The Chase Ch. 02

I jumped a little as I felt Cameron's hand touch the small of my back. He was looking fixedly at me. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I replied, a bit too quickly. "They're just, you know, a rowdy bunch."

He smiled and leaned in. "We can leave anytime. They've got their champagne; they'll be fine."

"Mr. Wainwright!" The lead actor who'd speculated about our future children approached us. "I just want to thank you for absolutely everything." A chorus of cheers erupted behind him. "This show would literally never have happened without you. And my career would probably be in the shitter." His fellow cast members laughed and nodded sympathetically.

"It's my pleasure," said Cameron casually. I imagined he was accustomed to being thanked. "It was a good investment all around." He took my hand in mine. "And thank you for the wonderful performance," he said warmly before kissing the back of my hand. I saw a few actresses put their hands over their hearts and coo at us.

"You were all so amazing," I said, smiling as bravely as I could at them. I always hated talking in front of groups. "Thank you."

"Invite us to the wedding!" the young blonde squealed, and everyone laughed again. Cameron smiled down at me, and I fought the urge to inform everyone that it was our first date, so please calm the fuck down.

We said our goodbyes. Some of the actors left makeup on my dress as they hugged me. I barely cared. It had been the craziest night in my adult life; I needed to get home and regroup.

As Thatcher drove us back to my apartment, I laid my hand over Cameron's. "Thank you for tonight. I'll never forget it."

He turned my hand over and kissed my palm. "I'm going to take you out again this weekend. And again after that."

His words spun in my mind as the glass privacy partition slid smoothly up to the ceiling, separating us from Thatcher. What kind of man planned multiple dates before the first date was even over? A crazy man, my cynical self said.

"I want to pick up where we left off," he said softly, and suddenly I could only think about the firm pressure of his lips. He kissed me until I needed to press myself against him to relieve the ache in my pussy. I squirmed to no avail and moaned against his tongue as he wrapped his hand around my throat and tasted my mouth. As if sensing my desperation, he slid one hand deftly up the fitted skirt of my dress and pressed the heel of his hand against the lace of my panties. The blunt pressure on my clit was exactly what I'd been silently seeking. I moved my hips against his hand and moaned so loudly I started to wonder just how soundproof the partition was.

"Cameron," I sighed as I clutched at his jacket. He immediately pulled the crotch of my panties to one side and plunged two fingers deep inside. His mouth descended on mine, muffling my cry.

"Baby," he said quietly, "you want me to make you come? Hmm?" His finger-fucked me hard as he spoke; I writhed in his arms, barely able to speak. "I think you do," he murmured. "I think you've been wet for me all night." His words were lethally quiet as his fingers curled inside me, seeking the little bundle of nerves that I always tried to hit with my vibrator. He found it and pressed down hard. I cried out.

I had let things go too far for a first date—I knew it—but my body didn't care. As Cameron's fingers pumped in and out, I gave myself over to sensation—to the sight of his arm moving tirelessly under my dress, to the sound of my moans competing with the traffic noise, to the feel of his hot breath on my neck.

My nipples tightened and tingled as they rubbed against the lining of my bra. I arched my back, desperate to feel his mouth on my breasts. As if reading my thoughts, he yanked down the neckline of my dress. I moaned the instant his lips latched onto my nipple. He sucked it between his teeth just hard enough to send hot jolts of pleasure directly to my core.

"Oh my God," he murmured, "so beautiful." He swirled his tongue once around my nipple as if to punctuate the thought. "I can feel you tightening around my fingers every time I kiss these beautiful tits." He sucked my nipple back into his mouth and pressed his thumb against my clit as his fingers worked my pussy.

"I—I'm going to—oh!"

"Yeah, baby, come for me," he said thickly. "Come all over my fingers."

His lips crashed against mine as I cried out. His fingers teased my orgasm out as his tongue tasted mine. He groaned softly as his kisses grew more frenetic. I could barely kiss him back; I felt all but paralyzed as my body rode each wave of my orgasm. He seemed to enjoy plundering my passively open mouth.

As I struggled to catch my breath, he lapped gently at my oversensitive nipple. "Fuck, baby," he said, looking up at me. I watched him kiss his way back up to my mouth. "I'm not going to fuck you tonight," he rasped in my ear. I kissed him again, hypnotized. He withdrew his hand gently and licked his fingers clean as I struggled to get my bearings. "But I'll think about you"—he shifted, adjusting his trousers to accommodate his hard-on—"very actively...until I'm able to sleep."

I smiled and smoothed my dress down as Thatcher pulled up in front of my building. It was late; my downstairs neighbor had probably been in bed for a few hours.

"Hey," he said, turning my face to his, "I'll pick you up on Saturday."

"Where are we going?" I couldn't believe I had just asked this when there were more pressing questions at hand: Why are we moving so fast? How much do you know about me? Are you a psychopath? These were the questions I should have been asking. Instead, I asked, "Should I wear anything special?"

He smiled, and my desire for him intensified. "Anything you wear becomes special the second you put it on."

I waited as he came around to open my door. He kissed me goodnight on the stoop and spoke as he ran one finger down my cheek. It was so quiet I almost doubted I had even heard it.

"You are well worth the wait."

****

"Well worth the wait"? What the hell did that mean? He was waiting for me? For how long? And what even counted as a long time? This was a man who introduced me as his girlfriend on our first date; his sense of time was clearly a little eccentric.

As I stepped out of my shoes, I checked my phone and saw multiple missed calls and texts from Bertie:

8:45 pm HOW'S IT GOING? YOU'RE NOT PICKING UP.

9:58 pm THIS IS EITHER VERY GOOD OR VERY BAD. I'LL TRY YOU ONE MORE TIME.

10:25 pm THERE HAD BETTER BE A GOOD STORY TO GO ALONG WITH THIS.

11:15 pm OKAY, I GUESS YOU'RE DEAD.

I smiled and texted Bertie back, hoping I wouldn't wake her. Then I showered, eager to rinse all the nervous energy of the evening down the drain along with a lot of hair styling products.

As I climbed into bed, I couldn't resist checking my phone for a reply from Bertie. The text I found was from Cameron: I SHOULD HAVE FUCKED YOU.

I blushed and buried my face in the pillow.

My dreams that night were bizarre. Cameron was yelling at someone; his voice was distant and indistinct as he threatened someone in the next room. I stuck my fingers in my ears, terrified that I was about to hear a gunshot, but the room went silent until the tension became unbearable.

It was broken finally by a spotlight that suddenly shone on me. I was on stage—the same stage the Broadway actors had performed on—and as I looked out at the audience, I read shocked fascination and arousal on their faces. I looked around the empty stage and finally at myself. I was naked, my pale skin almost blinding under the lights. Cameron's hands suddenly snaked around my waist from behind, and I shrieked. The audience chuckled, and I felt a wave of nausea roll over me. Cameron's hands traveled over my body, one hand moving up to my breasts and the other sliding down to cup my pussy. I swatted at his hands and felt sicker as the audience seemed to find it all very comical. Cameron's breath was hot at my ear. I shielded my eyes with my hand and squinted at the audience. They had fallen silent, eager to see what Cameron would do next. His fingers began strumming my clit, and I leaned back against him and, to my mortification, I moaned. "Show them who you belong to," Cameron whispered. As he pinched my nipple, I arched my back and reached up to cradle the back of his head. He leaned down and kissed my neck. I moaned and panted and watched the audience through half-lowered eyelids. The sea of faces wore identical expressions of lust and amazement. The wet heat of Cameron's lips on my neck made me want to feel it elsewhere, but I was close to coming. He squeezed my breast as he increased the pressure on my clit, and suddenly a long cry of pleasure filled the theater.

That was how I woke myself up.

I was breathing a little heavily as I blinked sleepily and checked the bedside clock. It was almost time to get up for work anyway. I wanted to stay in bed and think dirty thoughts all morning, but my job at the Wilsons' house paid too well. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand. There was another text from Cameron:

7:23 am DO YOU HAVE TO WORK TODAY?

I texted back. YES. NO REST FOR THE WICKED.

His response was immediate: I DON'T LIKE THE WAY WILSON LOOKS AT YOU.

7:25 am I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN, BUT I HAVE TO BE AT WORK IN LIKE HALF AN HOUR. TALK TO YOU LATER?

7:26 am OKAY, BABY, BUT STEER CLEAR OF HIM.

I rolled my eyes and groaned my way out of bed. I'd be sleep-deprived all day, and this was the day I'd promised to take the Wilson kids to the zoo. I knew I'd have a good time when all was said and done, and the walk outside would help clear my head, but my body was already screaming for caffeine. I was brushing my teeth sluggishly when my phone buzzed again.

8:05 am YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I WANTED TO WAKE YOU UP WITH AN ORGASM THIS MORNING.

I smirked at the phone. He kind of already had, thanks to a little help from my horny subconscious. My thumbs flew over the keys: BEHAVE YOURSELF. I'M GOING TO BE LATE FOR WORK.

I put the phone down and worked on my hair, smiling smugly at my reflection. This was the phase of the relationship that never lasted—the part where he couldn't get enough contact. I knew better than to expect to keep his attention indefinitely, but while he was deep in this haze of attraction, I was sure as hell going to enjoy it.

Then again, I thought as I moved quickly but clumsily through my morning makeup routine, nothing about this thing with Cameron felt like my previous relationships. Maybe this was going to make all those relationships look like half-assed rehearsals. Maybe this was going to go beyond resentful diary entries and the inevitable breakup tears. At the same time, Cameron's intensity was already freaking me out; I wasn't sure I could handle it in the long term.

Before throwing my phone in my bag, I noticed more texts from Cameron on the home screen.

8:07 am YOU WON'T BE LATE. THATCHER'S WAITING OUTSIDE.

8:08 am HE CAN DRIVE YOU EVERY MORNING IF YOU'D LIKE.

Not surprisingly, my musical downstairs neighbor was already parked at her window as I walked down the stoop. She watched Thatcher open the door for me as if she were watching the moon landing happen all over again.

"Miss Barry," Thatcher said, nodding to me.

"Hi, Thatcher," I said haltingly as I climbed in. There was a cup of fresh coffee in the cup holder and a tray of chocolate croissants beside me on the back seat.

"I hope the coffee's still hot," he said right before closing the door.

I waited until he'd started the car to answer. "It's fantastic. It's all fantastic. It's...Thatcher?"

"Yes, Miss Barry?"

"Um, call me Tessa."

"Yes, Miss Barry," he said, smiling at me in the rearview mirror. His smile made him look a good decade younger.

"How many women are you escorting to work?"

"Only you, Miss Barry."

Relief washed over me. I decided to push my luck. "And how many women have you escorted in the past?"

He paused. "Perhaps Mr. Wainwright would prefer to tell you himself."

"That many, huh?" I bit into a croissant and almost resented it for being so delicious.

He smiled again. "It's a very rare occurrence, Miss Barry."

I couldn't pinpoint what "very rare" meant, but I liked Thatcher's answer well enough. One more question suddenly occurred to me. "He doesn't have this car bugged, does he?" I gulped down some coffee. "Well, I guess that's a dumb question. If it's bugged, you can't exactly answer, can you?" Maybe the real problem was that Cameron had given me reason to ask.

He chuckled. "It's not bugged, Miss Barry." He steered the Mercedes down the Wilsons' street. "Please take the coffee and croissants with you if you'd like."

"Well, okay, but I'm leaving a croissant for you."

"Thank you, Miss Barry."

Thatcher had a calming presence, which was undoubtedly useful to him as a driver in the city. It was impossible not to be friendly to him. I thanked him and scrambled out of the car, hoping the Wilsons weren't at the window.

Mr. Wilson was whistling in the foyer as I stepped into the house. "Morning, Tessa," he said as he adjusted his necktie in the mirror.

"Good morning." I tossed my purse on an antique bench and caught sight of the clock in the kitchen. "Oh, sorry! I'm a couple of minutes late." I caught Mr. Wilson's gaze in the mirror and suddenly understood what Cameron was talking about. Why hadn't I noticed it before?

His eyes swept over me one more time. "You're right on time. I'm the one who's running late." He grabbed his briefcase and winked at me. "I could go for some of that."

I stared at him for a breathless moment before realizing he was talking about the croissant in my hand. "Oh, I got it...uh, on the way over."

"Tell Mrs. Wilson that our reservation is for 8:00, will you, Tessa?"

"Of course."

As the door shut behind him, Mrs. Wilson peered over the upstairs railing. "Tessa, you're not available Saturday evening, are you?"

"Um, before I forget, Mr. Wilson says your reservation is for 8:00," I called up the stairs.

She pursed her lips. "God, I hope he got the night right. It's supposed to be Saturday."

"He—he didn't say which night."

"I'd better text him to make sure," she said, pulling her phone from her pocket. "But if he did manage to get it right, I want to make sure you're available."

"Uh, Saturday?" I fidgeted as I spoke. "I kind of have plans."

Mrs. Wilson bounded down the stairs and waved her hand casually before I could apologize. "It's fine. I'll see if Adrian is around. The kids like you better, though," she said, looking up from her phone with a smile. "So," she said absentmindedly as her fingers tapped out a text, "exciting plans?"

I shoved the last of the croissant into my mouth. I had no idea what Cameron had in store for Saturday. "Well, I guess it's a surprise."

"That sounds exciting!" She finished typing and pocketed her phone. We walked into the kitchen together. "Girls' night?"

I couldn't tell whether Mrs. Wilson was snooping or just making conversation. "Well, Cameron is taking me out."

She stopped in her tracks. "Cameron? Cameron Wainwright?"

"Yeah." I spoke as nonchalantly as possible. "I met him at your party that night. Remember?" Mrs. Wilson knit her brows in confusion; I decided to leave it alone and get back to work. "I'm just going to make the waffles, okay?" I shuffled into the kitchen.

"You met him here?" she said, following me to the pantry.

I turned and looked quizzically at her. "Yeah, you don't remember?"

Mrs. Wilson's phone rang in her pocket. "I assumed you'd met him before that night," she said, grabbing the phone, "because he talked so much about you."

My pulse picked up. "What did he say?" I asked, but she had already answered her phone and walked out of the kitchen.