It isn’t enough. I need him to be enthusiastic about this. I need him to pretend to be jolly during dinner, not make it seem like we are having issues in our marriage.
We have to look perfect. We must. We have no choice of the matter. It seems now that Griffin has given up on me, and if he has, he will not care how he acts during dinner just as long as he gets it over with.
So, gradually, I run my palm down his chest and sink to my knees. I position my face in front of his crotch, and when I look up, he’s staring down at me with hot, whiskey eyes.
He doesn’t speak. He just waits. I bet he thinks that I won’t do it.
Well, I’m about to prove him wrong.
I unbuckle his belt, unbutton his slacks, and once his briefs are yanked down, my mouth closes around the smoothed head of his cock.
I take him in, inch by inch, his groan filling the room, the back of his head bumping against the wall.
He loves this. Always has. Griffin loves getting head. I mean, what man doesn’t? I’m pretty sure he enjoys this more than fucking sometimes.
His hand palms the back of my skull, and he pushes himself further into my mouth.
He is deep in my throat, and I gag, trying to pull back, but he doesn’t allow it.
He’s all in, and it hurts, but I don’t care right now.
As long as he stays.
As long as he doesn’t consider leaving.
My eyes flicker up to his, and when I realize that this is what he wants, to see me like this—owning me, finally controlling some part of me—I can’t help but feel myself clench with neediness.
He wants to see me suffer, my throat lodged around his thick, hard cock, and somehow that turns me the hell on.
Griffin… Griffin has never wanted to see me in pain. But right now, I’m sure he’s enjoying this.
Every bit of it.
He finally allows me some air, his hand easing up in my hair, but I don’t stay away for long. I slurp him back in, gagging so hard spit builds up and spills down the corners of my mouth.
He grunts and groans, fisting my hair, his hips thrusting.
And soon, he’s fucking the shit out of my mouth, my hands on his hips, pleased by it all. His body moves fluidly. I can feel his upper half tensing through his shirt.
Every single part of him is begging to be released, and when he finally does, I go still, trapping his entire cock deep in my throat.
His piping hot cum spills down, and I swallow as much as I can, still gagging. Still reeling. He spasms and curses beneath his breath.
“Ah, my sweet fucking angel,” he groans, and I beam around his twitching cock.
Wow.
He’s never called me that before.
Sweet angel. I must have just given some heavenly head.
I guess I am good at what I do.
Finally releasing me, I sit back, drawing in heavy breaths as I peer up at him. He’s looking down, studying my face, tucking his limp cock back into his boxers and yanking his slacks up.
“I’ll stay for an hour—hour and a half max, but that’s it. When I leave, they are your problem.” He steps around me, grabbing one of his suits out of the closet. Bringing it back to the bed, he lays it flat and says, “And stop planning fucking dinners here, Colette. I hate pretending to be something we both know we aren’t.”
“Yeah,” I breathe, pushing to a stand. “I fucking hate it too, Griffin. Just get dressed,” I mutter, making my way to the bathroom. “I’m going to clean myself up.”
I slam the door behind me, hearing him grumble beneath his breath.
He still despises me, but shouldn’t he feel good about knowing he can still control me in some sort of way?
That was… rare for the both of us, and still nothing has really changed.
Well, actually I take that back. Something has changed. When I look into the mirror, I realize I’m smiling.
I’m smiling because for the first time ever, after years of receiving his pity, Griffin hate-fucked me. He pummeled my mouth. Almost obliterated my throat with that rather large cock of his.
He proved that, in this, I wasn’t alone.
That I wasn’t the only one just going with the motions.
The only one that needed pleasure in all the worst ways.
God, that was so hot and, fuck me, I think I now want more of the husband I loathe.
SIXTEEN
Griffin
* * *
Dinner with the Potters is inane.
All Jacob Potter talks about are his investments and how they “saved his dealership from going bankrupt.” I call straight bullshit on that one, but I bite my tongue anyway.
Oh, and I can’t forget Missy Potter. All she can talk about is her plastic surgery. I love a pair of tits, but silicone has never done it for me.
“I’m telling you,” she hisses across the table to Colette like we can’t hear her. “The surgeon I went to is great. He even cut me a deal. I bet if I put a word in he’ll cut you one too.”
Colette’s mouth barely tilts. She doesn’t care. She’s not pleased either, especially by the way Missy looks her over as if she doesn’t have enough for a man or even a woman to look at.
I start to say something, but Colette speaks. “I think I am just fine with my body, Missy, but thank you.” I can tell she’s trying her best to avoid a clipped tone and clenched teeth.
Missy shrugs. “Suit yourself. It never hurts to keep it together.”
Me and Colette frown. “Exactly what are you implying, Missy?” I ask, sitting forward and meeting her eyes.
Hers swing to mine, bewildered. “Nothing at all!” she practically sings. “I just—well, I know Jacob loves my body even more now ever since the surgery. Men love being able to grab onto something, you know?” She forces a laugh, one that makes my skin crawl.
I glance at Colette and she’s squeezing the handle of her fork, but her face remains even. She’s going to burst any second now.
“Honey, why don’t you have Arianna get the cake, huh?”
She whips her head up to look up at me—probably because I haven’t called her that name in ages—and I reach for her hand, easing her off the fork before she ends up springing across the table and stabbing Missy in the neck with it.
“Yeah,” she breathes, dropping the fork and pushing out of her chair. “I’ll tell her.” Colette marches away in her stilettos, the anger clear in the swing of her hips.
Sighing, I look from Colette as she makes it to the kitchen, to Jacob who shrugs and picks up his glass of wine, and then at Missy.
Missy is looking in the direction Colette took off too, shaking her head with disapproval.
All right. So my wife may get on my fucking nerves, but I’ll be damned if I allow this plastic bitch to disrespect her or me under my fucking roof. Grabbing my glass of wine, I lean back in my chair and study Missy.
She’s completely artificial and it’s fucking hideous. Her face full of Botox. At least Colette still has that glow, her face free of wrinkles, skin clear and still youthful.
“Once we have the cake,” I say, my eyes boring into Missy, “you two can leave. No need for goodbyes.”
Missy finally looks up, but I don’t pull away. Through my peripheral I spot Jacob adjusting in his chair uncomfortably. “Griffin? Everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” I snap, pointing my gaze on him. “Are you going to control your wife, or do I need to put the leash on her?”
He lets out a hoarse laugh, looking between Missy and me who is now shocked. He thinks I’m joking, but when he takes note of my serious tone, my solid face, he straightens up. “I—I don’t get what you mean…?”
“Oh, get the fuck out of here with the bullshit, Jake. We all know why you come here for dinner— why you plan these monthly visits. You are not joining my business. I would never even consider hiring you. You’re lazy, you gamble, and you would be a huge fucking liability.”
They gasp, looking at each other with broad eyes
before looking at me. I push out of my chair and step back with my wine of glass in hand. When I said I was taking my life back, I meant it. I’m done with these phoney dinners and bullshit smiles. I’m tired of people trying to use me to their advantage. This is my life, and the first ones to go are the full-of-shit-Potters.
“You know what, actually, no cake for either of you. How about you just get the fuck out of my house now? That would make my night so much better.”
They are stuck in their seats, so flabbergasted. So floored. I guess I would be, too, considering I’m usually the levelheaded one in this relationship, but not anymore. They’re only wasting my time. I’ve gotten three calls from my angel and I’d much rather be there than here right now.
“Griffin, I didn’t mean any disrespect—”
“I’m sure you meant all the disrespect in the world, Missy.” My voice is even. Careful. I walk around the table and meet at the exit of the dining room. I extend an arm and gesture in the direction of the front door. “You two can leave now.”
They are quick to get up, looking at one another, Jake angry as he looks at me and Missy confused. They are hesitant to walk by me, but they do anyway, glancing over their shoulders as they trip over one another to get down the hallway.
They make it to the front door and pull it open, Missy staggering out first. Jake follows closely behind her, but he turns just as quickly, looking at me. “Griffin, I’m really sorry for Missy’s behavior. I don’t want you to think of her and think any less of me.”
I exhale impatiently, looking him over as I grip the doorknob. “Control your wife, Jake. Stop letting her spend so much of your fucking money. You seriously wonder how you keep getting in debt? Well there’s your reason, right there.” I point over his shoulder at Missy who is waiting by their car, applying lipstick.
He looks over his shoulder. “If I get rid of her, you think I can come work with you?”
I give him a dull look, step back, and slam the door in his face. I don’t have time for his nonsense. Marching down the corridor to get to the dining room again, I find Colette sitting at the table, staring ahead at her slice of coconut cake.
“You kicked them out?” She lifts her head to look at me.
“I’m sure they won’t be planning another dinner with us ever again.”
“Yeah.” She laughs. “I heard pretty much everything you told them.” Her eyes thin up at me. “That isn’t… well, Missy? You don’t want me to look anything like her, do you?”
“Colette, no. You’re fine the way you are.”
“I know, but… shit.” She waves it off. “I don’t know.” Silence settles in the dining room and for the first time in forever I feel sorry for her. Of course, after only five seconds, she makes me regret feeling anything at all because she waves a hand in the air, head shaking. “You know what? I don’t really give a shit. Just get rid of this cake.” She gestures to the table, her nose scrunched with disgust. “Go to work. Do whatever you need to do. The dinner is over with. You cleared your deal with me. Just get out of my face.”
She pushes up out of her chair and I watch her walk around me. Now I’m confused, brows sewn together as she clomps her way up the stairs. I hear a door slam, and I shut my eyes, exhaling again as I drop my arms.
I swear I will never understand that fucking woman. And right now I don’t plan on it.
I walk up the stairs. She’s not in the bedroom because the door is still open. That means she’s in her study.
I collect my bag and pull out my cellphone. I was supposed to meet Angelina at The Swan two hours ago. I haven’t responded to her missed calls.
I’m sure she’s upset, probably thinks I’m bailing on her.
Maybe I’ll keep having her think that and surprise her. Yeah, I’ll do that.
I check my emails, the one with her room information, and I thank God she sent it.
I need an outlet. Some real release. I need out of this house, away from reality. Who better to escape it with than a woman that wants every single inch of me?
SEVENTEEN
Angelina
* * *
I’ve called Griffin five times since landing in Miami.
Jesus. I never do that, but there is a logical explanation. I have been eager to see him ever since we left each other in San Diego. Isn’t that terrible?
Like now.
I am staring down at my cellphone on the bathroom counter, debating whether I should even bother freshening up.
What if he doesn’t show? I’m sure he’ll have some excuse, and no matter how believable it is I will still be disappointed.
Nothing beats wanting someone so badly you fall victim for every thought, every whim, and every ache they conjure up within you.
I sigh, looking up at the mirror. My hair is beautifully straightened thanks to my hairdresser Naomi back in New Mexico. Funny because she asked me why I wanted it straightened this time instead of my regular loose curls.
I couldn’t fight the grin that swept across my mouth, and when she caught it through my reflection in the mirror, she laughed and said, “Ohh! Now I see!” She giggled as I did. “Let’s get you looking irresistible, then, hot mama.”
It felt nice to share some girl talk. With all the business I’ve been doing with these uptight men lately it felt good to indulge and brag about my personal plans. I usually do it with Jackie.
I told Naomi all about Griffin—well, I didn’t tell her his name or anything exactly—and she was intrigued. Not only that, but as always, she made sure to make my hair as beautiful and as silky as possible. I also didn’t tell her he was a married man. I didn’t need my reputation ruined for that.
I am no one’s mistress.
But… I know I’m lying to myself.
Apparently I’m Griffin Boyd’s mistress because, here I am, waiting in a hotel for this married man. Waiting for him to sneak his way here and fuck me.
Because that’s all this is. Fucking.
I decide to do myself up anyway. If he doesn’t show, I’ll just carry my workaholic ass down to the hotel bar and have a few, let loose for a while.
Griff made some promises, but stopping by because I decided to show up randomly was not one of them.
He’s probably busy. I guess I can’t blame him if he doesn’t.
So, I take care of myself, grooming my hair, even though it doesn’t need it, brushing my teeth, applying some makeup, and then dressing in a tan and black halter-top dress and open-toe, red bottomed Louboutins.
I look at the mirror when I’m done, my lipstick matching the bottoms of my shoes.
A smile creeps to my lips.
Good enough.
Hmm… maybe I won’t just get a drink at the bar. Maybe I’ll catch a cab and go to a chill nightclub with a comfortable VIP section. It’s not hard for me to make friends, catch a couple of free drinks here and there from some cute guy.
I walk to the bathroom and grab my iPhone, checking it once more.
Nothing.
I can’t lie and say I’m not upset because deep down I am. But being upset means I’m caring too much and I can’t afford to let myself get out of hand like I did our first night together. I refuse.
Grabbing my gold wallet-clutch, I safely tuck my phone into it and just as I grab my room key to store it, a knock sounds at my door.
My heartbeat accelerates, my head whipping to the right. My throat thickens, and this warm, fuzzy feeling swarms my entire body because I know exactly who it is.
There is only one person who knows where I am right now. Not even Scott knows. As I make my way across the room, peeking through the peephole, I am correct.
Griffin Boyd stands behind my door, the collar of his shirt undone, his hair messy and beautiful. He’s looking down at the floor, and his shoulders drop when he sighs, as if he’s finally glad to be here—away from whatever stressed him out.
The stress visibly slips off his shoulders. He really wants to be here. I can’t keep him waiting.
Here he is.
In the flesh, eager to be around me.
Eager, I know, because he wastes no time stepping towards me and reeling me into his arms, crushing my lips with zealous heat. I moan behind the kiss, caught completely off guard by his suddenness.
Nevertheless, I sink into him, my delicate body molding with the solid contours of his. His hand immediately cups my ass, the other slamming the door behind us.
Slowly, he walks forward, my feet scampering backwards in my heels, until the backs of my legs hit the edge of the bed and he lands on top of me. It’s quick and so fucking hot. His lips never pull away from mine, not even for a second.
For a split moment, I have the urge to ask him what the hold up was—why he made me wait and didn’t bother calling me back—but then I realize that doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter because he’s here now, ready to fulfill my every desire.
“Where did you think you were going?” he asks gruffly, clutching my face tighter in his hands.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” I breathe as his lips skim my jawline and trail down to the hollow of my neck. “I wanted a drink… or three.” I smile at my statement and he comes back up, looking me in the eyes.
“That’s funny?”
“I think so.”
“I was coming.”
“You took forever.”
“I had… things to take care of.” He pulls back, perched on one elbow.
“Like what?”
He blinks, but doesn’t respond, and when he doesn’t I realize the exact reason why. He made a promise not to say her name—not to mention her around me. He can’t even say it. So I know.
“Your wife.” I wiggle from beneath him and he draws away.
Rubbing his face, he says, “She had a dinner planned with this lowlife couple. Complete waste of my time.”
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