by Kira Blakely
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
She shrugs as she turns back to the mirror, carefully removing another pin. “She is Lindsey Holland, after all. And you did sleep with her once before.” She adds the pin to the pile. “Maybe more than once.”
I sit up. “You are jealous!”
She says nothing, but her silence and the narrowed gaze she’s casting at the mirror gives her answer away.
I know what they say – jealousy is ugly. But on Abby, it looks hot. My cock twitches in agreement.
Fuck. To hell with the pins. I can’t wait any longer.
I walk over to her, standing behind her chair. “You have no reason to be jealous, Abby. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.”
I run my hands through her hair, pressing some of the tendrils to my lips.
“Really?” she asks.
“Really,” I answer, grasping her chin and kissing her.
Enough talk. I’m going to show her just how much I want her.
I move my hand to Abby’s cheek, stroking it as I claim her mouth, by far the sweetest treat I’ve had tonight. The taste of her lipstick and the champagne stoke the hunger within me, all that heat and wetness sending heat coursing through my veins and causing my cock to be in the same state.
Fuck.
I kiss her even harder, caressing her nape while I reach inside her bra to clasp one breast, freeing it from its restrictions. Abby gasps in my mouth, her nipple growing stiff as it comes in contact with the cool air in the room. I rub it, twist it gently, then tug on it, a thrill going through me as she whimpers and shivers in response. I know I should be gentler, but right now, I want her too much and the desire in my body is raging.
I want more of her.
I move my lips to her neck, sucking on the soft skin as I undo the front hooks of her corset one by one. Releasing her from the stiff garment, I cup both her breasts, stealing a glance at the mirror.
Oh, what a beautiful mess I’ve made.
The sight of Abby with her hair messy, a purple blemish on her neck, her eyes half-lidded, her red lipstick smeared around her swollen lips and her engorged breasts in my hands sends a fresh surge of heat down to my cock, turning its discomfort into ache.
Fuck.
Still, I ignore it, latching my teeth on the lobe of Abby’s ear as I play with her other nipple and reach lower to slip my hand beneath her underwear.
Lower.
She puts her hand over mine and gasps, her back arching and her hips thrusting forward, moving to the edge of the chair so I can reach her more easily. I slip in a finger, stroking her while kissing her shuddering shoulder and getting another glimpse of her reflection.
I’ve watched Abby’s face before as I brought her to the heights of pleasure, the brink of madness, captivated by her expression that is a combination of agony and ecstasy. Strangely, though, I’m more fascinated now as I watch her through the mirror, her breath coming in gasps from her parted lips, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glossed over.
I’m more fascinated. And more aroused.
Enough of the fucking mirror.
After kissing her cheek, I kneel in front of Abby, pushing the chair back. With two hands, I tug on her soaked panties, the smell of her own arousal assaulting my nostrils and sending me into another high. I toss them aside then spread her legs wider, gripping her thighs as they quiver in anticipation.
I dig in.
My nose pressed against her curls, I lick her other swollen pair of lips, tasting what I smelled earlier. Her hips jump off the chair as a shiver goes through, her thighs shaking and rebelling against my grip as she reaches for the top of my head, nails sliding over my scalp. I push my tongue deeper, tasting more and more of her.
I just can’t get enough of it, of her.
But Abby apparently has. She pushes me away, my shoulders hitting the edge of the dresser.
“I want something other than your tongue,” she whispers in my ear, nipping the lobe and sending a shiver through me.
Just when I think she’ll just sit there or lie there and let me do whatever I please, she does something that drives me over the edge and sends my plans out the window.
“As you wish.”
I follow her to the bed, taking off my robe. Abby lies across the bed, spreading her legs for me in invitation. I climb on top of her, kissing her, impressing her taste on her with my tongue before I grip her thighs and plunge in.
Oh, yes. Fucking yes.
Bending her nearly in half, I place my hands behind her knees and pound into her Abby cries out and fists the sheets in response. My knees dig into the mattress and the bed begins to creak in protest. Still, I fuck her with all I’ve got, grunting like a savage animal.
My cock loves the taste of her, too, more of that salty sweet nectar oozing out of her as she squeezes me, the sound of it adding to the ensemble that is already in play. It drives me even crazier, my cock slipping easily in and out of her as I move faster and faster.
“Fuck!” I let out the shout as I release my pent-up desire deep inside her, my body trembling.
Abby, too, trembles beneath me as her arms wrap around my back, her head coming off the bed as her lips open in a silent scream, her hips shuddering against me as she squeezes me for all I’m worth.
Then her head crashes back down, her body growing limp as she falls still and silent. I collapse on top of her, my chest heaving with hers.
“Do you still want to know what Lindsey and I talked about?” I ask Abby when I’ve caught my breath.
“Yes.”
I lift myself off her, leaning on my arms. “You, mostly.”
“Me?” Her eyes grow wide.
I sweep the tendrils out of her face. “We talked about how amazing you were, and she told me to take good care of you, which I fully intend to.”
I plant a kiss on Abby’s forehead, and she places her arms around me, smiling.
“You should have just told me that earlier.”
“Well, I have to admit you did look hot when you were jealous.”
“Oh, I did, did I?”
She pushes me off and climbs on top of me, tracing the muscles of my chest. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I don’t think you’ll be seeing any more of that look.” Her palm rests over my heart. “After all, you did say I have no reason to be jealous.”
“I did.”
I kiss her again, short and tenderly this time, then pull her into my arms, letting her rest her head on my chest. Stroking her hair, I smile, my heart swelling with joy I’ve never felt before. Indeed, in this moment, I am happy and with the looming success of my company, I have a feeling everything is going to be all right.
***
“We’re doing more than all right,” Abby tells me as she shows me a web article on her tablet. “Lindsey’s app is just breaking the web and breaking records.”
I glance at the article, reading just the headline – Lindsey Holland Apps Wow Women and the World – and grinning. I already know the apps are phenomenal, though. Some of the profits already in my bank account.
“We’re getting a lot of calls, too,” she adds. “People seem to want you to come up with apps for them.”
“That’s good.” I lean back in my chair. “It seems like we’re going to be busy.”
Abby sits in front of my desk. “Busy is good.”
Just then, I hear a knock on the door.
“Roger?”
He enters.
“Since when do you knock?” I ask him, swiveling my chair to face him.
“Since I caught the two of you doing something more than kissing here the last time,” Roger answers.
Abby blushes.
“Anyway, I’ve got something important to tell you,” he goes on.
“Go on,” I urge.
“It’s about your grandfather.”
I grin. “Has he heard the news?”
“Probably, though I’m certain of the fact that he’s sick.”
“Sick?” I sit up.
“Is he going to be all right?” Abby asks.
Roger shrugs. “Your grandmother says it's pneumonia.”
Pneumonia. My mother had that before, and it wasn’t good.
I stand up, my hand on my desk. “I’ll go visit him. He’s still family, after all.”
I did promise my mother I wouldn’t turn my back on my grandfather.
“And if it turns out to be nothing, I’ll just tell him the good news about my company myself.”
Abby, too, gets off her chair. “I’ll book our tickets.”
“Our?” I throw her a puzzled look.
“Of course. I’m coming with you,” Abby says. “After all, I am still your personal assistant. And besides, I’ve never been to London before.”
Chapter 11
Abby
This has got to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I stare out the window from the backseat of the black BMW as it passes through Westminster Bridge, taking in the views of the Thames, Westminster Palace, and the famous Big Ben against the windswept clouds of the blue London sky, the London Eye peeking in the rearview mirror.
I still can’t believe that I’m in London. I’ve always wanted to go, seduced by the Victorian romance novels I read late into the night as a teenager, by the city’s history, its music icons, its royal allure and, of course, by the magic of West End.
Now that I’m here, I can’t wait to catch a show or two, to visit the museums, to explore the palaces, watch the Changing of the Guard, stroll through Hyde Park, go shopping in Harrods and Covent Garden, ride the Eye, cruise along the Thames, eat Yorkshire pudding. Ah, there’s just so much I want to do with Grant in this grand and beautiful city.
Before we can get a chance to do any of the items on my list, though, Grant and I have to do what we came to do – visit his grandfather.
Leaning on the backseat, I glance at Grant, who’s also looking out the window. Unlike me, though, he doesn’t look the least bit thrilled. Rather, he seems deep in thought. Reminiscing, maybe? Or is he worried about his grandfather? Of course, he is. As much as he may hate his grandfather, they are family.
I place my hand over his. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your grandfather is all right.”
He turns to me. “What gave you the idea that I was thinking about him?”
“He is why we’re here,” I point out. “How much longer until we get to your house?”
“It’s not my house,” Grant answers. He glances at his watch. “We should be there in less than fifteen minutes.”
I nod. “Okay.”
The moment we pass through the black gates, I realize that it’s not just a house. It’s a mansion, more so than the one back in New York. Indeed, the structure looks three times bigger and decades older, an imposing relic of the past.
“Wow,” I say as I get out of the car, staring at the façade. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a castle, Grant.”
“Technically, it’s not a castle,” Grant corrects. “But I think it’s as old as one.”
“Welcome back, Master Ainsworth,” the butler, a man in his fifties with gray hair and a faint mustache, greets him with a polite bow at the front steps. “I trust your trip was well.”
Of course, there’d be a butler.
“How many times have I told you not to call me master, Oliver? You don’t work for me,” Grant tells him. “Also, my surname is Herbert, not Ainsworth. Surely you remember.”
“Beg your pardon.” Oliver gives another bow. “Old habits do die hard.” He turns to me with a smile. “You must be Miss Gomez. Roger told me we should expect you. I’ve had a room prepared—”
“She sleeps with me,” Grant interrupts, placing his arm around me. “Where is Grandfather?”
“In his chambers, of course,” Oliver answers. “Your grandmother is there, too.”
“Good. We’ll go there. No need to escort us.”
Grant leads me up the steps and into the mansion. “I never did like him.”
“It’s obvious.”
“Don’t be fooled by his politeness,” Grant tells me, holding my hand. “He’s a snake, completely devoted to my grandfather.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t trust him one bit. I don’t trust men with mustaches, remember?”
As we go from room to room, I forget all about the butler, the furniture and the décor grabbing my attention and taking my breath away. The interior is twice as opulent as that of the New York mansion, and I swear some of the furniture is made of real gold. So it’s true. Grant is descended from nobility, and I’m sure this mansion was handed down from them.
“This place is magnificent,” I gasp, pausing to admire the chandeliers.
Grant pauses as well. “It’s a gilded cage. That’s what it is.”
Of course. The mansion must hold many unpleasant memories for him.
“If you hate this place so much, then why is the New York mansion so much like it?” I ask as we continue walking, coming to a grand, imperial staircase that reminds me of the entrance to a theater.
“Because my mother was the one who bought that house and had it decorated,” Grant answers. He pauses on a step, his eyebrows creasing. “I never told you?”
“No.”
Although that explains the portrait of his mother over the mantel.
“As she lay dying, my grandfather finally granted her request and gave her some of his fortune to spend as she wished,” Grant explains, going up the steps. “And she bought a house with it.”
“I see.” I place my arm in his.
“Cruel, isn’t it? The fortune was rightfully hers, yet she had to beg for it. And then she only managed to have it when she could no longer enjoy it all because of one single mistake she made – me. That’s how cruel my grandfather is.”
I frown, going the rest of the way quietly. If Grant’s grandfather truly is a monster, I’m not sure I want to meet him. Part of me fears him, and another part fears I might push him down these stairs for all the suffering he’s put Grant through.
He’s sick, remember?
Right. At any rate, I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. I’ll behave like a proper lady, I promise.
Speaking of a proper lady, as we go around a corner to a short hallway, I see a woman near a door, a maid beside her. My guess is she’s in her late sixties. She looks like she’s in perfect health, though; fit to carry a horse. She has an air of confidence about her that seems to teeter toward superiority. Her wavy hair and long-sleeved dress with the funnel neckline and the puffed sleeves look seemingly straight out of a Victorian novel. All she’s missing is a jeweled fan and a hat... and something tells me she has several of each.
“Grant.” She extends her arm and Grant kisses her hand. “Finally, you’re here.”
“Abby, this is my grandmother, Matilda Ainsworth,” Grant introduces us. “Grandmother, this is Abby.”
I resist the urge to perform a curtsy.
“And who is she?” Mrs. Ainsworth lifts her eyebrows.
“My girlfriend,” Grant says.
The label takes me by surprise, never having been used before. At the same time, it makes me blush.
The gaze of Grant’s grandmother sweeps me from head to toe. “I see.”
I wait for her to extend her arm to me and when she doesn’t, I just give a slight bow and a weak smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She doesn’t answer, obviously not feeling any sort of pleasure to meet me.
“How is Grandfather?” Grant asks.
“He’s feeling better now. You can see it for yourself.”
“I will.”
Grant reaches for my hand and heads to the door. I follow him but his grandmother’s arm gets in my way like the clearance bar to a parking lot.
“I don’t think my husband is well enough to receive guests right now, especially not strangers,” Mrs. Ainsworth says. “Shall we go have some tea in the parlor downstairs?”
Grant frown
s as he tugs on my arm. “Abby’s coming with me, Grandmother.”
“She is not.” Mrs. Ainsworth’s arm does not move, her chin held high.
“Grandmother…”
“It’s fine.” I reluctantly let go of Grant’s hand, not wanting to start a fight outside his sick grandfather’s bedroom. “I was thirsty anyway. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
Grant’s eyes narrow in concern. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Go and see your grandfather then tell me about him later.”
Of course I don’t want him to leave me alone, but Grant seeing his grandfather is what’s more important. It’s what he came to London to do.
He seems to have come to the same conclusion because he turns his back on me, opening the door.
“Come with me,” Mrs. Ainsworth orders.
I follow. I have a feeling that, in this mansion, Mrs. Ainsworth’s words are law. And here I thought it was Grant’s grandfather who was scary.
Well, maybe that’s why he’s mean, because his wife is so… cold.
As I follow her in silence, the song “Prima Donna” from Phantom of the Opera starts playing in my mind.
“Your name is Abby?” Mrs. Ainsworth’s question disrupts my silent solo.
“Yes.”
I feel like I should use a polite form of address, but I’m not sure which one’s appropriate.
“That’s your real name?”
“It’s short for Abigail.”
“Why not use Abigail?”
Why does it matter?
“My mother called me Abby,” I answer as we go down the stairs.
“And where is your mother?”
What is this? An interrogation?
“She’s gone now.”
“Ah.”
No sorry. Just ah.
“You’re American?” she asks after a few seconds.
“I grew up in the US,” I answer. “But I was born in the Philippines.”
She snorts.
How rude. And I should be used to this kind of treatment by now, but coming from Grant’s grandmother, it seems more offensive.