by Amo Jones
When he doesn’t answer, I carry on. “Is it?” My eyes are closed as my fingers involuntarily find my clit. “To see, smell, taste what you do to me?”
A hand clenches around my throat, and my eyes snap open, straight onto Bryant’s. He takes my panties with his other hand and brings them to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Mine.”
I look into his eyes, seeing his Dominant come out. “Yours.”
He drops to his knees, and just like that, his mouth covers my clit and holy shit. I’m seeing stars. His tongue gliding over and between my folds as it hits my most sensitive of parts. Teasing, pleasuring, toying with every single aspect of myself. He knew exactly what to do and where to go as if he drew the damn map for my body. My breathing comes faster, as a groan erupts from my mouth. He stops. All pleasure I was just receiving stopping with his, and he gets to his feet. Stepping closer to me, he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth until every inch of my sweet tasting self owns my taste buds.
Wrapping his hands around the backs of my thighs, he picks me up and throws me down onto the kitchen bench, ripping his shirt off and then his pants. I inch up onto my elbows and watch as he massages his thick long cock with his hand as his eyes look over every inch of my exposed skin.
“You going to fuck me on the kitchen bench on our wedding night?”
He grins, getting up and crawling up my body. “Fucking right I am.”
Beep
Beep
Beep
What’s that sound?
I gasp loudly, my back arching off the bed as I get sucked out of my deep sleep, or memory, I’ve yet to figure out what is what. The dark night envelopes me in Bryant’s—and I guess my—master bedroom, where he sleeps beside me.
I shiver, the cool wind of the night whisking through the open window and I throw my blanket off, walking around to close it. My silk robe now clings to my sweaty flesh as I push down on the window, closing out the busy night down below.
“Isa…” Bryant leans up on his elbows, watching me closely.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” I mutter, going back to bed and slipping back under the covers. “Just had a bad dream.”
He pauses, I can see him watching me out of the corner of my eye. “You usually have dreams?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. Some are more vivid than others.” I hit the lamp switch, cutting off the light again and sink into the bed, bringing the covers up to my mouth.
Silence.
Then suddenly, he gets up from bed and tugs on his sweatpants.
“What are you doing?”
Flicking on his side of the lamp, I turn over to see him throwing on a hoodie. “Going for a run.”
I gaze at the time. “But it’s four in the morning?”
“Your point?” he asks, annoyance etching into his features. I want to say that I thought he only ran at night but thought better of it. Even at this ungodly hour, fresh out of bed, he looks beautiful. It’s not fair, he shouldn’t be this good-looking.
“My point is it’s four a.m.,” I repeat, matching his annoyed tone.
He takes out some headphones and puts them into his ears before throwing his hoodie over his head. I open my mouth, about to say something else when he turns and leaves.
Huffing out, I lay back on my back and gaze up at the ceiling. Why doesn’t he just kill me and get it over with? Because dragging it out is worse, I guess. That must be what he’s doing. This way, it lasts longer. Killing me would be too easy. But even as I think it, I know that there has to be more to this vendetta. Bryant Royal is calculated, smart, coherent. He’s one hundred steps ahead of the human race and about three steps behind God. There’s no outsmarting someone like him, there’s not even a chance that I could work out what he’s planning—but I’ll try.
Tossing and turning, I settle for the fact that I won’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon so I throw the covers off and get out of bed. Walking out of the master bedroom, I head down the stairs that lead to the main living areas when I hear the coffee pot starting up. Bryant must be home from his run. Wrapping my robe around my body, I enter the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks. It’s not Bryant that’s in there, it’s another woman, dressed half naked, wearing nothing but lace panties and a man’s white dress shirt.
Bryant’s suit shirt—I’m guessing, since he’s the only man that lives here.
“Ahh,” I start, clearing my throat. If Bryant thinks he can fuck around on me under my own nose he has another thing coming. Even though I shouldn’t care because our wedding is a fucking joke, still. It’s the principle. “Who the fuck are you?” I quip, it’s a step up from what Devon would have said—or done—thinking of Devon sets off a pang inside my chest. My yearning for him has intensified since last night, so I’ve decided I’m going to hunt him down today before calling my father to see if I can get any information out of him about this ridiculous fucking marriage.
Back to the slut in my kitchen.
The woman pauses, taking the mug from under the machine and bringing it to her lips, obviously unfazed by my intrusion.
She turns around slowly, smirking from beneath the rim. “I’m Jessica. And you are?” She tilts her head, looking me up and down. What the fuck is going on? And where the fuck is Bryant. And why is this bitch so damn fucking beautiful. Why the fuck am I even acknowledging that this bitch is beautiful? I need to get my cranium checked. We’ve been married for not even twenty-four hours, and he’s already putting his dick into other girls. Hot girls. Fuck.
Fuck that.
“Isa…” I pause, then smirk. “Isa Royal.”
Her mouth falls slightly before she places her mug on the kitchen table. “What the fuck has that idiot done.”
“Pardon?” I quirk my eyebrow, confused about her stance or audacity.
She rolls her eyes, pulling a chair out from under the table and taking a seat. “I’m Jessica Royal. Bryant’s sister.”
The shock that falls over my face tells her enough. I didn’t know Bryant had a sister, and nothing was said at the wedding either. Shit.
I tug out a chair and take a seat opposite her. She scans me, I scan her, both of us quite openly trying to assess each other. Then she hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “You don’t want a coffee?”
I shake my head, the confusion still probably marred over my face. “No. Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t know he had a sister?”
“Mmm.” She places the mug onto the table, hiking a knee up. “He doesn’t like to broadcast me that much because I’m a rebel that makes him look bad.” She takes a sip of coffee. “And I also only just flew in from Paris this morning.”
I laugh at her rebel comment, leaning back in my chair. We might get along. “I have to admit,” I answer, flicking the rings around my fingers. “When I saw you standing here, I thought he had already put his dick where it shouldn’t belong.”
Jessica chokes on her coffee, banging her chest with her hand. “Shit,” she laughs. “Sorry, it’s just—and I mean this with no disrespect—but you’re not really Bryant’s type.”
“So I figured,” I answer, getting to my feet and deciding I need that coffee after all.
“I don’t mean that as in a bad thing, I mean he usually sleeps with these suit looking girls who are shy and submissive. Not so… crass?” I pour coffee into a mug and go back to the table.
I know that Bryant hasn’t been seen with another woman in the media, but I also know his appetite as a man. It’s a very large appetite, and he’s a very large man. The thought of tiny submissive girls being eaten by him flash through my brain and I chuckle.
“Well, I don’t know how to answer that.”
Her eyes narrow. “You look familiar; I’m trying to put my finger on it.” Then she shakes her head, taking another sip of her coffee. “Must look like an actress or something.”
I clear my throat. “Ahh, maybe, or might be because my father is Peter Johnson, as in the President.”
Her eyes snap to mine
, her dark long hair piling over her shoulders and her green eyes bright. “Oh my God!” She laughs, her straight white teeth showing through. She looks so much like Bryant. “Isa Johnson! I’ve heard of you and your party ways.”
I lean back in my chair, blowing on my coffee. “Yeah, those were the good days.”
“It makes sense now,” she mutters.
“What does?” I tilt my head.
She pauses, looks at me and then takes a sip of coffee. “My brother marrying you—no offense. But Bryant only ever does things if it works in his favor. He’s a businessman first, and a brother/family man second. Business is always his number one.”
I smile, nodding in agreement. “You have no idea.” Bringing me back to my original question, I nudge my head toward her. “Do you live here?”
She shakes her head. “Nope, I just crash here whenever I’m in town, oh, and I ahhh… sleep with his security guard occasionally.”
It’s my turn to choke on my coffee now. “Shit. And he’s okay with that?” I clear my throat.
She shrugs. “Definitely not, but he can’t say anything.”
I laugh. The thought of Bryant not being able to say anything is laughable. If there’s any man walking this earth that will always be able to say something, it’s Bryant. “Well, that’s amusing,” I whisper to myself, raking my long hair out of my face.
The front door opens and closes and my eyes shoot up toward it. Bryant walks in, his hoodie still over his head and his face drenched in sweat.
“That was a long run, brother dearest.” Jessica bats her eyelashes at her brother, her head tilted backward.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls, though I note, there was a softness to that growl.
“Ahh,” she clicks her fingers, “the question is who am I doing here…”
“He’s fired.” Bryant yanks open the fridge and takes out a bottled water, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink while keeping his eyes locked on his baby sister.
“Bryant.” Jessica gets off her chair and walks toward the sink. “Stop being ridiculous.”
As if on cue, the bodyguard, one who I hadn’t met yet, (though that’s not that unbelievable considering the time I’ve been in this world), walks into the kitchen, his shirt off and scratching his head. He’s young, maybe mid-twenties.
Bryant turns to him. “You’re fired. Pack your shit and be out before midday.”
Then he turns to me. “What are you doing today?”
“Bryant! You’re not being fair,” Jessica moans like a sulking toddler.
Bryant looks at her over his shoulder. “You’re right,” then looks back to the bodyguard. “Pack your shit and be gone within the next half an hour.”
Bringing his attention back to me, he raises his eyebrows. Guess that’s my cue to answer, so I shrug, blowing into my mug of coffee until steam floats. “Find Devon, I suppose.”
Bryant’s face freezes. “Devon?”
I nod, looking at Jessica briefly, who is too busy eye-fucking her bodyguard to listen to our conversation. “Yes, my best friend and roommate who you sort of ripped me away from.”
He shrugs as if it’s no skin off his back, which it’s not, but still, he could at least act like he feels a little like shit for ruining my life. Then he comes to me, leans down and places a kiss on my head. The gesture damn right threw me off because hell no is it like him at all. “We got a tone of shit to sort today.” He inches back and looks into my eyes. “I’d appreciate If you were there.”
A little taken back by his PDA, I whisper, “Sure,” softly. He pushes off my chair and goes to walk out of the kitchen, glaring at Jessica. “Stop sleeping with my workers, Jess, or I will cut off your rights to come in and out.” Then takes the stairs one at a time.
“Well, that was odd,” Jessica looks like she’s seen a ghost, her skin pale and her eyes as wide as saucers. I know she’s not talking about his reaction to the bodyguard.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, standing up and emptying my cup in the sink.
The young bodyguard dude walks further into the kitchen. “Jessica, I can’t lose my job.”
“It’ll be fine, you’ll find another.” She smiles, then winks at him. The girl is a savage. He shakes his head in disbelief but looks like he doesn’t want to argue with her, and then walks out of the kitchen, back to wherever he came from. I really should ask Bryant about the arrangements around his house. I didn’t even know that his workers stayed here.
She turns over her shoulder and looks at me. “We’re going to be great friends.” I’m sure we are, actually, I know we are. Tidying up the counter, I pack away the milk and other scatterings that are left out. I’m not tidy, not in the slightest. I drop my shit everywhere and I’m comfortable with that fact, but kitchen benches are one thing I can’t stand to be messy. After I’ve cleaned, I make my way upstairs and into the master bedroom, taking in the beautiful view. The floor to ceiling windows mold the front of the room, casting a perfect view of the Upper East Side. The four post bed that sits opposite a large television and… oh my fucking God! I gasp, my hand coming to my mouth just as I hear Bryant walk into the room. “Is that?” I point to the artwork hanging on the wall, and no, it’s not the Mona Lisa, but fuck me it may as well be. “Is that Mark Rothko’s work?”
Bryant doesn’t answer, so I turn to face him. He’s smirking. Of course he is. Smug asshole. I change tactics because it obviously is Rothko’s work, and forgive me art gods, I’m only saying this to wipe the smug look off of Bryant’s face.
Shrugging, I grin. “Figures you’d own Mark Rothko.”
That gets his attention because he cocks his head and pushes off the wall, coming into the room more. “And why do you say that?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” I look directly at him now, my eyes dancing with mischief. “The artwork is about as bland as you.” Now, I only know his work because Lydia has one of his pieces in her library, and I don’t know, I’ve always been fascinated by art and people’s different views of one picture.
After a long pause, Bryant throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, ok, and who would you have hanging on your wall, hmmm?”
I don’t even have to think. It’s instant. “Alec Monopoly or Banksy.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bryant groans, shaking his head. “Isa, that isn’t…”
“Don’t say it, Royal. Don’t say it.”
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes. “But there will be none of that on my walls.”
Yeah, we’ll see. He turns his head toward the shower. “Won’t be long.”
I cast a look to the bathroom, sucking my bottom lip in and nod. “Sure.” Before I can think about getting in with him, the bathroom door closes. I quite like this side of Bryant. The carefree side, I hope I see more of that side through this completely false marriage. Walking into the closet, I take out some skinny jeans and a casual tank top. I hope wherever he’s taking me doesn’t have a dress code because even if it did, I wouldn’t change. Yes, it’s so official, Bryant and I are complete worlds apart.
After I’ve changed, I pull a brush through my long hair just as a voice clears from behind me. I whip my head toward the bathroom door to find Bryant standing there naked with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The water cascades down his six-pack abs and then disappears somewhere between the edges of his V. So me not going in there was obviously a shit decision because now my lady parts are fucking tingling like no one’s business. Well, Bryant’s business, but you catch my drift. That body is really not fair, and what’s even worse, I know what it feels like under my fingertips. What it tastes like on the tip of my tongue, and how his thigh muscles clench when—“Isa?” Bryant interrupts my dirty thoughts, and I quickly look up to meet his eyes, my cheeks flashing hot. Fuck.
“Yes?” I answer innocently, eyebrows quirked, a shit attempt at coming off as casual, though I’m guessing I’m making it more obvious the more I try to hide it, so I tilt my head and look over his
arms.
“Wanna take a picture, babe? It’ll last longer.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, I just have a healthy sexual appetite and I must say…” I tease, slowly making my way toward the bed. New strategy: distraction. “It’s been a while since I’ve been fed.” You know, distract him away from the fact that I just got caught checking him out, but the way his eyes haven’t moved from mine and the way his shoulders are jiggling from laughter, I’d say I’m not winning. I’m beginning to realize I very rarely win when it comes to him, too.
“Get changed.” He nudges his head toward the closet, breaking through that fucking laugh.
“Why? Where we going?” I brush off, trying not to sound offended by his blatant rejection.
He walks into the closet. “Stop asking questions.”
11
I should have asked more questions. Stepping out of the car, I close the passenger door. “Where are we?” We drove around for an hour out of the city, and again, I definitely should have asked more questions because this building is… strange. The structure had to be built in the early twenties—maybe before then. The old brick looks to be held together by green moss, and the old Victorian windows are framed by white wood. It’s elegant, yet a little disturbing.
Bryant shuts off his Audi Q7 right outside the large concrete steps that lead up to equally wide twin doors. There’s a little doorknocker that hangs off it, carved as a lion’s head. Ha. Perfect. Fits the creepy house to a T.
“So where’d you bring me? Don’t tell me you married me, let me off on your brother’s…” I look around, uncomfortable with talking about it so openly. “You know… all for you to bring me here and kill me…”
He quirks an eyebrow and grins cockily, putting a cigarette between his teeth. He sparks it, and then blows the smoke out slowly, walking around the car toward me. “You know damn well you are too expensive to kill.” He winks at me and then nudges his head. “Ready to have lunch with the olds?”