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“I’ve hired a car to take you back to your apartment,” Jacob says. “I’ve got a meeting with some overseas colleagues. Trust me, Maddie, I’d much rather be with you.”
It’s reckless, and maybe that’s an understatement, but I don’t complain. He takes my hips softly—but with a hint of the passion he truly wants to apply—and guides his lips to mine. Straightaway, I forget about the need for caution. I forget about photographers and the need to be careful. I forget about Mom.
We kiss on the street like we’re at the end of a rom-com and all our problems have finally melted away, but it’s the opposite. After saying goodbye, I ride in the back of the car to my apartment, reliving the kiss, the pressure of his hands against me, the urgency in his mouth, and his words from dinner bouncing around my mind.
As I walk toward the apartment building, a man approaches me. He’s wearing a dark suit with sunglasses, despite the late hour. It’s weird.
“Miss,” he says, his voice stiff. “I’ve got a package for you.”
Before I can think to question what was going on, he handed me the manilla envelope and walked away.
“Wait, what? Who are you?”
He’s already walking down the street. He climbs into a dark vehicle, tires screeching as he speeds off, leaving my head to spin as I try to figure this out. Opening the envelope, I stare at the photos, a lump in my throat as I imagine what Mom would say if she saw them.
I think about going back in time by an hour, slapping the past version of me across the face.
You need to be careful. You have to keep your attraction private.
There are two photos. One is of us in the restaurant holding hands, and the other is of us kissing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. On the back of the handholding photo, there’s an address—a bar in a bad part of town and a time.
Tomorrow, midday… with a note.
Come together, just the two of you, or the photos go public.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Jacob
The next morning, I sit outside Madison’s apartment building, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel and resisting the urge to tear the wheel off and throw it through the goddamn window. When I returned to my apartment last night, the doorman had an envelope for me. Two photos and a meeting place.
I knew I should’ve been more careful, but strangely, I’d do it again. I’d hold her hand, kiss her, and cradle her close to me. The need for secrecy and shame is a sickening aspect of this because my woman deserves neither. She deserves for her man to be publicly proud of her, to declare confidently she’s the most perfect woman alive, which istrue.
My phone rings. It’s Madison. I answer quicker than I ever have for a business contact.
“Oh, God.”
Her tone is frantic. That, and the lack of a hello, causes me to sit upright so fast it’s lucky I’m not wearing a seatbelt. I’d snap it in half. Ever since the photo, I’ve felt primed, like a trigger ready to pull.
“I’m sorry,” she goes on. “The dishwasher is leaking and I’m terrible with stuff like this…”
“Calm down. I’m coming up.”
I climb from the car, hurrying into her apartment building. I pass a man on the stairs, probably in his sixties, who nods hello as I rush past him. Ridiculously, I wonder if he’s here to spy on us.
When Madison opens the door, I know this is going to be tough. There’s the sound of a cranking, broken machine in the background, but it’s difficult to concentrate when her white shirt is soaked with water, revealing the shape of her breasts. Her hair’s a mess and so sexy.
Despite everything I should focus on—the dishwasher issue, the photos, the possible blackmail, the implosion of a billion-dollar deal—my balls expand with lust. Heat turns my shaft sensitive, and the pressure of my underwear is suddenly too much to handle.
“Show me,” I say, stepping into the apartment. She spins, and it takes a mammoth effort not to gaze shamelessly at her ass in the pencil skirt.
When she leads me to the dishwasher, I start tinkering. She stands behind me, her arms folded each time I glance over my shoulder. That only makes it more difficult since she’s pressing her wet breasts together.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with it,” she says.
I disconnect it, switch everything off, pull it out, and take a look.
“This is going to require a professional.”
