Boston (12 page)

He raises his glass, we all clink, and there are smiles and laughs. I’m blown away. Parker? Genius IQ? The most surprising part is that it’s not all that surprising. I’ve figured out just how clever he is, these past few months. And then I realize—I had no part of this. Me, the Harvard-degreed economics major… I had zero part in convincing Maxwell Arlington to take us on. It was all Boston. And while that’s awesome, it also makes me nervous.

Boston’s supposed to be the pretty one, and I’m supposed to be the smart one. If he’s smart, too, now, all of a sudden—or all along, as the case may be—what does that make me? It’s what I’ve dreamed of forever: a man who’s sexy and smart. But it makes me irrelevant. I feel like a wadded-up tissue, or garbage. My brain is the thing I have going for me and it’s supposed to set me apart. Am I jealous?

“I’ll be right back,” I say, making a gesture with my hand toward the back of the room where the bathrooms are. But instead of the bathrooms, I made a run for the empty patio and stand in a corner looking over the railing into the garden, trying not to start sobbing.

I don’t know how long I stay there, alone, but eventually I’m no longer alone. I feel a presence behind me and Boston comes up and stands beside me.

“Maxwell wants to fund us,” he says, touching my shoulder. “He says that we can meet when we’re ready, whether it’s next week or in three months, and he’ll be happy to finance travel for us.”

I smile and wipe at my eye. “That’s great.”

“It is. So why are you out here by yourself?” His voice holds a challenge, disappointment.

I shake my head. “I don’t even know.”

He swallows. “Abby. Did you think I’d mess things up back there?”

I shake my head again. “Boston, honestly, I’m really proud that you pulled it off. I sort of thought I’d be the one—I mean, economics was my major! I think it’s amazing that you know so much about finance and stuff. I didn’t expect it but I’m glad you did it. I just. I guess right now I feel sort of, you know, never mind.” I give a deep sigh and try to smile. “You did great with him, and he’s not easy to impress.”

“I do a lot of research on my own.” Boston’s voice is terse. “Things I never told you, Abby. I do a little day trading now and then and I have to learn about foreign markets to figure out how to invest.”

“Boston.” My voice cracks. “I’m just really impressed. That’s so cool.”

“Yeah.” His voice is proud. “You know something, Abby?”

He waits until I look at him, and then I see that his face is serious. He touches mine and says, “I figured something out tonight.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’m just as good as the rest of these guys, no matter what my background is.” He looks at me evenly, and his voice is calm—not combative, not challenging, just very matter-of-fact. “Abby, for the longest time, I felt like I couldn’t match up to people like your ex, Erik. Or guys like Maxwell. But tonight I saw it for the first time—I can do this thing just as well as anyone can.”

He smiles, and I smile back. “Of course you can,” I tell him, and my voice is fierce. “You are just as good as anyone, no matter what. I have confidence in you, too. Please, believe me.” And I do; after seeing tonight, I really truly do.

He smiles at me, and it’s such a tender smile, full of hope. “That stuff Maxwell was talking about, that article? I had the test done when I was a kid. I never thought it meant much, especially since I never ended up goin’ to college. And, I mean, you see how bad my spelling is, and all.” His face is a little red. “But I always had confidence in myself to get things done.”

“But that doesn’t matter, “ I rush to point out. “I mean, that’s what spell check is for! Boston, it matters what you think, and how you plan. Your actions. That’s what’s important.”

He frowns. “And you usually have confidence as well.” Now I hear concern. “But you’re out here cryin’. So do you mind telling me what’s going on? What’s bothering you?” His voice is intense, and he rubs a tear at the side of my eye. “I told you I don’t like to see girls cry.”

“I cry a lot,” I admit. “When I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I’m nervous. It’s sort of normal for me. It’s not a big deal.”

“Sure, I get that. But crying at a party can’t be a good thing.” His voice is soft, cajoling. “Tell me, and maybe I can help make it better.”

But can he? What should I say? Oh, Boston, in a sick way, I liked feeling smarter than you because that’s the only advantage I have, and now that you’re smart AND hot, I don’t deserve you and I know you won’t want me because I’m not perfect like you are?

So I shake my head. “Just emotions, you know. Stuff. But I’m good now. Let’s go back in!”

And he looks unconvinced, but follows me in, and we spend the evening talking with Erik and Maxwell, and I learn more about Chinese trade policy than I wanted to ever learn in a million years, and it occurs to me more than once that there’s a reason I turned to writing, and that’s because I find money things completely fucking boring.

My mom always said to “get a skill.” It was her big advice to me and my brother, and we both did it—me in accounting, him in engineering. But now that I have that skill, I hate it, and I am so crazy happy that I can do something creative and different for my real job.

When I’m yawning and ready to leave, Maxwell grabs Erik and Boston and takes them away to smoke cigars and talk more business, and even though I’m invited, I decline. I hate cigars. And right now, I just need to get out of my heels and deal with my weird emotions.

Another week goes by in a rush—we spend our time shooting like crazy, trying to get most of the pictures done, and the days are full of Chelle and Annalise, and now I’m the one who leaves early while Chelle stays late to help edit and discuss plans. I want to spend alone time with Boston, but it’s not working right now because of the work crunch.

We still lock eyes, though. The tension between us is still there, and I know he wants me, even though I don’t know how much or for how long. The things he said to me at Maxwell’s party ring in my mind, and I keep examining them from all angles, to understand.

You shine no matter what. It’s fucking true.

Because I need to be careful here. If I let myself believe he’s saying those things because his heart is seeking mine, I could be so lost. But how could it be just “stuff”? He must mean it! Right?

One day we’re alone: Annalise has a doctor’s appointment, and Chelle is doing something with her girlfriend. If anything is going to get resolved, now is the time. It’s been dragging on too long, and we need to figure this thing out.

“Hey, Boston.” I’m all casual, but a muscle in his jaw clenches as he looks me up and down, because I’ve dressed a little more provocatively than usual. Okay, a lot more. I’ve got on a tiny skirt, black tights, and black heels, and my top shows off my generous cleavage. I wouldn’t have worn this a few months ago, I think, but I’ve lost that extra ten pounds of fast food from eating Boston’s healthy meals, and I feel confident in my own skin these days.

“Abby.” He crosses his arms and looks at me. “You got special plans today?” He raises one eyebrow.

I consider this and suck my lower lip between my teeth. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He approaches, predatory. “With Cliff?” He scowls.

“Cliff? What?” I frown, confused.

“He said you were hot. He wanted to ask you out.” Red stains his jaw. “I thought maybe he did.”

“Oh, really?” A sly smile steals over my face. “He’s cute.”

“He’s a player, Abby.” Boston looks mad. “He’s not cute. He’s a dick.”

“He’s your friend, though?”

“He’s a good guy buddy. He’s a shitty boyfriend.” He swallows.

“Who said I wanted a boyfriend?” I shift my weight to one leg and thrust out my boobs.

“Are you seeing him or not?” His voice is short.

“I’m not. Jesus. Calm down.”

“I’m—he’s just not good for you, Abby. I know him, and how he usually operates. That’s all.”

I blow out my breath. “Aw, are you jealous?”

He looks away and doesn’t speak.

My heart lurches. “Boston…?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all,” he says finally, looking up at me.

“I’m not even interested in Cliff,” I say softly, meeting his eyes.

“No?” His voice is low.

“No.” I lick my lip and his chest rises. “Not Cliff.”

“Not Cliff,” he muses, coming a little closer.

I shake my head, unable to look away from his eyes. “No.”

“No?” He’s right in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch his face. I want to.

“Uh-uh.” My voice comes out sultry.

“That’s good.” His is hoarse. He clears his throat.

“Yeah.”
Come closer, please. Closer.
I want to feel his breath on my mouth, on my neck, on my face. I want to bury my nose in his neck and breathe in his scent. I want to grab his biceps and squeeze until he grabs me and shows me his real strength.

“Mmm.” He leans in, and I can feel the warmth of his body mingling with mine, so subtle, so barely there it’s driving me insane. My neck starts to tingle in anticipation.
Please, please, kiss me, kiss me, take me, hold me, devour me, drink me up, let me drink you in, like a never-ending ocean of fresh clean taste, an infinite waterfall of pleasure.

This crazy up and down we have is insane. The flirting is going to be the end of me! He doesn’t want me with Cliff, but does he want me for himself? He says Cliff is a shitty boyfriend. But is Boston interested in being any kind of boyfriend, shitty or not? Does he just want a fling? Does he even know what he wants?

The not knowing flips me over into a different mindset. Now I want the upper hand, even if it’s mine only for a fleeting second. Those stolen moments of victory fill me with a wild exuberant confidence that can fuel me for days afterwards. It’s like a Vitamin B shot straight to the soul.

I smile at him and say, “My plan today involves writing a dom/sub scene. Stuff you don’t know much about. Want me to tell you about it?”

I trail one hand down my neck. He gives a harsh chuckle and shakes his head. “Sure, Abs. Tell me.”

“Well, Boston, today my hero is going to give my heroine a spanking. Right on her ass.”

Boston is looking right at me again, his eyes locked onto mine. “Does she like it?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

Boston steps closer, then stops. My heart beats frantically as I lower my voice and say, “She dreams about it, Boston. She craves it. Some days? It’s all she can think about, and it drives her insane, wanting his harsh touch, his rough love. And when he gives it to her, she hates it and loves it and it makes her explode with passion.”

I can hear him breathe in when I say that.

“But I’m stuck again,” I say, faux innocent. “And I need your help. Since last time you were so… useful.” I sashay over to the couch. “Boston? Come here, please.”

Mesmerized, he approaches me, all intent. “Yes, Ma’am,” he says, but his voice is insolent, all contained power.

I turn my back to him, then look back over my shoulder as I spread my legs. His eyes widen. “I’m going to bend over, Boston, and I want you to come up right behind me and see where you’d have to stand to slap my ass with your right hand.”

He doesn’t move, so I croon, “Don’t be shy, Boston. My ass doesn’t bite. Are you afraid to spank a girl? I know you’ve never done it, but I promise, it’s not so scary.”

And suddenly he’s behind me and his hand is on my neck, pushing me down into the couch, and his other hand is on the small of my back, and he growls, “Fuck, Abby, you’re playing with fire. You keep teasing this way, you’re going to get burned.” He kicks at the inside of my foot with his and snaps, “Wider. As wide as you can get.” I gulp and try to twist, but he’s got me in a firm grip. “Do it, Abby. Now. And say Sir.”

Fuck! I almost lose my balance at the sound of those words coming from Boston’s mouth and without thinking I whisper, “Yes, Sir,” and spread my legs wider.

He keeps one hand firm on my neck but runs the other one over my ass, stroking through the thin fabric, kneading with his fingers. “Oh, Abby,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how good you look right now, this sexy ass all spread for me. Fuck, but I want to spank you, just like you said. Jesus.”

I don’t answer because my mouth has stopped working, and he muses, “You keep taunting me. What do you think I’m going to do when I finally give in?”

When I stay silent, he squeezes my ass harder. “Answer.”

“I—I don’t know.” My voice quivers, with desire and uncertainty and nerves.

“What do you want me to do, then?” This time his voice is a sexy drawl. “Don’t forget to say Sir while you reply.” While he speaks, he rolls my skirt up to reveal my tights.

I’m so wet now that I’m sure he can see it, smell it, through my clothes.

“I want—I want…” I trail off, terrified to say what I really want.

He slaps my ass once, hard. “You forgot something.”

I jump. “Sir,” I breathe out. My eyes are probably glazed and I think I’m hyperventilating.

“Abby.” His whisper back is rough, excited, harsh. “You really want this?”

I nod.

“Say it, then.”

“I want it.”

Then he slaps me again, a firm spank right in the middle of both cheeks, and I squeak and twitch. He does it again, experimentally, as if testing his strength, my tolerance for it. Then he rubs where he hit. “Abby? Good?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He rubs me for a few more seconds, then slaps again, a little harder, in the middle of my right ass cheek. I moan and push my hips toward his hand, and he slaps again, on the other side.

“Aw, fuck, Abby, your ass is magnificent,” he murmurs, then strokes his fingers up and down the crotch of my tights, teasing, rubbing. I try to shift and start to close my legs, because I want to rub on his fingers, but he makes a tsk-ing noise. “No, Abby. Stay open.” He kicks at my foot again with his and I hiss my breath out, taken aback at his easy dominance. He may say he doesn’t play at D/s, and maybe he doesn’t, per se, but this is a man who likes to be in charge in the bedroom, no matter what words he uses to describe it.

“Baby, I like this,” he whispers, bending down to my ear, his rough stubble tickling my neck. “I like having you bent over for me, doing what I say. And you like this, too.”

I nod. “Yes.”

“You don’t just like to write about it, you want to do it, too.”

“Yes.”

He spanks me again, nice and hard. “Tell me you’re a dirty girl, Abby.”

His hand comes down, and his fingers splay out on my ass, touching, teasing. “Tell me you like it rough.” He lets his hand rest on my body, rubbing. “Now, Abby.” It feels so good that I can’t speak; I just moan and push into his touch, telling him without words that I want more. And he obliges.

“Abby? I’m waiting. I’m not going to stop until you say it.” To illustrate his point, he slaps my ass one more time. I cry out in a mixture of delicious pleasure and pain, a howl of complete enjoyment that feels ripped from my throat. This. This is what I crave with him. Then I force out the words. “Boston, yes, I’m a—dirty girl. I like it rough.”

“Jesus Christ. That’s the fucking hottest thing I’ve ever heard.” His voice is full of wonder and arousal. He pulls me up to face him, and I know my eyes are wild, my hair a mess, my skirt around my waist. I’m breathing hard, my ass tingles deliciously, and I’m dying for him.

He’s panting, too, even though it wasn’t that much hard work, spanking me a few times—he must be into this. We stand there staring at each other, then he pulls me to his chest and speaks into my mouth. “Abby, if we keep going, I’m going to strip you naked and give you the fuck of your life right the hell now, right here on this couch. You either call stop now or we’re going to finish this. My way, my terms. Understand?”

I’m about to say yes or murmur an incoherent reply into his lips, but for some reason my eye catches on the pictures on the wall behind his head. There’s Annalise, more naked than I am right now, and next to her, another gorgeous woman, sinuous and lithe.

I hesitate. “And then what?”

“Then?” he murmurs, biting my neck. “Whatever you want.”

“I mean… after. What will we do… after?” I lift my eyes to his, and find them glazed with passion, glittering.

“You mean after we…?” He raises one eyebrow.

“Yeah. After. Are we going to, I mean, will we be… dating? Or something? Or… not?”

He lifts his head up and his hands soften on my body, releasing me. He flushes and doesn’t meet my eyes. “I don’t know. Abby. I didn’t think that far ahead. If we both want this right now, who’s to say we can’t have it? Aren’t we both grownups, we’ll figure it out?” He bites his lip. What is he thinking?

I’m the stupidest girl in the world, because all I’ve wanted for months now is Boston in my bed, or me in his, and here’s the chance, and I’m ruining it. It’s just that I’m terrified. Being with him is going to blow my mind, and if it’s just another lay to him, I don’t think I can handle it.

He’s on the edge, and I can tip him either way. If I pull him back in for a kiss and stop talking, we’ll be back on that couch in a second and he’ll be taking me to the bliss I’ve dreamed of in his arms.

But I hesitate, and that fatal second is all it take to set a chill between us. The passion congeals quickly into something thick and sour, and he blows out his breath, hard, and steps back. He runs his hands through his hair and his voice is tight. “Abby? So, no?”

Tears squeeze out of my eyes, and I shake my head. “No. I—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” His voice is hard, and I can hear him trying to mask his frustration, irritation. “If you want to stop, we stop. Just… Fuck.” He turns his back to me and blows out his breath again. “Are you okay?”

I nod, but he can’t see it, so I say, “Everything you did was good. I just can’t do anything—else, right now. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.” He turns to look at me. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m sorry it’s not enough for you, Abby. That I can’t give you enough.”

I can’t read his tone, don’t know what this means, and I’m too confused to try to figure it out. And then I’m sobbing. I can’t believe my emotions! I’m insane. No wonder he can’t promise me anything beyond one night. Who’d want to, really? I cry like a faucet, I snap, I tease, I taunt, then I pull back. I’m a wreck.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to just go and work from home, you know? I’m sorry, Boston. I’m just sorry.”

“No, Abby, please—wait. Let’s talk this out.” His voice is firm with a hint of a plea. “You can’t just walk away from me after this. That’s not right.”