Part 4 (1/2)
The rich do not like to talk about their goods being stolen-I discovered this early on in my so-called career. They'd rather sweep the embarra.s.sing loss under the rug, collect their insurance payout, and move on. Dire stories on the local news about a jewel thief aren't becoming, which is fine by me.
Their lack of talking to the authorities made my endeavors easier to carry out. Though I'm disappointed I didn't get ahold of the Poppy Necklace. I've already heard from Dexter, my old contact who wants to add the piece to his collection. He's displeased and has been urging me to go after it, but I put him off.
I stayed on in Cannes for a few days, cas.h.i.+ng in the bracelet and collecting a hefty payment. Found out Rose Fowler left Cannes the day after I saw her, so that was a lost cause. I hung out on the beaches and flirted with various women, snagging a few gold pieces that were worth a decent amount. I garnered enough to pay for Mom's expenses for the next five months at least, maybe six.
The relief of that is tremendous. I can finally relax and do something for myself for a little while.
”What brings you here?” Whitney hasn't removed her arms from my waist or her hands from my a.s.s, and I again have to pull myself out of her grip. I walk over to the couch and sit down, leaning my head back so I can stare up at the ceiling.
”I needed a vacation.” Not too far from the truth. Considering the bills are taken care of, I'm allowed a pit stop in London before I head home. My friend Mitch.e.l.l, owner of the private jet, already planned to go to London and I decided to hitch a ride. Though I might end up staying longer, depending on what I find around here.
I need a change of pace, new scenery. Not only to get away from New York but also to lie low. I'd worked like a motherf.u.c.ker the last few months, getting more daring with every job. To the point where I was probably starting to look suspect, so I reined it in. Went to parties and actually didn't steal a d.a.m.n thing before I up and disappeared for good.
A new place means new people. New valuables. New jewels. Considering London is f.u.c.king full of old money, this should be a field day. A summer in London sounded rather profitable. Don't know why I never thought of it before.
”Well, yay for vacations. You're always so busy. You never come to my side of the pond.” Whitney smiles and plops on the couch beside me, snuggling close, her head against my chest. She has no idea what I actually ”do” and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm pretty sure she thinks all I do is f.u.c.k around all day, which is fine. That's all she does too. She lives off her daddy's money. ”I'm excited that you're here.”
”Yeah, me too,” I say, my words sounding hollow. I'm glad to be here, thankful for Whitney's hospitality and friends.h.i.+p. She doesn't normally put conditions on it, but I hope she doesn't think I'm going to f.u.c.k her for a bed to sleep in.
When she rests her hand on my c.o.c.k and starts rubbing, I know she expects me to f.u.c.k her for a bed to sleep in.
”Whit.” I grab her hand and clasp it tight in mine. ”I'm tired. I need to sleep before I can even think of doing ... that.”
She smiles, flas.h.i.+ng me her brilliant white teeth. ”Exhaustion never stopped you before. I remember nights of getting high, getting drunk, and f.u.c.king for hours.” Her throaty laugh is telling me she enjoys those memories.
I remember them too. Fondly. ”I'm not high and I'm not drunk. I'm just worn out.”
”Too much alcohol usually deflates a c.o.c.k,” she says, like she's making some major observation.
”Not mine.” I let go of her hand and trail my finger across her cheek but she jerks away from my touch, her lips pushed into a pout that usually works on me.
But not this time. Instead of sucking up to her and letting her get her way, I rise from the couch and stretch my arms above my head with an exaggerated yawn before I settle my hands on my hips. ”Where's your bathroom?”
She waves her hand toward the short hall to my left, her gaze not meeting mine. She's mad, but she'll get over it. ”Down there, first door on the right.”
”Got extra towels?” I go to the front door and grab my duffel bag. I always pack light so it's easier to make my escape if necessary.
”Of course,” she retorts with a huff. ”What sort of hostess do you think I am?”
Going to the couch, I place a quick kiss to her forehead and cup her chin with my hand, forcing her to look at me. ”A great one,” I murmur with a gentle smile. I don't want her on my bad side, but d.a.m.n it, I'm not interested in a summer full of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Whitney, either. We're rarely together for a long period of time, so having a quick one-off is normal for us.
Spending weeks on end together? Not so normal.
Her mouth twists into a wry little smile. ”Go take your shower. I'll be waiting for you.”
h.e.l.l. She's not going to let this go until I get her off at least once.
Locking myself in her bathroom, I flick on the light and take in the room. It's white, with chrome towel bars and handles, a three-tiered chrome-and-gla.s.s shelf right next to the white pedestal sink, the shelves overflowing with fluffy white towels. I go to the tub and turn on the water, shedding my clothes with quick efficiency before I slip into the shower, pulling the curtain shut and letting the water pour over me in a steady stream.
It's warm and the pressure is high, the water beating against my skin in pulsating jets. I wash my hair and then lather up, scrubbing my body clean, smoothing my hand over my c.o.c.k. Closing my eyes, the image of a naked Rose Fowler pops into my brain. How wet her skin was, her hair slicked back from her angel face, the taste of her, warm and wet and with a hint of Champagne.
My c.o.c.k lengthens, hardens. She's been my beat-off material for the last few days. I have Whitney with her hands all over my d.i.c.k and I barely react. I merely think of Rose and I'm hard as steel.
Leaning against the smooth white-tiled wall, I wrap my soap-slicked fingers around my c.o.c.k and start stroking. My eyes are closed, imagining wet and s.e.xy Rose kneeling before me, that pretty, innocent face staring up at me just before she lowers her thick lashes and leans forward, her perfect, lush mouth wrapping tight around my c.o.c.k.
Jesus. I jerk hard, the o.r.g.a.s.m coming at me fast. I can feel it forming at the base of my spine, like billowy clouds that grow dark and turbulent, heavy and swollen, eager to release the buildup of stormy rain.
This is me. My c.o.c.k. Ready to f.u.c.king explode at any minute.
It slams into me, hard and fast, a little groan escaping me as my s.e.m.e.n spurts out in long, ropey streams, hitting the wall before it's washed away. I slump against the wall, my exhaustion taking over. Combined with the brief satisfaction I gave myself, I'm ready to collapse into bed.
I get out of the shower and dry off quick, changing into a T-s.h.i.+rt and sweats before I exit the bathroom, glancing into an open door to find Whitney lying on top of her bed. Completely naked.
s.h.i.+t.
”Whit.” I stay in the doorway, my already spent c.o.c.k half-heartedly rousing when she rolls over onto her back and spreads her legs, offering me a special view. ”What the h.e.l.l are you doing?”
”What does it look like I'm doing?” She smiles, her hand trailing down to play between her legs. ”I've missed you, Caden. I don't know what else I can do to get that through your head.”
”Jesus, woman.” I drop my duffel just inside her bedroom by the door. I don't want to stay in her bed. I don't want her to get any ideas. ”Let me get some sleep first.”
”No.” She sits up, scrambling to her knees, her expression fierce. ”I thought by you staying with me, this was the sort of arrangement we would have. Am I wrong?” h.e.l.l. I didn't think this through. I should've known Whitney would have expectations. Women are a pleasant distraction, one I haven't indulged in for a long time. But I hadn't planned on playing boyfriend/girlfriend with Whitney for the next few weeks.
I wish had a male friend who lived in London.
Deciding to h.e.l.l with it, slowly I approach the bed, tearing off my s.h.i.+rt before I join her. ”You're not wrong,” I tell her, lying through my teeth. ”But you want me at my best, right?”
She runs her hands over my chest before sliding one beneath the waistband of my sweats. ”I want you any way I can get you. I'm h.o.r.n.y. I've missed your d.i.c.k.”
”What's up with you? You're not usually so-needy.” I choke the last word out when she wraps her fingers tight around my c.o.c.k and starts to stroke.
”It's been a while. Had a bad breakup a few months ago and no one has interested me since.” She's pus.h.i.+ng my sweatpants off, her fingers never leaving my c.o.c.k as she continues to stroke.
”You had a boyfriend?” I'm surprised. We were always on the same page when it came to relations.h.i.+ps. As in, we didn't believe in them.
Shrugging, she removes her hands from my body and leans back against the headboard, suddenly looking vulnerable. ”I thought we were in a relations.h.i.+p. Clearly I was wrong.”
”That's where you made your first mistake.” The moment the words are said, I know I definitely made a mistake. She sends me a deathly glare, curling her arms in front of her chest as if she can ward me off.
”Maybe you should sleep in the guest room,” she says sullenly, kicking out her foot so she's nudging my knee. Hard. ”For now.”
Ha. Well, that worked and I didn't even mean it to. ”I'm sorry, Whit.” I grab my s.h.i.+rt and pull it back on. Whitney Banks is a spoiled little princess who always gets what she wants. So when she's denied something, she lashes out. Sometimes physically. She slapped my face one time years ago and we got into a drunken shouting match.
”Ugh. Whatever. Don't apologize. You're probably right.” She pokes me in the thigh with her big toe, then scoots her leg away from me. She's not inviting me back to her bed and I'm okay with that.