The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense (13 page)

I tip my forehead against the door, a palm on either side of my head. I control my breathing, settling my heart rate.

Once I have emotions together I move to the phone that I have just for Kandace.

It sits black and silent.

Insecurity snakes through my brain. I've felt fear at the hands of my perverted stepmother. I've felt ineffective rage with no place to go. I've felt lust and buried my prick in as many willing twats of the ilk that's allowed of my societal station.

But now I feel entirely new things, and I don't like any of the uncertain feelings and impulses consuming me.

But like a true addict, all I can think about is my next fix.

I swipe the screen to activate the cell. Half a minute passes, and I smile at my cleverness.

I send her one word:
movie.

Another half-minute goes by and I get one word back.

Yes.

A stupid grin stays on my face for the remainder of the day.

*

Kiki

I try not to let my excitement rule me.

I lose.

I squeal inside my condo and dance around. Chet's taking me to a movie!

I stop in the center of my tiny living room.

Maybe... this means he was listening to me?

Maybe not.

Oh my god, what do I wear?

I skip to my bedroom like some schoolgirl on her first date. But really, that's kinda what this is.

I can't protect my heart anymore. Not every man is a rapist.

Some men are good.

I just don't know if Chet is one of those.

I shiver as I undress.

Chet texts me details. Regal Cinema 16 at seven.

Some dude named Eugene will pick me up. In a limo.

I try hard not to be blown away by the opulence.

After all, I've been to Mick and Faren's about a million times, both the penthouse here in the Tower and his pad in Redmond. But that doesn't impact me personally.

Chet does.

My door buzzes, and I hit the intercom button, smoothing my short lipstick red skirt down for the millionth time.

“Yes?”

“Ms. King?” the doorman asks.

“Yes, Harry?”

“There's a Eugene here for you.”

My heart skips a beat. “I'll be right down.”

I grab a conservative black patent leather clutch I’ve paired with an inky black blouse, sheer black stockings, and pumps that match.

I have only the necessaries in my purse: key, lip gloss, twenty dollars and cell. Condom? No. I've screwed him six ways to Sunday. I snap it closed and hustle to the elevator.

I try to clamp down on my nervousness, but it's no good. I'm more excited than I've ever been. I feel as though I'm making a mistake, but I'm so damn sick of playing it safe. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I did break my promise to myself.

I remember Ax's worried expression. I bite my lip and exit the elevator.

Catching sight of Harry, I offer him a tight smile, and his white gloved hand rises in response.

I feel as if everyone knows I'm living a sham, that my life as an affluent girl-does-right in an expensive downtown condo is ready to get blown to smithereens. With a deep breath, I burst through the tall glass doors of the Millennium Tower.

Eugene is a good-looking older dude in a semi-formal uniform.

“Miss King?”

I hear a vague accent in his voice.

I nod stiffly, and he turns and opens the back door of an elegant limo. I smile and slide in.

Eugene closes the door, and I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I take deep, even breaths, trying to relax.

The drive doesn't take long, but my thoughts make it longer than necessary.

When we pull up in front of the theater, it's a ghost town. I don't see the normal crowd of people buying tickets, popcorn, and pop.

Eugene swings open the heavy door, and his hand appears. I appreciate the help.

No flashing the kitty.

I stand, and the wind makes me a little cold. I huddle in my cropped black coat, feeling like a dumb ass for choosing fashion over function.

Damn, it's going to be a cold night.

But I have to look good for Chet.
Choices, choices.

I turn to ask Eugene when he'll be back, but he points at the theatre doors. “Mr. Sinclair awaits you.”

I turn, and there stands Sin.

He's so gorgeous that looking at him is painful. My pleasure box swells just looking at him.

I walk slowly to the doors as his eyes undress me.

When I reach the entrance, I see the sign.

It's hand written, though the script is elegant.

I know instantly who wrote it.

My eyes bounce to Chet's, and he grins like as though his face will break.

I look at the word again.

Closed.

He unbolts the door and I step inside.

Kiki

Chet grabs me, letting the door shut behind us. Pulling me in tight he litters my mouth with one kiss after another.

I can't breathe. I can't kiss him back. I push against his hard chest, and he sucks me in tighter. His pure physicality and strength should frighten me, but I just want more. Rising on my tiptoes, I forget where I am. I wrap my arms around his neck, dig my fingers into his hair, and yank his head back.

“Ah,” he croons, jerking his head out of my grasp. “I like it.”

“What the hell?” I laugh against his seeking lips.

He pulls away, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders.

“Where is everyone? Why is the theater closed? I mean—it's Friday.”

“I bought all the seats,” he says casually, the side of his mouth pulling up.

What?
“You—you bought the theater out?”

He nods slowly, his finger tracing from my temple to jaw. I shiver at his touch.

“I—”

He puts his finger lightly over my mouth, giving me serious eyes.

“You wanted a real date.”

I nod.

“I have a confession.”

I knew it.
Here comes that other shoe. It feels as though it's falling all the way from the top of the Columbia Center.

“What?” I ask, still feeling the weight of his lips on mine from a minute ago.

“I've never been on a date,” he says with slow deliberation.

I retreat a step, plugging my hands on my hips. “Nope, not buying that freak you're selling. How old are you?”

His expression confuses me, sadness floating across his eyes like a shadow before it's gone.

“Twenty-nine.”

“Did someone just kill your puppy? What's that look for?”

“I don't want to talk about birthdays, Kandace.”

We stand there in the heavy silence, staring at each other.

“I just don't believe you've—wait a sec. What about Chloe? That luncheon thing wasn't a date?” I cross my arms underneath my breasts, giving him a disbelieving expression.

Chet laughs. It's real and instant. “No. That was duty. Dates are romantic.”

“Is this romance?” I ask, flipping out my palm.

He nods. “For me? Yes. It's the height of romance. As were the black roses.” Chet moves closer, suffocating me with a distance of inches. “The cell phone.” His face moves alongside my temple, his fingers sliding to the middle of my back. “My cock buried to the hilt inside you. Yes, it's romance—Sin style.”

My heart races, palms sweating.

I whisper, though no one's around, “I've never been on a date either.”

He leans back, and his gaze thoroughly searches mine. “Yet you've had sex.”

My soul's on the chasm of baring the dirtiest part of me.

Chet's eyes narrow. Some unspoken connection binds us. I don't know what it is, but for once I don't speak, don't break it, don't interfere.

He makes an instinctive guess. “You chose to have sex with me.”

I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

I give a single nod.

He catches a tear that falls, then his hands move to my shoulders.

“Did you choose the others?”

I understand the question exactly as it was asked.

I shake my head vigorously, the tears flinging away like tossed gems of sadness.

Chet says nothing as he pulls me against his body.

He's so warm, I never want to leave the shelter he provides. He’s raw, unfiltered, violent, and passionate.

He’s home. Somehow I'm safe.

With Chet.

*

“I can't say I'm in an eating mood, stud.” I gaze up at him from the popcorn pouring out of its fount under heated lamps. The waft of greasy butter reaches my nose.

“So what
are
you in the mood for, my vixen?”

I laugh at his expression. “That's a little like trollop, just sayinʼ.”

Chet shakes his head. “Not anything like, but it is an old-fashioned expression.”

“Yet you can be profane?” I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle.

“True.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Sometimes there's not a better part of speech than profanity.”

“Ha! I don't think cursing is a part of speech.”

He smirks. “One can dream.”

“You're such a
contradictio in terminis
, Chet Sinclair.”

I flutter my eyelashes.

“And you”—he dots my nose with a kiss—“sound very much the part of future lawyer.”

I dip my chin. “Yeah, sometimes lawyer-speak slips out.” I kick up my chin. “But yʼknow what?”

His smile widens in encouragement.

“I promised Faren I'd be all Erin Brockovich, and bring it with sexy, slutty,
and
smart. A chick can be both, yʼknow.”

Chet gives a sage nod. “I do.”

I throw my hands on my hips. “Are you being condescending, Sin? Pfft.”

I whirl away from him, and his strong hand latches onto my wrist, jerking me back to him. I stumble against him, hands slapping the tight planes of his chest.

“No.” His eyes flare with heat. “I'm seeing if you want popcorn and soda pop, Kandace.”

Our gazes lock.

“Oh,” I reply quietly. I stand there for a couple of seconds, but my eyes give me away.

Chet's eyes follow where I'm looking and land on the restaurant across the street.

“The Cheesecake Factory?” he asks with a chuckle.

I nod. “I'll save up to go there afterward.”

“Save up?” he asks with a lilt.

I smack my ass. “This is as big as my backside is getting, fella.”

He grabs my ass and hikes me against him. “I love your ass.”

“You don't want that skinny, model-like pancake ass? I'm all kinds of exotic and—”

“I want to bite every exotic inch. Whatever you are, I want it. All.”

Our hearts thump erratically together.

“If you don't select something to eat this minute, I will skip to dessert and fuck you on the floor,” he says.

I look at the sticky floor.

Yuk.

I laugh. “I think nothing for now, then cheesecake for later.”

Chet turns and hauls me to the counter, but no one's there.

He slaps the countertop with both hands, throws his legs over as though he’s jumping a fence, and tosses on a paper hat.

It's such an incongruous look for Chet that I hold my sides, trying to contain my laughter. It slips out anyway until I'm braying like a fucking donkey.

“What? You don't think I can scoop popcorn? I can scoop with the best of them,” Chet declares.

I gasp as he flings a popcorn kernel my way, and it lands at my feet.

“You're throwing food?”

“Why yes, Miss King. You're attitude needs improvement.”

My mouth hangs open as Chet scoops up hot popcorn into a huge container. “Extra butter to get that scrumptious ass a little wider.”

“Oh God, are you kidding?”

Chet waggles his brows. “The rich never kid.”

I lose it then. Staggering to the counter, I lean over and whisper like a conspirator. “What do the rich
do
then?”

His eyes meet mine. “We fuck beautiful, exotic women.”

He kisses me across the counter, the popcorn between us.

It's a million times better than flowers.