* * *
He keeps his eyes on me, watching as I run my hands over its length, wetting my lips and inching closer, trying to keep my eyes on his but pulled to the magnificent sight before me. It twitches beneath my hands, and he pulls on the back of my head, eager to have it in my mouth.
* * *
When I close my mouth on it, sliding my lips over his head, the veins in his cock swollen under my fingers, he groans. A long, slow groan of release, satisfaction. He cradles my hair in his hands, his head tilted, watching me suck, watching my eyes close as I gag, the width and depth of him too great to take.
* * *
“Fuck,” he swears. “Do you know how often I think about you at work? Think about you just like this, behind my desk? I get fucking hard thinking about you.” He pushes my head harder, sitting up slightly and watching the slide of his cock intently.
* * *
His cell buzzes, on the desk, and he reaches for it, his eyes never leaving mine. He answers the phone, pulling at my head, his eyes ordering me to continue.
* * *
“Hello.” He almost growls the word, inhaling sharply when I suck a little harder. I love the taste of his skin. How hard he grows in my mouth, the moments when I taste the sweet drops of his arousal. There is nothing that turns me on more than having him before me, his hands urging me on, his most sensitive organ twitching underneath my tongue. I work my hand over his length, pulling him from my mouth and moving below, taking his balls into my mouth, and rolling them along my tongue, his words pausing in their speech, a brief hitch in his tone.
* * *
I smile, skimming my teeth lightly over the skin, watching his eyes close briefly, his voice struggle to return to the conversation, his words halting when they come. I return to his cock, sucking with renewed energy, my hands and my mouth working in a wet, sexual tandem.
* * *
He stands, pulling my head back slowly, dark eyes watching as inch after inch of his cock leaves my mouth, my cheeks hollowing from the suction, my tongue teasing and flicking as he pulls me off. “John. My wife needs me. I’ll call you back.” He ends the call and tosses the phone aside, pulling me to my feet in one quick movement.
* * *
“Bend over. In my chair. Right fucking now.”
* * *
He yanks at the strings of my bikini bottom, pulling it away before I am in place, my knees hitting his chair a moment later. It is a wide leather chair, worn and sitting low, my knees putting me at the perfect height for his entrance. He pushes a finger inside, swearing when he feels my readiness. “Is that from this?” he asks, thrusting inside, my insides tightening around him, anxious for every inch of his entry. “Does it turn you on to suck my cock?”
* * *
I nod, knowing that it won’t be enough. Knowing that he will want more, will want to hear my voice. But I want the reaction my silence will bring. He slaps my ass, the hard, rough impact against my skin causing me to jump, to moan, the possessiveness of the contact causing a curl of pleasure to shoot through my body. “Answer me.”
* * *
“Yes.” I gasp. “Please. Spank me again.”
* * *
He waits, fucking me hard, the percussion of our skin quick, the anticipation of his touch causing my legs to tighten, my core to grip him tightly. It is building, my mountain of lust, my body shaking and breaking around his stiff rod, each thrust perfectly timed, the entire act too erotic for me to take. Being fucked like a whore, I am learning, turns me the fuck on. Then it comes, another open hand slap against my skin, his fingers gripping after each contact is made, each stinging stroke taking me closer and closer until
* * *
Ecstasy.
* * *
My body breaks into a thousand splinters of pleasure, a series of gasps spilling out, my back arching and pushing against his hard pelvis, our bodies joined as I am torn apart in a sea of desire.
CHAPTER 36
If this woman paid money for these lips, she needs a refund. I pick up a spinach stuffed croissant and take a tiny bite, watching the blonde’s giant lips wrap around the edge of a wine glass. I laugh at a joke another woman says, and wish for some hard liquor.
* * *
It’s amazing how similar a wine charity luncheon can be to stripping. In both, I fake interest, laughing at bad jokes, smiling at conversations I couldn’t care less about. In both, I give compliments I don’t mean, and fake emotions I don’t feel. In both, I’m judged, though it’s funny—in stripping, I was judged for my body. Here, I am judged because of it. Not that they are that obvious. Oh no, they act sweet, but I see the daggers in their glances, the fangs in their smiles. At least in stripping, the assholes are upfront about it. Here, I have to learn an entirely different game to play, the current one against … I silently count my opponents, my eyes hopping across the expensively attired women perched around Nathan’s living room, their hands filled with Beth’s finger foods, most sinking comfortably into their second wine glass. Ten women.
* * *
Of all of Nathan’s demands, this has been one of the hardest to take. I had balked when he brought it up, my lonely boredom not to the stifling degree that I wanted to entertain strangers.
* * *
“You’re doing it.” Three words tersely delivered over his morning eggs, his fork scraping the plate as he scooped up his final bite and stood, lifting his coffee cup for a quick sip. “The battered women’s shelter is a good cause, and one of my sister’s passions. It’ll be good for you to get involved.” His sister. It was his first mention of her, though I’ve seen her photo around the house, and Mark mentioned that she passed away a couple of years ago.
* * *
So here I am, hosting a two hour “meeting” that has skipped over a variety of topics, none of which seemed to concern battered women and most of which has centered on gossip. I pick at my plate and daydream about our Bahamas trip, now only one week away, assuming my new passport arrives in time. I’m ready for it, my excitement building with each passing day, despite my best attempts at setting low expectations.
* * *
“So, Janice.” A leggy brunette with boobs as big as my head, leans forward; and it takes a moment to realize she is talking to me.
* * *
“It’s Candace.” I correct her, and when she smiles, I can see a wedge of spinach in her teeth.
* * *
“Right.” She brushes off my name with a flick of her diamond studded hand. I run a thumb over my ring, a simple three carat princess cut diamond that—in any other scenario—I would have swooned over. But in this life, it feels like a shackle. Did hers feel the same way? How many of these women, each pampered and glistening with the sparkle of upper class wealth—how many of them hate their lives? My gaze drifts back to the woman, who has her brow raised in the expectant manner of someone who is waiting on a response.
* * *
“I’m sorry?” I start to cross my legs, then stop, pinning my knees together.
* * *
“I asked if you ever knew Cecile.” There is a gleam in her eyes, one that raises an alarm and reminds me that I am a spindly gazelle, surrounded by a pride of lions.
* * *
“Cecile?” I glance at the other women, to see if anyone else is listening to this conversation. They are. All of them, their bodies tilted forward in the subtle manner of eavesdroppers everywhere. Whoever Cecile is, I’m suddenly as interested in her as they appear to be.
* * *
“Why yes.” The brunette smiles in a smug manner that makes me vow, right then, to not tell her about the spinach, which has now shifted to a front row location that is hysterically apparent. “Nathan’s fiancée.”
* * *
My stomach flips at the title. I’ve wondered a lot of things about Nathan, including his past dating history. Was this fiancée a contract girl, like me, one that backed out of the deal? Or was she legitimate, someone he loved, and who loved him in retur
n? I feel a stab of jealousy at the latter option, and glance down before the emotion shows in my face.
* * *
Whatever she has to say, I’m not sure I want to hear it. I reach forward, piercing a crab cake ball with a toothpick and pop it into my mouth. I chew, turning toward the curly-headed bean stalk to my right, and search for something to say.
* * *
“Hasn’t he told you what happened?” She doesn’t give up, all but waving her hands at me in an attempt to draw attention to the question.
* * *
I swallow, and try to ignore her, my hands flexing on my thighs, an exhale hissing through my lips. I try. I fail. I turn back to her, my voice as calm as I can manage it.
* * *
“What happened?”
* * *
“Well that’s just the thing.” She leans forward as if her next sentence might change my world. “No one knows. One week, they were planning their reception and sampling wedding cake. The next week, she just disappeared.”
* * *
She disappeared? I think of my past life, and the sudden exit, no explanations given, my stuff packed up by strangers. I disappeared, and yet here I am, perfectly fine, save my junk food deprivation. Maybe Cecile’s the same way. Maybe a sexy man waltzed into her life, offered her the moon, and she took it.
* * *
I discard the idea as soon as it hits. What man could compete with Nathan? Especially if this bitch had been getting Napa Valley Nathan. There is no amount of money, or sex appeal, that could compete with that Nathan.
* * *
But if not that … then what?
* * *
I glance at my watch and wish these women would hurry this meeting the hell up. If Nathan’s fiancée disappeared, that only makes my next step that much more important.
* * *
They finally stand, hugs and air kisses all around, promising to get together soon, flowery bullshit stacked upon flowery bullshit. It’s been, in terms of the women’s shelter, a complete waste of two and a half hours. I sit in the window seat, watching them walk down the front steps, and will them to hurry-the-fuck-up, to get into their cars and off of this property, so that I will be alone with Drew. Today is a quiet day—no Beth, no landscapers, no housekeepers. It will be just him and me, and I plan to take full advantage of the opportunity. Not just to seduce, but in hopes of getting access to the house, my fingers itching to explore Nathan’s office and what he may hide there.
* * *
Drew walks in, glancing out the front windows. “Why are you still in here?”
* * *
I keep the smile on my face. “Nathan is always so concerned with appearances. I thought it’d be odd for me to run to the guest house before they pull out.”
* * *
He nods, and turns away. “I’m sorry for coming into your room the other night.” His words are soft, almost whispered, even though the cameras are off—the security system only activated at night and by his control.
* * *
I say nothing, swallowing, and look out the front window, seeing the cars stop at our gate, the wrought iron slowly opening. He’s sorry. He certainly should be. He’s put me in a terrible position, he’s put my agreement with Nathan in jeopardy, and risked my father’s health in doing so. But this sudden change of conscience is terrible in its timing.
* * *
The cars in the driveway move, passing through the gates and out of sight. I wait until the last one pulls through, then stand. Moving to him, I look up into his face, pulling his face down and forcing him to look at me. “Drew, please stop talking.”
* * *
I can feel his reluctance in every move, his eyes slowly dragging to mine, his body stiff against mine. He pushes away, a hurried gesture, hard on my shoulders, and steps back. “No.”
* * *
My heart sinks, my plan thwarted.
* * *
“Not here. It’s too visible.” He strides toward the back hall, grabbing my hand and pulling me along with him.
* * *
We enter his room, my introduction a blur of cream walls and masculine furniture, any observations lost in the moment that he pulls me onto his bed. Sex the first time was hurried, him demanding permission with his body, my own response hesitant, terrified of the giant cliff that we were taking a step off of. This time I hold nothing back, letting his hunger devour me, his hands placing my body where and how he wants it. And this time, he’s the one who seems unsure of the wisdom of our actions.
* * *
He pushes me against the wall, his hands fumbling with my shorts, jerking them down so he can lift and wrap my legs around his body. He whispers words that contradict his motions. “Are you sure? We shouldn’t…” Then he groans as my legs pull him tight, his body supporting me against the wall, my arms wrapping around his neck and pulling his mouth to mine. I yank at his shirt while we kiss, pulling the fabric up, our mouths separating for a brief moment as it pulls over his head. His hands move beneath me, unzipping, yanking, ripping open a condom, an initial bump of bare cock against the curve of my skin, then it is covered.
* * *
Thrusts. Our bodies on the bed, my legs spread before him, his hips moving in strong, slow fucks that are increasing in rhythm. It is a beautiful sight, the daylight showing me all of the details my dim bedroom hid—his eyes blazing with possession, his chest tightening, the slide of his cock as it thrust, his gaze dropping to watch it, his mouth slightly open in lust. He grips my thighs, holding my legs against his chest, and he releases any control, starting a furious pace that has my body shaking, intensity building.
* * *
Orgasms. Mine while he is behind me, his balls drilling a steady beat on my clit, his hands squeezing my ass, holding me still while he sets the pace, bringing me to completion. His while I am beneath him, his arms framing my head while he thrusts inside of me, his mouth brushing mine, the pace increasing until he grunts, shudders, and then whispers my name, lowering his body to mine, giving one final full thrust that takes him completely inside of me.
* * *
I hear the rush of water as he opens his shower door and steps in. I sit up, moving quickly and silently off his bed and out to the hall. To be safe, I am giving myself four minutes, my feet running as soon as my bare soles touch the cool tile. I trace the path Drew led me down one week earlier, the path to Nathan’s office.
* * *
I skid around the edge of his desk, my hand gripping the wooden edge, tugging on handles and drawer pulls until one slides open. Files. There has to be something on me, a folder of my history, or a diagram of their evil plan. I skim the folder titles.
* * *
Three minutes.
* * *
The drawer seems to be filled with mostly family-related items.
Dumont Family History.
Dumont Estate.
Dumont Trust.
* * *
Files for names I am not familiar with, most likely his parents. I see my name, and time slows.
* * *
CANDACE
* * *
The title is written as painstakingly neat as the rest of the tabs, my place equal among his family files. I almost missed the file, its thin depth lying against the one before it, shielded by a tag with similar placement. I reach forward and pull it out.
* * *
Two minutes.
* * *
My heart sinks as the file slides out quickly and easily, its weight too light to hold many secrets. It feels, in fact, empty. I open it slowly, and my eyes fall on a single piece of paper. It is a piece of Nathan’s letterhead, a half-page card that is familiar enough to my eyes, the embossed letters of his name across the top. On it, in the painstakingly neat writing of my husband, is one short message. I read it quickly, then stop, my heart thudding heavily in my chest—slow, loud thumps that rattle my thinking. I read it again.
* * *
I loved Candace more than I h
ave ever loved another soul on this planet. Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled. Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.
* * *
One minute.
CHAPTER 37
I am back in Drew’s bed when he emerges, his hair wet, a towel around his shoulders, his jeans unbuttoned and hanging low on firm, muscular hips. I stretch, my body still naked, in hopes of distracting him from any erratic thoughts. The shower had been off when I returned, no rush of water to hide the sound of the door. I close my eyes, trying to keep my face smooth and calm, trying to paint the picture of a woman whose heart is not racing, whose mind is not panicking.
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