Chasin righted them in the bed and tucked her to his side. And with Genevieve’s soft body pressed tight, her fingers gliding over his chest, his hand resting on her hip—not to mention two outstanding orgasms—it didn’t take long for sleep to pull him under.
As he drifted to sleep thinking about their night, he hoped Genevieve Ellison would be up for more. And not just more mind-bending sex.
More of everything.
Christ, she was his perfect match.
He knew it was crazy. He didn’t know anything about her, but damn if he wasn’t half in love with her. Smart, funny, gorgeous, and outstanding in bed.
Oh, hell yeah, he was half in love.
Chasin woke to an empty bed. He rolled, looked at the clock on the nightstand, and noted it was three in the morning. He’d only been out for three hours. He lay in Genevieve’s bed and waited. Maybe she’d gotten up to hit the head or get something to drink. Fifteen minutes later, when it was clear she wasn’t doing either of those, he went in search of her.
The house was big—actually, it was a monstrosity built in the late seventeen hundreds. Chasin knew the history of the house; it was registered with the historical society. Something that he learned after his buddy Jameson’s woman, Kennedy, had troubles with a greedy land developer, was that Kent County took its historical landmarks seriously.
This house especially. There was no question it was beautiful, if you liked sixteen-foot ceilings, mahogany staircases, key-stoned arches—four of those arches on the second-floor landing that was bigger than an average apartment in Manhattan—seven more on the first floor, hand-carved scrollwork along the ceilings, the staircases, and trim work around the door. There wasn’t a sheet of drywall to be had in the mansion—the walls were plastered and skimmed to perfection.
Chasin rounded the second set of stairs taking him to the first floor and heard Genevieve’s soft voice and smiled. There was a huskiness to it, tinged with a slow, southern drawl that had his cock jerking to life just thinking about it.
“Y’all just gettin’ in?” Genevieve asked, but before Chasin could answer, she laughed and continued. “Right, I know it’s just midnight in Los Angeles. No, you didn’t wake me, my internal clock’s still on West Coast time.”
Chasin stood under one of the large archways, leaned his shoulder against it, and took in her sexy form. Genevieve’s back was to him. She was looking out the window, likely taking in the clear view of the Chester River. All she was wearing was a tee that barely hit the bottom of her ass. No panties, plump cheeks poking out, and memories of those firm, round…
“I know, honey,” she sighed, and Chasin narrowed his eyes on her back.
Honey?
“I swear I’m being careful,” she said into the phone. “It’s only a few days, Bobby, then you’ll be here.”
Bobby.
Chasin scanned the events that had led up to them finding themselves in her bed, and at no time had she mentioned that she had a man. Acid hit his gut and anger started to build.
What the fuck?
“No! I don’t want you to cut your trip short. I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about.” Another brief pause and she laughed. Not the same way she’d laughed with him earlier. It didn’t come from her belly, full and throaty, expressing her humor like she’d expressed everything else, with wild abandon and full of energy.
Fuck.
“Right. See you in a few days. Love you, too.”
The acid that had been churning in his gut bubbled up and spewed out before he could contain it.
“What the fuck?” he seethed.
Genevieve startled and spun around. Even in the dim light, he could see her face had gone pale.
“Jesus, you scared me,” she said, and covered her heart with her hand.
“Bet I did,” Chasin returned, unable to keep the irritation from his tone.
Genevieve tilted her head, took a step then abruptly stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
“Didn’t ask. Didn’t think I needed to. Apparently, I was wrong and I should’ve.”
“Ask what?”
“If you had a man. Didn’t take you for the type.”
“The type?” Genevieve’s torso jerked, taking her back a step. “What are you talking about?”
“The type of woman that’d turn out to be a lying, cheating bitch. Again, know I didn’t ask, but you gotta know that shit is whacked. What’s worse is, I’m not a cheat and you fuckin’ played me, making me one. Totally fucked, Genevieve. You wanna screw around on your man, not my business, but it’s not me who’s gonna fuck you while you screw over the poor chump.”
Chasin turned to leave and heard her call his name. When he stopped and looked over his shoulder at her, she’d wrapped her arms around her middle, face a shade paler, but he didn’t give a shit she looked like she was getting ready to cry. He hadn’t lied, he wasn’t a cheat, not on either end of that, and he was pissed as shit at her she’d turned him into one.
He should’ve fucking asked.
He hated cheats.
“Never mind,” she mumbled.
Without another word, he headed up the wide staircase. Wisely, Genevieve didn’t follow.
He dressed, grabbed his shit off her nightstand, and with all due haste, he got the fuck out of her house.
Chasin did this with acid in his gut and his chest hollow.
How the hell could he have been so wrong?
2
I heard the back door slam and barely stopped myself from running after Chasin and explaining. I eyed my phone and debated calling Bobby back and asking her if she’d catch a red-eye to Maryland. Better yet, I’d send a plane and she’d be here in six hours to hold my hand through another colossal screw-up.
But I didn’t do either of those things.
Why’d I get out of bed? I should’ve stayed where I was, tucked close to Chasin in my big warm bed. Then I would’ve woken up in the morning warm and snug. Well, it wasn’t exactly mine, it was my uncle’s, considering he owned this monster of a house. I couldn’t say it was horrible, just huge, cold, and extravagant. It’d been in our family for generations, passed down to the first-born son.
Besides, it was better I’d found out Chasin wasn’t the man I’d thought he was. So no, I wasn’t chasing after some asshole, even if I’d been stupid and thought we’d had a connection. Thought that he wanted to get to know me, the real me—Genevieve.
I should’ve known better.
He was just like everyone else jumping to conclusions about me, thinking they knew who I was because they saw me in the news rags, caught an interview, or listened to my music.
Everyone thought they knew Vivi Rush.
Everyone thought they knew, but really, they didn’t know shit. They had no idea that after all the years being in the spotlight, I still cried when people said nasty things about me. I still flinched when some uppity bitch called me fat because I wasn’t a size four. Hell, I wasn’t even a size six, and that was okay.
Likewise, I still got a thrill when someone told me they liked my music, and I was touched beyond measure when someone told me my music had sparked some sort of emotion. I still appreciated every fan, even the ones who bashed me, because it meant they were still listening.