when it comes to one of our board members." His eyes flit to me. "He likes to test people. To see what he can accomplish."
"How?" Tris leans in, intrigued. Or pretending. Or sensing there's some hint to the truth here.
Uriah clears his throat. "Typical things. A rehab stint here. A skipped vacation there. You know rich men. They like to throw their weight around."
"Yes," she says. "I do know the type."
"There have been some strange terms. Some rather demanding ones too. Most people don't play that game. They just move on. But some do." He looks to me. "I don't like it myself. Life is too short."
"It is," Uriah says. "It really is."
"But I suppose some people want to win more than they want anything." Eric holds up his glass. "And it seems it's going well too."
"Hmmm?" Tris does her best to hide her curiosity, but she doesn't quite get there.
"One of his latest attempts. I had news about it today. It's quite silly. I'd love to tell you more, but I'm afraid I'm sworn to secrecy," he says.
"Of course." She smiles, demurely, then she looks to me. Asks for an explanation. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. I need to powder my nose."
"Of course," Eric says.
I stand. Help Tris out of her chair.
Her fingers linger on my wrist as she picks up her purse. Then she moves away from the table. Around the corner. To the hallway with the restrooms and the coat check.
My heart races. My thoughts get loud. Too loud. That bastard is here again. He's everywhere.
He's always fucking things up.
"Excuse me." I don't wait for a response. I move toward the bathroom. Around the corner. To the dark, quiet space.
The weight of the wall is comforting. But it's not enough. It's not getting my thoughts straight.
I need a drink. Or a woman under me. More like Tris under me.
I try to find steadiness with my exhale.
Then the door to the women's room swings open. Tris steps into the hallway. Looks me dead in the eyes. "Are you all right?"
"No."
"Was he—"
I'm not answering that question. I can't think about that question. I can't think. Period. "Did you wear that dress for me?"
"I don't know what you mean." She plays coy. Moves away from the door. To the space on the wall, next to me.
I let my hand skim her wrist. "Yes, you do."
"Tobias—"
"Tell me to stop."
Her eyes find mine.
"If you want me to stop, tell me to stop—"
"I thought you wouldn't touch me until I begged you."
"Am I touching you?"
She motions to my wrist.
I raise a brow really.
She nods really.
I pull my hand away. She's right. Rules are rules. Right now, I need rules. "You're daring me."
"I don't know what you—"
"Yes, you do. You know what you're doing. But you don't know me anymore. You don't know how dangerous this game is."
"I can handle it." Her voice lifts to that proud, defiant tone. She thinks she can handle me. She thinks she can dare me and walk away.
She's wrong.
"You have no idea who I am now. You have no idea how I like it." I move closer. Close enough to smell her shampoo.
Her eyes fill with interest. "How?"
I don't answer her. Or touch her. Not yet. "Is that what you want? Do you want to find out?"
Her chest heaves with her inhale. Her skin flushes pink. Then red.
"Or maybe you want me to pull your hands over your head. To pin you to the wall so you're helpless to resist me"
"I..."
"What do you want,?" I'm done playing. I'm going to have her. On these terms. "It's a yes or no question. Do you want to?"