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“Yeah.”
I’m struck like lightning with emotions. My hands begin to tremble, and tears I thought dried up on silken sheets in California threaten to fall.
“I have to go to work.”
I pinch his side until he yelps and jumps away from me.
“I thought something terrible happened.”
He rubs at his injured side. “This is terrible. Do you not remember the things I promised to do to you after lunch?”
I bite my lip, my legs threatening to give out under me. “So many promises.”
“Do you remember the thing you said you’d do?”
His hand cups his junk, readjusting what I can only guess is the beginning of an erection. He pulls his hand away. No, make that a full flag.
“I said I’d try,” I clarify.
“Do or do not, there is no try.”
“Don’t speak Yoda to me, Wren Nelson. He wasn’t talking about anal when he said that.”
“Don’t back out now.”
I take a step back when he reaches for me. “I’m not backing out. But I said try.”
“You have your safeword,” he reminds me.
He lunges, and I squeal like a maniac when he clips me with his fingers but isn’t fast enough to catch me. Simon hisses when I run past him, and Puff Daddy is back on the curtain rod screaming like a murder is taking place in front of his eyes, but when Wren finally catches up to me, all of it fades away. Only the two of us exists, and right now, that’s exactly what I need.
“I hate that I have to leave you.” His words are whispered in my ear, his arms wrapped all the way around me.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Too long,” he mutters, his nose sweeping up the side of my neck.
I close my eyes and absorb the sensation of chill bumps as they race down my arms, sending up a silent prayer that it will always be like this with him. I need both the soft and sweet and the aggressive and dominant. It’s a lot to ask for but somehow Wren checks every single one of my boxes.
“How long?” I ask again.
He takes a step back. “Couple hours. I want you here and naked when I get back.”
“Okay,” I tell him when I turn around, but I can tell that he knows I plan on disobeying. I mean, why have rules if they aren’t meant to be broken?Chapter 37Wren
“It all checks out.” I hand the folder to Deacon with a frown.
If he’d allow some of this shit at home, I could’ve given him this information without having to leave Whitney alone in my apartment. Me being here is a waste of time.
“Anxious to get home?” The smirk on Deacon’s face makes me want to rearrange all of his features, but it turns out I’m not a violent person.
“Already tired of your wife?” I snap, but it doesn’t faze him.
“She has an eye doctor appointment, if you must know.”
She doesn’t, but I imagine she’ll explain why she made an appointment to her OB/GYN four months before her annual is due when she gets home. Knowing this reminds me I really need to unlink our calendars.
“So this thing with Whitney is serious?”
“I’m going to marry that woman one day.”
He grins, and as strange as the sight would’ve been four months ago, it looks really good on him right now.
“You wanted to see me?” Flynn says, popping his head around the door to my office.
“Yeah. I need you to take care of this.” Deacon hands over the folder, and I school my face as best as I can when Flynn opens the folder and glares down at it.
“Is this a fucking joke?”
“Nope.”
I roll my lips between my teeth.
“Is it punishment for the bullshit Wren pulled while you were gone?”
“Hey!”
“Nope.”
“It has to be. Get one of the other guys to do it.”
“Can’t,” Deacon says, looking just as amused by Flynn’s irritation as I feel.
“You have to. This isn’t a job for me.”
“You were requested personally.”
“Requested by whom?” He looks back down at the information I just pulled for Deacon. “I don’t know this damn guy.”
“He knows you, and he’s paying a lot of money. It’s a simple job, Flynn. You can handle it.”
Flynn’s jaw clenches, his fists crumpling the folder in his hands. “I’m not a fucking babysitter.”
“We all have to take jobs we don’t like,” I tease.
Deacon snorts, but Flynn doesn’t look very impressed.
“Is this a joke? Am I being fooled right now?” He looks from our boss to me and back again. “It has to be, because there’s no way you’re sending your second-in-command to New York to babysit some movie star’s teenage daughter.”
“She’s twenty, nearly twenty-one,” I correct, but my friend doesn’t seem to change his opinion with the information.
“You leave tomorrow.” Deacon nods at both of us before walking out.
“I’ve booked your plane ticket and sent all the necessary information to your email. Make sure you pack a couple pairs of sneakers because the girl likes to give her bodyguards the slip.”
