TEMPTATION - A Bad Boy Romance (13 page)

“You’re really petrified of sex, aren’t you?” he said, his demeanor seeming to harden with each passing moment.

“Petrified? Nope. But I know when I’m being strung along. I’m not one of your little groupies, sorry,” I spat.

“No, you’re really not,” he said, a little sadly.

I searched his face, desperate to find
something
there. Would he rush in and try to placate me? Tell me I was wrong and that he wanted nothing more than for me to trust him? What kind of a relationship could two people like us have, anyway? It would be a one in a billion chance, an airheaded Cinderella story. Unbelievable. Did I really expect that he would date
me
, an awkward idiot earning 25k a year? My shoes were scuffed second hand heels I had snatched from Goodwill, a $10 throwaway of some rich girl’s who had the life I really wanted. I was a hack. I had nothing but an old laptop that needed updates and a kitchen drawer filled with mismatched spoons and a sick cat and—

“It was my fault. I don’t know why I pushed you. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

My head hurt. I felt wounded, exhausted.

Without feeling myself doing it, I found my body leaving the room, and before I knew it I was outside in the chill, unwelcoming air. What was I expecting, anyway? Had I just blown it? But what would someone like Tom Hood, the Tom Hood, want from me? I came to this town to start a new life, one where
I
was in control, where I was worth something. I stood up a little taller. No, it was all too predictable. I wasn’t going to be sweet-talked by a billionaire with an 8-inch cock and the smile of a salesman.

I was better than that.

And I wanted
him
to think I was better than that, too.

Chapter Nine

The next day, I was in a dark mood. Money and power did weird things to people. And now, it was doing weird things to me.

On one side of the argument was my old friend Cassie, telling me matter-of-factly over cappuccinos that in this town, there was no getting around it, you simply
had to
sleep with a few important people here and there if you cared about your career. Men are just dogs, especially the rich ones, you see.

And what about the tar sands? What about all the nasty rumors? How could I trust someone who was so used to getting his way all the time, so used to simply
buying
whatever he wanted? What could I ever be to such a person but an object, something to collect and put in the cabinet along with all the other naïve girls?

But on the other hand…

I sat at my desk, sulky and miserable, dwelling on that tender look on his face as he stared up at me. At that moment, he seemed like nothing else in this world but a warm, loving, happy being who was devoted to nothing but my pleasure. And I
believed
him. Ah fuck. It wasn’t that his promises didn’t appeal, that I didn’t completely buy into this
just let go and trust me
spiel. I did. I really did. I just hated that I did. And I hated that now, on this dull Friday morning, I was on my own again, ego bruised somehow, wishing heartily that I wasn’t an idiot and had had the guts to just…

Penelope would want my final draft soon for the Saturday edition. I stared for a long while at two separate documents in front of me. One: a subtle, half-praising, generous account of the hidden Tom Hood, the man that nobody knew about, the complex mind behind the fame… the other: a damning snark piece, delivering blow after blow of cutting criticism, snippy one liners, all dripping with the implication that not only was Tom Hood as bad as he was portrayed in the media, he was even
worse
.

So, which was he?

And how could I, a 23-year-old junior writer, be the one to decide? He had sniped the weakest link in our company on purpose, had tried to sleep with her and bullshit his way to a flattering piece …for what? Ego? For fun?

The thought made me shudder.

I quickly tapped out an email and sent the second article to Penelope.

Fuck him.

Chapter Ten

“I forgive you. Don’t worry about it. I understand why you did it,” he said.

I sat opposite him, prickling. This wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, true. By now, the article had been printed and was being read by thousands all over the country.

It wasn’t good.

But if I was being honest, I had in the back of my mind that I had hoped he would summon me again. Be angry, even. I wanted to look him in the face, with my clothes
on
, and tell him that no matter how rich he was, or how powerful, there were just some things in life he couldn’t have.

I had blustered into his house, again, this time shaking with my newfound arrogance and the conviction that I was right. Not just right, but that I had seen through a very transparent bit of manipulation on his part, and now I would have my chance to gloat a little. I felt bad. Sure. I wasn’t a monster. There
was
something so sweet and open in his face the last time we had met, something so touching and trusting in his plea for people to be open with each other …too bad it was complete bullshit. He didn’t have to know that I was still crushing on him, still a little bewitched by that moment by the fire.

“I did it because
it’s the truth
. I never agreed to write a promotional piece,” I said.

We were in yet another room of the grand house, an airy terrace room filled with palms and what I guess rich people think counts as low-key. I had always known that I would find my way from rags to riches one day …just, not like this.

“Do you really believe that? Do you
really
believe everything you wrote about me?”

I was totally taken aback by how unguarded he seemed. I had expected him to be vengeful, and to scoff at me or even threaten me with legal action …anything but this, really. Instead, he looked hurt, his broad frame crumpling a little in the wicker chair. I looked out the window, saying nothing.

“I guess I misunderstood you. I’ve been going on and on about how you should trust me but honestly, maybe
I
shouldn’t have.”

It had never occurred to me that he was struggling to trust me. That he had any vulnerabilities at all, actually. Some of my indignation was beginning to feel a bit much.

He looked out the window, too, face contorting a little.

“I’ve been reading your pieces for a long time. Before you wrote for that stupid rag, too. That piece about Syria you wrote last year? I loved that.”

How did he get a hold of that?

“I thought that you were …that you would understand, that you would write something that… I don’t know. I’m not good with words. But
you
are. You know what it’s like to come from nothing.”

Here he looked at me again, imploringly. What on earth could he know about me?

There was a long silence.

“Do you remember that convenience store on the corner of Charles and 28
^th
? That one that had that weird cigarette lighter on a string on the outside?” he blurted all at once.

“What?”

“I think it was Patak’s or Patel’s or something. You must have gone there loads,” he continued.

It was Patak’s Supermarket. I remembered it well. It was a permanent landmark of my long-forgotten childhood, from a time in my life that I had gleefully forgotten, pretending it didn’t exist.

“How do
you
know about that?” I said quietly. “Oh my God, have you been snooping on me or…?”

My head was spinning. Things were taking a decidedly unexpected turn.

“What? No way. I mean, I could if I wanted to. But no,” he said, returning his gaze to the window, an unreadable expression on his face.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. I felt like shit. Why had I published that trash about him? What had he done, really, to deserve it? Was I so broken? So badly mistrustful? What was wrong with me anyway?

“I grew up in the same town as you,” he said eventually.

“What? In Little Falls? No way.” This was bizarre.

“Yeah. We went to the same school actually.”

“That’s …not possible. That was a tiny school, there was no Tom Hood there…”

“Yeah there wasn’t, I changed my name when I was 18.”

My mind raced, trying to put everything together.

“Phillip Hellman. You probably won’t remember me. But I remember you.”

“But …but your father? You inherited all that money--”

He sat up and began speaking clearly, like he was reciting lines, or giving a statement at a police station.

“My father died when I was a baby.
I
created all the other stories. On purpose. It was deliberate. But none of it’s true. I never inherited a cent, not from anyone. I killed a man, when I was 16, and went into juvenile detention for a year and a half. I ran over him with my car by accident, they wanted to try me as an adult but they didn’t, thank god. It was the most awful time in my life. I ran away, I reinvented myself. I made a lot of mistakes. Turns out, I’m good at making money, too…”

He looked at me with a question in his eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He went on.

“And so I did that. I forgot about my past, and I did well for myself.
Really
well. The rest you already know, I guess.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Who else knows about this?” I asked eventually.

“Nobody. My mother knew, but she passed a few years ago. Nobody else knows. Well,
you
do, now. I’m tired, to be honest. I actually found you by accident – long story – but I remembered you from school. You were a few years below me. It seemed like an amazing coincidence, that you had moved here, too. That you wrote about me. It was like …like …”

“Like a one in a billion chance,” I said.

“Yup,” he breathed.

We both took the next few minutes to blush and smile at each other like idiots. Everything was different. I didn’t know what next to say.

“Do you remember that awful piece of shit sports shed next to Mrs. Campbell’s class? The one everyone used to smoke in?”

“Yes!” he laughed, and clapped his hands together, “Oh my god yes! It was full of cockroaches, I remember. Did you have Mrs. Campbell? I heard she married a Puerto Rican guy eventually.”

“Yes, I heard about that too! So weird.”

His face had softened. Tom Hood had vanished. Now, there was someone else in front of me entirely. The effect was thrilling.

We spent the next hour – or was it many hours? – reminiscing about that shitty old school, and the people from Little Falls, and all the little snips of gossip we could both remember. I had only a dim memory of him – he had been a quiet, unassuming boy with mousy hair and good grades, but he had slipped under my radar for the most part.

“Like you were any better!” he laughed, “You were quite the dork, I remember it clearly,” he said and we both giggled.

Silence.

“Tom …Tom, I’m so sorry.”

He reached over and grabbed my hand in response, saying nothing. I felt in this gesture his complete and easy forgiveness, but I was still wracked with guilt at the
horrible
things I had said about him.

“No, really, I was just … I was afraid. I was scared you were just using me.”

“I know,” he said. We both looked at my hand in his.

All at once, I thought about his naked body again. This time, I felt like I could see right through, to the very bottom of the pictures I had seen, of the entire illusion he had crafted. I saw someone like myself, someone who had desperately erected a façade all around them.

I stared back into his eyes and found, at last, what I had been looking for during the last few days. It was there all at once, the same simple openness, only this time I felt nothing to prevent me from slipping and surrendering into it completely. I looked at him, with a gaze filled with yearning and vulnerability. We both knew, at that moment, that there was nothing to hold us back anymore. My entire body pulsed with the thought.

“Don’t leave,” he said, “We have all day.”

It was true.

The whole weekend spanned in front of us, like a red carpet, and it was nothing but me and this man, and his beautiful body. I was nervous, but this time my nerves seemed only to make things more delicious.

He leaned in, and kissed me. Slowly, meltingly. I had learned so much about him, it seemed, and now it was only natural that I explored him physically, too. My body ached with wanting to share
myself
. I kissed back, my tongue seeking him out, this strange man, this
strong
man.

I threw my head back, and he continued his kiss down onto my jaw, and then down onto my exposed neck, planting a hot string of soft kisses all the way down, then kissing the top of my breasts. I was breathing more heavily, my lungs hungrily taking in deep breaths to steady my growing sense of intoxication. He was now pressing the full weight of his body against mine, and the urgent insistence of his muscles made me limp and yielding, wanting nothing but to melt in his arms.

Seeming to sense this, he circled his big arms round me and held me tightly, breathing and kissing every piece of my exposed skin. I was in a blissful reverie, completely lost in the flow of kisses and breath, when he pressed hard against my hips, the obvious length of his cock suggesting more. I moaned, thrilled at what was happening to me, that soon there would be nothing between out bodies, keeping us apart. I felt drunk.

“You’re beautiful,” he said and the utterance felt like it nearly made me come right there and then. He smiled at the effect this had on me, pulling back a moment to take in my raptured expression.

“You
are
beautiful. You deserve pleasure. I want to give it to you. I’m so glad you stayed…”

This last part of his sentence disappeared as I kissed him hungrily, ready to assent to everything.

In an instant, he was tearing away at my shirt and yanking off my jeans, and I complied, wriggling out of them as fast as I could, then turning to him to remove every last shred of clothing from his tight, masculine body.