Spin (The Indigo Lounge Series) (2 page)

I nod.

“Good.”

He kisses me again, then vaults out of bed, even more invigorated than he was twenty minutes ago.

I groan, convinced my body has completely melted into the sheets. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

He pauses halfway across the huge bedroom and glances back at me, a lock of sexily disheveled hair falling over one eye. “You getting up?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you’re doing laps in the pool with me.”

Before I can think up an adequate excuse, my phone pings. I grab it from the bedside table and shake my head with a little bit of relief when the see the diary alert.

“I can’t. My ballet class is in forty-five minutes, then I’m meeting a client for breakfast at nine. I need to hustle or I’ll be late.”

The look he sears me with holds equal amounts of irritation and adoration. “Tomorrow morning you do double laps. No excuses.”

“Yes, sir,” I respond, glad to be off the hook.

His eyes darken dramatically, but he shakes his head and continues to the bathroom.

I relax into the pillows, my thoughts tumbling like dominos onto the other bone of contention between us.

Swimming.

Zach loves it. I’ll go as far as to say he’s obsessed with it. After all, it was his refuge during his high school years. Difficult years when his mother was more interested in pursing sexual gratification with as many men as possible rather than be a parent.

Swimming is a salvation he pursued all the way to nationals. He excels in a wide range of sports, but swimming will always be his first love.

Whereas I... I
hate
it.

I’ve tried to love it again after meeting Zach. During our time in Marrakech, after he persuaded me to ditch the once-in-a-lifetime Indigo Lounge trip I won via his company’s sweepstake, he initiated a plan to help me get over my fear of water.

Initially, his efforts worked. I wasn’t comfortable with swimming, but I elevated myself from bone-deep terror to treading shallow water. But at some point my progress plateaued. And lately, with each visit to our indoor swimming pool downstairs, the memory of being held down under water, of being nearly drowned by my next door neighbor in our family pool a decade ago, plagues me.

I know Zach is less than thrilled with my unwillingness to face my fears head on, but he hasn’t pushed me on the subject. Yet.

My phone beeps a second reminder and I reluctantly get out of bed. My legs shake a little when I stand. I chuckle as I head to the bathroom. Zach likes to leave me with a reminder of his possession, and this time is no different. I probably won’t be able to cross my legs at any point during my work day.

He enters the bathroom from the adjoining dressing room wearing his swimming trunks, and freezes when he sees me.

His gorgeous eyes rake me from head to toe. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

Hand on the shower stall door, I pucker and blow him a wet kiss.

He lunges for me and I dance out of reach, closing the door firmly behind me. “No! Madame Gabor will kick my ass if I’m late again. My ears are still ringing from being berated last week.”

Like a magnet, his gaze drops to my ass, and I hear his rough groan. Zach’s obsession with that sizeable part of my anatomy is a huge turn on. I spent years being embarrassed by my big butt. His singular fascination with it shocked me, but since the second we first met, that obsession—and everything to do with my body—hasn’t waned one little bit.

I feel him watching me through the glass as I turn on the shower. My body is tingling with renewed arousal, and I know one single glance at him will mean I’ll be late. So I keep my face averted, grab the shower gel and squirt a load in my hand.

The sheer power of his arousal reaches through the glass, wraps around me. My breathing stalls and my hands shake as I wash. The ache between my legs escalates. I’m dying to touch myself, but I dare not.

I wasn’t lying about Madame Cecile Gabor. An ex prima ballerina, now a ballet instructor with a steel trap where a heart should be, she warned me that another tardy arrival would see me back on the probationary list—with any further breaches resulting in expulsion from the class. After being on her waiting list for six months before even setting foot in the first class, I wasn’t about to risk being kicked out any time soon.

Ironically, the person who would be responsible for me getting kicked out was the person who found and signed me up with Madame Gabor in the first place.

After discovering my love of ballet and that my thwarted dream of becoming a ballerina was owed to the size of my butt, Zach encouraged me to take it up again solely for my pleasure. Madame Gabor’s School Of Balletic Excellence was the result. She works her students hard, but I love it.

“
Jesus
.”

I jerk into focus and realize my hands are pressed into my breasts, caressing my heated flesh as my mind wandered.

Unable to help myself, I flick a glance at Zach. His face is a mask of dark, incandescent hunger, his eyes pools of ravenous lust.

“Let me in, baby,” he pleads. “I need to be inside you.”

I bite my lip, every cell in my body yearning to do just that, but knowing I have to deny myself. “Please, Zach.”

His jaw clenches hard before he spikes rough fingers through his hair. “You owe me big for this.” He heads for the door, but swings round abruptly and points a finger at me. “And tell Gabor to stay the hell away from your ass or I’ll end her.”

He glares at my cheeky giggle, then slams out of the bathroom. Freed from his dominating presence, I hurry through my shower, glad I had the wherewithal to pack my work attire and ballet shoes before heading to bed last night.

After brushing my hair and catching it in a knot atop my head, I slip on my leggings and indigo leotard. Trainers and a leather jacket complete my dressing, and I locate my purse before leaving the bedroom.

I head down the hallway and hear Zach in the kitchen. I walk in as he’s pulling items from the fridge. The bowl of fresh fruit he normally has after he swims is sitting on the breakfast island, which means he’s postponed his session in the pool till later.

“Sit. Eat something,” he rasps.

I take in the muesli and fresh orange juice, and I hide a grimace. “I can’t, Zach. I need to go.”

“Dammit!” He shuts the fridge with a little more force than necessary. “First I don’t get to fuck you in the shower, and now I can’t have breakfast with you?”

I know that pointing out how many times he’s fucked me in the last twenty-four hours will only make things worse. He’s spoiling for a fight, his aggression spilling over from his unhappiness with the state of my noncommittal to a wedding date.

Right now, a hasty retreat is my only option. But I drop my purse and the case holding my work clothes and walk to where he’s leaning against the counter. I slide my arms around his neck and spike my fingers through his hair. “Tonight, you can feed me, then have me as many times as you want.”

His nostrils flare. “We haven’t been in the Toy Room this week.”

Excitement liquefies my insides. “Then take me there tonight.”

Rough hands slide over my waist and grip my ass. “Count on it, Peaches.”

He slants his mouth over mine, taking and delivering heart-stopping pleasure. Then he sets me away from him in a jerky motion. “Go kick ass. Philip will drive you. And call me when you get to work.”

I step back from him, my heart overflowing with love. “I love you hard, baby.”

Grey eyes snap fire at me. “You better. It’s the only thing in this fucked up situation that’s saving your ass from a spanking.”

Smiling, I turn away, pick up my stuff and head for the door, only to find he’s prowling behind me. We exchange another hot kiss at the penthouse’s private elevator. I press the button for the ground floor and watch the tower of breathtaking masculinity walk away.

Before the doors shut, I see him heading towards the stairs that lead to the lower level. The swimming pool is going to get a thorough work out after all.

I arrive at the Lower East Side studio with five minutes to spare, but still earn myself a hard stare from Madame Gabor. The hour-long lesson is excruciating and repetitive. I’ve never divulged it to anyone, but being fucked so regularly has made me more limber than I ever dreamed I’d be. Despite that, my feet are screaming
stop
by the time the lesson ends, but I leave with a huge smile on my face.

The high sets me up for the morning. I breeze through my meeting and sign up the latest client for Neon Events, Inc. After landing Zach’s Indigo Lounge account, I recently made junior partner at the events organizing company.

Being partner means I can be flexible with my hours, which is a good thing, because Zach’s demands on my time are atrociously ruthless. But being his fiancée also means the big names want to deal with me, so along with getting the cream of the clientele, I need to bring my A-game to each event.

Which hasn’t been a problem so far. Being with Zach, I’ve learned to adopt the
work hard, play hard
ethic, not that I was a slouch before. But where I felt slightly adrift and a little lackluster before, I absolutely
adore
my job now.

Hell, I don’t even mind the clients who sign up with Neon with the notion that they can get a first hand glimpse into the life of the woman who snagged the elusive Zachary Savage. When we met, Zach warned me my life would become a source of great interest to a great many people. He wasn’t wrong.

Despite being together nearly a year, the interest hasn’t waned. Each public outing is papped, tweeted and Instagrammed. I’ve accumulated more sunglasses and caps in the last ten months than I owned in all the years before I met Zach. And when I leave the penthouse alone, Philip, Zach’s mountain of a bodyguard becomes my shadow.

But I’ve taken all that in my stride. The only thing I’ve craved from Zach, he’s given me—emotional honesty. I opened my heart to him and he eventually let me see beneath his steel-plated armor.

So I’m good.

We’re good
.

My phone pings on my desk. I grab it and read the text.

We’re not good.

Did I miss the fucking memo stating today is Torture Zach Day, Bethany? You were supposed to call me when you got to the goddamn office. Correct?

Shit.

I unlock my phone and dial his number.

“You have a clock in your office. Tell me what time it is, Peaches.” The cool command arrives the moment he picks up.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. I don’t need to look. “It’s 11:38. I’m sorry.”

Tense silence greets my response. Outside my office, the hum of my colleagues going about their day provides background noise. It’s a sound that normally soothes me. I’m far from soothed now.

“Something’s wrong,” Zach states with calm certainty.

My eyes snap open. “No. The morning just got away from me. You know how it is. I’ve been away for six days. Things got a little crazy. I promise that’s all it is.”

“You’re distant,” he replies, just as calmly. “And evasive.”

I jerk upright in my seat. “What? No!”

“You forget I know you, inside and out. You belong to me. I know when you’re happy. I know when you’re sad. I know when your soul is settled. Your soul isn’t settled. That makes me scared for us. Something’s wrong. You need to tell me what it is so I can fix it.”

My knuckles scream as my grip tightens on the phone. “Stop this, Zach. You’re blowing things out of proportion.”

“Fine. I’m six blocks away. Come to lunch with me.”

So he can probe me further? “I can’t. I’m having lunch with Keely.”

It isn’t exactly a lie. I promised to get together with my best friend when I got back from Bora Bora. I just hadn’t gotten round to hammering down the date and time yet.

“Bethany—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I’m good.
We’re good
.” I reaffirm the words. “So I’ll see you when I get home tonight?”

“Change of plan. I’ll pick you up from work. I’ll be very much obliged if you can finish your work day by five. And Peaches?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t make me come upstairs. Remember what happened the last I had to come and fetch you?”

My pulse fires up in recollection.

He strolled coolly into my office after exchanging pleasantries with my bosses, locked the door behind him, bent me over my desk and commanded me not to move. I climaxed a frantic ten minutes later, my cheek cool from the desk surface, my pussy hot from the ruthless pounding, and my mouth stuffed with his handkerchief.

“I...yes. I remember.”

“And?”

“I’ll be downstairs at five.”

“Good.”

“I love you.”

He sighs. “I’m talking to you, but I’m still missing you.”

For some reason those words frighten me. Is he right? Is my anxiety greater than a storm in a teacup? And if it is, how the hell am I going to deal with it? Once I figure it out myself I’ll talk to Zach about it. Our promise not to keep things from each other is one I hold very dear. But he’s in bulldoze mode and I need to proceed with caution.

I need Keely.

“I have to go, Zach.”

“Enjoy the rest of your day, baby.”

“You too.”

“Bethany?”

“Yes?”

“I love you too. And you
will
marry me.”

“I will. But technically speaking, you haven’t actually
asked
me yet, have you, Zach?”

I hang up in the charged silence that follows.

Yes, I’m a little bitch for playing that card. But all I know is that something is stopping me from giving him an answer. And I’m terrified.

I fully expect him to call back and slay me, but surprisingly my phone remains silent.

After ten minutes, I dial my best friend’s number.

“Hey sexy bitch. What’s up?” Keely Benson answers and I immediately smile at the sound of her voice.

“I need girl time. Stat.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “I got you covered. Wanna meet over drinks tonight or lunch at Manzano’s?”

“I have a thing with Zach tonight, so lunch please.”

“I’m guessing by
thing
you mean marathon sex, followed by more marathon sex? Fuck, don’t answer me. I’ll meet you at Manzano’s at one.”