I shudder as his grip tenses.

  “I got really, really hard as I was watching you with him...” he murmurs, and pleasure rolls over me as I recollect those moments. “And I knew he was hard too... I’ve known him for so long. The moment you pulled him close to you, you had him on his knees ...” he says, and my blood begins to simmer. “I just want you to know how it felt watching you with him...” he adds, and my core tightens around him.

  “I guess it felt good for you too,” he says, registering my reaction.

  His hips roll, slowly thrusting, his lips trailing the side of my face.

  “Hmm?” he asks.

  “I, um... I think you know how it felt,” I say softly. “You had me right after.”

  He smiles against my lips and thrusts some more, and I gasp and moan, rolling my hips against him. He kisses my neck and grabs my ass, his fingers rubbing between my butt cheeks, slowly probing the tight ring.

  “Jagger?” I whisper, rather inviting.

  “I’m not doing more than you want,” he murmurs, moving gently to open me, and a new kind of pleasure sweeps through me.

  “That’s... Oh, Jagger...” I mumble, my back arching, my ass clenching, my center squeezing him.

  He stills, and closes his eyes briefly, his chest pushing a heavy breath out. And then he flicks his eyes open, a wild, strong man watching me.

  “That’s fucking good, Violet...” he says as my body opens to him, and his finger enters me. “Yes, fucking, yes...” he grunts as I scale up fast, and come convulsing in his arms, clenching and soaking him.

  10

  VIOLET

  “So how was your night, otherwise?” I ask, my eyes following him as he walks around the bed and lies next to me.

  The scent of mint travels with him. His hair is wet from the shower, the towel wrapped around his waist, barely clinging to his hips.

  “Interesting,” he says, sinking back into a pillow.

  A smile threads through his voice. He avoids my eyes.

  “I was afraid you were not going to show up... And by ten o’clock, I was convinced you wouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “What did I miss?”

  “Braxton’s sister, hitting on me... twice,” he says jokingly.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You fought back,” I mutter, teasing him.

  He chuckles.

  “What do you think?”

  “Why is she so obsessed?”

  His nose wrinkles with a smile, his eye twinkling.

  “Besides the obvious,” I say.

  “I was her first man,” he says, serious this time, and a hint of regret sneaks in his voice.

  My smile withers away.

  “So, I was right... She does love you,” I murmur.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “How is it, Jagger?” I ask, my voice tinged with frustration.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t get mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m not. Seriously,” I say, with a softer voice.

  “I didn’t know she was a virgin, and her genius brother didn’t tell me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “See...”

  “Anyway, that’s that. It wasn’t love or anything.”

  “Not for you.”

  “She hooked up with another guy right after I slept with her to drive me crazy, and then another one, and so on. It wasn’t love Violet, whatever you say. Why do we even have to talk about this crap?” he puffs.

  “And it worked. You’re still angry,” I say, trying to sound unaffected, but it’s the truth.

  He shoots me an exasperated look, his palm going up in the air.

  “Okay. All right. It may have worked then, but I’m not an idiot. And even then, I knew it was a fucking game. That’s why it didn’t work with me, so whatever her intentions were––”

  “Are...”

  He waves me off, annoyed.

  “Whatever... are... It didn’t work out then, and it won’t work now. I’m not her kind of man. And if you don’t believe me, ask Braxton. He’ll tell you how his sister is, and why it wouldn’t work out anyway. Here. Is this good enough for you?” he asks, slamming his arms across his chest, pouting.

  Smiling, I pull close to him, my body flush against his, my hand slipping to his groin, cupping his bulge through his towel.

  His tense and...

  “You’re hard.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he grumbles. “I told you I’ve been hard since you...”

  I brush my lips against his.

  “But you said you liked it.”

  “I did...” he says, running a hand through his hair, flashing a carnal smile.

  His cheeks color scarlet as he starts to fidget.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because you are so damn cute...” I say.

  “And hard...” he rumbles, his hard-on pushing against my hand. I slip my hand inside his towel.

  “You’re the best lover I’ve ever had,” I murmur against his lips.

  He flashes a cocky smile.

  “Not that there were too many...”

  “True, there weren’t,” I say, letting out a soft chuckle.

  “Are you trying to wrap me around your finger? Flattering me and all...”

  “You’re a smart man, Mister Parker.”

  “You’re doing it again...” he murmurs against my lips and locks me in a kiss. “You said you wanted more...” he purrs.

  “Mmm-hmm. I want you on top of me...” I say as I roll onto my back.

  He props on his elbows and sets himself between my legs. I wrap my legs around him as he slowly fills me up.

  “You’re happy now?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, arching beneath him.

  His eyes connect with mine.

  “Can we not go back?” I ask, serious this time, and his eyes flicker with a sad smile.

  “Who knows? One day... Maybe.”

  And then his lips crash on mine.

  Jonas Hahn is not a bad looking man, and for the past few days, he put more effort than usual into his appearance. I’d like to think it’s happenstance, but it may have something to do with the fact that we’ve been spending more time together and by more, I mean all the time together since we’re giving the whole idea of me being Editor-in-Chief a trial.

  He steps into the corridor and answers his phone. His tailored pants fall impeccably, his smooth buttons down shirt outlining his trimmed, hard body. His hair is combed back, his skin looking more tanned by the day, the combination playing into that hot Italian male look that drives Jagger crazy.

  Surreptitiously, I glance at my phone.

  Thank God, it’s Friday. It’s been a long week, the twelve-hour working days wearing me down. We’ve been pounding the new magazine layout the whole morning, and hunger and exhaustion begin to take a toll on me.

  A few hours from now, I’ll be home. I’m planning on cooking and baking the whole evening, several dishes if possible, a week worth of material to post on my new blog.

  Jagger will be back on Sunday.

  He flew out of New York on Monday. He’s booked a few DJ gigs in Miami. They pay well and put him back into the circuit for the higher-paying jobs. It makes sense. It also makes me a mess because a heart has no grasp of logic.

  This is a bit new to me. I’ve never experienced separation anxiety. For sure, not with my ex-husband. Sure, Brad used to travel a lot. There were speaking engagements and conventions. He even flew overseas. But I didn’t live and breathe for his phone calls or messages. I was glad to have him back home, but no more than being content with my favorite TV series or a good book.

  That’s not the case, this time around. I often forget to eat, and I don’t get much sleep. On top of that, the days and hours seem to move at a snail pace.

  Speaking with him on the phone doesn’t help much either. In fact, it drives me crazy. He calls at night when he’s done working and quite often, I hear the screams and cheers in the background. Naturally, there are a lot of female voices too.

  It’s normal, I guess, and I should handle it with maturity and poise. The problem is, I lack majorly in that department. Let’s say that it’s not easy. I sleep less and work more, and that doesn’t help at all.

  If things are not bad enough, Jagger knows I spend more time with Jonas, and although we both agree this is a good career move, he’s stressed out about it, and once in a while, he makes a spiteful comment, the fact that he’s detached and nervous, making my heart draw into a pool of angst.

  Jonas’ phone conversation draws to an end.

  “So... What were you saying?” he asks, and I blink a couple of times, trying to remember where we left off.

  By the time I regain my focus, Jonas is busy examining my legs.

  “Um...”

  He raises his eyes slowly, taking a long detour, letting his gaze float over my body, my dress clearly a distraction. I wear a caramel dress, the soft knit molding to my body, stopping short of my knees.

  We finally connect eyes.

  “We were talking about the Food and Travel section...” he says, trying to help.

  “Oh, yes...”

  My phone goes off this time, and I give the screen a double take, my blood drawing out of my face.

  “You need to take that?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind...”

  I rise and spin toward the door, and as I glance over my shoulder, I catch him eyeing my ass.

  “We can continue after the lunch break,” he says, and I slip out of his office and strut along the corridor.

  I tap the screen.

  “Mom??”

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  I stop and wince as if a weight fell on my toes.

  We haven’t spoken in months, and the fact that she calls me now, one week after my conversations with Lorraine and Brad, and talks to me as if nothing happened, can’t be good.

  Not at all.

  “What is it?” I ask, my voice strained.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” she says, cold this time. “What about lunch? Today...”

  “Where are you?” I ask, overwhelmed by a stark premonition.

  This looks and feels like an ambush, and when it comes to my mother, my gut is never wrong.

  “In your office.”

  Oh, shit. I take the last steps to my cubicle and see her through the glass. Her hair coifed, her posture perfect. She whips her head to me as I set foot inside.

  She wears a pastel lilac dress, trimmed with cream fabric and paired with pearls and three-inch, matching heels. Light makeup enhances her features.

  Her eyes slant at me as she rises from the chair.

  “You look good,” she says politely, her eyes flashing utter disapproval.

  Balancing on my heels, I run my hands down my skirt.

  Following the lines of my body, my dress nips at my waist and flares above my knees. The color sets off my slightly tanned skin. She gives me a double take, her eyebrows knitted into a frown.

  We enter each other’s space briefly as we kiss the air behind our ears.

  “We can go,” I say curtly, snatching my purse, visibly annoyed. “You could’ve called,” I say, resenting the idea of being cornered as if I’m some sort of criminal.

  “I was in the area,” she says, and I barely suppress a caustic retort. “Pretty office,” she continues, oblivious to my reaction, or rather careless.

  She grabs her purse and follows me as I head to the door.

  I make the first step on the corridor when Jonas comes into view. His eyes swing between us, a charming smile sprouting on his lips.

  Stiff, I make the introductions.

  “Mom, this is my boss and owner of the company, Jonas Hahn.”

  “Jonas, this is Tanya Brown.”

  She holds her hand out for him, and in a fit of chivalry, he brings her hand to his lips and places a kiss on her knuckles.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Brown.”

  He stretches his grin, and they start exchanging pleasantries, the budding affection for each other bringing bile to my mouth.

  Smooth and sophisticated, they naturally become allies, sensing mutually convenient opportunities. A few minutes later, I inject myself into the conversation, bringing their love fest to a halt before I lead my mom toward the exit.

  “Take your time,” Jonas tosses at me as we near the elevator.

  “He’s a wonderful young man,” my mom says as we step in and I press the ground floor button.

  Letting out a long exhale, I welcome the sound of closing doors.

  “And you’ve made that assessment based on what?”

  She gives me a clever look, her smile condescending.

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve seen and met more people in my life than you.”

  Looking up at the ceiling, I furtively roll my eyes.

  A half hour later we walk into a cozy restaurant, located not far from my workplace. We spent a good amount of time talking banalities, avoiding the real issues that brought her to me.

  It drags on too long, so I break the ice.

  “So, why exactly did you want to see me?”

  “We haven’t spoken in months. That’s not the way things should be in a family,” she says giving me a swift run around.

  “Mom?”

  “All right... all right. I’m going to be frank about it. I know what happened last week, and I know why you shy away from your family––”

  My hand shoots up in the air.

  “I don’t shy away.”

  Her hand comes to mine. She leans toward me and speaks slowly and quietly as if she spills a big secret.

  “It’s useless to protest. You’re my daughter. I know more about you than you think,” she says.

  She leans in even closer.

  “What would it take to make you stop seeing that boyfriend of yours?” she asks, cold and calculated as if she’s doing a business transaction, and in her mind, she probably is.

  No emotion shows in her eyes as she bluntly asks me to alter the course of my life so she can have hers the way she likes it.

  My mouth drops open.

  It takes me a moment to realize... I thought my mom was crushed over my failed marriage, yet in reality, she’s never been heartbroken, not in the sense I thought she’d be.

  “Are you serious? How can you ask me this with a straight face?”

  “Listen... I never approved of your stupid divorce––”

  “Stop saying that––”

  “Let me finish,” she cuts me off harshly, and I might as well let her before she makes a scene in the restaurant. “Nobody does something so stupid.”

  “It’s my life mom. Besides, Brad is not the man you thought he was. He cheated on me. ”

  “You didn’t know that when you filed for divorce.”

  My eyes pop wide open. Did she just say that?

  “What?! Do you even hear yourself?” I snap.

  She links her fingers beneath her chin and throws me a scolding look.

  “Let me tell you something, Violet... Something I learned a long time after I got married. I’ve had my share of shattered illusions like everybody else, and I realized early on that life is not perfect. And of all things, marriage is far from the mirage we’re led to believe it is. It’s not a perfect union. It’s a long time battle to keep things together, through ups and downs. Men are men. They’d always be men. I strived for monogamy, and I did my best to coach your father into it, but truthfully I never expected him not to stray, not that he knew that. With this being said, if anything had ever happened it was outside my realm of knowledge. And that’s how we survived for so long. Brad didn’t intend to ruin his marriage for some skirt who oversold her products in his bed.”

  I press my lips to close my mouth and push back a growl of frustration as my eyelids begin to flutter and a muscle twitches in my jaw.

  “People don’t end marriages because they crave sex. At least smart people don’t. He didn’t do it, and you shouldn’t have done it either. That’s the big letdown for me, and I’m sure it is for him too.”

  “Who are you talking about again?” I ask, my sarcasm glaring.

  “Brad.”

  “Oh... Brad,” I say and gasp, tempted to grab a plate and hurl it across the room, smash it against the wall.

  “That’s precisely how you ruined a solid marriage.”

  I take a few long breaths as her eyes keep throwing daggers.

  “Has it ever crossed your mind that I didn’t want to be married in the first place?”

  A dark shadow fills her eyes.

  “Oh, really?”

  Her expression shifts magically, her voice exploding into a crystalline, forced laughter.

  “And what exactly did you want, Violet? Bedding younger men, hopping from one to another, and living for sex? Is that it?”

  My voice collapses in my throat, my eyes washed with tears. Blinking a few times, I manage to push them back. I will not give her the satisfaction. A moment of silence sneaks between us as I fight my way out of my stupor.

  “What exactly was the alternative for you, Violet? What you do right now?”

  “What am I doing, mom?”

  “You’re messing with a man who’s not even a man yet.”

  “Oh, yes he is...”

  “I’m not talking about in the bed,” she says leaning to me, afraid someone could hear us.

  “Me neither.”

  “He doesn’t even have a direction in life. Shouldn’t he be in college?”

  “He doesn’t want to go to college.”

  I instantly regret telling her the truth as unbridled disgust flares in her eyes.

  “He’s making money if that’s what you’re concerned with,” I rush to clarify, and then it dawns on me she’s dragged me exactly where she wanted me to be.

  Here I am, explaining to her, defending myself, feeling insecure, and being washed with guilt, doubting myself and fiddling with the idea that maybe, just maybe, she is right, and I should be indebted to her, Brad, and why not, the entire world.

  Why else would I suddenly feel belittled and humiliated for being who I am and making the choices that I make?