Page 2 of Playing With Her

“Can you please pick me up at the location you dropped me off? From there we’ll be going to LeBlanc Inn,” I tell Scott.

“Of course. I’ll be there in less than five minutes.” I hang up, thumb through my texts until I get to our group chat.

Me: The purchase may fall through; I’ll catch you up as soon as I make it to the Inn.

Since Parker called only minutes ago, it’s no surprise he’s the first one to respond.

Parker: Fucking sucks. You need Sly?

Theo: The fuck? You’re suddenly ready to up and move to New Orleans and can’t close a deal?

I laugh. This motherfucker is lucky he’s like a brother to me. The house I’ve purchased is currently being rented back to the owners until the end of next week, and this deal, well, it should have been closed by the end of this week.

Me: Your mom wasn’t saying that last night.

Theo: Eat a bag of dicks.

Ezra: The fuck? It’s too damn early for this shit. Call if you need something. It’s the least I can do.

Parker: I’m out. Call later.

Me: Give me a couple of hours. We’ll do a conference call.

I pocket my phone when I hear footsteps approach and figure it’s Boudreaux, but when I look up, it’s the last person I expected to see—the woman I left in her bed last month, soft, sweet, and sated. That’s not the case now. Nope, she’s walking toward me with fire in her eyes, and it’s zeroed in on me.

THREE

Amelie

After the shockof my life, I got my shit together. Nothing like needing to pull your big girl panties up, get dressed, put on makeup to hide the inner turmoil that hovers on the edge of a hot pot of water ready to boil over, only it’s inside of you. Sadly, this time, it’s not from partying with my best friend, Eden. The hurricanes we consumed months and months ago are not threatening to come up. Oh no, it’s having to explain to my mom and eventually Boston that there’s a proverbial bun in my oven. I was in for the second shock of my life when I walked downstairs to the argument of all arguments, so loud that I’m sure our guests could hear it, but I wasn’t about to break it apart. My mother was losing her shit, rightfully so. My great grandparents owned more than LeBlanc Inn. We own another building, this one along the riverfront, sitting empty for the time being. Since there’s a divorce in the works, my mother’s attorney suggested to leave it alone because starting another venture capital would be stupid and might open her up to a fine-tooth comb to be raked across the coals, you know, like paying him more money when he has plenty of his own.

“How could you!” I yell as I walk up to Boston, for so many reasons I can’t even begin to get them all out. Never in all my years did I think I’d come face to face with the father of my child, who’s turning out to be a snake in the grass. How I’m able to compose myself is beyond me. I’m the type of person who when I get mad, I become emotional. Tears do not threaten to come; they roll down my cheeks without my permission. I’m not a baddie with an attie, meaning my bad-ass persona is not there, and neither is my attitude. Sure, I’ve got the red hair to prove I’ve got a temper, but other than that, I’m a pile of waterworks when I’m riled up. My father should be selling his own building. He owns it free and clear but didn’t take care of it through the years, leaving it riddled in shambles, so it’s less habitable than the one Boston is currently standing in front of, which means it’s less profitable. If you guessed my father was a greedy money sucker, you’d be right.

“How could you!” I shout again when I’m closer, my voice carrying along the street, the water only echoing it more. I’m about over today and all these unwanted emotions swirling inside of me. The father of my child, who impregnated me unknowingly, or did he? No way. He couldn’t be capable of stealthing me, right? Why would he purposely poke holes through a condom? You only hear about that stuff on social media, at least that’s where I’ve heard it. The plethora of questions are now making me second-guess every single thing. I mean, if he’s so willing to purchase a piece of property from my father, then I suppose there’s a possibility he’d be capable of anything.

“Hello to you, too, Amelie,” Boston responds, standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking like the perfect gentleman in what I’m sure is his five-thousand-dollar suit, his dark hair clipped short on the sides as well as the top. The beard along his jaw has my thighs clenching, which is no easy feat when I’m steadily marching toward him, ready to smack the smugness off his handsome face. His obsidian-blue eyes twinkle, making me recall the last time we slept together, not that much sleeping actually happened. Boston was leaving, unsure of the next time he’d be back down here, but he was adamant he’d be back. I began to lose faith after two weeks. We had a marathon of sex, him powering into me from behind, hand wrapped around my throat, the other gripping my hip so tightly I was left with marks the next day. That was only the first round. The second time was just as hurried and frenzied, me riding him, his fingers working my nipples, my thighs aching so badly I was tempted to ask him to take over, but there was no way I could have or would have. Instead, I rode him hard, bouncing on Boston’s thick cock. No wonder I’m pregnant. The man is impressive in the length department. I swear he hit my cervix a few times. The third time is one that will last in my memory for a lifetime. We held each other’s eyes for the majority of the time, and it seemed he needed to be as close as possible, sitting inside me well after we orgasmed together. I stomp out the memories. I’m too upset for more than one reason.

“Don’t you ‘Hello Amelie’ me. I know what you’re doing here. How could you get Amelie Boudreaux in bed, mess with her head, then go straight to my asshole father?” I get closer, my pointer finger hitting him right in the chest as I lay into him. My radar on picking a good man is obviously off, unlike Eden, who is now completely and totally head over heels in love with her judge. Sadly, it doesn’t look like the man in front of me will ever be that for me. It’s not like he gave me the slightest clue that he was Mister Forever, more like Mister Right Now.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I take a step back at his question and see the flare of anger in his eyes. Me backing up is what’s making him upset, unlike me raising my voice.

“What do you mean, what am I talking about? Boston, who can’t so much as use a phone to text and say hey, I’m going to buy your mother’s building from underneath her, that’s what I’m talking about!” Shit, I did not want to show my cards. A poker player I am not. I could have used the phone as well. Him leaving without so much as a goodbye made me lock my cell each time I hovered my thumb over his name.

“You’re going to have to clue me in, Amelie. I’ve got no damn idea what you’re talking about.” He closes in on me, is moving closer. I have to take two steps for every one of his. The only scents around us are that of the river and the unique scent of the domineering man in front of me. My back meets the brick wall of my great-grandparents’ building. The heat coming from both the building and Boston does little to calm my rapidly beating heart.

“My father, the asshole you’re supposed to meet to buy this building. Ring any bells? It’s not like there are a lot of people with the last name Boudreaux running around in New Orleans.” My father is the last in the line to carry the family name. Good freaking riddance. If there were a picture under the termnarcissistin the dictionary, you’d find Noah Boudreaux the Third. The man will tear you down, not with his fists; that would mean he’d have blood on his hands, and he would never. Dear old dad likes to use his words, ruining your confidence with one biting sentence at a time.

“Amelie.” My name coming from his lips is harsh, unlike the times he’d say it when he was buried deep inside me, a long guttural groan. “Still not ringing any bells, beautiful. The last time I came down here, this place was listed for sale through an MLS, not some damn website. I emailed the listing agent, clearly having no idea you were tied to it in any way. I’ve got no clue what you’re trying to pin on me. I’d suggest you take a breath, gather your shit, and come at me with a clear fucking head.” This is where I’m going to blame my pregnancy hormones. Who cares if I only found out about the impending baby an hour or so ago? When Boston’s voice comes out deep and demanding, my body has no damn control over itself. Adding to the display of manliness is the way I’m caged in. His forearms are braced on the brickwork on either side of my head, and the knee he has wedged between my now spread thighs only enhances my desire for him. Even if my mind is shouting at me to run away, my traitorous body is melting for him.

“Boston.” I try again, this time running everything through my head, dissecting what he’s just told me. My head tilts back, the thud harder than I would have liked. Clearly, Boston isn’t a fan of it either because he mutters, “Christ, Amelie, no need to cause brain damage.” I ignore him, though, and close my eyes, taking a deep breath, once again listening to Boston’s voice of reason. I shouldn’t feel this hit to my chest. My heart shouldn’t ache. This is who Noah Boudreaux is, yet it still surprises me.

“Boston, this property isn’t for sale. It belongs to my mother. I’m not sure what my father thought he could get away with or how he could swindle his way by selling this out from underneath a family estate, but that’s who he is.” I refuse to apologize for the rage I sicced on him. It was warranted, even if I might have been in the wrong a teeny tiny bit.

“Yeah, well, I’m figuring that out. If I let you go, are you going to knee me in the balls? I’d like to have kids one day.” That sobers me up quickly. I’m still unsure how or when I’m going to tell Boston that I’m pregnant with his child. I only know that this isn’t a secret I’ll keep from him, at least not for long.

FOUR

Boston

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