Bet on Me (14 page)

She signaled for him to turn around with a tap on his thigh, and he dumbly obeyed, facing away from her. She started at the top again, moving the sudsy towel side to side across his shoulders and his spine.

His gaze focused on the shampoo bottles on the marble shelf. One was his, a standard two-in-one, a brand he'd been using since he was thirteen. There were two other pink bottles from the high-end salon downstairs, meant for a woman. “Why do you always use mine?”

“What?”

“You used to hate my shampoo when we were younger.” He braced his hand against the tiled wall. Her hand was ghosting over his buttocks. “Remember? But you only use your own when we're at your place. When we're here, you always use mine.”

She was silent for a beat, but then she responded. “I like to smell like you.” Her teeth closed on the flesh of his ass in a delicate bite. A tease. A mark of ownership. “And it reminds me of who you were. And who you are now. I like— I love both of those people.”

“Who am I?”

“I’ve been thinking about that ever since you spilled all that nonsense last night about how I don’t know you. So silly. The world may swallow this rich and cold image, but I don’t. You’re warm, and you let me get away with murder, all while pretending you’re in charge, because that’s what I like. I'd even say you let me manipulate you, but there isn’t a doormat bone in your body. I might occasionally despair over that, but it’s good in the long run. You like the toys money buys you, but deep down you’re in this for the challenge and little else.” She pressed a kiss over the flesh she’d bitten. “That’s who you are. I’m getting a pretty decent deal.”

He shuddered and turned around to look at her. Her eyes met his evenly. Never a supplicant, this woman. Not even on her knees. He leaned back, the tile cold on his back. She grasped his hands, lacing his fingers with hers. Her tongue lapped at his hardening cock, tasting him.

He shuddered and tightened his fingers around hers. She responded to the subtle plea by opening her mouth wide and engulfing the head of his cock, swallowing half of him. He thrust forward, always dying for more contact, more warmth, but she backed away.

Her honey-blonde hair was wet from the water, her green eyes shadowed. “Let me,” she said quietly.

He couldn't refuse her. Not now, and not ever.

Wyatt let her. Let her take charge and command him, let her control him the way she let him pretend to control her. Under everything, it was always this, wasn’t it? He was always hers.

He didn't know how much time passed with his body silently straining as she sucked on him lazily. It could have been minutes or days or weeks, with the steam swirling around him and her mouth ruling his life. All he knew was that she pulled away as he was grinding his head into the tile behind him, struggling not to come.

She stood, somber, and turned off the water, holding her hand out to him. “Come on.”

The warmth was gone, and he'd do anything to return to it. He followed her docilely and let her towel off her body and then his, shuddering when she swiped the rough terrycloth over his cock.

Christ. She was going to kill him for sure.

As much as his cock was dying to get back inside her, he knew it would be best to wait. Wait, and he would be rewarded. Wait, and she would give him everything.

He followed her to the bedroom and waited as she pulled back the comforter. After lying down on the white sheets, she motioned to him. It was all he needed. He covered her and made a space for himself between her legs.

He buried his face in her neck and inhaled the scent of her and him mingling together.

“Now?” he asked, humble.

She scraped her nails down his back. “Yes.”

He sank inside one inch, then two. She closed her eyes, and he stopped, needing that connection. “No. Look at me.”

Her eyes sprang open, and their gazes locked.

So familiar. He sank in a couple more inches. She was tight, like she always was. As tight as that first night, all those years ago, when he sank inside of her. When he'd looked into her eyes and felt the coldness recede, like he was coming home.

Akira had been right. He was the lucky bitch.

He dipped his head until his forehead rested against hers and his body forged into her. “How do you want it?”

“However you want it.”

He shook his head. “No. Tell me.”

Her hands clenched into the muscles of his ass. “Deep and slow.”

He nodded, honored, and gave her exactly what she wanted, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, helped by the lubrication of their bodies. Her pussy resisted the thick head of his cock on each downward drive. She made him work for it, and he was happy to accommodate.

Wyatt had been ready to blow a few minutes ago, but he controlled himself now, taking care to give it to her right, judging by her breathy moans. He wanted to fuck her like this forever, but his body took over his best intentions, and soon he was hammering into her as she mewled and cried out beneath him. Her nails scored him. He grasped her hands, and this time he was the one to hold her down, giving her something to struggle against.

Words broke free from his mouth, needy, grasping. “You’re mine.”

Her lashes fluttered open, her eyes dazed and filled with pleasure. “Yes.”

He worked his cock over her sweet spot until her face went slack with pleasure. “Always. Say it.”

“Always,” she gasped, her cunt tightening on him as she came in a rush. He worked himself deep and held himself there. Call him primitive, but he loved the way it felt when he came inside her, when he knew that if she arose from the bed right after, some of his semen would trickle out of her.

So fucking hot. His ass clenched, and he spurted in her again, filling her completely.

When he was done, he rested his head on her shoulder. She was wrapped around him like a monkey, arms and legs tight. He shifted them to their sides so he could do the same to her.

“Do you remember when we first met?” she asked.

“You dropped your books at my feet.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

Mystified as to why she was bringing this up now, he shrugged.

“I thought you would make fun of me or sneer. You were older than me, and every girl at that school thought you were the hottest thing on two legs. You said, 'Don't worry about it. It happens,' and you then helped me pick them up.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “It was a small kindness, but you won me over right then and there. There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing twisted. You were a good man then, and you’re a better man now.”

He rested his forehead against hers and breathed deep, exhaling the bitterness and anger.

She continued, her voice soft. “You judge yourself too harshly. And though I think you have a healthy sense of self-esteem generally, you are blind when it comes to this. Living with a dysfunctional parent may have left scars, but it didn't make you dysfunctional, too. Look at you. Look at what you've become.”

He scoffed, disregarding the hotel they lived in, the millions of dollars changing hands as they spoke. “That's work.”

“No.” Her lips tilted up. “There's me. I'm a prize, baby, and you've won me over twice in this lifetime.” She stroked her hand over his cheek and said very seriously, “That should give you an idea of how amazing you are, if nothing else.”

A hoarse laugh escaped him. “You are indeed a prize, Belikov.”

She found the perfect spot to rest her head, under the hollow of his throat. “Oh, Caine. You have no idea.”

Yes. If she left him, he would survive. But God would he grieve for this.

Dumbass,
she would say.
You’re so worried about me leaving you, you can’t even fully enjoy that we’re together now.

No more.

Simple words. The moment was important. It should be marked by a speech, or a grand gesture. Tatiana loved grand gestures.

He didn’t have the energy. Shrugging off his insecurity and deep-seated fear was exhausting. Embracing a tentative future, terrifying.

He could give her something, though. “I love you, you know,” he said. He hadn't said it to her, not even after she had told him. What a ridiculous oversight.

She kissed him on his shoulder. “I know. Of course you do.”

Wyatt opened gritty, tired eyes and stared at the late-afternoon sun peeking through pulled drapes. Jesus. How long had he been asleep? He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept during the day.

Then again, he’d had a rough couple of days.

He rose on his elbows and pushed aside the comforter Tatiana must have covered him with. He would rather be covered with her.

Finding her was the first step to achieve that goal. He stood, his legs a little wobbly after his long nap. He swiped his jeans up off the floor and donned them, zipping them up as he made his way out of the bedroom.

He followed the faint noise of silverware to the dining room, stopping when he spotted Tatiana. Her hair was blown out, and she was wearing makeup. But the most unusual part of her outfit was her dress. The emerald-green frock teased his memory. A halter bodice made up the top, with the skirt consisting of strips of fabric that played peekaboo with her skin.

Their first night together. During this decade. She'd worn this dress.

He cocked his head. As he recalled it, he'd destroyed the dress, so this must be a replacement.

She straightened a place setting and noticed him. Nervousness flitted across her face before she beamed a smile. “Hey.” She came over and kissed him on the cheek. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“More like good evening.”

“You needed the sleep.” She busied herself straightening his hair, which was cut so short, he hardly needed it.

He glanced at the dress and then the table, which was set with china. The candles in the center were lit, despite the sunshine from outside. “Am I...underdressed? For something?”

“For dinner. An early dinner. And no.” Her busy hands went to her skirt, and she twitched a strip of material in place. “I wanted to wear this.”

Okay. “Oh.”

“I made us dinner.”

“You did?”

She pouted. “Don’t sound so shocked. I can cook, you know.”

Her gentle tease made him smile. “I know. It’s just that you never do.” He walked closer with her and surveyed the table. “Ah. That looks like breakfast.”

“I was preoccupied. I didn’t want to concentrate on some complicated recipe. This is easy, and you like it.”

“I do like it.” He looked at his bare chest. “Maybe I should put on a shirt.”

“No, no, sit.” She indicated a chair. “I don’t mind the view.”

He sat down and watched, bemused, as she served him fluffy eggs and crisp bacon before serving herself and settling at his right.

“Eat,” she said. There was a nervous lilt to her voice that put him on edge.

They needed to talk about everything, he knew that. As much as he’d benefited from getting these things off his chest, he wasn’t looking forward to another emotional bloodletting. The scrambled eggs tasted like dust in his mouth. He swallowed, eager to get this over with. “Tatiana, perhaps we should discuss...”

“Oh, fuck it.” She put down her fork and looked at him, earnest but apprehensive. “I know I'm not doing this right. It should be a dinner, not a breakfast, and it should be after, not before, but I can't wait. This is too much.” She picked up a folded piece of paper from next to her plate and slipped out of her chair. After a moment of consideration, she got down on a knee and fumbled the piece of paper open. “This should be a ring,” she muttered. A flush lit her cheeks. “But I didn't want to wait to cast it.” She smoothed the paper over his lap and peered at him expectantly.

Wyatt picked up the piece of paper, aware his hand was shaking. Though it was only a drawing, he knew the ring would be magnificent when she created it. He wasn't much for jewelry, but he could see this piece on his finger for the rest of his days.

“It's going to be made of platinum,” she said, the words tumbling out. “And there will be tiny chips of diamonds along the top edge here, so it looks like a solid line. Because you pretend to be flashy and over the top, but you're not like that, not really, so you can wear it with a tux or with jeans.”

He placed his palm over the sketch. “Tatiana,” he asked, each word very slow and careful, “are you proposing to me?”

She swallowed and finally met his gaze. “I am.”

He stared at her. “You know it's supposed to be me proposing to you.”

“Well, we're pretty nontraditional all around, you know.”

The joke was a valiant effort, but he was too flummoxed to respond.

She sobered. “I haven’t slept. Thinking about everything. How you think you aren’t normal. And how you’re always braced for me to leave you. How you thought I wouldn’t want you if I knew how crazy your family was.”

He gritted his teeth, hating the picture she was painting of him, but he remained silent. He'd seen a psychiatrist when he was making enough money to go to one, and though his visits had ended when he’d become overly consumed with work, she'd pointed out that he exhibited some textbook behaviors of a person who had come from a dysfunctional home. Fear of abandonment and rejection? Check.

“And then I thought...” she said, her voice so soft he had to lean forward, “…I don’t want you to always have to be in charge of everything. That’s not fair. You do so much for me. I want to do this for you.”

“You don’t have to propose to me so I feel secure. I’m not that weak.”

“I’m proposing to you because I want to marry you. No other reason.”

A memory teased him. His mother’s old music box. When it was wound up, a pair of skaters would dance the perimeter, come together for a brief moment, and wander off again. He remembered he’d wondered if he and Tatiana were like that.
Crashing together, twirling around, maybe drifting off. But always returning.

It was about time he stopped agonizing that they might drift off, and started to enjoy the whole crashing-together part. A smile crossed his face. “I should have known you would take the reins.”