Claiming Chase: (A Second Chance Stepbrother Romance) (3 page)

From the way she’s looking at me, I know she’s given herself up to me. So why the fuck did I suggest going to a bar? Usually at this stage in the game, I wouldn’t waste any time. I’d take her straight back to my apartment.

But there’s something about this one.

Something is telling me to hold back a little.

Maybe it’s that feeling I get from her — strange and familiar all at once. And I realize that I don’t even know her name. I’m about to ask her when the waiter arrives at our table, interrupting my train of thought.

She looks across the small, candlelit table at me, as if for guidance, obviously unsure what to order. 

So I take control. Girls always love it.

“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks,” I say, “and a champagne cocktail for the lady.”

“Very good, sir,” the waiter says, leaving us alone once more.

“I can order for myself, you know,” she says, a hint of coldness in her voice.

“What?” I reply, caught off guard.

“The drinks menu?” she says, her eyes flashing with an expression I can’t quite read as she nods towards the slim, leather-bound book standing on the table between us. “I was planning on, you know, reading it and choosing something for myself?”

“My apologies,” I say, “let me fetch the waiter for you.”

“No, no,” she says, her face conceding a small smile. “I’ll let you off this time. I was thinking of something in that direction. Like I said, you have excellent taste.”

I guess I was right to suggest the bar after all. Because something about the way this conversation is going tells me I don’t quite have this as locked down as I first thought.

I mean, she’s not a professional virgin. That much is clear. But she’s probably one of those girls that makes a guy work for it. She’s gonna try to put me through my paces. I’ve been here before. And the best thing to do is to make her think she’s winning this game. I’ll pretend she’s making me sweat. But don’t worry. I’ve got this.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a smile. “I guess that was kind of old fashioned of me. But I can be an old fashioned guy. Listen, tell me more about yourself. What is it you study, exactly?”

“Perhaps I’m a bit old fashioned too,” she says. “I study the Nineteenth Century novel. I’m working on my PhD. But what about you? Aren’t you awfully young to be managing your own hedge fund?”

Damn, this girl’s good
.
But how does she even know that?

“And how do you know that that’s what I do?” I ask.

“Just a lucky guess,” she replies, just as our drinks arrive.

I take a long, slow sip of my scotch, savoring the way it burns my throat. I really needed this drink. And this little interruption gives me time to figure out what move to make next. But she breaks the silence before I can speak.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” she says, before taking a sip of her cocktail, too, looking me straight in the eyes.

Your move
, her expression seems to say. 

“Yes, you’re right,” I admit. “And yes, I am young. Particularly for a guy who didn’t grow up on the Upper East Side like most of my colleagues. I wasn’t born into this world. I fought my way in. I guess that gave me a hunger — a drive to succeed. I’ve only been operating for a few years, but I’ve got my eye on the prize. I’m going to take Parker Capital all the way to the top.”

Girls usually love this bit, too. They lap it up; imagining themselves installed in a Fifth Avenue penthouse, surrounded by diamonds and designer clothes.

But this girl?

All she does is raise a quizzical eyebrow at me.

“So you find all that satisfying, do you?” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Making money,” she continues. “Is that all that’s important to you?”

With the other girls? The correct answer would be ‘yes’. But I suspect that if I answered this chick in the affirmative, she’d be straight out the door and I’d never see her again.

“Of course not,” I reply. “Experience. Excitement. Adventure. That’s what I’m really after. Money? That’s just a way to make it all happen. And I’m looking for someone to share it all with.”

As I say these words, I realize I’m speaking the truth, and the game momentarily pauses. It might be the first true thing either of us has said all evening. We look at each other across the table, and it seems like she’s as shocked by my admission as I am.

And as I take in her hazel eyes, her rosebud lips and her pale complexion, all illuminated by the flickering candlelight, I think it again:
I know you from somewhere.

I could just ask her outright, but the game must go on.

“What about you?” I say. “Where did you come from? Where did you grow up?”

“Oh, the Midwest, you know, suburbia,” she says, batting the question away. “Nowhere interesting, anyway.”

Why is she being so vague?

“Then what brings you to New York?” I continue.

“Columbia has an excellent Literature program,” she says concisely.

This is weird. Girls usually love talking about themselves. All that
I want to hear more about you
bullshit. But once more, she’s not rising to the bait. I’ve gotta switch tact, but I’m running out of ideas here.

“Not exactly
talkative
, are you?” I tease.

“I guess not,” she replies.

Come on, give me something to work with here, I think frustratedly.

And then she knocks me sideways:

“Are you going to invite me back to your place or what?”

Damn
, I think with a smile.
Whatever I did, it must have worked.

“Sure,” I say, quickly downing the rest of my scotch and getting to my feet. “It’s just a few blocks away. Finish your drink and let’s get out of here.”

Why the hell did I say that?! Where did it even come from? But I just couldn’t help myself. He was so sure, so arrogant, so confident. He was laying out all his best moves, that much was obvious. And I guess I just wanted to show that I can get what I want, too, this time around. Even if he still doesn’t know.

And as we walk the few short blocks from the bar to his apartment, the night air so warm still, the streets so quiet, we seem to have settled into a surprisingly easy intimacy.

Now he’s no longer trying to win me, he’s acting more like the guy I remember, all those years ago.

Right now, he’s telling me about some of the people he works with, painting a picture that makes me laugh, despite myself.

“So yeah,” he continues, “Ivy League educations, but you wouldn’t believe the dumb shit that comes out of these guys mouths.”

And I’m laughing right along with him as all of a sudden we come to a stop, right outside a huge, imposing wooden door.

“Good evening,” Chase says to the doorman, who silently opens the door for us, then ushers us inside.

And just the
lobby
of his building takes my breath away. The first thing I notice is that there’s just so much space. There seems to be acres of marble floor, accessorized with black leather and chrome chairs, dotted here and there, not to mention the most enormous floral displays.

I knew that Chase had money now. I’m not stupid. I know what it means to manage a hedge fund, even just an up and coming one. And of course, I meant it when I said his suit showed he had a lot of money. But the reality is only just hitting me now. The surroundings are so different from the last time we were together. It’s like a completely different world.

I’ve not travelled quite so far. After all, I’ve still got the same stupid childhood teddybear on my bed in the cramped two-bed I share with my roommate Gabby, on the Lower East Side.

When I saw him last, I was in Tenth Grade, and I’ve
still
not left school. I can only imagine where he’s been, in all these years.

Damn, Chase
, I think.
You’ve really landed on your feet, haven’t you? I did not expect this.

He summons the elevator, and before I know it, we’re inside, speeding up towards his apartment.

The elevator may be fast, but I can’t get out of it quickly enough. It’s just too much, too soon, too close. I’m close enough to smell him — and it’s a heady, animal scent. I feel like I’m getting drunk on it, or maybe it’s all the champagne I’ve been drinking. I’m not used to drinking, let alone expensive stuff like that, and it must have gone straight to my head.

I need to be careful here.

I need to keep my wits about me.

And I resolve not to accept any more drinks, once we’re inside.

After what seems like forever, the elevator pulls to a halt and the doors slide open. Stepping out into the coolness of the corridor, I take a deep breath. The silence between us is deafening now. It’s like we both know where this is heading, and there’s nothing left to say.

I’m feeling way out of my depth, completely out of control. This was
not
what I had planned when I set out this evening. But I was stupid to think it would go any other way.

After all, isn’t this just like what happened the last time?

He opens the door to his apartment. It’s enormous, of course. And so masculine: grey walls, steel girders, bare brickwork, and huge ceiling-to-floor windows. But there’s almost no furniture. In fact, I can’t see anywhere to sit.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, when he registers my confusion. “I’ve only just moved in. Well, six months ago, but I’ve been busy. You know how it is. Drink?”

“Just water,” I say.

That’s it, Charity. Stay strong …

We walk over to the kitchen and he opens a refrigerator almost the size of my entire apartment.

“Wow,”  I say. “What a cliché.”

“What do you mean?” he replies, puzzled.

“The world’s biggest fridge, stocked with champagne, sparkling water. And no food.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I suppose it is. Maybe one day I’ll get around to ordering in some groceries, teach myself to cook. Perhaps after I’ve after I’ve found the time to buy a sofa …”

Now I’m the one that’s laughing. He’s got so much money, so much confidence, but I can see that not everything about him has changed. He obviously still needs someone to look after him.

He hands me an ice cold glass of mineral water.

“I might not have a sofa,” he says, “but I do have a bed. We can sit there.”

What is my resolve going to do with
this
piece of information? I didn’t count on this. It’s not like I can say, ‘No, let’s sit on the cold hard floor!’ I guess it’s just going to have to be the bed, and as he leads me through, I wonder whether this no-furniture trick is all part of his seduction technique. Because it sure is an easy way to get a girl into bed, and if it’s a trap? Well, I’m walking straight into it … And if I’m completely honest, it’s one I’m walking into willingly.

I can feel my body responding, despite myself. My skin flashing with goose bumps, my breath becoming shallow. I’m tingling all over and he’s not even touched me yet.

His bedroom is bare, but he wasn’t lying. There’s a bed, immaculately made up with crisp white sheets.

Either he has a housekeeper
, I think,
or he didn’t sleep here last night.

He sits down and I’m grateful for the sheer size of the bed, because at least that way I can put some distance between us.

The silence once more is deafening.

I know I should speak, say something, anything. Compliment him on his apartment. Whatever.

And as for Chase? He’s just staring straight at me, his eyes smoldering. In this cat and mouse game, I’m definitely the mouse. He’s got me right where he wants me, and it’s too much for my nerves to take.

I push myself to my feet.

“Excuse me a moment,” I say. “I just need to visit the bathroom …”

“Of course,” he says, a smile playing on his lips as he gestures to the door of the en-suite.

I feel dizzy and I wobble slightly on these unfamiliar heels as I make my way towards the bathroom door.

Once inside the dazzlingly bright marble bathroom, I turn the lock on the door for safety. I close the toilet lid, and sit down, all the while trying to catch my breath.

In, out, in, out …

I try to focus on my breathing, but it’s no use. My mind keeps flashing back — back to that basement rec room, back to the last time we were together, back to that fateful first kiss.

It’s like I can feel his hands on me all over again. The memories that were buried so deep, and for so long, now flooding back in a heady rush.

I look around the bathroom for a window, for an escape route.

We’re on the forty-fifth floor but I honestly believe I would climb out of a window right now if it meant I could get out of here, away from his intoxicating presence.

But there is no window. So I just sit here, frozen, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.

Time doesn’t make sense to me anymore. And I’ve no idea how long I’ve just been sitting here. But I can hear something from the bedroom. Chase is stirring. So I get up and walk over to the basin. I run the cool water over my wrists, and look at myself in the mirror.

Get it together, Charity
, I tell myself.

And then there’s nothing else for it but to dry my hands and face the music. I reach out to open the door, then gasp.

He’s standing right there before me, his face just inches from my own.

“You made me jump,” I say, heart pounding.

“You were gone so long, I was worried about you,” he replies.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little dizzy, that’s all. I don’t usually drink champagne.”

“Can I get you anything?” he says, his face a mask of concern. 

“No, really, I’m fine,” I repeat, saying the words again in an attempt to make them true.

He lifts his hand to my face, and ever so softly, he gently strokes my cheek, my whole body seeming to respond so powerfully just to this slight touch — as if every single nerve is tingling.

Right now I’m anything but fine.

I know I should run, but I just can’t leave him. I never could.

I close my eyes and wait for it ...

And sure enough, I feel his lips brush against mine, softly at first then harder, more urgent.

I hold myself back as long as I can.

He’s kissing me passionately now, but still, I hold back as much as I can.

He runs his fingers gently through my hair, and murmurs, “You’re so beautiful,” and all of a sudden I’m not holding myself back any longer. It’s like a dam bursts, and with great force I’m pushing myself back against him, hard as I can, moaning into his mouth as I return his kiss, my whole body shuddering as we slam up against the wall of the bedroom.

It’s almost too much to take. I’m grinding myself up against him now, the hard muscularity of his body crushing against the soft curves of my own.

His leg has moved between my thighs, and I grind myself hard against it, feeling my clit throb hard, my fingers slipping between his legs now, registering with a shudder just how ready
he
is too — feeling the sheer heat and hardness of him through the soft cloth of his pants.

And as I stroke the hot bulge of his cock with trembling fingers, his own hands have moved to my breasts, cupping them through the flimsy material of my dress, his thumbs brushing against my stiffening nipples, all the while our tongues flicking as we kiss, our breathing so hot and heavy.

This doesn’t feel like a game anymore - this is just two people, desperate for each other, as desperate as if the world is about to end.

I’ve just about unbuckled his pants, my fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his briefs, brushing first past the cropped fuzz of his pubic hair then curling around the thick, rock-hard shaft of his cock.

He groans as I begin to stroke it, his tongue pushing deep into my mouth, and he presses me even harder against the wall of the room.

I feel his hands move from my breasts to my legs now, urging me to throw them around his waist. I part my thighs wide, feeling the fingertips of his right hand grazing slowly past my knee and over my thigh, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake, before roughly pushing my dress back and up, right up around my waist.

His hand slips between my legs then, causing me to groan and shudder, as his fingertips find the hot wetness right at the center of me, tugging my panties to one side as he works two fingertips so easily inside me, his other hand grabbing my ass, helping my thrusting motions as he plunders my wetness, the deliciousness of the sensation taking me back — right back to that rec room, back to the very last time I saw him, eleven years ago.

What happened in that moment?

Why did he leave me?

What did I do wrong?

So many questions, but all I know is that I’ve not been able to get that moment out of my head since ever since.

I came here for
answers
, not for this. And all of a sudden I’m that abandoned fifteen year old girl again.

I can’t be here. I can’t do this with him right now. I have to leave.

I pull my hand from his briefs before pushing him off me, hard. He stumbles backwards, and it’s obvious for a moment that he doesn’t understand. He’s still looking at me, hungry, ready for the next stage, ready to push me onto the bed.

But I shake my head, quickly tugging my dress back down over my thighs.

I’ve thought about running into Chase hundreds of times in the past eleven years. And in my head, I’ve always got the perfect thing to say. And now it’s really happening, there are no words.

Instead I just run for the door.