Titan’s Addiction: Wall Street Titan: Book 2

Chapter 3

3

Marcus

Emma’s gray eyes are so huge I could drown in them, her freckles standing out in stark relief as all color leaves her already-pale face. Her curls are wilder than usual, floating around her head like a halo of fire, and her small, curvy body is stiff with shock as she stares at me from across the room, her equally stunned grandfather behind her.

“Hi, kitten,” I say calmly, even as dark anticipation boils in my blood, mixing with lingering fury and hurt. “Guess what? I wrapped up my work early and decided to surprise you.”

“He flew into the Daytona Beach airport and got here a half hour ago, can you believe it?” Mary Walsh exclaims, all but bursting from excitement. “I wanted to call you, but Marcus thought it might be more fun to greet you when you got here. We’ve been having tea and cookies and—”

“Excuse me,” Emma says tightly. Recovering from her paralysis, she marches toward me, grabs my arm, and faces her grandparents. “Marcus and I need to talk.”

Mary’s face drops as she realizes her excitement isn’t shared. “Of course, I’m sure you two need to…” I don’t hear the rest of what she says because Emma drags me out of the house. Not literally, of course—she’s tiny compared to me—but by tugging on my arm with enough force that I wouldn’t be able to resist without her grandparents catching on that my presence isn’t exactly welcome.

They must already suspect that as is.

Delicate fingers digging violently into my forearm, Emma tows me down the street until we’re two houses over and hidden from her grandparents’ eyes by the neighbors’ lush landscaping. Then and only then, she releases my arm and steps back, glaring up at me with so much fury each curl on her head seems to be dancing a jig.

“What the f**k are you doing here?” she hisses, little fists balled at her sides. “I told you it was over—”

“And I refused to accept it,” I inform her grimly—though what I really want is to grab her and kiss some sense into her. Or better yet, f**k it into her. But in deference to our public location, I say, “At the very least, you owe me an explanation.”

“You came all the way out here for an explanation? Have you not heard of an invention called the phone? You can call and text on it. Hell, you can even email.” Her tone is pure sarcasm, and it makes it that much harder to keep my hands off her delicious little body—which is clad in a pair of tight jeans and a tucked-in T-shirt, a basic outfit that nonetheless highlights her full, heart-shaped ass and nipped-in waist. The yellowish light cast by the street lamp, combined with the high humidity in the air, is giving her porcelain skin a soft, dewy glow, and I want to strip her naked and taste her all over, concentrating on the slick, tender folds between—

Fuck. Now’s not the time for that.

“Are you saying you would’ve actually responded?” I ask evenly, wrenching my mind away from the X-rated fantasy. I don’t need any more fuel for my craving; my c**k is about to punch a hole in my jeans as is. “Because I called you when I was on the way to the airport. Repeatedly—only to get your voicemail.”

Her chin juts out. “Maybe I would’ve. Either way, you had no business showing up at my grandparents’ house. How did you get here, anyway? All the flights into Daytona have been sold out for ages.”

A humorless smile curves my lips. “I have a private jet, kitten.” And a pilot who was able to change our flight plan from Orlando to Daytona Beach as soon as I realized the Daytona airport is closer to my intended destination. “As for showing up at your grandparents’ house, they invited me for Thanksgiving, remember?”

Her eyes widen at the mention of the jet, but then her eyebrows snap together. “That was before we broke up. If they knew—”

“But they don’t, do they? And you don’t seem in a big rush to tell them.” I c**k my head. “Why is that? Could it be you’re not as certain about your decision as you seem?”

“I am certain.” Her small fists tighten further, even as she takes an involuntary step back. “I told you, I don’t want to see you again.”

There it is, the contradictory body language I’ve been looking for. Stepping after her, I ask in a deceptively soft tone, “Why?”

She blinks up at me. “What do you mean, why?”

“It’s a simple question.” Raising my hand, I tuck a bouncy curl behind her ear. “Why don’t you want to see me again?”

“Well, because—because I don’t, okay?” She moves to step out of my reach, but I catch her hands in mine.

“Why?” I repeat, rubbing my thumbs over the insides of her wrists. Sure enough, underneath the silky skin, her pulse is racing. She’s not indifferent to me, far from it—which is why this decision of hers makes zero sense.

I’d never chase after a woman who doesn’t want me, but Emma does.

I’ve tasted her desire for me, felt it drip all over my lips and tongue.

“Why? Because we’re not compatible!” Yanking her hands out of my grip, she steps back, her chest heaving with visible agitation. “This isn’t going anywhere, so there’s no point in—”

“Not going anywhere?” Anger, hot and potent, rises in me, mingling with the lust pounding through my veins. I can see the outline of her bra underneath the thin material of her T-shirt, and my c**k throbs in my pants, demanding to be buried in her tight, sweet body. “What the f**k are you talking about? I asked you to move in.”

“Because you don’t want to deal with bridges and tunnels!” she all but shouts, stepping up and rising on tiptoes to get into my face. It’s a laughable attempt—she barely comes up to my chin—but the wind blows her curls to tickle my neck, and instead of amusement, I feel a hot stab of desire, a need so powerful it obliterates the remnants of my self-control.

Without a thought for the neighbors, I catch her face between my palms and bend down to kiss her—or more precisely, to devour her alive. I eat her mouth as if it were her p***y, sucking and licking every inch of her soft pink lips, sliding my tongue over her teeth, caressing the roof of her mouth, tasting and exploring every corner. There’s only a hint of bubblegum remaining on her breath—she must’ve chewed it right before I kissed her at the airport—but underneath is her own honeyed flavor, a taste and scent so addictive I know I’ll never get enough.

And if I convince her to move in, I won’t have to.

She’ll be mine to devour as I please.

At first, she’s stiff and passive, not resisting but not participating either, but then her hands slide into my hair, her nails digging into my skull as her tongue angrily pushes against mine. She kisses me with the same violent hunger that pulses through my veins, her body smashing against mine and her small teeth sinking into my bottom lip. The tiny jab of pain impossibly heightens my arousal, and with a low growl in my throat, I slide one hand down her back to cup her—

“And what do the two of you think you’re doing?”

The reedy voice is like a shotgun going off next to us. Startled, we spring apart and face the intruder—a tiny woman standing on the lawn in front of us who looks old enough to have been born during the Civil War. Dressed in a flowery robe that covers her frail body from neck to toe, she’s leaning on a walker and glaring at us, the few wisps that remain of her hair waving in the breeze around her deeply wrinkled face.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Potts,” Emma says breathlessly, pushing her curls off her face with an unsteady hand. It’s hard to tell in this light, but I’m pretty sure she’s blushing. “We didn’t mean to bother you.”

The old woman squints at her. “Emma? Is that you, sweetheart? And who is this?” Angling her walker toward me, she peers up at me. “Is this the young man your grandmother was telling us about?”

“Oh, um… yes. This is Marcus. Marcus Carelli. He’s—he’s visiting. From New York, where he lives, you know.” Emma is babbling, clearly off-balance, and despite the painful pressure in my balls, I can’t help but enjoy her discomfort.

It’s the least she deserves for putting me through the wringer.

Finally, I decide to take pity on her. Stepping toward her, I drape a proprietary arm around her waist and smile at the older woman. “I’m Emma’s boyfriend, here for Thanksgiving. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Potts. I apologize if we have bothered you in any way.”

She snorts and waves a gnarled hand. “Oh, it’s no bother. I thought it was the teenagers from down the street, up to no good as usual. You two go on now, do your thing. Just use condoms, okay?”

Turning, she shuffles toward her house, and I choke down a shocked laugh. When I glance down at Emma, however, she’s glaring up at me with renewed fury, no trace of amusement on her face.

“Boyfriend?” she hisses, pushing me away as soon as Mrs. Potts is out of earshot. “You are not my boyfriend.”

My own amusement vanishes. “That’s not what your grandparents think. In fact, your grandmother was ecstatic to learn you’re moving in with me. She worries about you living in the city by yourself, did you know that? Almost as much as she worries about the fact that you haven’t dated anyone since college. Before me, that is. She’s very happy we’re dating.”

For a moment, I’m almost certain Emma is going to deck me—that or explode on the spot. “You told my grandmother we’re moving in together?”

“I did.” I smile darkly. “Are you going to tell her otherwise? Ruin her holiday?”

I’m being a manipulative bastard, I know, but I’m fighting for us—and I have no intention of losing.

For a moment, Emma seems struck speechless. Then her temper goes supernova. “You… you ass!” Her curls are all but vibrating with outrage. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

My smile darkens further. “Your boyfriend, kitten. Soon to be your live-in boyfriend—at least as far as your grandparents are concerned. Unless, of course, you don’t mind telling them—and me—why exactly you want this to be over.”

“I told you. Because we’re not compatible,” she says through gritted teeth. “You want your perfect Emmeline, and I—”

“Emmeline?” A puzzle piece—one I would’ve never found on my own—falls into place. “Is that what this is about? Emmeline?”

Emma’s entire body stiffens, and I see it then—the pain underneath the outrage and anger. Her eyes are much too bright, glittering with unshed tears, and her chin is quivering ever so slightly.

She’s hurt—somehow, I hurt her—and all of this is in response to that.

Except what does Emmeline have to do with anything? I only had dinner with the woman once—the night Emma and I met through our Emma-Emmeline/Mark-Marcus blind date mix-up. The elegant lawyer might’ve been a good fit on paper, but we had zero chemistry, and throughout the dinner, all I could think about was the fiery little redhead I’d briefly mistaken for Emmeline. In fact, Emma only knows about Emmeline because on our first real date, she asked if I ever connected with the woman I was supposed to meet, and I told her the truth. We then talked about the matchmaker and what qualities I want my future wife to—

Oh f**k.

I can’t believe I’ve been so blind.

I, who have made a career out of connecting dots and seeing what everyone else is missing, have been oblivious to an answer written in large letters in front of my very eyes.

“Emma, kitten…” Moving slowly so as not to spook her, I capture her tightly balled hand between my palms. “Tell me something. Why did you send me away the first time? That Friday night when I broke down your door?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Why did you send me away that night?” I repeat. After she told me to leave, I’d been so focused on convincing myself it was for the best that I never really pondered why she did it. I suppose I assumed she shared the doubts I had about our relationship at the time, but I never explicitly articulated that to myself. “We were having a great time, and all of a sudden, you said it’s not going to work out and I should leave,” I continue. “Why?”

“Well, because… because it was the right thing to do.” With the shield of her anger dissipating, she seems so young and vulnerable that my chest swells with tenderness. “We’re not compatible at all and—”

“Not compatible how?” She already said that, and I ignored it as an obfuscating non-answer—but what if she meant it?

What if she took what I said on our first date to heart, and while my feelings on the matter have evolved with my growing obsession, her doubts about us have never gone away?

Her hand twitches in my grasp, her gaze sliding away from mine. “You know exactly how. You want a woman who’d be ‘an asset at social functions.’ Like Emmeline or… or Claire—you know, the politician’s wife from House of Cards?”

And there it is, the core of the matter.

I have never seen the show, but I know what she’s talking about, having come across an interview given by the actress once. The character she plays—a ruthless politician’s perfectly poised wife—is indeed how I’d always envisioned my future romantic partner. Except when I try to do that now, the picture refuses to form in my mind. All I can see is my little redhead, surrounded by her white, fluffy cats.

I don’t know what that means yet, but I know if I don’t convince Emma to give us a chance, I’ll never find out.

I take a deep breath. “Emma, kitten, listen to me—”

“Why are you doing this?” she bursts out, her gaze snapping back to my face. Her eyes are glittering brighter, the tears on the verge of spilling over. “Why are you here? Do you just like toying with me? One weekend you’re all in, the next three days you’re gone—”

“Yes.”

Her eyes widen at my callous answer, and I catch her other hand before she can punch me.

“Yes,” I continue, holding her gaze. “I like toying with you, kitten… Love it, in fact. I also love f*****g you. And I really, really love being with you. I love holding you as you sleep, and I love watching you as you eat. f**k, even the way you breathe turns me on. If I could, I’d toy with you day and night, keep you in my bed and at my side all the time. Because you are what I need, Emma. Not Emmeline or Claire or some ‘asset.’”

She’s staring up at me like she can’t believe her ears, and in a way, neither can I. But the very idea of dating another woman feels wrong, repellent even. Maybe in the future, if my obsession with Emma eases, I’ll resume my search for the ultimate trophy wife, but right now, all I want is the woman standing in front of me.

A woman I need to convince of that, as she’s already shaking her head in disbelief.

“You don’t… you don’t mean that.” Pulling out of my hold, she backs away. “It’s the chemistry talking, that’s all. We’re too different, too—”

“Are we, though?” Ruthlessly, I advance on her. “Because it didn’t feel like that last weekend. In fact—”

“Why did you disappear on Sunday then?” Her voice shakes as I catch her shoulders, stopping her retreat. “You forced your way into my life, made me feel like there was something meaningful between us, and then you were just… gone. No calls, no texts, nothing.”

“And that was beyond stupid of me. I’m sorry.” I’m not going to make any excuses; she’s right to be upset. The way I’m drawn to her is so powerful, so overwhelming, that it feels like an addiction—and when I realized on Sunday that I’d allowed it to distract me from my work, I used the emergency at the fund to embark on a detox of sorts. But I didn’t think about it from Emma’s point of view, didn’t consider her feelings when I decided to distance myself from her for a few days.

She gave me a chance, and I blew it.

Now I need her to give me another one.

“I’m sorry,” I say again when she remains silent, her gray eyes like dark pools in the dim light of the street lamp. “It won’t happen again, I promise you that.” And dipping my head, I kiss her once more—softly this time, sweetly. Or as sweetly as I can with a raging hard-on. It’s an apology kiss, a please-forgive-me gesture. That’s how I intended it, at least. But the moment our lips touch, I forget all about my intentions, so caught up in the taste and feel of her that my mind goes blank and my lust turns dark and feral. My hands move of their own accord, one to slide into her hair and the other to grip her hip, pulling her toward me as her head falls back under the hungry pressure of my lips—

“You two lovebirds coming in soon? Mary is heading to bed, and she wants to make sure you’re all set up for the night.”

Fuck. Suppressing an irritated growl, I lift my head and stare at Emma’s grandfather, who’s standing some twenty feet away and regarding us with what can only be described as a gleeful smirk. He must’ve come out to look for us and, of course, had to catch us just as I was about to remind Emma of what she’s missing.

Reluctantly, I let go of her, and she spins around to face him, blushing so hard I can see it even in this light.

“Gramps, hi! So sorry about that. We were just… We were going to… That is, we’ll be in soon, okay? Just give us another minute.”

Ted Walsh looks like he’s on the verge of laughter. “Sure. I’ll let Mary know.”

He heads back to the house, and I grab Emma’s hand, turning her to face me.

“Kitten, listen to me—”

“No, you listen,” she hisses, jabbing me in the chest with her index finger. “I will not have you playing games with my grandparents. This—whatever this is—is between us, and they have nothing to do with it, got it?”

“Got it,” I say, suppressing a smile. That fierce scowl on her face is f*****g adorable, it really is. And if this is heading where I think it’s heading…

“Fine, then.” She blows out a breath, some of her fierceness easing. “In that case, you can stay for Thanksgiving. Since you’re here and all. But”—she holds up her jabbing finger, teacher-style—“this does not mean we’re back together. It’s purely for my grandparents’ peace of mind. And I’m definitely not moving in with you. You’re going to stay here tonight, celebrate Thanksgiving with us tomorrow, and then you’ll have another emergency at your fund and leave. In the meantime, you’re going to keep your mouth zipped and let me answer whatever questions my grandparents have about us. Got it?”

We’ll see. “Got it,” I confirm out loud, and before she can change her mind, I head toward her grandparents’ house, her hand firmly in my grasp and dark satisfaction humming in my veins.

My angry little kitten doesn’t know it yet, but she just lost the biggest battle of the war—and I’m not leaving until I have her full surrender.