Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

THERE’S NO VERSION OF THIS WHERE I LET GO

CAL

I'm coming down from the best blowjob of my life, staring into the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, ready to bask in post-orgasmic bliss with the woman who just wrecked me.

And instead⁠—

I see rage.

Not actual anger, but fierce determination, unbridled passion, and unstoppable resolve flashing in Izzy's eyes as she sits up like she's been possessed.

And then⁠—

She launches herself at me.

"WHY," she wails, her hands on my shoulders, toppling me over as I barely manage to brace myself before we hit the floor with a thud.

I grunt, blinking up at the ceiling, Izzy fully on top of me now, her knees bracketing my hips, her palms pressed against my bare chest as she glares down at me.

"Why what?" I ask, half laughing, half wheezing because she did not hold back.

"WHY WILL YOU NOT SLEEP WITH ME?"

I blink.

Then, I laugh. Full-on, deep-belly, can't-fucking-breathe laughter.

She slaps my chest.

"Cal! This is not funny!"

"It's kind of funny."

She glares harder, scowling. "Do you hate me?"

I grab her wrists, flipping her onto her back in one swift move, pinning her beneath me.

"Yeah, Izzy. I hate you so much that I spent half an hour worshipping your body with my mouth."

Her cheeks flame, but she's not deterred.

"Then why," she grits out, thrashing beneath me, "are you denying me this?"

"Denying you?" I scoff, tightening my grip on her wrists, keeping her pinned to the floor. "Pretty girl, do you think I have any self-control left after what you just did to me?"

She narrows her eyes, shifting her hips beneath me.

I groan, my muscles tensing, my cock already stirring again, because of course, she's a fucking menace.

"Then what's the problem?" she demands.

I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my voice a gravelly whisper.

"Because when I finally take you, Izzy? You won't be able to walk the next day."

She freezes.

I tighten my hold on her wrists, dragging my nose down the side of her neck, inhaling her scent, her warmth, the lingering wine and sweat and sex on her skin.

"And once I do?" I continue, my voice a dark promise.

I let go of her hands, sliding my palms up her thighs, her waist, gripping her ribs, feeling the rise and fall of her breath beneath my fingers.

"There won't be a moment where I don't need you," I murmur. "Every time you walk into a room, I'll clear it just to bend you over the nearest surface."

Her body trembles. I drag my thumb over her bottom lip, pressing just enough to make her mouth part.

"You'll be begging for a break, pretty girl," I whisper. "So enjoy it while you can."

She shudders beneath me, eyes dark and wide, her need practically vibrating off her skin. She's writhing, already soaked, already mine—and every instinct in me screams to take her. Right here. On the floor. Hard and messy and ruthless.

I could flip her over, press her down, make her take every inch until she forgets how to speak. I could fill her so deep she'd still feel me tomorrow.

But I won't.

Not yet.

Instead, I sit back, grinning, then lean in to kiss her deeply, tasting the frustration, the heat, the delicious fucking anticipation.

She huffs, glaring at me when I pull away, her pout lethal. "You're evil."

I chuckle, scooping her up easily, throwing her onto the bed. "Get in bed, pretty girl."

She crosses her arms. "For what? So I can just suffer while you keep denying me?"

I reach for the remote, flipping on the TV. "We've got Bridgerton to watch."

She groans. "I hate you."

"Good," I say as I climb into bed beside her. "Because I have a lot of thoughts about Anthony Bridgerton and I'm about to share every single one of them."

Her mouth falls open. "Are you– are you seriously about to analyze the show after what just happened?"

I shrug, stretching an arm behind my head, looking smug as hell. "I'm a man of depth, Izzy. Get used to it."

I sit on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of my phone illuminating the dark room.

Izzy is asleep, her body curled up in the blankets, her breath slow and steady. She fell asleep somewhere in the middle of our show, her head resting against my shoulder, the tension from dinner finally melting off her.

I should sleep too. But my mind is too wired, too restless. So I do what I should have done earlier.

I open Ryan's email.

I should have read this the moment it came through. But between family dinners, teasing Izzy, and not fucking her like I'm desperate to, I let it sit.

And now?

Now I don't like what I see. I scan the data Ryan sent over. Financial records. Employment history. A fucking offshore LLC.

Evan's income—or lack thereof—hasn't lined up for years. He got fired from his job a year into dating Izzy. But somehow, despite having no verifiable employment, he's still been receiving consistent deposits into an account linked to an LLC based out of the Cayman Islands.

Suspicious as hell.

And that's not even the worst of it. Evan's got a proclivity for hanging around women who work retail. That's what Ryan's flagged. It's not all the same, but most of the women he's been seen with have some connection to high-end stores.

I close my eyes, rubbing my temple, my grip tightening around my phone. This isn't coincidence. I know it's not. I don't have all the pieces yet, but what I do have? It's not fucking good. And I have a feeling Izzy was being used.

For what? I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out. As I continue reading, my phone vibrates, the screen flashing with an incoming call.

Dad.

I stare at it for a second, then slide out of bed, careful not to wake Izzy. I step into the other room, closing the door lightly behind me as I swipe to answer.

"Hey, Dad."

"Cal." His voice is gruff, a little rough from age, but steady as always. "Did I wake you?"

"Nah, you know I don't sleep much."

He chuckles. "Same."

Silence stretches until he clears his throat. "Got your text."

"Yeah." I rub the back of my neck. "Figured I should probably check in."

Another pause. Not uncomfortable, just... unfamiliar.

"How's the job?" he asks.

"It's good," I say. "Busy. Security's been a mess lately."

He grunts. "Yeah, retail'll do that."

Silence again.

"You... got anyone in your life now?"

I hesitate. Then, I say what I've never said before.

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I exhale. "She's... special."

Dad doesn’t speak right away, but I hear the shift in his breathing, the way he takes that in.

"That’s good, son," he says at last, his voice rougher than before. "That’s real good."

I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. "She's actually the one who told me to call you," I admit.

That gets another pause. Then, a soft chuckle. "She sounds smart."

"She is."

Another pause, but this time, it's comfortable. We talk a little more. Just small talk. Work. The weather. Simple topics. But it's the longest conversation we've had in years. And before we hang up, we promise to do this again. Sooner than next Christmas. I stare at my phone, my chest tight, a warmth settling there.

I turn back toward the bedroom and find Izzy standing in the doorway. She looks like she just woke up, her hair a mess, her tank top hanging loose on one shoulder, uncertainty in her eyes.

"Sorry," she murmurs, shifting slightly. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. I just needed some water."

I shake my head, smiling faintly. "I told you. No secrets."

The irony of that statement doesn't escape me.

She nods, rubbing her arms, and I step past her, grabbing a glass from the counter, filling it with water before handing it to her. She takes it, smiling softly. As we walk back to the bed, she murmurs, "I'm proud of you, you know?"

I glance at her.

"For calling your dad." She takes a sip, then looks at me over the rim of the glass. "I know that wasn't easy."

I don't know what to say to that. So I don't respond with words.

Instead, I kiss her.

Soft, slow.

Just a simple press of lips, a quiet acknowledgment.

When we crawl back into bed, she curls into my side, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. As she drifts off, she mumbles, "I can't wait to meet him."

And for the first time in a long, long time...

I fall asleep.

THIS IS NOT IN THE EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK

IZZY

Back in manager mode. It clicks into place easily, familiar and steadying. The rhythm of schedules, meetings, and check-ins gives me something to hold onto, a structure that keeps everything else at bay. The week off was necessary—forced, really—but being back at the store feels right. Messy, busy, full of problems to solve. But it's mine. And I’ve missed the chaos more than I want to admit.

The familiarity of it all soothes something raw inside me. The gleam of polished marble floors under carefully positioned lighting. The subtle scent of the store's signature fragrance wafting through the air conditioning. The quiet hum of exclusive clientele browsing through racks worth more than my monthly salary. This is my domain, my carefully curated world where I know exactly who I am and what I'm worth.

At least Amanda seems to have laid the groundwork for my return. Because if people do know about what happened with Evan—the arrest, the charges, the humiliating police statements—they're not saying a word about it. There are no pitying looks when I pass by, no awkward condolences whispered as I approach, no hushed conversations that suddenly stop when I enter a room.

Just business as usual.

And for that?

I owe her a very large bottle of tequila. Possibly two.

The click of heels announces her arrival before I see her. Amanda waltzes into my office with her usual dramatic flair, her tall frame adorned in a black pencil skirt and fuchsia blouse that somehow manages to look both professional and slightly dangerous. She's holding her tablet against her chest.

"Good morning, boss lady," she says as she drops into the chair across from my desk. She settles in, crossing her legs and raising an eyebrow at me.

I smile. "Is it though?"

She grins, a flash of perfect white teeth against crimson lips. "We'll see."

I straighten in my chair, adjusting my posture from exhausted to professional in one practiced movement. I glance at the daily schedule she's pulled up on her tablet, the screen glowing with color-coded appointments, deliveries, and staff rotations.

"So what's the damage today?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever retail nightmare awaits me. In this business, catastrophe is always lurking just around the corner—a delayed shipment, a difficult client, a staff member calling in sick at the worst possible moment.

"Well, our VIP shoppers will be here soon," Amanda says, scrolling through her tablet with perfectly manicured nails. "They booked a private shopping experience for their entire group, and we're fully staffed for it." She looks up, her expression reassuring. "No major hiccups this morning—yet."

I scan the list of names attached to the booking, my eyes narrowing as I recognize a few. These aren't just any VIPs—they're the type who expect the world to bend around them, who treat retail workers like servants rather than professionals. The type who demand the manager, not because they need one, but because they can.

Just what I need on my first day back.

"Great," I mutter, setting the tablet down on my desk with a soft thud. "They're totally going to ask for me."

Amanda’s eyes twinkle with mischief. "Obviously. Who wouldn't want the Izzy Russo experience?"

I shoot her a glare that would wither most people, but Amanda just absorbs it like sunlight. "Be serious."

She shrugs, flipping her tablet shut with a decisive click. "I'm sure you can handle them." Her voice softens, takes on a teasing edge. "Cal's been giving you lessons, hasn't he?"

My body responds instinctively to his name—a subtle warmth spreading through me, a quickening of pulse that I hope isn't visible on my face. I roll my eyes, my lips twitching despite my best efforts to maintain my professional façade. "And what exactly are you implying?"

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, her entire posture a physical manifestation of gossip about to be shared. "Oh, nothing," she drawls, drawing out the word like taffy. "Just that you seem… different."

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how easily she reads me. "Different how?"

"More confident. More assertive. Looser."

I raise a brow, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Looser?"

Amanda winks, her eyes sparkling with suggestion. "You tell me."

I throw a pen cap at her, a childish gesture that betrays how off-balance she's made me feel, but she dodges effortlessly, cackling as the plastic bounces harmlessly off the wall behind her.

Before I can fire back a response that would surely be inadequate, a voice crackles through my earpiece.

“Izzy, we need you on the floor."

I push back from my desk. "Guess I'm up."

Amanda waves me off, settling more comfortably into her chair. "Go be a boss. I'll be here, holding down the fort." She picks up my discarded pen cap and places it neatly on my desk, a small gesture of order in the chaos to come.

Midday brings the store to life. Shoppers drift between carefully curated displays, their voices overlapping with the low sweep of classical music that plays just loud enough to fill the silence. The lighting is intentional, casting everything in the best possible version of itself.

I weave through the aisles with practiced ease, stopping occasionally to straighten a display or check in with a staff member. My smile is polite, professional, the right balance of friendly and distant that high-end retail demands. I make my way toward the personal shopping suites, rehearsing greetings and contingency plans in my head.

And that's when I feel him.

I don't even have to see him to know he's close. My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly alert, like my body is a compass and he's magnetic north.

Cal has this energy—commanding, possessive, electric. It's like he exists in my peripheral vision before I even turn my head, like the air around him is charged with something only I can feel.

His dark button-down stretches across broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, the fabric expensive but not flashy. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to expose his tattooed forearms. His hair is slightly tousled, like he's been running his hands through it.

I try to keep it professional.

I really do.

I attempt to maintain the same composed expression I've worn all morning, the same measured pace as I cross the floor, the same polite nod I give to all my colleagues.

But the moment I move past him, his hand snags my wrist—calloused fingers wrap around me and suddenly⁠—

I'm against the wall.

Cal's body presses against mine. His chest rises and falls against mine, his breath slightly uneven, his eyes darkened with desire.

His lips crash into mine without warning, hungry and deep, his hands gripping my waist like he can't stand for us to be apart. There's no gentleness in this kiss—it's raw, primal, full of the pent-up energy of hours spent apart but aware of each other's presence.

I gasp into his mouth, my fingers fisting the material of his shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric. My heart hammers against my ribs as I feel his restraint snapping, the careful control he usually maintains slipping away like water through fingers.

He pulls back, just enough to murmur against my lips, "I've missed you today."

His voice is rough, deeper than usual, sending shivers down my spine. This close, I can see the way his pupils dilate as he looks at me.

I’m playing at a confidence I don't entirely feel. "We've both been a little busy."

He tilts his head, eyes dark, lips brushing against mine as he murmurs, "Doesn't mean I didn't want to drag you somewhere and keep you to myself."

Heat surges through me, low and heavy, making my knees threaten to give. But I play it cool, lifting a brow in challenge, refusing to let him see how completely he’s unraveling me.

"Well," I say, running my fingers down his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the thin fabric, "you can keep missing me until you fuck me."

Cal goes still.

His body goes rigid, eyes flashing wide before narrowing with lethal focus.

There's something feral in him, barely restrained.

"Be careful with what you say, pretty girl."

The nickname sends a fresh wave of desire through me, but I hide it behind a challenging smile. I bite my lip, watching his eyes track the movement, and arch into him just slightly, pressing my body against his in silent invitation.

"Why? What will you do?"

His body is taut against mine, wound up and vibrating with restraint—like the only thing keeping him from snapping is me, right here, under his hands.

The earpiece crackles to life again. I groan, frustration and desire mixing into a sound that's almost pained.

Cal mutters a curse, pressing his forehead against mine for half a second before stepping back, creating space that feels like miles after the intimacy of moments before.

My body protests the sudden absence of his heat. He recovers his composure faster than I can, though the tension in his shoulders tells me he's no less affected. "Go on, boss. Handle your VIPs."

I smooth my blouse, trying to regain some semblance of professional appearance. "Fine."

I push past him, forcing myself to walk away—even as my body screams at me to stay, to lock the door, to forget about clients and sales and responsibilities.

The VIP clients are already a handful from the moment I step onto the sales floor. The carefully orchestrated atmosphere of exclusive shopping has been disrupted by their presence, the elegant quiet replaced by too-loud conversations and demanding requests.

There are more of them than were originally booked, at least three extra bodies crowding the already limited space. The entire energy of the floor is off. The usual smooth, high-end shopping experience is suddenly chaotic. Too many people, not enough personal shoppers, and a growing tension as clients start getting restless, their expectations of immediate attention not being met.

I do my best to keep the situation under control, my manager smile firmly in place as I circulate through the floor. I coordinate with my team, delegating where I can, reassigning associates to balance the workload. Daniel is working overtime trying to juggle multiple clients at once, his usual meticulous attention now split between too many demands. Amanda is in the back frantically trying to pull more inventory to accommodate the unexpectedly large group, and I'm circulating, smoothing over ruffled tempers with polite smiles and reassurances that feel increasingly hollow.

But there's only so much we can do with limited staff and unlimited expectations.

A woman—one of the VIPs—snaps her fingers at me as I pass. The sound is sharp, imperious, the gesture one would use to summon a dog. I grit my teeth before turning with a smooth expression that betrays none of the irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

"Yes, ma'am?"

She's draped in designer clothes, dripping in her face a mask of entitled dissatisfaction. "This isn't what we asked for," she says harshly, gesturing to the item in her hands with barely concealed disdain. "It's too small. I need a different size."

I exchange a glance with Daniel, who is already knee-deep in handling two other clients, his usual calm demeanor starting to fray at the edges. His eyes plead with me silently, begging for rescue.

"I'll check the stockroom," I say smoothly. "And I'll get another shopper down here to help as well."

Daniel nods, his relief clear in the slight relaxation of his shoulders, the small exhale that escapes him.

"Thank you," the woman says, but it's not grateful. It's demanding, expectant, like she's simply acknowledging that I'm doing what I should have done already.

I turn and head toward the storage room, exhaling as soon as I'm past the displays, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly now that I'm out of sight. My professional mask slips just a fraction, allowing the irritation to show on my face for a brief moment.

This is a mess. A complete and utter disaster that will take hours to clean up, both literally and figuratively.

I push open the door to the stockroom, stepping inside the cool, quiet space, already pressing on my earpiece to call for backup.

Something behind me causes me to turn, and I freeze.

Two men—VIP clients I vaguely recognize from earlier—have followed me in. They stand between me and the door, blocking my exit.

I touch my fingers to my earpiece, my heart rate accelerating though I'm not sure why. There's no reason to be afraid. They're just clients. Maybe they're impatient. Maybe they think I'm not moving fast enough. Maybe they just want to see the inventory for themselves.

Why?

"There was no need to follow me," I say, forcing a calm, professional tone that betrays none of the unease creeping along my spine. "I'll be out in just a minute with your item."

Neither of them move.

Neither of them speak.

They just stand there, watching me with an intensity that's more than just impatience or entitlement. It's something darker, something purposeful.

The hair on my arms prickles.

Something isn't right.

A third presence appears behind me and suddenly a bag comes down over my head, rough fabric blocking out the light, the world going dark in an instant.

Before I can react, before I can scream or fight or run, a blow lands heavy against my ribs, stealing the breath from my lungs. The pain explodes through me, radiating outward from the point of impact, stealing my ability to think, to move, to breathe.

Pain like nothing I've ever felt before.

My body collapses, knees giving way, lungs refusing to work, every nerve ending screaming in protest.

And my world goes dark, consciousness slipping away as the floor rushes up to meet me.