Finders Keepers_An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 7

  Chapter Twelve

  Vivian

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  I have no idea what that sound is, but I couldn’t care less. Right now, the only sound I can hear is the one made by the furious pounding of my heart. See, Lucien is moving in for the kiss, and my lips are already parting, ready for it, and—

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Again, that annoying sound. Lucien and I glance at each other, the atmosphere we had built slowly crumbling, and he takes a step back.

  He runs a hand through his hair, visibly irritated, and sighs. He glances at the door, and he looks pissed as hell.

  And really, who can blame him?

  I’m probably more pissed than he is right now. This was such a perfect moment, and some asshole had to come knocking at our—at my—door.

  “Coming!” I shout, now being my turn to sigh heavily.

  Still with my heart racing, I turn on my heels and start making my way toward the door. As I walk there, I feel Lucien’s eyes crawling up and down my body, almost as if he’s trying to devour me with just his gaze.

  Oh, and I so want to be devoured...and not just by his eyes.

  As I reach for the door’s handle, I’m suddenly pulled away. I feel Lucien’s hands gripping me tight, his long fingers on my waist. He forces me to turn around, pushes me back against the door, and then presses his body against me.

  I’m speechless. And by speechless, I mean my pussy is as fucking wet as the Pacific.

  I look into Lucien’s eyes, holding my breath, and he looks right back at me. I don’t even know if whoever’s out there’s still knocking.

  All I know is that Lucien has his body pressed against mine, his lips calling for my own, and every single inch of his body seems to be screaming for me…

  Before I know it, he has started to lean in; I close my eyes, part my lips, and then it happens.

  We kiss.

  The moment his lips touch mine, I feel my knees grow weak. My back slides down the door, but Lucien’s hands quickly go around my waist and then down, right over my ass.

  He grabs me hard, keeping me from falling, and I surrender to him. Feeling his fingers digging deep into my flesh, I turn into mush.

  Slowly, he pushes the tip of his tongue against my lips, and I part them to let him. In a fraction of a second, our tongues are dancing around one another, lost in a frenzied embrace.

  Taking my hands to his waist, I pull him hard against me, and my heart almost stops as I feel something very, very hard growing against my inner thigh. I’m about to reach for it, my fingers more than ready to curl themselves around his cock...when that fucking someone starts pounding against the door again.

  Seriously, what the fuck? Is it too much to ask for a woman to have a moment’s quiet in her multimillion dollar penthouse?

  New York, sometimes I just don’t get you.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  If I had a gun in my hands right now, I’d just turn around and shoot the asshole through the door. I don’t even care who’s on the other side; who the hell dares interrupt me when I’m having the time of my life?

  Breaking away from our kiss, I stare into Lucien’s eyes.

  “Fuck that shit,” he simply whispers, the fire of lust burning in his eyes. All I need to do is nod, and Lucien will go for it—one nod and he’ll rip the clothes off my body, and he’ll fuck me so hard I won’t even know my name after he’s done.

  How do I know? Oh, babe, all I need to do is look into his eyes to know that.

  Oh my god, how the hell am I supposed to say no to him?

  I’m one nod away from having the best sex of my entire life. But I must resist; now more than ever, I must tell him no.

  If I don’t do it right now, he’ll know I’m stepping right into his trap. He’ll know I’m vulnerable. And that’s something that I simply can’t allow to happen.

  “Calm yourself, horndog,” I tell him with a fake scowl.

  With both my hands on his chest, I push him back and then tap my foot against the floor.

  “We need to open the door. Right now,” I tell him.

  Oh, you can’t even imagine how hard it is for me to be saying this shit. All I want is for him to pick me up, drag me all the way to the bedroom, and fuck me senseless.

  Still, I manage to keep my wits about me

  Turning around, I take a deep breath and face the door. With some strength back on my knees, I reach for the handle and turn it. As the door swings back, I come face to face with Edwin Snodgrass, the president of the Condo Board. A fat asshole with a enormous ego—and that in direct contrast with what I assume to be a very small dick.

  “Mr. Snodgrass,” I greet him patiently.

  By the sneer on his face, I can already tell that he didn’t come all the way up here to offer a welcoming gift to his new neighbors.

  “Hey, Putin,” Lucien says over my shoulder, and I just look back at him and raise one eyebrow.

  Putin? Whatever.

  “I see you’re already settling, the two of you,” Edwin says in that annoying Russian accent of his. Swear to god, sometimes I feel that his accent is as fake as the golden Rolex he wears on his trunk-tree of a wrist.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t start calling this place home yet. You see,” he continues, leaning in and making a slight pause for dramatic effect.

  “I know that your real estate agents fucked it up. They fucked up bigly, as you Americans say.”

  “That doesn’t really concern you, Mr. Snodgrass,” I tell him, fighting to urge to slam the door on his fake Russian ass.

  “Oh, but it does. It does concern me a lot,” he replies, and I notice his eyes quickly darting to my cleavage.

  Ugh, just by knowing that he’s looking at me makes me feel all dirty—and not in a fun way. I guess I gotta have a shower after he leaves.

  “You can’t live here, the two of you,” he says. “That’s against the rules, and I need you to tell me right now who is moving out.”

  “What the fuck?” Lucien snarls, now standing by my side.

  His lips are a thin line, and his expression is a blend of rage and contempt. Now that’s a man that isn’t used to hear a no.

  “You bet your ass we both can live here. And again, that’s none of your fucking business.”

  “And again, Mr. Parkour, this is exactly my business. As Condominium Board President, it is my duty to make sure the rules are enforced at the Trident. And I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

  “I need to see the bylaws,” I tell him, now seriously wanting to bury his ass in a mountain of legal paperwork.

  If this asshole thinks he can come into my place, spout some bullshit about rules and have me tuck my tails behind my legs, then he’s in for a surprise—a very nasty surprise.

  Except instead of being taken aback by my comment, he simply shrugs and offers me a grin.

  “Very well. The bylaws. Come by my office, and I’ll be glad to show it to you.” As he says it, his grin seems to widen. “But let me tell you right away...you’ll have thirty days to decide who’s going to be the owner of the apartment.”

  With that, the gigantic man turns around and stalks away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the marble hallway.

  Closing the door, I finally turn to Lucien, completely at a loss for words.

  My eyes quickly dart to his lips again, but it’s no use—the moment’s been ruined.

  We break eye contact at the same time, and then Lucien simply walks to the center of the living room, grabs his shirt from the workout bench and puts it on. Without saying a single word to me, he gets on the phone with his attorney and leaves the apartment.

  I stand there, right in the middle of the living room, as he slams the door hard.

  “Asshole,” I whisper, not sure if I’m thinking about Disgusting Edwin or Eye-Candy Lucien. I guess it applies to both, in a sense.

  But if Edwin Snodgrass thinks he can go toe-to-toe with me...well, let’s just say someone’s about to be destroyed, and
that someone isn’t going to be me.

  Vivian Sweet takes no prisoners.

  Ever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucien

  It’s been a whole thirty-six hours since I left the apartment, and I gotta tell you, I wish I was back.

  What was I thinking? I mean, there she was, all wrapped up in me. And why did I just fucking leave?

  It’s kind of hard to say.

  I know, I know—I’m Lucien Parker, right?

  I shouldn’t have any trouble coming up with words. I’m the one who looked at the President of the United States of America—I forget if it was this one or the last one—and told him that his jobs plan was basically useless.

  My words didn’t fail me then. I’m the only one—when brought together by the Wall Street Network for a panel on fixing the economy—who even mentioned the plight of the working class.

  Where was the rest of the titans of industry back then? I went on television and basically stated that this country had forgotten the plight of those people who were working for shit jobs. You don’t normally expect billionaires to do that kind of thing.

  But I did. And I still would.

  But now?

  I’m having fucking trouble elucidating why I left the most drop dead gorgeous woman I have ever seen. She was running her hands over my sweaty fucking body and cooing in my ear.

  Fucking Christ.

  It was that little limp dick excuse of a fucking man Edwin Snodgrass knocking that got in the way. The way Vivian seemed to fall into his words and begin to work with him.

  She’s a fucking attorney. I’ve done enough research on her the last few days to know that if she plans to win the apartment, she’s going to find a way within the system to get it.

  If it were me, I’d have just punched that motherfucker in the face.

  That’s right. Some people might not believe in violence.

  Well, I do. Or

  at least, when it comes to useless little twats like Edwin Snodgrass.

  One of us has bought the apartment; he can’t do anything about that.

  SoSo, the fucking cockroach is trying to act powerful the only way he can.

  It almost makes me want to spit in his face and see what he does.

  What are chances that Vivian is going to give up the fucking apartment?

  That’s right—zero.

  From everything I’ve seen about her, she’s a determined and strong woman. She’s not going to give up if she can help it.

  “Bro, you’re really going to need to get out of your head and have some fun tonight,” my old fraternity brother tells me as our limo pulls up to the ultra-exclusive nightclub that New Yorkers simply know as Pasha.

  That’s right.

  Pasha.

  Where the truly wealthy come to get away from the merely rich.

  Where the only women you see are the ones that would make a regular Joe on the street agree to give up his 401k and his left nut in exchange for a blowjob.

  Yeah, that kind of club.

  And to put things in perspective, we walk right past the line of folks waiting to get in like it doesn’t even matter.

  Lines—one of those tiny inconveniences I never have to worry about. And all because my name’s Lucien Parker.

  Our VIP section is already roped off and a bouncer guides us to our section before standing guard at the entrance.

  “You need a fucking drink, man,” another friend of mine, Dale, says, as he pours the three hundred dollar bottle of scotch into my glass.

  “Our mission is to make sure that Lucien Parker gets back to being the old Lucien Parker tonight,” Dale announces, and

  I laugh at that one as I tip my glass.

  Right. The old Lucien Parker.

  The one that would bag a bitch and hold onto her for two weeks. Show her the time of her life and make her forget the fucking world.

  He’d fuck her till she couldn’t stand. Till she passed out. Give her life altering sex.

  And then fourteen days later, he’d get a fucking blowjob from her at the bathroom of Scala’s and then take her to dinner and break up with her.

  Move on to her sister. Or her roommate. Her mother. Her best friend.

  Anyone. No one was immune. No one was safe.

  In the club, five girls, all in various levels of slutty, sit down across from me.

  “Well, hello, ladies,” I say more out of instinct.

  “Hello, indeed,” Dale says with too much enthusiasm in his voice, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  Picking your women isn’t as easy it may seem—and I say that knowing how easy it is for me to have women wobbling on their knees, begging for me to take them. It needs time, and you need to know what you’re looking for; it needs precision.

  You want something with a little mystery.

  Something secret.

  You want someone who’ll treat you right. Who will never lie to you. Who will make your toes curl and your pussy wet.

  Someone who’ll make your heartbeat go faster than you thought possible. But someone who’ll make you feel fucking safe.

  Basically, someone like me.

  The girls are eyeing me up and down. They’re not really paying too much attention to Dale or anyone else.

  But whether or not they’re interested with my friends, I’m not worried. Whichever one I don’t take can go to whoever she wants.

  It’s like how the alpha male takes his pick of females, and then leaves the scraps for everyone else.

  “What are your names?” I ask.

  “I’m Bambi,” the blonde one announces, and I nod—not even surprised.

  A blonde chick dressing in a skirt that’s three sizes too small for her with a red tube top calling herself Bambi?

  Yeah, that’s fucking unique.

  “I’m Candi,” the redhead next to her announces with a chirp.

  Great. Another sister from the sorority of strippers apparently.

  “I’m Trendi,” the brunette next to her says out loud, way to happy.

  “Trendy?” I ask, looking for clarification and wondering, if at this young age I’m starting to go senile.

  “Yup,” she says with a lascivious smile - maybe because I got her name right. “Trendi LaFata.”

  “And I’m Handi,” another brunette says as she bounces up and down.

  “What kind of parents did you have? Jesus Christ,” I ask, taken the fuck back.

  “No, my parents weren’t Jesus. They had sex. I saw them once,” the girl named Handi with her tits spilling out of her tank top tells me quite seriously.

  I look over to the last girl in the gaggle.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, more out of morbid curiosity than anything else. “Hanky? Panky? Spanky?”

  She laughs a minute before answering me.

  “I’m Beatricia Maddow,” she answers to me, and I literally almost drop my glass.

  I mean, can you feel me on this? We’re going from names like Handi to Beatricia? What fucking craziness is this.

  “You look like you’re having trouble remembering our names,” Bambi says as she pours herself some of my scotch and shoots back the expensive liquid.

  “Would you like us to suck your cock?”

  I can hear Dale coughing into his drink. But yeah, it’s always been this fucking easy for me. It’s like a fucking gift.

  But tonight, something isn’t right.

  “Just like that?” I ask them. “Blow me right here? In the fucking club?”

  Maybe they’re not listening. I don’t know.

  Bambi nods her head happily, but that’s only because Candi is nibbling on her lip, and she can’t talk. On the other side, Beatricia and Trendi seem to be playing with Handi’s tits as they shower her with kisses.

  Last week, the old Lucien Parker would have had himself a six-way. He would have made them fuck each other and then fucked each of these airheads until truly nothing was left in their fucking brains except thoughts of where to
find their next orgasm.

  But today?

  “Sorry, ladies,” I say to them as I finish my scotch and get up. “But I’m leaving. I need to go back to my apartment.”

  There’s cries of disappointment from the girls.

  I look over to my friends. They nod at me as I leave, including Dale.

  They’ve got plenty of broads to choose from, now that I’m not there attracting everything. They did their part by trying.

  But see, they were never going to succeed.

  Because in my head, I can’t get over Vivian.

  Edwin said we had thirty days.

  And I know that in thirty days, if I gotta stay in the apartment with her, I’ll probably fall in love with Vivian Sweet.

  Hell, who knows if I’m not already?

  And then all hope of keeping the apartment for myself?

  It’s all gone.

  I walk out of the VIP section and out of the club. I call a taxi to take me to Park Avenue.

  Maybe I should start talking to Vivian about this.

  Tell her I want this to be a fair fight.

  At least, that’s what I resolve to do once I get to my door after going through the elevator.

  I take out my keys and draw a deep sigh.

  And open the door.

  “Oh look, here’s one of those mysoginist assholes that would rather hold women down than be partners that care” a voice calls out.

  Holy fucking shit. What is going on?

  In front of me are a group of women around the apartment, wine glasses in their hands, curlers on their hair, and sweatpants hanging loosely on their legs.

  They all stare at me wide-eyed, some seeming completely dumbfounded. I look for Vivian to see if she’s around or if she said anything remotely like what I heard.

  “Welcome to the Single Divorcée club,” the one of the women says, and all of a sudden the room takes a suddenly wrong turn from the innocent routes of a normal book club to a fucking hen party.

  Then Vivian shows up.

  “Hey there, Lucien,” she says with a feigned innocent tone on her voice.

  “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon, so I made plans. I hope you don’t mind—we used your exercise bench to hold the Nora Roberts books we read this week. And then basically support each other as we try to deal with the horrible creature that is the male.It was time to put it into better use, anyway—don’t you think?”