The Chase Ch. 02

I know how I must sound when I complain about my marriage. My own mother thinks I'm being melodramatic. When she first met Cameron, he charmed her immediately. Of course he did. It didn't hurt that he took us to a ridiculously posh restaurant. I stabbed at my overpriced salad as he asked her for every detail about my childhood and looked positively enthralled as she told him my most embarrassing stories.

"He's awfully sweet," she said to me in the powder room. "And he's obviously crazy about you."

"It's weird, though, right?" I answered as I fished my lipstick out of my clutch. "No man is that attentive."

"Tessa," she said to my reflection, "are you honestly finding fault with that? If your father had been even half that attentive...." She shook her head as her voice trailed off. "I think you're just looking for things to worry about."

"Do you know what happens when I talk with another man at a party?"

"He gets jealous. So what? It's flattering, isn't it?"

"We leave the party, Mom. He pulls me out of there and fucks me in the car on the way home."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"I know. Sorry," I rolled my eyes. "I just miss being normal at parties."

"Still, if that's the worst of your worries—"

"It's not," I cut her off. "But who gives a shit, right?"

"Don't get like that, honey," she said. "Just try to focus on the good stuff, okay?"

Focus on the good stuff. It's the mantra that echoes in my brain as Cameron leads me to the airstair of his plane. His hand didn't leave my thigh as he drove me to the airport.

"Are you feeling okay, baby?" His hand is at my back as he guides me up the steps.

I watch my feet move gingerly up the steps. Am I feeling okay? Various answers, mostly snarky, come to mind: yeah, I'm feeling great, honey. I love being hunted down and basically kidnapped by my own husband.... I finally turn to him. "I just need to sleep," I mumble.

"Of course." He nods to our flight attendant, Katia, as we enter the cabin. I hear him instruct her to bring me some cheese and fruit. "You'll sleep better with some food in your stomach," he says quietly, turning back to me.

The truth is that I am kind of hungry. I make quick work of the small platter as the jet prepares for takeoff. The moment it's safe to move, I look inquisitively at Cameron.

"I'll join you in a few minutes," he says, grabbing his phone. "Just have to answer a few messages."

I nod and get unsteadily to my feet. Cameron grabs my hand. "I'm still fucking mad at you for running away from me," he says, pressing his lips against my fingers.

"I know." Tears threaten to break because I hate him. Because I love him. Because a part of me is beyond hate and love. I walk back to the bedroom, strip down to my bra and panties, and slide between the cool sheets. I make a mental list of people he's texting and calling. Sokolov. His investigator. Some lackey whose job it is to call Bertie and tell her I'm not dead. As I add more names to the list, sleep overtakes me.

****

I'm dimly aware of a hot tickle between my thighs, but it's the sound of my own moan that wakes me. Sleeping next to Cameron has conditioned my body to wake up before my mind does. I blink and look up at the ceiling of the plane, remembering where I am. Then I feel Cameron's tongue press against my clit again, and I reflexively press my body against his mouth.

He groans appreciatively and gives the top of my slit a teasing lick. "I couldn't stop myself, baby."

I push up on my elbows and look at him. He has nudged my thighs apart and pushed the crotch of my panties to the side. "You never could," I answer.

"No, I never could." He looks down at my pussy so reverently that I blush. As his tongue delves so deeply into my pussy that I don't know how he's breathing, I squeal.

This is not the first time Cameron has gone down on me while I'm asleep. At one point in our marriage, he did it so many nights in a row that I began to fear I'd never know uninterrupted sleep again. Sometimes he fucked me after making me come on his tongue; sometimes he just kissed me, his lips glazed with my juices, and held me until I drifted off.

Cameron's tongue flicks at my clit. I moan hoarsely, my voice shot from screaming over the music at the club just hours ago. I reach down and pull his hair hard; my thighs tighten around his head. He's going to make me come despite my fatigue, despite my anger, despite everything. His breath is so damn hot on my overstimulated pussy. He reaches up and squeezes my breast through the lined cup of my bra. It's not enough for him: he pulls the cup down and rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The combustion of sensations sends me over the edge. I cry out and pray that Katia can't hear me over the roar of the jet engine. God, I hope she's asleep.

Cameron looks up at me. Even under the dim lights, I can see the sheen of my wetness on his lips. "So goddamned responsive," he says hoarsely. His eyes drift over my body, and I try not to think how tragic I must look: smeared makeup, rumpled hair, and one breast exposed. If you had told me earlier today that I'd end up naked in the back of my husband's jet, I don't know whether I would have laughed or cried.

However ghastly I think I look, Cameron seems hypnotized. "I know you're tired, baby," he says, kneeling on the foot of the bed. I wriggle up toward the pillows as he looms over me. "I'm just so fucking wound up." He yanks down the other cup of my bra and flicks both nipples between his thumbs until I'm writhing like a woman who didn't just come literally two minutes before. Jesus, has any woman ever capitulated as quickly as I do?

My breath is coming quickly from the orgasm and from the way he's making my nipples hard. His palms cover the taut peaks, and he watches my tits press together as he plays with them. "I want to fuck them," he says, still staring at them.

"I know you do."

"Yeah? Do you want that, baby?"

It doesn't matter how I answer because he's already unzipping his fly.

"Lie back," he says, pressing my shoulders against the mattress. I watch him pump his fist over his erection a few times as he straddles his way up my body. I bring my hands to the sides of my breasts and push until they're snug around his cock. "Jesus Christ," he hisses. "If you knew"—he begins thrusting—"how many times I thought about your tits...." His voice trails off as he covers my hands with his and moves faster.

"It gets me so hot when you touch them," I say breathily, knowing it will speed his orgasm.

He groans and swears under his breath.

"When you suck on them," I sigh, seizing the moment. I see the muscles of his mouth twitch. The fact is that I'm turned on, too; it's the way he's watching his cock move between my tits and the way he's responding to my voice. But I'm also exhausted. I need him to finish before I succumb to sleep. "When you come all over them."

"You want my come, baby?" His voice is thick and urgent.

"Yes," I whimper. "Give it to me, Cameron."

That does it. He releases my hands and pumps his fist a few times. I can't help but moan as the first spray of come lands across my breasts. I feel it begin trickling up toward my neck as another load splatters hotly on my chest. His eyes dart between my lips and the mess he's made on my body. I smile sleepily at him.

Cameron dips two fingers in his come and brings them to my mouth. I open my lips obediently and swirl my tongue around his fingers until they're clean. He swears, and I feel a little more come land between my tits. His fingers rub back and forth across my bottom lip.

I see his mouth form words, but he's still breathing hard after coming, and I don't quite hear. "What?"

He leans over me. "I said I love you so much." His fingers are still tracing my lips. "I couldn't help it when I came back here and saw you. I had to taste you."

"I know."

"You're like a fucking drug," he murmurs in my ear, but my eyes are already closing. "I always want you."

As I drift off, my subconscious tosses his words around. I never understand the way he sees the timeline of our relationship; I never know where his "always" starts. I only know that he knew me—saw me somewhere—before I ever knew he existed. I don't wake up as he gently wipes me clean; instead, I dream incoherently. There's no narrative, no pattern. I only know, as the scenes shift lazily around me, that his eyes are always on me.

****

My first date with Cameron was weird. Bertie had agreed to call me halfway through the evening and be my escape hatch if things were going terribly. She had Googled him more than I had—not because she was curious about his history but because she was trying to figure out his net worth. She called that night to give me a report.

"He's got money, Tessa." She sounded overcaffeinated. "Like the high end of nine figures. Five bucks says it's 10 figures."

"Well, if you're right, he'll have no trouble paying you to stop snooping." I held up my red off-the-shoulder dress and studied myself in the mirror. Then I held up the ivory lace dress. "Hey, should I avoid anything that says 'bride'?"

"You don't want to say 'bride'? What part of nine figures do you not find appealing?"

"That's not why I'm going on this date!" I hung the ivory dress back up. "I can't go into this expecting to pull off a Salma Hayek," I cradled the phone in the crook of my neck as I checked the red dress for wrinkles.

"Why? Who'd she marry?"

I rolled my eyes and laughed. "Google it like you Googled his W-2 or whatever."

"Will you tell me all about it later? And are you sure I can't be your plus-one?"

"I'm sure. He'd dump me for you in the first five minutes."

"Shut up. Are you wearing the red dress?"

"Maybe," I said, smiling.

"Perfect. You make me question my sexuality when you wear that one."

I caught sight of the little clock on my nightstand. "Okay, I've seriously got to go. I'll text you tomorrow."

"Um, you need to call me because I want all the details, you whore."

I laughed and said goodbye. The next half hour was all about shimmying into my dress, concealing the little pimple on my chin, and fixing the eyeliner that I kept smudging. When I heard the buzz of the intercom, I was so focused on applying my lipstick that I jumped.

"Be right there!" I sounded too perky as I pressed the intercom button. I always sounded that way when I got nervous.

It was the first time I'd been picked up in a car with a chauffeur. Cameron bounded up the stoop and held my hand as I walked down to the largest, sleekest Mercedes I'd ever seen. I glanced back at my building and saw my downstairs neighbor, a retiree who played piano most nights, watching the proceedings with great interest.

Cameron looked handsome in a suit that I was quite sure cost way more than my rent; the self-possession with which he held the car door for me only made him more attractive.

"You're beautiful," he said just before I stepped in the car. My face felt hot as I murmured a thank you and tried my best to get into the car gracefully.

I seemed incapable of speech. As we drove in silence, I smiled tightly and watched as we cruised into increasingly ritzy areas of the city.

"I hope you like Obadiah," he said abruptly, causing me to jump a bit.

"Um, I don't think I know him."

He smiled a little. "It's a restaurant."

"Oh," I said, looking down at my shoes. Great. I already looked like a total idiot. I'd read about Obadiah. One plate supposedly cost $300 or something ridiculous like that.

"Would you rather not go?" he said softly.

"No," I said, blinking up at him. "I mean yes. Yes, I'd like to go."

"God, you're beautiful," he said again. His hand slid across the car seat and covered mine.

"You said that already," I replied, too shy to look at him.

"I'm going to say it again. You're so beautiful." He looked at my mouth. His thigh pressed against mine as he slid closer. He reached under my chin, and suddenly his lips were on mine.

My other first kisses had been tentative and, on some occasions, clumsy. Cameron claimed my mouth as if we'd been together longer than we had, as if we were hungry for each other after a long absence. I couldn't help but moan into his mouth as his tongue moved urgently against mine. I pushed my breasts toward him without thinking; my breath quickened as I felt his hand cup my left breast through my dress.

He broke off the kiss at last and tucked my hair behind my ear. I looked blearily up at him. "Thatcher, back to the house, please," he said gruffly. It took my lust-addled brain a few seconds to realize he was talking to the driver.

I heard Thatcher assent and felt the car swerve smoothly off on a side street. Cameron's tongue was in my mouth again, making it impossible to think, let alone speak. His thumb was making my nipple hard even through my dress.

"Sorry for the change of plans," he whispered against my lips.

I blinked dazedly at him as I struggled to process his words. Was he seriously going to take me back to his house and fuck me on our first date? My head was spinning. I couldn't let things move so fast. It didn't matter that I wanted him so badly that I was practically vibrating. I wasn't about to miss my chance to set foot in an exclusive restaurant, but more than anything, I didn't want to be the woman who fell into bed immediately. Men never stayed with that woman. I gently pulled away from his kiss and resolved to form a coherent sentence. "Cameron, I don't--I mean, if it's okay, I'd like to go to the restaurant."

He looked at my mouth as I felt my heart hammer in my chest. I wanted so badly to squeeze my thighs together as he got me drunk on kisses—but I wanted to guarantee a second date even more. He finally sat up with a tight smile. "Thatcher, to Obadiah, please," he said, moving his hand to my leg. He looked me up and down. "This dress is perfect."

I blushed again, hoping we were close to the restaurant. I couldn't bear to be in the car much longer: Cameron's attention was so intense, and I couldn't decide whether I wanted to climb onto his lap or jump out of the car at the next stoplight.

Thatcher pulled up to Obadiah a few minutes later. He drove past the main entrance and parked next to a door that looked more like the employees' entrance. Cameron got out to open my door.

"Are we going to eat in the kitchen?" I joked as he helped me out.

"Only if you want to," he replied, "but I'll show you what I had in mind first."

What he had in mind was a private dining room in the back of the restaurant. The owner, whom I was sure I'd seen on the Food Network, immediately greeted us. He teased Cameron about his sweet tooth and then told us all about the rare mushrooms in the appetizer that had just been delivered to our table.

"I have a sweet tooth, too," I said as the owner scurried off. "Do you suppose they have chocolate mousse here?"

He smiled broadly. "I'm sure they do."

I smiled back, tipsy on Dom Perignon—he'd ordered a bottle for the table—and the wild decadence of the evening. It was the first time I'd been at a restaurant where the servers seemed to know the precise moment you wanted anything. By the time the main course arrived, I'd figured out that our table apparently came with its own wait staff.

I forgot my nervousness as the champagne went to my head. I shoveled chocolate mousse into my mouth—it was truly the best I'd ever tasted—and narrowed my eyes at him. "Why didn't we go through the main entrance?"

"I didn't want all those people looking at you," he said offhandedly.

I paused before gulping down the spoonful of chocolate mousse. "You're kind of intense," I said without thinking. It seemed the champagne had weakened my filter.

"You'll get used to it."

He was doing it again: he spoke as if he had already envisioned a future with me. I'd never known a man to speak that way; most of the men I'd dated had spoken as non-committally as possible.

My spoon clinked against the bottom of the dish. "Oh God, I've eaten most of this!"

"Good," he said, and a waiter suddenly appeared. "Would you like anything else?"

"I'd like you to have some, too."

Cameron held up his hand, and the waiter paused. "I'm fine. We have to be on our way soon."

"Oh?" I was scraping the last of the chocolate mousse up with my spoon.

"Yes, but not until you've obliterated that."

I smiled sheepishly. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

I never actually saw Cameron pay for dinner. Had he paid in advance? Did he have an account there? I had no idea. My menu didn't have any prices on it either, so the whole thing felt rather mysterious.

The night grew more mysterious as we pulled up to a theater. It looked deserted, though the marquee lights still shone brightly. "You haven't seen this show, have you?" he said as he opened my car door.

"No one can get tickets to it," I replied. "Why are we here, by the way?" I pointed at the empty foyer behind the glass doors.

I gawked as he held open a door that anyone would assume was locked. My steps faltered as we entered an entirely empty theater.

"I hope we can find a seat," I said, shaking my head in amazement.

He laughed—a rich sound that I immediately wanted to hear again—and led us to a seat in the center of the fifth row. "This is where the director sat during rehearsals," he said.

The lights dimmed, and my breath caught as I realized we were witnessing a special, on-demand performance of the biggest Broadway show of the year. I couldn't stop marveling. Cameron looked over at me every time I laughed, clearly delighted by my delight. Had he bought every seat in the theater? No, he would have had to do that months ago. Was he an investor? For all I knew, he had singlehandedly bankrolled the whole production. I wanted to ask him, but I sensed he'd be evasive.

As we gave the cast the world's smallest standing ovation, I noticed the actors were applauding Cameron, blowing him kisses, and placing their hands effusively over their hearts.

"Just how big a patron of the arts are you?" I said over my applause.

"Pretty big," he said. "Would you like to meet the cast? I've already sent some refreshments backstage for them."

"It's so late, though. They must be exhausted. I mean, I'd like to see their costumes up close, but I—"

Without another word, he grasped my hand and led me up to the stage. The actors greeted him with gushy showbiz hugs even though it clearly made him a bit uncomfortable.

"Thank you for the champagne, Mr. Wainwright!" chirped one young blonde. I recognized her as the pretty young widow who'd sung one of the show's most beautiful numbers.

It was odd to hear Cameron addressed as "Mr. Wainwright." It was stranger still to imagine surreal events like these as routine occurrences. I watched Cameron chat with the actors and crew and mostly tried to blend into the chaos as I studied the actors' costumes. All the corsets and flounces and other period details fascinated me.

"Come over here!" A beautiful 50-something actress waved me over. "Let's toast you and Mr. Wainwright."

A few other cast members overheard and started hooting and chanting for a toast.

Cameron made his way over and placed his arm protectively around my shoulders. "Ladies and gentlemen, I've been remiss. Allow me to introduce my girlfriend properly to you: Miss Contessa Barry."

"Oh my God, you'll have such beautiful babies!" said one of the lead actors, holding his champagne glass aloft. I wondered how much of a head start he'd gotten on the drinking.

"To the lovely couple!" said someone else, sparking another round of cheers and laughter.

The actress who'd proposed the toast pushed a glass in my hand. I robotically clinked it against countless glasses before taking a sip I hardly tasted. The questions raced through my mind: had Cameron actually said the word "girlfriend"? How freaked out should I have been about that?