“Are you fucking Vivien?” I could have said “involved with Vivien,” but it just came out that way. I held my breath waiting for his response.
He sucked in a gulp of air between his teeth.
My heart skipped a beat. He was!
He blew out the air. “Vivien is my stepsister.”
Dead silence. Shockwaves coursed through my body. I struggled to process the information. Victor’s earlier words, “you were always a problem child,” echoed in my head. “Victor Holden is your father?”
“No, my stepfather. My mother was his second wife.”
With that, Jaime launched into his life story, unconsciously rubbing his thumb over the raised scar that marred my chest.
Jaime’s mother, a raven-haired beauty named Delilah, I learned, married his real father, Payton Anthony Zander, a struggling artist, when she found out that she was pregnant with his child. A painter’s model, they had met when the young beauty had posed for him. For Payton, it was love at first sight. Eighteen-year-old Delilah was the muse and lover he’d always dreamt about. The child only added to his infatuation.
Unbeknownst to Payton, the beautiful but impoverished Delilah was an opportunist. She’d agreed to marry Payton, not because he’d fathered her child, but because he had the potential to become a billionaire breakout painter in the league of Jackson Pollack. She dreamt of a life of riches and glamour. And he was the gateway. Except life didn’t turn out as she’d hoped.
Living in a decrepit loft in Venice Beach, California, the young couple struggled to make ends meet; years went by. Jaime’s father remained convinced that each painting would be his first masterpiece, his ticket to fame and fortune. Delilah grew angry and frustrated with Payton’s delusions and resented the love child they’d created because it was just another mouth to feed. More desperate to dress in designer clothing than to keep a roof over their heads, she took on a temporary job as the assistant to a mega-wealthy CEO, a recent divorcee. Victor Holden. Her sensual beauty, even at the age of thirty-two, was irresistible. Their relationship blossomed into something more permanent, both professionally and personally. Six months later, Delilah Zander was the next Mrs. Victor Holden. And thirteen-year-old Jaime was living under the roof of their Beverly Hills mansion along with Victor’s daughter from his first marriage—Vivien.
“My father was devastated. He never stopped loving my mother. We were his whole world.”
His voice hoarse, Jaime took a break to sip some champagne. I followed suit, eager to hear more. I’d already learned so much about him. His father’s portrait of him as a baby that hung in his office flashed into my head. His good looks must have stemmed from his beautiful mother and his creative talent from his artistic father, who I suspected was physically attractive as well.
“Why didn’t your father fight for custody of you? Even joint-custody?” I asked.
Jaime took another sip of the champagne and set the glass back onto the tray table next to the tub. Pain filled his eyes. His fans of thick lashes lowered. “He didn’t have a chance. He was stone broke and stoned out.”
I’d seen Jaime cocky-confident and I’d seen him angry-mad. But sad was something new. I ran my fingers through his silky, damp hair and met his forlorn eyes. I could feel them reach out to me. He inhaled a deep breath.
“Three months after my mother married Victor, my father took his life. He shot himself.”
With a gasp, I clapped a hand to my mouth. The explosive sound of a gunshot filled my head. Reliving my own gunshot, I shuddered.
Jaime tenderly cupped my face between his hands. “Are you okay?”
Returning to the moment, I nodded. I now understood what made Jaime Zander who he was. Why he needed money, power, and control. He was afraid of falling into a dark abyss in the footsteps of his poor, struggling father. By controlling women and shunning commitment, he could avoid being hurt the way his father had been by his mother. I also understood why he hated Victor Holden. Victor had destroyed his parents’ marriage and brought his father to the ultimate jumping off point of despair.
“Were you close to your father?” I asked softly, suspecting the answer.
“Very. Even with his downfalls. He was loving. Creative. Fun. He taught me to open my eyes and see the world. To use my imagination. I was a lot like him.”
The look on Jaime’s face grew melancholic. In his mind, he was traveling back in time. Reliving nostalgic memories with his beloved father.
A pang of sadness shot through me. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine how difficult it was for a beautiful, confused thirteen-year-old boy to lose his father, the person he loved the most in the world. Kevin, in a way, had gone through that tragic journey with his homophobic father; a different kind of loss, but nonetheless the loss of a cherished parent.
I gently rubbed my hand along the side of his face, relishing the soft layer of unshaven stubble. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
Jaime quirked a ghost of a smile. “My father’s always been my inspiration. A day doesn’t go by without thinking about him. I still miss him.”
I now saw Jaime differently. Behind the confident, cocky façade was a sensitive, wounded soul. With my own narcissistic, negligent mother and broken childhood, there was a new, profound connection between us. I circled his face lightly with my fingertips. Though I already knew the answer, I asked, “Do you blame Victor for destroying your father?”
Jaime stiffened. His eyes blazed with fury. “I blame him for destroying my father and my mother.” He paused. “And for almost destroying me.”
My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“He abused me.”
The web of fine scars along his back flickered in my head. He was being opened, so I dared to ask him, “Did Victor physically hurt you?”
Jaime’s blue eyes narrowed and his lips clenched. He sucked in a sharp breath. “The bastard beat me. He liked using his riding crop.”
“Oh my God,” I cried out. My loathing for Victor spiked and consumed me. A mixture of rage and sorrow coursed through my blood. I had the burning urge to run my lips over every one of Jaime’s scars. I’d read once that scars tell you the hurt is over. That you’ve healed. That was pure bullshit. They always reminded of you the past and the pain. My own above my heart never stopped.
Jaime continued. “Victor hated me. I was just something in the way. And I was not his blood…unlike Vivien who he adored.”
Vivien. The sound of her name made me cringe. “How old was Vivien when you moved to Victor’s house?” I asked.
“Twelve going on twenty.”
I did the math in my head. That meant she was older than the twenty-nine years she claimed she to be; in fact, we were probably the same age. The lying bitch!
“How did you and Vivien get along?”
“Vivien was a manipulative, spoiled brat who had a crush on me. I was a vulnerable, insecure, fucked up kid. One night when she was fifteen, she raided her father’s liquor cabinet, and we both got drunk.”
I knew what was coming next and braced myself.
“She got me to fuck her.”
I inhaled air through my nose. “Do you still fuck her?”
“No, but she still wants to fuck me. What you saw at the bar was another one of her manipulative attempts to get me into bed. I was trying to ward her off without creating too much of a scene when you passed by.”
Deep inside, I knew he was telling the truth. I lowered my eyelids, suddenly feeling bad that I’d mistrusted him. “I’m sorry I ran off.” My voice was small.
Jaime tilted up my chin and gazed into my eyes. “Angel, you don’t have to apologize. You had no idea.” He paused. “There’s something else you need to know. Vivien’s not my type. I could never be with her. She’s a dominatrix.”
The news of Vivien’s sexual preference didn’t surprise me, given her brazen personality and fashion sense. In my head, I could easily imagine her in a black leather corset, fishnet stockings, and thigh-high leather boots,
wielding a whip. Victor’s riding crop? Had she ever used it on Jaime? I inwardly shuddered; I didn’t want to know.
Jaime toyed with my wet braid. “You understand now, why I can’t work with her on the account. She’s a force, however, that must be reckoned with. She’s potentially dangerous and destructive.”
I mulled over his words. The situation was complicated. I was going to have to figure out a way to keep Jaime away from Vivien. And also from Victor.
An afterthought flew into my head. I knew that Victor was now single and never talked about Jaime’s mother. I recalled Jaime telling me he’d inherited a lot of money from her. Had she died?
“What happened to your mother?” I asked.
“Five years after Victor married my mother, he had an affair with a young starlet and asked for a divorce. My mother was more angry than heartbroken, and in the end, went for a large settlement, that included a mansion in Bel Air. No longer the beauty she used to be, she resorted to alcohol and sedatives. Driving under the influence, she died the day before she turned forty in a head-on collision on the canyon road that led to our house.”
So, in a way, Victor had destroyed Jaime’s mother’s life as well. Jaime’s tragic past tugged at my heartstrings. I felt connected to him in a way that I could never have imagined. He was a tortured soul just like me. Deprived of maternal love. And that of a father who adored him. I had just one last question.
I looked him straight into the eye. “Jaime, why did you wait so long to tell me all this?” So many complicated conflicts of interest that could have been avoided had I known about his toxic connection to Victor and Vivien.
He did that swirly thing with my braid again and then tickled my lips with the ends. “Because…” His voice trailed off.
“Because why?” I said softly, his intense gaze arousing me.
“Because I wanted to work with you, Gloria. From the minute I read about you on the Internet, I was drawn to you. Your success, your drive, your own need for control. And when I met you in the elevator, I was so taken by your beauty, feistiness, and independence. The need to control you consumed me. You’re different from all the women I’ve been with. You’re brilliant, intoxicating, and infuriating. You inspire and excite me, and sometimes you even make me lose control.” He tugged hard at my braid and shot me a wry smile. “And because, Ms. Long…I’m crazy about you.”
“Mr. Zander, you make me crazy!” Crazy in love? I wasn’t sure because I really didn’t know first hand what that meant. Feeling tingles everywhere? Shortness of breath? Fiery desire? Jealousy? A sense of loss when the other person is not there? That’s what my book heroines felt. And I felt all those things too.
I laughed. For sure, some kind of defense mechanism.
“Get over here, you!” he ordered, his eyes dancing with mischief. He wrapped his sculpted arms around me. With one swift smooth move, he hauled me against him and drove his rigid cock into me. My forehead fell onto his shoulder as he nibbled at my soaked flesh and ravaged my soaked core. He held me tightly, helping meet his deep thrusts. I moaned with pleasure. My arms clasped his chiseled body, embracing the scars that lined his back. He groaned my name. As this beautiful, controlling, complex man brought me to yet another earth-shattering climax, I was too distracted to think of all the complications he was bringing into my life.
* * * *
We were both so exhausted. Jaime was still on East Coast time, and I truthfully didn’t know what time zone I was in. I just knew I was zoned out.
After room service, a light supper consisting of a delicious Salade Niçoise and bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, we decided to called it a night. Jaime, clad in loose blue pajama bottoms that hung sexily low on his narrow hips, insisted on picking out my sleeping attire. The control freak!
My comfy pink and white striped PJ’s? Not a chance! Rifling through one of my overnight bags, he found a sheer, lace-trimmed black and white polka dot baby doll set from the Gloria’s Secret “Irresistible” collection. A sexy, diabolical grin whipped across his face upon coming across his treasure. “Perfection!” He expertly dressed me in the sexy sleepwear. It was hard for him to keep his mouth and hands off me, but I didn’t mind.
“Which bed?” asked Jaime, admiring his handiwork. “The client gets to pick.”
Typical of European boutique hotels, the charmingly furnished floral room had two double beds. I went for the one on the right closest to the French windows. He swept me into his arms and carried me to it, slipping me under the fluffy duvet. He followed me under the covers and snuggled close to my scantily clad body. The warmth of his flesh heated mine.
I rolled over to my side and propped myself up on my elbow. My eyes soaked in his face. His hooded blue eyes, his lush lips, and the strong angles of his stubble-laced jaw. God, he was gorgeous any way you looked at him. I dusted the tip of my braid across his dimpled chin, fighting off my hot desire to dip my tongue into the kissable indent.
“Mr. Zander, what I meant is… this is my bed. You sleep in the other one. Client’s wishes.” While we had fucked our brains out, sleeping with him in the same bed was strangely something I wasn’t ready for. It felt wrong. Even more so, it scared me.
Resting his head on the mountain of fluffy pillows, he cocked an eyebrow. “Gloria, you’ve got to be fucking kidding. I flew all the way to Paris to be with you, and you don’t want to sleep with me?”
I sat up and folded my arms across my chest. The way his eyes bore into mine was making this difficult. “No,” I said before changing my mind. “Go!” I aimed my pointer finger at the other bed.
He shot me that maddening smirk. “So, Ms. Long, before I unfortunately have to leave, can you tell me if I should put this room on my list of client expenses?”
“Stop procrastinating!” I playfully hit his bare chest with one of the pillows. When I thought about it more, I shouldn’t have been so frivolous. I was going to have to be extra careful working with Jaime, with his ruthless stepfather, Victor Holden, watching our every move.
“And should I bill time for this?” In a breath, he rolled on top of me, flattening me on the mattress. He smashed his lips against mine, with a fierce kiss that sent a rush of tingles to my core and then slipped his hand beneath my lace-trimmed bottoms. He fingered his way to my clit. I groaned.
“You don’t really want me to leave,” he breathed into my ear.
Confession: No, I didn’t. I was practically on fire. His fingers circled my bud vigorously, bringing me closer to combusting with each rotation. I fisted his silky hair and moaned, “Don’t stop.”
“Don’t worry,” he moaned back.
I could feel his cock hardening and elongating, growing thicker and hotter by the second. My body was desperate for him. Consumed with feverish desire, I moved one hand to the waistband of his pajama bottom and fumbled with the drawstring to loosen it.
“Good girl, Gloria,” he moaned as he raised his torso just slightly, enabling me to lower his bottoms. My hand skimmed his rock-hard ass. What an ass!
“Lift up!” he ordered.
I did as bid, and he pulled down my baby doll bottoms as far as they would go. “I should have just torn them off you,” he mumbled under his breath as my feet wiggled out of them.
With a powerful thrust of his knees, he spread my legs wide apart and then plunged his hot, pulsing cock into me. A loud, satisfied sigh met his penetration.
“Oh, angel, you’re so wet and ready for me.” He anchored his hands on the mattress to support himself and began to pump in and out of me.
“So. Do. You. Still. Want. Me. In. The. Other. Bed?” he grunted with each determined bang.
“No!” I gasped. He was hitting my G-spot repeatedly. I was falling apart at the seams with ecstasy.
A triumphant smile splayed on his face. “That’s what I thought.”
He picked up his pace with each long, hard stroke. I gripped his perfect buns of steel, pressing them forward with his thrusts, though, trust me, assistance was the last thi
ng he needed. I just needed something to hold on to—to keep me from leaving this planet. Whimpering and rocking with him, I clenched my eyes. Sparks were flying in my head as my core prepared to burst with out of this world pleasure. Oh, God! I was not going to last much longer.
“Gloria, open your eyes. I want you to watch me come.”
I did as he asked and drank in the intensity that lusted on his sweat-drenched face. His half-moon eyes sucked me in and his luscious lips parted with pants of desire. His pulsating cock let me know he was on the verge.
“Now!” he shouted. He let out a loud savage sound from deep inside him and arched his head. We climaxed together. His cock exploded while my core lit up like a disco with strobing bright colors. The song “Gloria” played in my head. Oh, oh, oh, calling Gloria.
“Oh, Gloria. That was fucking amazing.”
Yes, it was. It was fucking amazing.
Catching his breath, he sunk his head into the thick fold of my cleavage. I wrapped one arm around his sweat-soaked body and threaded the fingers of the other through his damp, tousled locks. Closing my eyes, I hummed the melody of “Gloria.” All the voices in my head were calling his name.
* * * *
Repositioned on my back, my head resting on his rock-hard chest, I asked him something that had been on my mind. “Mr. Zander, are you into the whole BDSM lifestyle?”
He chuckled. “No, In fact, I’m not really a dom.”
My brows furrowed. “What do you mean?” His controlling behavior mirrored that of many of the erotic book boyfriends I had.
“My shrink says I’m a just a creative control freak with kinky tendencies.”
Semantics.
“Do you get off on physically hurting women?” My heartbeat accelerated going into this dangerous territory. Given that his mother had destroyed his beloved father, the psychologist in me thought it was likely though he’d never physically harmed me.
“Whatever way you call it, I’m strictly BD without the SM.” He planted a tender kiss on my cheek. “Besides, angel, you’re like the lace you wear. Beautiful and fragile, easily torn. I could never hurt you.”
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