by Carter Blake
His thumb grips my chin, and he forces me to look at him. There’s something dark, almost primal in his gaze. His nostrils flare, brows drawn down, and I have no idea what he’s thinking.
I touch his cheek, part of me wanting a moment of tenderness. I know it’s not in him to give me, so I take it myself. Just this once.
“Brooklyn.” His voice is raspy, and even though I know I’m probably just imagining it, for a second I sense some unspoken emotion building between us.
I run the pad of my thumb across his lower lip, then lean in and press a gentle kiss against it.
My heart beats hard against my chest, and I can feel the pressure of tears building behind my eyes.
Damn emotions. I hate them. Hate that he has this effect on me. Making me want more. And knowing that it’s impossible.
I rest my forehead against his, focusing on the rhythm of our breathing.
For a long moment, neither of us move. His gaze is locked on mine, his hands gently rest on my thighs, and I imagine that the feeling that builds in my chest, the one that makes my throat tighten, is the closest thing I’ve come to that sadistic little emotion called love.
“What are we doing?” I ask, needing some sort of reassurance that I’m not the only one falling into this dark, twisted pit of unnamed emotions.
He lets out a harsh breath and closes his eyes.
“Sorry.” Feeling foolish for asking, I start to move. “I shouldn’t have–”
His hands tighten around my waist and he holds me against him.
“Stay.” The word comes out almost in a low growl. He opens his mouth as if to say more, then shakes his head as if there’s some internal war he’s fighting.
I give a small nod and relax into him. I don’t bother to resist, because I’m kidding myself pretending that I don’t want this too. I’ll stay as long as he wants me to.
Then his hands are on me again, pulling at the hem of my dress almost desperately. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head back so that his mouth has full access to my neck.
Each kiss, each touch harder, more demanding than the next.
He's so damn hard. I can’t ignore the urgency with which he’s trying to take me. I can feel the heat radiating through our clothes and I stop worrying about other cars outside that can hear us.
With the same urgency, I unbuckle his belt, then unzip his pants so that his cock springs free, hard and ready for me.
Straddling him, I groan when my bare skin touches his. But his shirt is still on, blocking me from feeling all of him. I start with his tie, loosening it, then toss it aside, before starting on the top button.
“Take off your shirt.” I can tell that he's taken aback by my command, the first I’ve made since we've been together. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”
Silently, he helps me with the buttons, then shrugs it off.
I run my fingers over him, caressing his chest and wondering if there's any part of him that's not perfect.
He lifts my hips so that I’m straddling his cock, then slowly slides me down until I’m taking the full length of him.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Take all of me.” He grips my hips, as his own thrusts up towards me.
His mouth is everywhere, and I let out a gasp as his tongue flicks across my nipple, sending a jolt of electricity pulsing between my thighs. He kisses and licks my breasts, as he continues to thrust into me.
Hard.
Demanding.
All emotion is gone. Just pure, primal lust pushing us both to a point where the real world disappears and all that’s left are two souls, bonded, even if just for this moment, in an act of carnal pleasure.
Seconds, minutes, hours. Time stands still, until we’re both crying out as we tumble over the edge and I feel his release, hot and heavy inside of me.
I collapse against him, and he pulls me into his arms, almost gently, cradling me against his chest.
Spent. Exhausted. My eyes close, and I feel the heaviness of sleep tugging at me.
I don’t know whether it’s a dream or my imagination, but as I doze off, I swear I hear a single word murmured against the shell of my ear.
Mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Ross
“Sir. We’re here.”
I can hear the intercom going off, but I’m so tired I’m unable to move.
Groaning, I blink and try to get a sense of my surroundings.
“Yes?” I mumble as I press the button and try my hardest not to wake Brooklyn who’s asleep on my chest.
“We’re here, Sir,” the driver says again, with a touch of mirth in his voice.
“Shit.” I touch Brooklyn’s face, trying to wake her. “Give us a minute.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Brooklyn, we’re here…” I brush her hair off her cheek, and her lashes flutter open. Green eyes look up at me, still foggy with sleep.
God, what the woman does to me. I know everything about this weekend is wrong, but hell if she doesn’t make me feel things, want things, that I’ve never felt or wanted before.
Brooklyn adjusts her dress and glances out the windows, eyes going wide. “Is this all yours?”
“My family owns it.” I tuck my shirt into my pants, then buckle my belt.
“It’s…”
“Pretentious.”
“I was going to say big.” She laughs nervously, and I can almost see the walls she’s building around herself.
“My father aims to impress,” I say cynically.
Brooklyn glances at me, brows raised at my tone. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”
“We have our differences.” My jaw clenches, fingers forming into fists when I see my father standing at the front door, and starting down the cobblestone walkway towards the limo.
Shit.
When Brooklyn is ready, I help her from the car, shielding her behind me as my father approaches.
The thought of her being around him makes my skin crawl. It’s like putting light and dark into the same space and thinking they can coexist. One will always snuff out the other.
My father’s hawk-like gaze latches onto Brooklyn, and I instinctively wrap my arm around her waist.
“Stay close to me,” I growl out.
She looks up at me, a small frown playing on her lips.
“My dear, you made it,” my father’s deep tenor resonates across the lawn, and I cringe.
“Your house is beautiful.” She leans in when he kisses her on each cheek, and I can’t help the snarl that forms at the base of my throat.
Both Brooklyn and my father look at me with wide eyes.
“Ross used to love coming here when he was a child.” My father ignores me, refocusing his attention on Brooklyn.
It annoys me that he’s bringing up my childhood as if it’s some excellent memory to be remembered.
Bullshit.
I hate being here. Five years I’ve avoided this place like the plague.
“It’s really lovely,” Brooklyn says, leaning into me.
“Ross, you should show Brooklyn around. I’m sure she would love to see the gardens.”
Mom’s gardens. I haven’t been back here since she passed away.
She loved this damn place. It was her safe haven. Her little corner of heaven, as she called it. But to me, it’s just another reminder that she’s gone.
I grunt and look back at the house, a snarl curling my lips as memories slam into my mind.
“Ross?” Both of them are looking at me now, expecting an answer.
“What?” I say gruffly, and see her deflate slightly.
Shit.
“Do you want to go for a walk on the beach before dinner?” With each word, I see Brooklyn pull more and more into herself.
But I can also feel my father’s eyes on me, watching, judging. Every muscle in my body tenses.
“Maybe later.” I take her hand tightly, wishing I could explain my sudden mood change.
“Okay.” Sh
e gives a small smile, but I know she’s disappointed.
I give orders to the driver to bring our bags up to the room, then turn back to my father, who’s speaking with Brooklyn, his body language a little too informal for my liking.
“We’ve had a long drive.” I tug her to my side, hard gaze meeting my fathers. “And this isn’t a social visit.”
“Of course.” He gives a curt nod, then lets out a small, almost unnoticeable sigh. “I’ll see you at dinner.” His gaze turns to Brooklyn. “It really is wonderful having you here, my dear.”
His term of endearment leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, causing me to grunt again. I swear this whole weekend is turning me into an inarticulate caveman.
“Thank you,” Brooklyn murmurs. She begins to chew on her bottom lip, like she does whenever she’s uncomfortable.
My father tilts his head back to me. Some might read concern on his face, but I know the truth, it’s nothing but a façade.
The grand manipulator. That’s who he really is.
Hatred boils inside of me. For him. For this place that is haunted by memories and ghosts of the past.
“We’ll see you at dinner.” I turn on my heels and drag Brooklyn with me up towards the house.
Her small quivering breath makes me slow down, but I’m too trapped in my own head to do much else.
“Ross?” The high pitch of her voice makes me stop.
“What?” I snap.
She draws back, and I immediately regret my harsh tone.
“You’re hurting me.”
I glance down at our hands, and realize that I was holding hers too tightly.
“Sorry.” I release her, which only causes her frown to deepen. Closing my eyes, I drag my fingers through my hair and exhale harshly.
“Did I do something?”
“No.” I can’t help the anger that comes out in that single word.
She blinks, and I can see the tears that threaten to fall.
Fucking hell. I’m screwing everything up.
With as much patience as I can muster, I place a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s just get to the room. We both haven’t slept much.”
“Okay.” She nods, expression still wary.
I take her hand, this time careful not to hold it too tightly, and start up the wide staircase towards the bedrooms.
Pull it together, I tell myself. It’s one fucking night.
Stevan Holdgates and his wife will be arriving soon. That’s what I need to focus on. Not my father. Not this damn house. And especially not the beautiful woman who keeps looking at me like I’m worth more than the piece of shit I came from.
With every step, I realize more and more that Brooklyn Walsh doesn’t belong in this world.
She’s too…good.
I’m my father’s son, and there’s nothing the White men bring to the women they love but pain.
One more night, and I have to let her go.
I just don’t know how the hell I’m going to do that.
Chapter Twenty
Brooklyn
Ross is in one of his moods.
Surly.
Irritable.
Short-tempered.
I’m used to this man. I can handle this man. Because it’s what I’m used to at the office.
But after everything that’s happened, I can’t help but feel like I’m somehow responsible for his sudden personality change.
In the bedroom, I stay out of his way, taking my time in the bathroom, and letting him order the servants around, who cower under him when he yells that they aren’t putting our things away properly.
I’m not sure why our luggage even needs to be unpacked. We’re only staying one night. But Ross insists on it. And what that man wants, he always gets.
For the next hour, I sit outside on the large balcony that overlooks the water, breathing in the fresh, salty air, and hoping time will settle whatever has set him off.
“Just get it done.” Ross’ voice carries from the bedroom, as he berates another one of his employees on the phone. “I don’t give a damn if you have to fly to Hong Kong yourself. I want that contract signed before Monday morning.”
I let out a small sigh, feeling for the person on the other end of the line. Once Ross has something in his mind, there’s no changing it.
A few seconds later, he comes out on the balcony, face slightly red and tight with tension.
“We’re expected at dinner soon.” He places his hands on the railing and stares out. “You should change.”
“Okay.” I glance down at my sundress, which is obviously not acceptable attire for a White family dinner.
Shoulders slouched, Ross doesn’t look at me when I stand, just continues to gaze morosely at the horizon. There’s something about his posture that’s almost vulnerable.
“If you want to talk…” I place my hand on his arm and feel him flinch. Right. My stomach drops, knowing that whatever he needs, it isn’t me.
I drop my hand and start to turn, when he stops me.
“Come here.” He wraps a hand around my waist, and pulls me to him, so that my back is resting against his chest, and one of his large hands is splayed across my stomach.
As always, his touch sends a shiver of desire through my body. I wonder if it would always be like this. If time and distance would ever tamper the attraction I have for him. I doubt it.
Moments pass before he says anything. We just stand there, looking out over the gardens towards the water.
The way he holds me is more intimate than anything I’ve experienced with him, even sexually. I know it’s foolish, but I can’t help but think that right now he needs me. As if he’s finding some sort of comfort in me.
But even as I think it, I remember why I’m really here.
This whole weekend is just pretend. No matter how real this feels, I can’t allow myself to believe it’s anything more than a job.
I groan inwardly when I think of Monday, knowing there’s no way I’ll ever be able to go back to just being his assistant.
I’d rather waterboarding than having to be in the same room with him day after day, and never being able to touch him.
But this. Standing on a balcony, overlooking this tiny piece of heaven on earth, feeling his strong arms around me, his warm breath against my cheek, it does things to my mind. And right now, I don’t care about reality. I’d rather just pretend to be his.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ross
Too many memories of mom flood through my mind. The good. The bad. And the fucking ugly. I try to focus on who she was when she was here, before the pain and anger sniffed out the light inside her.
I shouldn’t have come here. And bringing Brooklyn was an even bigger mistake.
“The view is beautiful,” Brooklyn says softly, pressing her body against mine.
“My mother loved this place.” I don’t know why I say it, and I immediately regret it.
“You don’t talk about her.”
Nothing good ever comes from dredging up the past, but for the first time since my mother’s death, I feel the need to talk about it.
Maybe it’s being back here.
Or maybe it’s Brooklyn. The thought makes my chest tighten with the realization that I want to share parts of myself that I’ve never shared with anyone else.
“She died. Five years ago.” I stare out onto the beach, listening to the waves crash against the shore as the tide comes in.
“I’m sorry.” Brooklyn’s hand is on my arm, pulling me back to the present. “What happened?”
“My father,” I bite out, anger darkening my vision as more memories surface.
Brooklyn turns in my arms and places her hands on my chest. Green eyes stare up at me with concern, gutting me.
“I don’t understand?”
“My mother loved the bastard. I’ve never met a woman who was so devoted to her husband.” I clear my throat as I relive those last few years. Watching her pull into herself. Dying a little more
each day because of him. “My father didn’t share the same piety.”
“Oh.”
“When I was younger he was good at keeping his affairs secret, but eventually he gave up trying to hide his mistresses.”
“Your poor mom.” Compassion shines in her eyes, but she doesn’t push me for more, just snuggles closer into me.
I find the strength I need to continue in the warmth of her body.
“My mom started drinking. Then there were the prescription drugs.” I wince, remembering the times I found her passed out in this house, barely breathing. “My father made it worse. Bringing women into the house, even when she was here. Flaunting his affairs. Sometimes I wonder if he did it to push her over the edge.”
“Oh my God,” she says, disgust lacing her words. “He just seems so…”
“Charming,” I sneer, throwing back at her the word she used for him. It’s a cheap shot, but I have to let her know what he's really like. Behind the charm and the good looks is something way darker. Something so immoral that even I can't comprehend his true agenda most of the time.
This is why I avoid him. Stay out of his way.
“What happened?” Brooklyn asks, resting her hand on my chest.
“Like I said. She loved the bastard. Wouldn’t leave him, even when he was fucking other women under the same roof. Her drinking only got worse, until one night–” I wince and look away.
Five years and the memory is as fresh as if it happened yesterday.
I blow out an uneven breath. “She crashed her car a couple miles from here.”
I avoid the details of my mom being over the limit, of hitting the tree square on like it had been intentional.
The car went into flames because there were so many damn bottles of alcohol in the car. One little spark, and a few bottles in the car, and it was all over for her.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t need your pity,” I say a little too harshly, dropping my hands and taking a step backwards.
“It’s not pity. I understand what you’re going through–”
I laugh harshly. “Sweetheart, until you’ve lived under the roof of a sociopath and an alcoholic, you have no idea the hell I’ve gone through.”