Filthy Liar Read online

  I raked in a shallow breath and turned away from him, the truth needling away at me. He’d walked away from this town as just another one of us. And he came back as a billionaire, an air of confidence and a Range Rover to go with it.

  His words hurt, but sometimes the truth did too. Because he was right. Unlike him, I’d just stalled out and stayed where I was.

  Twenty minutes later, we were winding up into the hills, and a panoramic view of town unfolded below us. Landon took a left, pulling up in front of a glass and concrete house. I stared at it in awe. It bared not an ounce of resemblance to his crumbling childhood home.

  “Come on,” he said. “We can see what’s in the boxes and then I’ll make you lunch.”

  It wasn’t until he went to unbuckle his seatbelt that he finally let go of my leg. I swallowed and followed him, past the manicured shrubs and curved retaining walls.

  At the front porch, the railing was made of steel and cable, all hard angles. The walls were enormous sheets of glass, reflecting the sun and the clouds.

  We must’ve been outside Orting city limits, because this house was too good for our little valley town. Instead, it was perched up here looking down on everything, the farms and little housing developments dotting the view below.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Just a few days.”

  I chewed on my lip. He must’ve come into town at least a few times before closing on the house. He was here, and I didn’t know it.

  But I bet my brother did.

  “So you’re back for good?”

  “I still have a house in LA, and a townhome in Phoenix. The Phoenix facility is a pilot project. It’s essentially an inpatient rehab clinic, made to feel as much like a vacation as it is work. One part clinic, one part retreat, so it operates on a different model than the other facilities. I check in on all of my centers regularly, so I live out of a suitcase half the time.”

  He unlocked the front door, punching in a code on the keypad. “But this is home now, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I didn’t know what I was asking, not really. So I simply followed him into the soaring entryway of his glass and concrete mansion.

  He kicked off his shoes, so I followed suit, lining my flip-flops up next to his expensive-looking leather loafers.

  Then I trailed him, barefoot, as the hall opened up to a vast kitchen. Marble sparkled under the recessed lighting. Landon walked to the double-door fridge, grabbing two bottles of water and handing me one.

  Our fingers brushed as I accepted it, the condensation cool against my skin.

  “So basically,” he said, twisting the lid. “I’ve got dozens of boxes of samples and products, and I thought you could give me some insight into how much that cart would hold and what products you think would work best given the demographic of your usual customers.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But what are we selling them, exactly? I thought you catered to NFL superstars.”

  “We do that too,” he said, taking a sip of the water, “but this facility can accommodate both. We have a secure wing devoted to elite athletes, and an entire gym devoted to your standard injury rehab work for your garden variety, rec-league type athletes.”

  “Okay. So where are the boxes?”

  “I had them put in the rec room down the hall.” He lead me across the hardwood floor, down a hall so long it might as well be the mall. Hell, I’d have bet I could wheel that damn kiosk right on in there. We went through a double door, and an enormous room opened up before me.

  One side of the wall was a long bar, complete with a carved wooden bar-back. The center of the room housed an onyx billiards table with red felt.

  The other half was stacked with boxes.

  “Who owned this house before you?”

  “Earl Thomas,” he said.

  “Oh.” Right. Of course the town’s resident bajillinoaire owned this house first.

  He was already peeling the tape off the first box, one labeled “Ultra Wrap”, with a giant “SAMPLES” sticker slapped diagonally across the side. I followed suit, digging into the nearest box and pulling out a stack of laminated sheets.

  “Wow, is this what the sports center looks like?” I asked, holding up the paper I’d found.

  On the paper was a picture of the building, and it was gorgeous. Built like a mountain lodge, with a soaring green roof and enormous timber-framed entry. But it was modern, too, with black-trimmed windows and curved cement walkways. There were groups of people walking the pathways, sitting on the iron benches, and walking out of the soaring front entry.

  Landon nodded. “Yeah, that’s from the architectural firm. We’ve got a photographer lined up for next week but until we have the shots back, I thought we could use the renderings.”

  “Sure, that sounds good.”

  I carried the stack over to the counter, thumbing through them and picking out my favorites. I sensed him coming up behind me more than I saw it, but when I felt his heat and smelled his cologne, I tried to act unaffected.

  “You must be proud of this,” I said, softly. He’d done so much since he left town. Proved his worth to a family who never deserved to call him their own.

  “I am,” he said. His finger glided down my shoulder, across my forearm. He leaned in, selecting a sheet from the stack. His body pressed up against mine, pushing me into the counter just a little bit. I had to fight the urge to arch back, pressing my ass up against him.

  He continued talking as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. “This one is my favorite.”

  It was labeled ‘Main Gym,’ and had a vaulted, timber-framed ceiling. Machines lined the wall, and the artist had depicted a man walking while supported by a double set of bars.

  “Why’s this your favorite?” I asked, trying to control my breathing and sound as normal as him. It almost worked.

  “It’s the heart of the facility. The place people go to fight for what they want most. Fight to heal and take control, even when it seems impossible.”

  “Oh,” I said, breathing too shallowly.

  He returned to his boxes, as if he hadn’t noticed his effect on me.

  I didn’t look at him again until I had myself under control. It would only take a couple of hours to get through this.

  I would be lucky to hold it together that long.

  * * *

  A couple hours later I sat on the edge of a leather bar stool, watching him make lunch, fascinated. His button-down was rolled up to his forearms, and he was chopping tomatoes, the knife gliding through them so quickly it was nearly a blur.

  Figures he’d discovered cooking after he left town. It was like he went off into the world and learned how to be the perfect leading man. And there I was, more like a bumbling sidekick than the heroine of my own story.

  “You really didn’t have to do this, you know,” I said, sipping at the glass of red wine he’d set in front of me.

  “Cooking for myself gets boring.”

  I played with the little charm at the base of my glass, wondering if his assistant picked it out, ensured his house would be filled with every last necessity. “You just want to show off.”

  “Maybe.” He glanced up and grinned, a little wolfish. “But it depends.”

  “On?”

  “On whether you are. Impressed, that is.” He turned to the fridge and leaned down, grabbing a bundle of green onions. I took the opportunity to check out his very perfect ass, trying not to blush.

  “So what are you making me?” I asked, trying to focus.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’ll figure it out eventually.”

  “Eventually,” he said, correcting me, “you’ll go sit on the deck, and I’ll bring you a plate.”

  I pouted, but it was more playful than anything. Watching him navigate the kitchen was practically a religious experience, and I could’ve sat there all day.

  I tried to remind myself that whatever this was and however good it felt—it wasn�
��t real. I couldn’t get attached to being around Landon again. He would leave, just like he’d left before, one way or another.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Landon pulled out a wrought iron dining chair on the sprawling back deck. I obediently sat, pulling a napkin onto my lap. Three candles were clustered in the middle of the table on a hunter green tablecloth, paired with cream-colored, linen napkins. It looked fancier than most restaurants I dined at.

  And then my world went suddenly dark.

  “Hey!” I said, tugging at the silk handkerchief he’d just put over my eyes.

  “Just trust me,” he said, leaning over, his breath hot against my neck.

  I swallowed. My nipples were suddenly tight and stiff.

  He grabbed my chair, dragging it around to face the other direction. Then he sat across from me, our knees bumping. He set the palm of his hand on my knee, searing me with one touch.

  “Now, I’m going to feed you the appetizer, and you’re going to guess what it is.”

  “I saw you cooking it,” I said, smirking. I wanted to look him in the eyes. The darkness was unnerving; I felt like I was at his mercy.

  “Really?’ He squeezed my knee, letting his fingers feather out across my lower thigh. “What did I make?”

  I paused. There was… chopping. And something sizzling in a pan. Dear God, I’d been so distracted I didn’t even remember anything after the tomato chopping.

  His chuckle was low and throaty, turning me on. “That’s what I thought. Open your lips.”

  I complied while wondering how long it would be before I melted into my chair.

  Something touched my mouth, and I bit down. It was crunchy at first, some sort of toasted bread. But then it was creamy and sweet, and I fought the urge to actually moan. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted.

  “It’s… amazing,” I said, after I swallowed. “What is that?”

  “Bone Marrow,” he said, amusement in his voice.

  I ripped the blindfold off, staring at him with my jaw dropped. “You just fed me bone marrow?”

  He laughed, the sexiest, throatiest laugh I’d ever heard. “Yes. It’s a delicacy.”

  “Ugh,” I said, even though it had tasted like sweet, buttery heaven. “It sounds like something you’d feed to a Rottweiler.”

  He raised a brow and leaned in. “Does it taste like something you’d feed to a Rottweiler?”

  “No,” I said, even though I wanted to insist on it. Even though I wanted to send him off kilter the way he’d done with me.

  “Exactly. I told you… You can trust me. I’m not going to feed you dog food.”

  “I’m afraid to trust you, Landon.” I was smiling as I said it, but the words fell heavy, and his expression changed, like he knew this was about more than the food. The light in his eyes dimmed, turning more intense as he leaned forward, until our faces were just inches apart. My chest tightened, the air in my lungs not enough.

  He spoke in a low, serious voice. “I had my reasons for leaving. But I’m back now.”

  “Why now?” I asked.

  “You know why. Prestige is opening in two weeks. I need to be here to oversee the launch.”

  “You opened two others first,” I said, and it came out like an accusation. “You could’ve started here.”

  “True,” he said, pursing his lips. “But I needed to build my brand first. It was an uphill battle to build the center so far from Seattle. My investors were skeptical that we’d draw the clientele we need. Without a brand to attract the sort of names who have already signed endorsement deals, it would’ve folded.”

  “You could’ve come back sooner,” I said, resisting the urge to add for me.

  “I couldn’t.” He edged closer. “But I wanted to.”

  And then he kissed me, his lips soft against mine. At first. Then the kiss deepened, his tongue slipping into my mouth. His hands tangled into my hair, and I leaned into him, wanting more. Wanting so much more, wanting him to wrap his arm around me.

  Wanting to lose myself in him, even though I knew this was insane. I couldn’t resist him now anymore than I’d been able to three years ago. I had always been putty in Landon’s hands.

  One of those hands slid downward, kneading into my back. I moaned against his mouth as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, fighting to stay sitting, to not close the gap between us and climb onto his lap.

  Without breaking our kiss, he yanked my chair forward. The seats didn’t have armrests, and with how close we were, my knees slid up over his legs, forcing my thighs apart.

  I wasn’t quit sitting astride him, but so tantalizingly close. He groaned and cupped my ass, pulling me all the way onto his lap.

  I gasped, feeling his erection against me, struggling against the urge to squirm, to give me some friction.

  He held my ass in his hands, rhythmically pushing me closer, as if to ask me to pick up a rhythm, give him that same friction I wanted. His mouth trailed over my neck, as wet and hot as I was already. I arched into him, turning my face away to allow him to nip at my ear, his lips sliding lower, soft and wet as he kissed across my collarbone, down to the edge of my shirt.

  “You smell so good,” he murmured, pulling my top down just enough to kiss the round swell of my breasts.

  I buried my fingers in his hair as I bucked over top of him, wishing our clothing wasn’t keeping us apart. I curled my legs round him, wanting him closer.

  But we were on his back patio, and although it was private, it still felt so very public.

  As if he’d read my mind, he stood, easily picking me up with him. I hooked my legs together behind his back as his hands slid under my ass. He kissed me again, possessing my mouth as he carried me through the patio door, kicking it shut behind us.

  Moments later we tumbled onto the deep pile rug in his living room, me pinned beneath him, his breathing ragged. And then he kissed me again, his hands sliding down my sides and up under my shirt. He pushed it upward, exposing the red lace of my bra. He kissed my breasts, and I tipped my head back, staring upward at the ceiling as my pulse roared in my ears.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured, his hand slipping behind my back and unhooking my bra.

  The air was cold against my bare, skin, my nipples hardening before he could cover one with his mouth, his tongue hot and wet as it circled the tip.

  I wanted him.

  Now.

  I slipped my hand under his shirt, gliding my fingers up over the rippling muscles of his abs. His skin was fiery hot to the touch, and I pulled his shirt over his head. He broke his kiss on my breasts, just long enough to get his shirt off before he began kissing a trail down my stomach, his breath hot against my belly. My body throbbed, painfully aware of his every touch, his every breath.

  It was all too slow. I wanted him to yank my clothes off, plunge inside me, fill the place where I ached. Fill me the way he had never done before.

  We’d come so close that one time—but never as far as I’d wanted. As I needed.

  And I’d dreamed so many times that it could happen between us, thought about it so much that I’d thought I was going insane. But now it was really happening now and I was powerless to stop what my body had been crying out for.

  He slid my pants off, removing his own before he was hovering over me again, propped up on his elbows as he slid his hands up my arms, lifting them over my head. He pinned me like that, kissing my temple, my ear, my neck. His tender mouth was at odds with the possessive way he held my arms down.

  I was panting for him, squeezing him closer with my legs, desperate to feel him inside me. He was wearing boxer briefs, but the thin layer of them and my panties wasn’t enough to mask the hard ridge of his cock, pressing into me. Frustratingly close, but it wasn’t enough.

  His hips ground down on me, and he moved against me, the friction causing me to moan as my back pressed into the rug. I writhed against him, my hands still pinned over my head, utterly useless. I wanted to touch him.

&n
bsp; I wanted to taste him.

  “I want you,” he whispered, his voice husky, making me throb with my own want.

  I looked at him, unsure for just a moment. “What if—”

  He kissed my mouth deeply, stopping my questions, his tongue pushing in and linking with mine before he broke away again. “No what if’s,” he said firmly, digging his hips into mine as I moaned.

  He was right.

  No what if’s. I wanted to live without them for once, to just let go and be free of all of the baggage that had weighed me down these last three years.

  He clasped my wrists together in one hand, then moved the other, dipping lower, twisting the ribbon-thin line of my underwear in his hand. It pulled tight against my hip, until the fabric gave way, breaking in his hand.

  And then he shoved it down my other thigh, leaving me bare, exposed to the air and him. He nudged my thighs, pushing my legs father apart as he moved upward, until his cock--still covered by his boxers—rubbed against my clit.

  I groaned again, arching against him. Desperate for more.

  “You’re so wet,” he whispered, his breath hot in my ear as he ground against me, harder now.

  “I want you,” I said, twisting, pulling at my arms. I wanted him to let me go, if only so I could shove his boxers down, take him in my hand and guide him inside me. “Please,” I whispered, clenching my legs to force him even closer.

  “Please what?” he asked, kissing his way across my neck, his breath coming out as ragged as my own.

  “I need you,” I said, again. I wanted to hate him for doing this, for making me writhe below him, begging for his cock, but I couldn’t.

  Because I wanted it too much.

  “You want me to fuck you?” he asked, his cheek close to mine as he teased my ear between his teeth. Fire roared through me.

  “Yes, I want you. Now.”

  He hesitated, and my mind cleared just enough to say more.

  “I’m on the pill. Please, just fuck me.”

  His groan was deep and guttural, and for a moment, I thought he might resist. I thought he might pull back, leave me there panting on his living room floor, wet and wanting.