"You see Justin's face?" Abbie asked."OMG, I thought queso was going to come out of his nose." We giggled.
"Aww, it's been like old times, right?" I asked.
"Almost. This was fun. Serious talk." She took my hand. "If you're not happy, then get happy, okay? Life is way too short."
"What about you?" I squeezed her hand. "Are you happy?"
"Most of the time," she answered.
"What are you doing for money? You need anything?"
"Trevor is taking care of me."
"Yeah, but at what price."
"We all pay a price, don't we, Brookie? At least, my sacrifice allows me to be myself."
I blinked back tears. It hurt to hear it, but she spoke the truth.
The more time I spent with Harrison and Justin and Seth, I knew it was my truth.
"There's my girl," Paul yelled as he climbed into the car. He grabbed me behind the neck and pulled me in for a kiss.
The kiss was . . . good, passionate, and wet.
He pulled back, and squeezed my neck. He kissed me again. I tasted scotch on his breath, and something else sweet. He cut off the kiss and said, "I need you to drive us home. I need to be inside you."
I narrowed my eyes. Who was this guy, and what had he done to my husband?
I didn't speak. I didn't want to break the spell or whatever it was that came over him. I put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.
Paul held my hand and kissed it. He held it over his heart as he stared out the car window. His heartbeat thumped against the back of my hand.
I couldn't remember the last time we were close and quiet enough to hear each other's heartbeat. It made me think of Harrison, but I pushed the thought out of my mind.
"You know, I love Dubai. The culture fascinates me." Paul squeezed my hand. "I stayed at Cirses’s home. It wasn't a home really, more of a palace."
"Wow. I bet it was beautiful." I nodded.
"It was. You need to come next time. You would like the way it's decorated. Grand, but"—he kissed my hand while searching for the right word—"subtle."
I smiled.
"You know he has four wives," Paul said matter-of-factly.
"No. I didn't know that." I gripped the steering wheel with one hand.
"Yeah. I don't know how he does it. I have a hard enough time keeping one woman happy."
I bit my tongue and kept my mouth shut.
He turned as if reading my thoughts. "I know it seems like we are living two separate lives lately. I'm sorry, but I'm going to do better. We are going to get back to how we used to be," Paul said and squeezed my hand.
I nodded as we pulled into the parking garage.
We got out of the car and rode the elevator to our floor.
I opened the door and stepped in. Before I could drop the keys on the table, Paul grabbed me around the waist and pulled me to him.
"God, you are so beautiful. I want you so bad." Paul growled.
He pushed my hair off my neck and kissed me, trailing his tongue up and down.
It sent a shiver down my spine.
His hands groped me, pinching my nipples through my shirt.
I groaned, and my body shuddered.
"You like that?" he asked.
He pinched harder.
I moaned again. God, it felt good to be handled for a change.
Paul walked me into the bedroom.
I reached behind me and grabbed his cock.
He was hard. He pushed me down on the bed and kneeled on the bed between my legs. He pushed my skirt up around my waist and pulled my panties down. He ran a finger through my slit and found my center. He shoved his finger in and pumped it a few times hard and fast.
"Is that how you like it?" he said and continued to finger me. His movements were frantic. He asked the questions but didn't wait for my answer.
"Paul," I said his name.
He didn't hear me. He removed his fingers and wiped his hands on the bedspread like they were dirty. He grabbed my hips and flipped me over.
"Get on your knees."
I looked back at him as his hand came up. The pain registered a full five-seconds after the sound hit my ears. He slapped my ass, hard and all wrong.
"Paul, what the fuck?" I flipped around.
He turned me back over and hit me again. Smack.
"Yeah, talk dirty to me, like that."
"Paul," I yelled, and he came back to himself. His eyes no longer glossed over. "What are you doing?"
"What? Isn't that what you like? That BDSM stuff?” he asked.
My insides tensed, my brain and my heart warred with each other. What was all this about?
Paul turned and fell on the bed.
"Cirses and I were talking one night after dinner, and he told me how he has to have a firm hand with all his wives." Paul clutched his chest. "That's how he keeps his home happy, and it got me thinking about your life before we met."
I crawled up on my knees and touched his arm.
He yanked it away.
"That was in my past," I said.
"Yeah, but you never talk about it. Maybe if you did, you’d be better in bed."
I sat back; the wind knocked out of me for a second.
Paul stood up.
"I'm not saying it's bad, but it's just boring." Paul raised his hands and shook his head. His voice raised an octave.
I scooted to the edge of the bed.
"What is it you want?" I asked; the shock made my voice shake.
"I don't know. Do something?" He lifted his hands. "Initiate it. Greet me at the door naked. Suck my cock while driving in the car, something, anything besides just lying there."
"I . . ." I had no words. I was confused, pissed off, and horny as hell. What did those wives in Dubai do to him?
"Never mind." He kneeled on the bed and pushed me back. Paul took his cock out of his pants. It was no longer hard. He stroked himself.
I reached down to help him.
He pushed my hands away. He leaned over and clamped down on my left nipple with his teeth, but his aggression fell flat, no urgency, no passion.
After a few minutes, he pushed himself into me with a grunt.
I stared up at the ceiling fan, counting the rotations.
He fucked me hard and fast.
I felt nothing. By the time I got to twenty, he had finished.
He kissed me on the cheek, rolled out of bed, and stood up. He stopped at the door to the bathroom.
"I'm leaving tomorrow. I need to go back to California." He peeled off his shirt. "Pack me some warm clothes."
He disappeared into the bathroom.
I waited.
I remained in the same position he left me. His cum dripped down my thighs and onto the bed. I cringed and covered my eyes with my hand. I needed a shower. I reached between my legs and held my fingers up in front of my face. It was slimy and gray. Even his ejaculation looked weak.
I tensed as I ran my fingers over my clit. It throbbed with need. I swiped over it again and closed my eyes. I was beyond frustrated. I was sorrowful and in mourning. My grief over my dead sexuality was never more palpable than at that moment. After having had sex and feeling more need. It was sad and so unfair. I ran my hand over my nipple and squeezed it between my fingers as hard as I could stand it. It offered little relief.
I imagined Harrison's hands on my breast, kneading them and pinching them. Using the right amount of pain to conjure up the pleasure I so desperately desired.
I groaned as I ran my fingers over my nub in a frantic fashion. I moaned in disappointment at the impending orgasm. It would feel okay. All orgasms felt okay, but it would be nowhere close to what my body craved.
It would be weak in comparison to what a proper Dom could produce in me.
I gripped my breast and concentrated small movements of friction over my clit, arched my back, and rode out the orgasm as my body released.
I remained on my back, legs spread wide, sweat glistening off my skin, but m
y body woke up. I craved the feeling of pleasure as it danced through my mind and body.
The bathroom door opened.
I closed my legs and rolled onto my side away from the door.
Paul didn't say a word. He walked out of the bathroom and into the apartment.
I jumped into the shower and cleaned up. I put on my pajamas and walked out to the living room.
Paul sat on the couch laughing at something on the television.
I grabbed his suitcase by the door and pulled it back into the bedroom. I removed the dirty clothes and repacked it with clean clothes: two suits, workout gear, jeans, three shirts, three ties, and two pairs of shoes. I added a sweater on top. I folded them carefully. I checked his vanity bag to make sure he had everything he needed. I closed it up and packed it.
I pulled the bag out to the front by the door and set it on the other end of the couch.
We pretended to watch a few more shows. At ten o’clock, Paul turned off the television and reached out his hand.
I took it.
He led us into the bedroom. He got in on his side of the bed.
I got in on mine, and we went to sleep.
The next morning, Paul got up and got dressed. I didn't move until I heard the front door slam. When I went to the door to check, my reaction surprised me.
His bag was gone.
My chest ached, and a chill ran across my skin.
My nerves tingled, and I couldn't take a deep breath.
I crawled back into bed and covered my face to block out the sun.
Eleven
Harrison
I hadn't seen Brooklyn in a few days. When I spotted her husband's Hummer in the driveway, I thought all kinds of thoughts. None of them good.
I parked behind it.
Maybe Brooklyn used his car. As soon as I stepped inside, his high pitch voice ground the nerves behind my eyes.
"Yeah, Mike. Hopping on a plane in a couple of hours. I just needed to take care of some stuff at home."
I slammed the door hard.
He turned toward me.
"No, Brooke's fine. She's playing housewife really nice down here. Staying out of the way anyway."
I gave him a head nod as a way of saying hello and continued to the kitchen. The guys were scheduled to install the cabinets, and I had to make some adjustments before they arrived.
"Don't worry about it. She's not going to find out. It has nothing to do with her."
His steps smacked against the wooden stairs as he came down.
The fucker had better not scratch my stairs. Those things were perfect.
He turned the corner into the kitchen and held up his hand.
I kept working.
"Yeah. Just hold tight. I'll stop in New York to get some stuff, and I'll be back there in a few days." He hung up the phone and cleared his throat.
I continued working, not ignoring him, but if he had something to say to me, he didn't need me to look at him.
"I'm sorry. What was your name again?" he asked.
The fucker knew my name.
"Harrison Crawford."
"Oh, right." He nodded and ran his hands over the granite counter. "I know your dad."
I nodded and checked the levels of the mounts for the cabinets.
"I'm curious, why you didn't go into the family business?" Paul asked.
I turned to him.
He took a couple of steps back.
He was such a fucking weasel.
"Not my thing." I shrugged my shoulders.
"Oh. Yeah, well, it's not easy, I assure you. Have to go to the right schools, have the right connections.”
I nodded again and turned back to the wall.
The fucker didn't know a thing about me.
"Yeah, well, if I had a trust fund like yours, I’d take an easy job, too," Paul said.
I paused mid sanding, stretched my neck, and went back to work. The prick wasn't going to get a rise out of me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"So you like my wife?" he asked.
That stopped me.
I turned to face him and took a couple of steps toward him.
He gripped the counter.
He’s lucky a counter stood between us.
“Do we have a problem?" I asked, leaning on the counter. I took a good look at him. His suit didn't fit him well. He was thinner than I remembered, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot.
My dad had that look when business wasn't good. My stepmom would make him take a month-long vacation to some remote place with no cell phone service or Internet. When he got back, he was usually better for it.
I wished Paul would take a permanent vacation.
"No. No problem." He adjusted his tie. "Just as long as all you're working on is the wood on the wall."
God, what a fucking idiot.
"Don't get me wrong. My wife, she's fucking gorgeous. Her ass is perfection. Am I right?" He held his hands up like he was squeezing her ass.
He must have thought I was an idiot, too.
"She’s a sexy woman. I'm a lucky man."
"You know what?" I slammed the level on the counter, leaned toward him, and pointed. "You are a lucky man."
"Hey, boss," Juan's voice sang out as he entered the house. He stopped when he saw Paul. "Ah, excuse me," Juan stepped back a few steps.
"Don't you people knock when you enter someone’s house." Paul headed toward the front door. "Damn. You just walk on in like you own the place."
I wanted to tell him it was a fucking work site. Why would we knock?
Paul looked over the rest of the first floor. He had set his phone on the banister. It rang, and he scurried back down the hall, slipping on the plastic tarp covering the newly installed floors.
Juan chuckled but coughed to cover it up.
Paul grabbed his phone, looked at the caller id, but didn't answer. He leaned on the stair railing.
I had a strange urge to rip the whole thing up and start all over again.
"Well, okay. Looking good around here. Look forward to seeing the finished product." He waved at me, nodded at Juan, and made his way outside.
Juan walked into the kitchen and rolled his eyes.
"Have a safe trip," I said. “You fucking prick."
Juan chuckled.
I turned my attention back to the cabinets.
I was in a funk after Paul left. I couldn't shake it. Even a punishing workout at the gym didn't clear my head.
I wanted to find Brooklyn, shake her, and tell her what her husband said about her.
I mean who talked about their wife like that to a complete stranger.
After my workout, I met up with Seth. I pulled up and found Seth and Mrs. Davenport sitting on the front porch laughing and sipping something.
"Well. There he is. The brooding, handsome one." Mrs. Davenport was old Highland Park and older money. Her husband died ten years ago, and her kids left and never came back to visit. She was a bit of a legend.
She had worked as a pinup model back in the fifties. She had photos of herself hanging on a wall in her study. It was Seth who had discovered them when he was in her house for some charity event his mom dragged him to.
He made up an excuse to sneak Justin and me in soon after, but sneaking wasn't necessary. She loved to show them off. She told us stories about all the partying she did and who she slept with before marrying Robert Davenport, IV for his money.
"Hi, Mrs. Davenport." I leaned over and kissed her leathery cheek. A lifetime of Texas sun showed on her skin.
"Bourbon, really?" I narrowed my eyes and sat in the other chair. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
"Now, Harrison." She patted my arm. "I'm an old rich Texas woman, and I'm allowed to do whatever I want."
Seth laughed as he took another sip.
"What's his excuse?" I motioned to Seth.
"Well, I can't very well drink alone now, can I?" She waved a hand at Seth. "What's up with you? You look so sad."
"It's no
thing. I'm handling it." I picked at the arm of the wicker chair.
"Come on, Harrison, that's what we’re here for, to solve the world’s problems. We started with Seth's. Now, it's your turn." She pointed.
"What's Seth's problem?" I asked.
"He's losing his boyfriends"—she leaned closer, and we followed—"to a bunch of girls."
This cracked Mrs. Davenport up. She laughed herself into a painful coughing fit. A result of the twenty years she smoked back in the eighties.
Seth shook his head at the old woman.
"What's up with you?" I asked Seth.
"I'm just feeling sorry for myself, that's all." He took another sip and winced. "Justin doesn't want to share anymore. I mean. I knew it would happen eventually, but I didn't think it would happen so soon."
"Is this that SMU student he met?" I asked.
"Yeah, Piper." He spat out her name and laughed.
"What's wrong with her?" I had yet to meet her.
"Nah, she's incredible, and she's good for him. And now, you got Brooklyn, and now.” He bowed his head. “I’m all alone."
"Aw, Brooklyn, that's the little vixen's name," Mrs. Davenport chimed in.
"No. I don't have Brooklyn. She's married," I said.
"That's a temporary situation. You two are destined," Seth said while flailing his arms. "It's only a matter of time. Am I wrong?"
I didn't say a word. He was a hundred percent wrong.
"Anyway, Mrs. Davenport, you'll marry me, won't you?” Seth asked as he raised his glass.
She raised her glass. "Anytime, anyplace, my silly handsome one."
Ten minutes later, the glass was empty, and Mrs. Davenport was taking her morning nap.
Seth hit my leg.
"Hey, you want to see something?" he said with the same mischievous smile he used the first time he invited Justin and me into Mrs. Davenport's house.
I shook my head and followed him inside.
"I wonder who gets this old place when she's gone?" I asked.
"Mrs. Davenport's going to live longer than you," Seth said.
I laughed. We entered the study, and our eyes automatically went to her wall of honor.
"The woman lived her life with no fear. It must be nice," Seth said.
"Yeah." I reached out and straightened one of the photos.
Seth pulled a folder off her desk.
"You know that piece of property on Versailles she owns. The slave home."
Salvage Him (Highland Park Chronicles Book 1) Page 8