To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  “No! Please don’t tell my dad!” I plead, jumping off the couch fast. “I’m sorry, Lazarus. I promise it was a mistake.”

  He narrows his gaze at me, standing up slowly until he’s towering over me like a tall tree.

  “It was a mistake,” he growls, jaw visibly clenched. The way he’s looking at me creates a tremble from my head to my toes. “Never again, Tracien. Goodnight.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the stairs.

  At his command, I stammer away from him before I can embarrass myself any further, racing up the stairs to my room and slamming the door behind me. I’m panting, out of breath and shivering everywhere.

  There’s a buzzing in my belly. I’m not sure what this feeling is, but it’s beyond confusing… Because I like it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Traci

  I’ve been pacing my bedroom for the better part of two hours, unable to stop thinking about how it felt to have Lazarus Weston’s lips on mine.

  Despite how brief it was, and how angry it made him, for a few seconds I had him. He was mine.

  The desperate crush that’s been building for this man over the last year culminated in some insanely stupid behavior tonight, but I can’t ignore that launching myself at him got me what I wanted, even if it was over in the blink of an eye.

  I know these feelings for Lazarus are getting dangerous. My crush is becoming an obsession, and it’s unhealthy, to say the least. I know that.

  But that doesn’t mean I can just turn it off. And if we’re being honest, I don’t want to.

  Lazarus is all I think about lately. I dream about him often, and when I don’t, I wake up feeling frustrated beyond anything I’ve felt before. I spend hours at night lying in the darkness of my bedroom, imagining what it would be like to have him look at me the way he looks at women. Like in my dreams, when he notices me. As a woman, not as his best friend’s silly, strange daughter.

  In real life, when Lazarus and I interact, we’re usually bickering. I hate that he teases me so much, and brushes me off like some spoiled kid. But I know that’s what he thinks I am, and I just want to show him I can be more. I want to be more… for him.

  Just knowing he’s still downstairs is driving me crazy. I want to listen to him talk, even if he is insulting me, or treating me like a nuisance.

  I want to watch him. To study the perfect lines of his face, the way his brow furrows often, and you can just tell he’s thinking about something displeasing to him, which would be most things. His dark eyelashes, abnormally long for a guy’s, fluttering as he blinks over those gray irises I see every time I close my own eyes. His hands and his arms and his lips…

  Fuck… This is excruciating. I need some relief from this torture.

  Creeping to my bedroom door, I open it slowly, tiptoeing out of my room and down the hall. As soon as I approach the stairs, I hear hushed voices. One is deep and rumbling and obviously belongs to Lazarus. And the other is smooth and a few octaves higher; a female.

  I swallow down something that feels like liquid hot lava rising in my throat as I step closer. I can’t make out anything the voices are saying, but I can tell they’re coming from the living room, where I left Laz a couple hours ago.

  Dad’s definitely not home yet, because he never came to check on me. And since there’s a girl's voice conversing with Lazarus, my bet would be that he invited someone over, the thought of which immediately sends aching jealousy, like knives stabbing into my chest.

  I walk down the stairs, as quietly as I can, though knowing I’m far enough from the living room that they won’t hear me. I stay silent as I move toward the room, holding my breath to listen.

  “I don’t understand the appeal in this.” That’s Lazarus.

  “The couples are matched based on compatibility, but they don’t meet until their wedding day,” the female voice explains. “At that point, they can decide if they want to call it off, but most of them go through with the wedding and see if they can make it work.”

  “So they marry someone they’ve never even met before?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

  The girl giggles, a sound that grinds my teeth until my jaw is sore, my hands fisting as a reflex.

  “It’s not! It’s entertaining,” the dumb bimbo croons, and then I hear some shuffling. “But believe it or not, I didn’t come over here to watch reality TV with you.”

  “Why did you come over then?” Lazarus rumbles. I can feel the vibrations of his deep voice from here.

  My toes curl remembering that little grunt when I kissed him before.

  There are rustling noises, and I’m desperate to see what they’re doing. I know I shouldn’t care… It’s none of my business, and I’m being a bit of a freakish lunatic right now, but I can’t help it. I’m possessed.

  I need to see what Lazarus is doing with this woman, in my home. With me right upstairs, as far as he knows, after I just kissed him earlier. Surely he’s already forgotten about my embarrassing attempt at making out with him. Now he has a real woman here, one who knows how to kiss and touch, and do all kinds of things I would have no idea how to go about doing.

  Lazarus wants a woman. One with experience, who can please him. And that’s not me.

  The pressure in my chest builds as I bite the inside of my cheek, inching closer to the hallway entrance of the living room. It’s to the left of where the couch is positioned, so if you’re watching TV, you won’t be paying attention to that doorway.

  Peering around the corner, I’m just in time to catch a woman with platinum blonde hair running her fingers up Laz’s chest while her tongue apparently flicks his earlobe. I cock my head to the side in fascination.

  Tongue in the ear? Really?? Does that feel good?

  “I came over to make you come, Lazarus,” she whispers seductively to him, just barely loud enough for me to hear her. “You know how much I enjoy doing that.”

  “Mmm…” He releases a growly hum that reminds me of my dreams and jacks up my heart rate a few notches. “You do like making me come, don’t you?”

  “I love it,” the woman purrs, scratching his jaw with long red nails. “I’m good at it, too. Don’t you think?”

  Lazarus purses his lips and tilts his head to her. He captures her chin between his fingers and tugs her face to his until his mouth is hovering over hers. Then he whispers something that I can’t hear, but as soon as the words leave his lips, the woman whimpers and kisses him hard.

  A mixture of jealousy and flaming need rushes my insides like a stampede, some of the most confusing things I’ve ever felt swirling around in my chest. I’ve never looked at stuff like this before in real life.

  Of course I’ve seen people hooking up in movies and on TV. And I’ve seen some pretty scandalous videos on social media. Tumblr is insane. But I’ve never watched it in front of my face…

  And I’ve never watched it happening with the guy I have an intense physical infatuation for.

  Lazarus kisses the woman for minutes, doing a much better job than what I attempted on him earlier; visibly biting her mouth and touching her tongue with his. The scene is more than anything I’ve ever dreamt up. Seeing it with my own two eyes is… Enlightening.

  I can only imagine what it feels like to be that girl. Having him hold me by the hair the way he’s doing to her, aggressively but also passionate, as if so confident in his skills he knows if he gives her a little pain, the pleasure will be more than enough to even it out.

  I imagine myself grinding on his hips the way the woman is doing, pressing the space between my thighs on his. I’ve never done anything like that, but I think Lazarus likes it, from how much harder and more desperately he kisses her while she’s doing it.

  My heart aches, because I don’t like seeing him with someone else. But then I’ve seen Lazarus with women before. He brings them over occasionally for dinner parties, or at Westright events that I’m dragged to. It isn’t exactly news that he dates lots
of women.

  That said, I’ve never seen them interacting intimately before. Or maybe not intimate, but sexual, for sure.

  The suction noises happening in the room grow heavy, clouding my mind. The woman is mewling like a kitten for him and it must mean he’s good at what he does.

  I want to know. I want to feel...

  My throat is dry as I gulp, all these desires inside me new and bewildering. At this point I know my crush on Lazarus is overwhelming, and many times my dreams wake me up in the night with wet panties and a racing heart. But I’ve never known what to do with that.

  A squeak draws me out of my thoughts and I notice that Lazarus has his hand beneath the woman’s skirt. Her panties are quickly shimmied down her thighs, and as I begin to fear getting caught, Lazarus pushes her onto her knees.

  The woman kneels comfortably between his legs on my living room floor, peeking up at him while he runs his fingers through her long, light hair. His eyes are like storm clouds, and his broad chest moves up and down with the steady winds of his breaths.

  The shine in his eyes is almost alarming. He looks like a predator, and it ignites a flame deep in my lower stomach as I watch.

  The woman unbuttons his jeans, then unzips, yanking them down a bit. Her hand rides up and down on his lap until his eyelids droop, the sight pulsing a tremor between my thighs.

  I bite my lip hard to stifle any sounds that may escape me and press my thighs together. I can feel the slipperiness in my panties and it’s almost too much. I don’t know what to think…

  I shouldn’t be watching this.

  This is wrong. Go to your room, Traci. Leave him alone.

  My body protests while I watch with the widest eyes, curiosity rippling as I anticipate the woman’s next move. She grips the waist of his boxers between her fingers, pulling them down just enough, and I’m both relieved and frustrated that her hair is blocking my view of him.

  Taking her lower lip between his fingers, Lazarus growls, “Put that pretty mouth to work, baby.”

  The words burn a permanent place in my brain.

  Mouth watering, I finally force myself to turn, quietly, stalking back to the stairs. I rush up them as fast as I can without making a sound, words and noises and images dancing in my mind all the while.

  Once tucked inside my bedroom with the door closed and locked, I dash to my bed and hop on, lying down flat to face the ceiling. My breathing is harsh, rapidly flying in and out of my lungs as I’m bombarded with thoughts, feelings… needs. I haven’t experienced anything like this before.

  Not like this. This is… potent.

  My body vibrates unlike any time I’ve woken up from a longing dream, or after any particularly frustrating argument with Lazarus. This is different. I’m heated all over and there’s an itch deep where I can’t reach, begging to be relieved; some pressure, building inside me like a kettle on the stove, two seconds away from boiling.

  Chewing my lower lip, my eyes close slowly with the memories of just moments ago. Of the wavy blonde hair knelt on the floor before Lazarus Weston; like a King awaiting the pleasure of his servant.

  It could be my hair couldn’t it? I could do that for him…

  A small groan erupts from my throat, and my body urges my hand between my thighs, where the good feelings come from. Although I haven’t experienced it myself yet, I’ve certainly learned about female sexuality and anatomy, a mixture of school lessons, online stuff, and Merci telling me how she pets her kitten, in her words, to thoughts of the dudes from the Magic Mike movies, and her old crush.

  I always knew what she was talking about, and yet despite all the tummy-tickling dreams about Lazarus, I’ve never been brought to this point before. To the point of no return, where I need to know what this feeling is that everyone’s always raving about.

  The feeling that Lazarus is giving the woman downstairs. The feeling that Merci had with her ex. The feeling that adults have when they get together, for more than friendship, but less than love, from what I’m deducting.

  I want to know how that woman feels with Lazarus. I want what he does to her.

  So I allow my fingers to sink beneath the material of my pajamas, under my cotton panties that are soaked through, and I let them slide to heaven.

  Oh… My…

  Lazarus.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lazarus

  It’s pretty damn hot today. I mean, it’s always hot in Miami, but it’s not summer yet and already it’s sticky-humid out. Everyone’s sweating balls.

  There are only two places you can be at a time like this: nestled deep in an air-conditioned locale, or somewhere out on the open water.

  Damien and I are taking advantage of the latter.

  Our client, Jerald Cartwell of Cartwell & Jennings, has been inviting us out on his yacht since we started working together, and it took until this week to get our schedules sorted out, which isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds. Investors are very busy people.

  But we were finally able to pull something together, and here we are, cruising around Biscayne Bay on a four-hundred-foot yacht named The Angel.

  “Did you know this beauty is named after my lovely daughter?” Jerald asks, everyone, I’m guessing, since he’s just blathering into the air. “My princess, Evangeline.”

  He squeezes the shoulder of his daughter, and she gives him a dainty smile. Her teeth are straight and white, complimented by the bright red shade of her lipstick.

  “Aww, Daddy, you always tell everyone that, but let’s be truthful with our guests,” Evangeline croons from behind her big sunglasses. “You named the boat for Mom and me, didn’t you?”

  Jerald chortles and lifts his hands. “Guilty.”

  I roll my eyes to the heavens behind my own Ray Bans.

  “Damien, why don’t we go light a couple of those cigars? Give these kids some alone time,” Jerald says to Day before shooting a subtle wink in my direction, then patting his daughter on the arm.

  Damien gives me a look as though he doesn’t know that I really want any alone time with Evangeline, but I nod to him, wordlessly letting him know I’ve got this. Reluctantly accepting, Damien gets up with Jerald and they wander off, leaving me sitting beside Evangeline Cartwell in relatively awkward silence.

  This is technically a second date of sorts for us. I know what you’re thinking… Who goes on a second date with their best friend and the father of the woman they’re dating? Well, I do when the whole date thing is being arranged by said father.

  If it sounds weird, trust me, it is.

  Shortly after Westright signed Cartwell & Jennings, Jerald began dropping hints about me taking out his daughter, Evangeline. According to him, she was single, gorgeous, and perfect wife material. I wish I was exaggerating, but he literally said that.

  The botched attempt at subtlety Jerald was tossing grew less and less subtle every time we spoke to him until he was essentially badgering me into taking his daughter out on a date. And because he’s a client, I was backed into a wall.

  The way Damien rationalized it was that I already take women out all the time, so what’s the harm in taking out this one? But to that point, I told him there was absolutely no way I would do to our client’s daughter what I normally do to the women I take out. Damien got it after that.

  But I also couldn’t say no to Jerald. I’ve known all along what his game is. I’m not stupid, not even slightly, and I know he knows that. It’s clear he’s always wanted his daughter to settle down with someone rich and eligible, and I think Evangeline wants that, too. From what I understand, she’s a socialite, meaning she doesn’t do much other than spend her father’s money and present herself in photos at benefits wearing expensive things with other entitled rich people. Plus, she’s beautiful, a quality that she will always use to get what she wants.

  Jerald thinks having Evangeline settle down with someone like me will give the Cartwell name some edge. They’ve never been more than an endless line of vanilla, so I suppose marryin
g a Cartwell to a self-made millionaire with tattoos peeking out from under his Tom Ford suits makes them more interesting than all the rest of the profligate milk toast clans in Damien’s and my Rolodex.

  Despite his intentions being almost insultingly obvious, Jerald continued to offer his daughter on a silver platter. Eventually, I caved and took her to dinner. It wasn’t a blind date since I’d already met her once before, at a gala. And yes, Evangeline Cartwell is every bit the gorgeous twenty-seven-year-old potential bride Jerald had promised. At dinner, she was polite, soft-spoken and alluring. She knew how to play the game, that was for sure.

  The entire time we were out, I couldn’t stop wondering how many other men she’d done this with, before inevitably deciding they weren’t the right fit. She would see how misguided her father’s intentions were over the course of our date, and I was positive after that night I would never hear from her again.

  Not that I was rude or anything. I was myself, which should be off-putting enough to someone like Evangeline. I stayed quiet and asked her questions about her life - education, hobbies, interests, stuff like that - which she happily answered. And my reactions were as they always are: nonexistent. Because I don’t particularly care what some shallow, materialistic trust-fund Daddy’s girl has to say about the world, and the only times I interact with women like her are when they find themselves tied to my headboard.

  Evangeline, however, was a bit more cunning than I had anticipated. She didn’t speak as much as I’m sure she wanted to, and used those subtle, innocent looks and touches I’m more than familiar with to keep me mildly interested.

  At the end of the night, I put her into a car, and told her I’d call, which I had no intention of doing. And she simply batted her long - likely fake - eyelashes at me and kissed me on the cheek. I’ll admit, it was more comforting than I had expected.

  My entire history with women has always gone the same way. They throw themselves at me, either in a desperate sense or in a coy, hard-to-get kind of game. But I always catch them. I take them to bed, wherein they see as much of me as they ever will, and then we part ways.