Prologue
Casey
“Jesus, Casey. That was amazing.”
Yeah, it kind of was, I think as I look down at Richard. At thirty-seven, he’s a little older than the men I normally date, but I have found that to be a benefit in the bedroom. I’m sorry… but older men just really know how to please a woman.
It also helps that Richard fits my other qualifications. He’s rich, so he can treat me to nice things, moderately cool to hang with, and best of all… he understands the concept of no strings. He’s a minor owner in a NASCAR franchise and lives in Charlotte, but I met him several weeks ago when he was vacationing here in the Outer Banks. Since then, he’s flown back every weekend on his private plane—which he flies himself, so that’s kind of hot—to see me. He’s wined and dined—and yeah, sixty-nined—me very, very well. Then he leaves, goes back home, and I’m contented.
“Yeah, sugar,” I tell him with a little kiss to his jaw. “That was awesome.”
And it was. He got me off once with his tongue, and I got me off once while I was riding him.
Easing myself off Richard, who is still half-hard within me, I roll right off the bed so I can start gathering up my clothes. I hear Richard take the condom off and throw it in the garbage.
“Don’t go,” he says softly behind me and then his arms are wrapping around my stomach. He pulls me back into his chest, which is beautifully tanned and muscular, and leans his chin on my shoulder. “Stay the night with me, Casey.”
I give a light chuckle, push his hands off me, and with a chastising look over my shoulder, I say, “You know I don’t do overnights.”
“Christ,” Richard explodes as he drags a frustrated hand through his hair. “You’re driving me nuts.”
I quickly slip on my panties, keeping my eyes on him the entire time. “Come on, Richard. Don’t be like that. You know my boundaries.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says with exasperation, throwing his hands out to the side. “No getting close. You don’t do relationships. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Blah, blah, blah?” I mimic with a cocked eyebrow while deftly putting my bra on. Over the years, I’ve learned to dress fast for a quick escape.
Richard’s eyes get sidetracked a moment by my breasts as I adjust the straps, but then come back to me. Very quietly and with serious eyes, he says, “I’m falling in love with you, Casey.”
Ice fills my veins even as I feel a tinge of remorse within my chest. I step toward him and in a voice that I mean to be firm yet gentle, I say, “No, Richard. You aren’t.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel,” he snaps at me.
“You don’t love me,” I repeat with steely confidence. “You’re in lust with me… fine, I accept that. But it’s not love.”
“It’s love I’m—”
“It’s not love,” I say again… calmly, patiently, but with a little more punctuation. “You don’t know enough about me to love me. We don’t share secrets or intimacies. We share meals and we fuck. That’s it, Richard.”
“It’s more. It may not be love, but I have feelings for you,” he says again, trying to insist, but even I hear the heat has died down out of his voice.
I know his type. He loves having sex with me, and who wouldn’t? I’m pretty much awesome in the sack, but I’m also a realist. I know that the only reason men look at me is for my beauty, and the only reason they stay with me is because of what I can do to them in between the sheets. I learned a long time ago exactly how men like him feel about women like me.
Sometimes, they’re cool with the boundaries I place. Sometimes, they proclaim to love me, which is horseshit. Not one of the men I’ve been with even knows my middle name or where I live. They don’t know about my brother being a convicted murderer, the name of my best friend—which is Gabby, for the record—or where I flunked out of college. They know I have gorgeous tits, an ass tight enough to bounce a quarter off of, and I’m great at giving head.
That’s all they care about if they’re being honest with themselves.
Honest to me.
So when along comes the man that starts talking about love and commitment, I know exactly what it is. It isn’t that they love me or that they want more from me on a personal level. It’s that they want me by their side more. They’re not satisfied with the weekends I’m willing to give them. They want me in their bed seven days a week… nothing more.
Certainly nothing less.
With a sigh, I step away from Richard and finish putting on my cocktail dress. It’s made of a shimmery, mint-green satin, tight around the bust but still tasteful enough to wear out to the five-star restaurant we dined in tonight. With efficient motion, I put on the strappy, crystal-studded sandals that bring my five-foot-nine up to where I can almost look six-foot-tall Richard directly in the eye.
Grabbing my handbag off the nightstand, I turn to face him. He’s standing there gloriously naked, completely unabashed, looking like I just kicked his favorite puppy. It’s a shame, really, because while I may not let my feelings get involved, I do enjoy a nice, monogamous, but light mutual endeavor. I’ve gone weeks happily content with one man, as long as he doesn’t cross the line I’ve drawn in the sand.
The line that Richard just crossed, which, unfortunately for him, that bell can’t be unrung.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I walk up to him. I lean in… kiss him on the cheek. “I hope you understand. But I’ve never led you on. I’ve told you my boundaries. I told you it could never be anything more.”