Page 30 of Erik

We work without interruptions until I’m satisfied with the wording. That’s when Wes plumps down my couch, crosses his ankles on the coffee table, and greets us with a grin. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Glad to you see back.” Robert shuffles the dozens of pages he’s covered with scrawls and gathers them in a pile. “I’ll come back with these for you to sign in no time,” he promises me before leaving.

“Had a useful trip?” I ask Wes.

He laces his fingers behind his head and leans back. A smirk on his face is the only answer I get.

“That good?” I tease when he takes his time not saying anything.

He snort-laughs, “Oh, I’m not thinking about the trip. I’m reliving the hot-as-fuck scenes I witnessed yesterday in soundstage five.”

“Fuck,” I groan under my breath, and hang my head down. “You’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Wes slouches forward, dropping his feet to the floor, propping his elbows on his thighs. “You, dog. You find a piece of ass like that, and you get selfish on me? No way.”

My blood simmers and I swallow the curse words. Wes and I have shared plenty of women. It’s natural he assumes we will this time. He’s deadly wrong.

Fisting my hands on the desk, I get the words out through gritted teeth, “Not this one.”

He throws his arms up, guffawing. “Miracles do happen. Staff and crew told me you’ve been too nice to everyone lately. I had to check for myself.” He winks, and scoffs, “After that scene yesterday, I figured only the love of a good woman would turn you into a civilized man.”

My stomach plummets and I shiver, but I’m not ready to admit anything to Wes.

Or to myself.

Without another word, he springs to his feet, waves goodbye, and snickers all the way to his office.

***

“How dare you?” Christine fumes as she shoves the front door of her house open for me, it slams against the wall, rattling the old wooden frame. “You’ve taken this,” she goes on, her index finger flying between us a few times. “And turned it into a business transaction.”

At a loss for words that wouldn’t fan her rage, I ask, “Can I come in?”

“Argh,” she replies, shooting her hands up, turning her back on me, and marching into an adjacent room.

Guess anything I said would have rubbed her the wrong way.

I shut the door and follow her into an expansive living room. I glance at the shelves that cover three walls. On them, leather-bound books, paperbacks, hardcovers, and pictures take up every inch. A burgundy, overstuffed couch that accommodates five, plus two matching armchairs, dominate the center of the room.

I lower myself on the cushion beside Christine. Crossed arms under heaving breasts, pursed lips, and a tapping foot advise me to proceed with caution. I stretch an arm on the back of the sofa behind her. She stiffens her back but doesn’t recoil. Good.

Her eyes throw daggers at me. “I won’t sign that.” With her chin, she points to the NDA on the coffee table. “It rambles about detailed sex acts I can’t make heads or tails of. I searched the internet but gave up.” She takes in a deep breath. A pained sigh leaves her as she whispers, “I didn’t even know you had a son. What kind of man introduces a kid in a business agreement?”

A heartless fiend, a broken man, a monster.

To her, I say, “I get it. You’re pissed. I’ve screwed this, big time.” I lean until my lips brush her ear when I whisper, “Put yourself in my shoes.” A vein throbs in her neck, her breathing becomes more ragged. I withdraw to lock my gaze on hers. “This document is your protection.”

She scowls, but her tone is less grated when she asks, “How?”

I run a finger along her shoulder and neck. “You’re new to kink. You need a safe net while I train you.” She hisses, and I hide a smug expression by nuzzling her nape. My cock twitches at the speed her heart beats on her neck, under my lips. “Those rules will guide you as much as me. Let me show you what you’ll miss if you don’t sign those papers.”

She spears her fingers through my hair before I close my lips on hers. As I deepen the kiss, I pull her to sit across my lap. Sucking her tongue, I hitch her figure-hugging top over her head, and toss it on the floor. Pulling her bra under her breasts, I rub my thumbs on her nipples. They pebble. I dip my head, trapping one between my teeth. She moans and grasps the top button of my shirt.

I cuff her hands and croak, “Not before that NDA.”

Out of breath, she tilts my head. “Why?”

This time I don’t hide the smirk. “Never wondered why there’s no shirtless pictures of bad boy Erik Crawford anywhere?”

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