Dirty Filthy Rich Love

by Laurelin Paige

  If he didn't, I'd tell him again. As many times as it took.

  I put my hand on his cheek, stroked my thumb across the stubble, and bent down to graze my mouth against his. "I love you." A whisper this time.

  I sucked his upper lip between mine then let it go. "I. Love. You."

  I couldn't tell him again in words for a long time. Because the next time I brushed over him, he snapped into action, and took over. His hand clasped behind my neck and held me tightly in place as his lips ground into mine, and his tongue thoroughly fucked my mouth.

  I moaned, rocking my hips along the length of his stiffening erection.

  My body ached under the weight of my clothing. Every movement with them on was like wading through a river in armor. My limbs were too heavy. There were too many layers between his skin and mine.

  I tugged at his sweater and whimpered; frustrated that it wasn't already off.

  He broke from my mouth with a discontented grunt, letting me know he was just as eager as I was. With frantic hands, he pulled my shirt and my sweater off over my head together and tossed them to the floor. Then he leaned down and sucked along the top of my breasts, covering every square inch of flesh with his mouth, as though I were a paint-by-body-part project, and this section of my landscape had been designated to be painted with his lips.

  I arched into him as I reached behind me to undo the clasp of my bra. The cups fell down, and he pushed them away so he could take a peaked nipple between his thumb and finger while he flicked the other lightly with his tongue.

  "Oh my God, I love you." I was already seeing stars. What this man could do to my breasts…

  I had to have more of him. I tugged with more urgency at his sweater, and he got the hint, withdrawing from me just long enough to shed the material keeping his torso from mine. Then finally, I ran the flats of my palms along the dips and planes of his bare chest. He was so hard and solid and warm. I drew his nipple into my mouth and nipped and was rewarded with the pulse of his cock underneath me.

  But that wasn't where he wanted my lips.

  He gathered my hair behind my neck and pulled sharply, tilting my chin up so that he could reclaim my mouth with his. I pressed into him, rubbing against him like he was a scratching post and I was a kitten with a bad itch.

  Soon he stood, lifting me with him, never breaking our kiss. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on as he carried me to the bed. He laid me down and immediately worked on ridding me of my jeans and panties, then he pushed my thighs apart and buried his head in between.

  He sucked me and fingered me, tormenting me to climax twice before he stood to remove his own pants. When he was fully naked, he stood above me and fisted his cock, heavy and thick.

  "Say it." I was greedy. He’d told me he loved me more than I'd told him, told me before I told him, but now I decided I wanted to hear him say it again too.

  I didn't know if he could guess what I wanted. Whatever he said would work. I just wanted him to talk to me. I stretched my hand out toward his hard thigh, unable to reach him. "I want you to say it."

  He stroked himself. Up and down. "You are mine, Sabrina." Close enough.

  He crawled between my legs, and I spread them farther to make room for him. “Because I love you,” he said, dragging the head of his cock down the split of my pussy. "Because I've always loved you."

  He punctuated the last line by sliding all the way inside me.

  I cried out as his tip touched the deepest part of me. “I’m yours.”

  He lowered himself over me, holding me closer and tighter than he usually did when he fucked me. “You’re mine,” he repeated as he moved inside me, establishing his rhythm, steady and brisk.

  “And you’re mine,” I said, breathless.

  He slowed ever so slightly, caught by surprise. Then he nodded and picked up his swift pace. “I’m yours.” He kissed me. “I’m yours.”

  We made love like that well into the night, holding each other, kissing, whispering words we’d never said to anyone else. We wrapped ourselves in this chrysalis; this love we’d found that would change us both. This filthy love that had reminded me what it felt like to be cared for. This rich love that taught Donovan for the first time in his life what it could feel like to belong to someone.

  Eighteen

  "I wouldn't move that if I were you," Donovan said as I waved my hand over my last remaining knight. "It's going to leave your queen vulnerable."

  Oh, right. I could see it once he’d said that. It was Sunday afternoon, and we were sitting in the living room in front of the Christmas tree—me on the floor, him on the sofa. We’d have to leave in a few hours for the city, but first, at my request, Donovan had brought out a chessboard and was teaching me how to play more than just a basic game. I hadn't ever really attempted it seriously, but I’d thought I was better than I was. Apparently, chess is hard.

  I moved my hand toward the nearby bishop, intending to pick it up, but stopped as he exclaimed, "If you touch that you have to move it."

  "I want to move it." Didn't I? It was really the only move I had. He'd already captured most of my pawns. The coffee table was littered with dead white pieces, the board covered with strategic black pieces still in play.

  “You might want to move it," he said, all smug and sexy. “But if you do, I'll have you pinned."

  I looked innocently at my wrists. "You'll have me pinned? Is that a threat? Or the prize?"

  He narrowed his eyes, which had gone dark with desire. "There is no place for seduction in chess, Sabrina." Despite his words, his gaze scratched down my torso, lingered at my breasts. "After, though. Definitely after."

  "Then stop trying to tell me what moves to make. After will come a lot faster if you let me make my own mistakes.” And there it was. The move I needed to make. I saw it now.

  "You said you wanted me to teach you.” His cell phone rang as I reached out to slide my rook.

  I couldn't help it—I looked for his approval.

  “Good girl,” he said, looking at the screen on his phone. "It's the Tokyo office. I have to take it."

  "Tokyo? What time is it there?" I didn't really expect him to answer.

  But he did. “Five o’clock Monday morning.” He hit the talk button and brought the phone to his ear. Then his conversation transformed into Japanese as he took his call, and I melted.

  God it was hot when he talked in a foreign language.

  He was hot no matter what he did. I was so completely smitten with him. So head over heels. So totally in love.

  Without seeming to miss a beat in his call, he reached over the board and took the rook I’d just moved with his knight.

  Fucker.

  He could look that sexy, speak Japanese, and beat me at chess all at the same time. He’d better be planning to keep me. Because more and more, I wasn't sure how I could live without him. Wasn’t sure how I ever had.

  The nature of the phone call seemed to intensify, requiring more of Donovan's attention. He stood to pace as he talked. I made another move on the board—probably a stupid move. I couldn't tell without his discerning commentary. I spent a few minutes after that trying to imagine the next moves, the way he said good chess players did. He'd move this. I'd move that. All the way to the end of the game. But I didn't have that kind of vision. I couldn't sit with it that long. And I wasn't good at guessing what he would do.

  I never had been.

  I looked up at him, one hand buried in his slacks pocket as he stood, muscles tense, in front of the window. He would need me later to distract him from the dilemma happening on the other side of the world. I would soothe him with my mouth, with my pussy. Let him find release inside me in whatever way he needed.

  Right now, I couldn't help him.

  I stood up and stretched, and headed down the hall to find the closest bathroom. When I came out, I could still hear Donovan on the phone so I wandered towards the opposite end of the house, studying the artwork that I hadn't really looked at during o
ur tour.

  "It’s you, Sabrina. I thought I heard you kids out here."

  I turned around to find Raymond had stepped out of his study.

  "Just me. Donovan's on the phone. Work. Of course." I peeked around him as discreetly as possible. The study was the one room I hadn't seen, and I was curious by nature.

  Raymond’s brows lifted. "That works out perfectly, actually. I've been meaning to talk to you. Alone. Won't you step into my office?"

  Goosebumps ran down my arms despite the sweater I was wearing. Nothing good could come from a conversation that Raymond Kincaid wanted to have with me alone.

  But as I said, I was curious by nature.

  "Sure thing."

  I stepped into the study with my back straight and my head held high. Whatever happened in here, I reminded myself, Donovan was not Raymond Kincaid. Raymond could say what he wanted. It meant nothing about my relationship with his son.

  The office was impressive, but not my style. The walls and furniture were all completely done in mahogany with leather accents. His desk was oversized and ornate, gold filigree lined the scrollwork on the edges and the legs. The shelves overflowed with books that looked old and as if they'd never been cracked open. Showpieces. Probably a lot of first editions and out-of-print collector’s pieces. There was a faint smell of cigars and cologne—a scent Donovan would never have worn. Too strong. Too musky. All of it was very masculine and rich. Boastful. Arrogant.

  I was such a judger.

  No. I wasn't judging. I was preparing.

  "Have a seat. Please." Raymond gestured to the chair in front of his desk rather than the intimate seating area by the fireplace. It was a move that established authority. One that put me in my place.

  Next, he'd pull out his checkbook, wave it around.

  I could see his moves. Maybe I wasn't so bad at chess after all.

  I took a seat, crossed my legs. But I wasn't vulnerable. He didn't have me pinned like he might've thought.

  "Is this where the rich financial mogul offers the lowly girl from the wrong side of the tracks some exorbitant amount to stop seeing his son?" I said it with a smile so that we could play it off as a joke. If I needed to.

  Raymond barely reacted, but he did react. I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't watching as carefully as I was, but since I was watching him so carefully, I saw the slight jerk of his eyelid, heard the soft catch of his breath as he sat down across from me.

  Then he let out a hearty laugh. "Amusing. Amusing." He straightened the calendar pad on the corner of his desk.

  Everything on the desk’s surface, I noticed now, was straight and tidy. In its place. I wasn't so sure he liked things clean or immaculate though, so much as he liked the look of the lines and right angles. The room was full of both.

  “With Donovan just in the other room…" he said, in continued amusement.

  Maybe I'd been wrong about his motives. I wouldn't be upset if that were the case.

  He looked up suddenly, his brows furrowed, eyes inquisitive. "What would be an exorbitant amount? Half a million? A full million?”

  My stomach sank. Even knowing this was where it had been leading, I'd hoped I was wrong. Not so much for my sake, but for Donovan's. He knew his parents were terrible, but wouldn't it be nice to find out that they weren't?

  I didn't answer Raymond. I couldn’t. It was too degrading.

  “A full million could go a long way,” he prodded. "Could pay for all of your sister’s students loans. Get her set up real nice after she graduates."

  He'd checked into me.

  Well, I didn't have to ask where Donovan had gotten his stalking genes. I gritted my teeth and nodded as I inhaled slowly, reminding myself it wasn't cool to punch out a seventy-year-old man. If I even could—he seemed to be in pretty good shape for his age.

  The shittiest part of it all? That he thought his son’s happiness was only worth that much. I'd been around their kind of money long enough to know how fast a million dollars ran out. I’d felt Donovan's love long enough to know it ran deeper than money could buy.

  I laughed now. It was all I could do if I wasn't going to beat him up. "I think by definition, exorbitant means there isn't an amount you could name."

  Raymond studied me carefully. I could see he was forming the next bid, wondering if two million would do it. Or three. Even despite what I'd said.

  Whatever he saw in my face eventually brought him to the conclusion that I was telling the truth. "I wondered as much,” he said.

  It felt powerful. Like I had check.

  I wanted checkmate. "And even if there were an amount, you would be hard-pressed to convince your son to let me go."

  Raymond nodded knowingly. "That's not surprising. Donovan likes to marry for love. Susan and I—we get along, don't get me wrong. But we both understood the reason the practice of marriage was invented. It's a social arrangement. It shouldn't be based on emotion or tied to sentimentality. It's meant to protect her assets and mine, and those of our heirs. You can understand why I would therefore be concerned about you. You would be the mother of our grandchildren. While I would prefer a more suitable wife for him, we certainly cannot dictate whom he spends his life with. It didn't hurt to try."

  "Wait—that's it?" I was reeling, disoriented like a fish pulled fresh from water. I couldn't keep up my own reactions to his revelations. First, that he and his wife had a loveless relationship—which I could've guessed—but for him to admit it was something else entirely. Then, to hear his outdated stance on marriage, and finally to arrive at the conclusion: ‘oh well’ he’d tried?

  And Donovan and I weren't even engaged!

  "I'll certainly recommend that Donovan choose otherwise if he asks. But he won't. A decade ago, I'd have told him there is nothing wrong with having a marriage for propriety and a mistress on the side. Prince Charles did it. Now even he is married to his mistress." He might as well have said, ‘what is the world coming to?’ The subtext was evident.

  "Yeah, no. I could not stand to be a mistress." This was the oddest conversation to be having with my boyfriend's father. "And Donovan wouldn't stand for that either," I added with certainty. "And we are not –” engaged.

  I stood up and rubbed my sweaty palms along my leggings. I didn't want to talk about this anymore with him. After this weekend, I actually could begin to see a future with Donovan. Long reaching winters, and summers, and chess games, and children.

  But those were conversations to have with him. Not his father. Not because it was best for the future of the family name.

  "You're welcome to leave anytime," Raymond said, rising to his feet. "I've said my piece."

  And I'd said mine. I nodded, unwilling to say thank you for whatever this had been.

  As I turned to go, my eye was caught by a series of plaques on the wall by the door. They were honorary plaques that had been given over several years to an organization I recognized—A Brighter Day. I stepped closer to examine one.

  “This is from the president," I said in awe.

  Raymond came up behind me. ”Ah, yes. We are very proud of what we've done with A Brighter Day. Donovan has been very involved since high school.”

  "You must be. What kind of organization is it exactly?" I was only interested because Donovan's name had been attached to it. And obviously the organization was a big fucking deal. Plus, the man really needed to brag more, assert his authority.

  "It's a series of foundations," Raymond explained. "They address a variety of different issues, each one tailored to a specific need. There is one that helps children prone to asthma that live or go to school in areas near freeways, which studies have shown can increase asthma attacks. Another provides free education to coal miners who are searching for another line of work."

  So Raymond wasn't completely terrible after all. No one ever really was, I was learning.

  "Another provides scholarships to kids with exceptional IQs, particularly those who have graduated early, and are seeking help to bridge
the gap to Ivy League schools since those universities don't generally provide full rides. Another—"

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. "That one," I interrupted. "What's the name of the scholarship foundation?"

  I already knew the answer. I could already see this move. It was a move I should've seen so long ago.

  ”The MADAR Foundation.”

  Nineteen

  The words were still throbbing in my ears, still pulsing in my veins, still vibrating in my body when a different voice piped in from behind me.

  "I can explain."

  I shifted to see Donovan at the door, panic clearly written all over his expression.

  "Sabrina. Come with me, I'll tell you everything." His hand reached out, beckoning, his voice pleading. His eyes pierced through me, but I couldn't see him the way I had previously. He seemed blank to me, or my eyes were too glazed. If there had been a piece of art there, I’d no longer see it.

  Raymond clapped his hands suddenly. ”That's why I know your name!” he exclaimed. “You were one of the scholarship girls. I'm not very good with names, especially out of context, but I should have put that together sooner.”

  Me too, Raymond. I should have put it together sooner, too.

  Though now he wasn't so sure. He squinted, trying to recall. "That was you, wasn't it? What happened? You dropped out of school."

  "Let's talk about this on—"

  I put my finger up to hush Donovan. He’d had his chance to talk. He’d had weeks, months, years to tell me the truth.

  I turned instead to Raymond. "My father had a heart attack. And I missed the end of the semester to go home to watch him die." My throat was tight as the rage from all those years ago returned like bile. "My scholarship was pulled because I missed finals, and when I appealed…"

  I turned my focus on the younger Kincaid; there was venom in my stare. Just like before when my past had been reformed in my mind when Donovan had shown where he had been the puppet master behind the scenes, it was being re-created again now. The anger and hostility I had felt for a decade had been toward some vague corporate charitable foundation. Now there was a face to hate.