by Kat T. Masen
“No it’s not,” I say adamantly, pulling my pants up and walking away from the sofa, pacing back and forth. “Logan is a bastard. He treats women like yesterday’s trash. He takes what he wants and that’s it. God, I can’t even. . . . And Emmy hates him. She’s always hated him. This won’t last, or work. They’ll just screw each other over then I’m left in the middle. Nothing will ever be the same after this.”
“Let them be. You never know, Ashley, this could be the real deal for them.”
“The real deal?” I laugh, ridiculing her. “This will never work. Jesus! I can’t fucking believe this. All the lies. . . . How did I not fucking see this? And Logan bailing our most important training session and risking our game so he could fly over and fuck my sister?!”
“Calm down,” she begs of me. “You’ve gone mad. Can you hear yourself? They’re a good fit, the two of them. Let them sort out their relationship without you being a factor.”
“You don’t get it, it’s always been the three of us. And if they do work out, then what? What about me? I’ll be left behind.”
Poppy walks over to where I stand, stretching on her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around my neck.
“You’ve got me, you silly twat.”
I can’t hide the smile that appears unwillingly. “Your British name-calling is very distracting. So are your tits.”
“Well, they felt neglected by your pecker getting all the action.”
I bury my head into her neck, thankful that I had her. I never expected this eccentric, gorgeous woman to come into my life and just complete me. She is a mirror of me, understood me better than I understood myself sometimes. A scary thought since we’d only been in each other’s life for a week.
She was everything I needed that night when Alessandra left. Some could say it was rebound, but I wasn’t rebounding from Alessandra. I didn’t love her like she needed to be loved. I wasn’t husband material and our living together proved that. I felt relief when Alessandra wanted out—she brought the giant elephant into the room that night and finally set it free.
“I fucking love you, woman.” I laugh, slapping her ass causing her to squeal in delight.
“Oh bollocks, I give good head.”
“Yes,” I agree with a smirk. “Fucking good head.”
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
“As crazy as you.”
She lets out a sigh and stares into my eyes. I love the way her eyes twinkle when she smiles, switching between green to blue depending which way you looked at her.
“I don’t care what happens between us. I have fun when I’m with you. I don’t want that to stop.”
“Why does it have to?”
“You know . . .” she trails off. “Feelings and stuff get in the way.”
I cup her chin again, bringing her face into mine till my lips are planted on her sexy mouth.
“So, let it.”
With an infectious grin, she kisses me back deeply which switches me back into aroused mode. Pulling back, her stare is full of lust and follows with her falling onto her knees again. We celebrate the moment with what Poppy does best—a nice blow job. When she’s finished and I’m sitting on cloud nine, she reluctantly leaves the apartment to fly back home but not before asking me for the millionth time if I was okay. I tell her I am—just to shut her up.
But I wasn’t.
How could I be?
Alone—in the dark—my head begins to conjure up things. Things that won’t go down well if Logan shows his face anywhere near me. He lied, he betrayed my trust, and he stole my sister ready to use her like he does of every woman that enters his life.
He shouldn’t have messed with me. I knew every little dirty secret of his, everything but this.
And now I needed answers.
I pick up my cell and dial his number—voicemail.
My rage intensifies with every missed call until finally—an hour later—his name appears on my screen.
I clutch at my cell with the tightest of grips, watching the color drain from my hand until it’s almost all white. I do my best to control my ill feelings towards him but the second I answer and the call connects, I lash out at the one man I had trusted my life with.
Logan fucking Carrington—my ex-brother.
“Should George be eating that cracker?”
I yell into the bedroom, watching George with one eye as he devours a cracker in the corner of the kitchen. I knew he didn’t like to be watched—another quirky habit of his that baffled me.
Inside the bedroom, Emmy is sitting in our bed reading.
“Can you not scream that in front of George? It’s diet doggy crackers. Ever since you hit the scene, George has put on a few pounds.”
“A few?” I laugh. “The dog can’t fit the through the doggy door. Last night, I had to save him from an embarrassing fail as he tried to pass through it.”
“You’re not helping his ego right now,” she complains, pouting her lips looking all cute and shit.
I grab the remote from the nightstand and climb into bed. I loved that the sheets were warm and that inside the bed is this sexy woman who belonged to me—my fiancée.
She’s engrossed in reading, wearing her new glasses which she complained made her look like a grandma. I thought she looked like a hot librarian—a virgin at that. One who had never had her clothes ripped off by any man.
“Are you still reading Abbi’s manuscript?”
Emmy nods, barely acknowledging me.
“And?”
She places it down—annoyed at my interruption. “It’s so good. I haven’t put it down since I began two hours ago. Except for now, because you’re needy and crave attention.”
I bury myself into her side, sliding my hand into my favorite spot: the crevice just beneath her tits. Her scent is intoxicating, and I feel myself getting instantly hard.
“I am needy,” I tell her, rubbing myself against her hip. “I need you on all fours and your ass in my face . . . now.”
She smacks me with the manuscript, bruising my ego only. I pull away and lie on my back; my head against the soft pillow and switching the TV on until she yanks the remote out of my hands and switches it off.
“I’m ready.” There’s a nervous smile on her face and a sudden burst of energy. Odd, coming from a distracted woman who was busy reading only moments ago.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” She removes her tank exposing her tits. Fuck, they’re so fucking perfect I could cry. Seriously—tit heaven. “Oh, and I have something special.”
“A swing?”
“No.”
“Anal beads?”
“No.” She hesitates. “But I guess you could use it in my ass if you want.”
She removes something from under the bed and places it in front of me. It’s a black box. I open it and find a vibrator inside. It’s blue with pink polka dots all over it.
“Apparently, it has multiple speed settings and can get you off in less than a minute. Plus, it’s pretty, don’t you think?” she rambles on.
I could hear the anxious tone in her voice. Something isn’t quite right, and rather than lead with my dick, I watch her with curiosity. She’s on her knees, topless with her eyes wide staring back at me. The corner of her lip is trapped beneath her bite while she twists the end of her hair around her finger almost fidgeting.
“I can get you off in less than a minute,” I remind her, gazing longingly at her chest. “And your nipples are hard.”
“Yeah, they’re sensitive.”
“You’re hiding something.”
She’s quick to open her mouth. “No I’m not.”
I knew her too well—she was hiding something. But what? Then, it dawns on me.
The day of the week. Monday night . . . the deadliest night of the week.
“Wow, you think you’re gonna get off so easy?”
“C’mon, you do this every Monday night and then I have to deal with sour and jealous Logan.”
&n
bsp; “Funny, you weren’t complaining when you came three times in a row.”
“No . . .” she trails off. “But still, why the hell do you watch? Who cares! It’s over with him now. I want no part in this.”
We had this argument every Monday night. I knew she had already watched the episodes when her producer couriered them over. I don’t know why I couldn’t stop. It drove me fucking insane having to watch her fool around with Wesley onscreen.
I don’t want to talk myself out of it, ignoring my raging dick and her half-naked body. With just one press of the remote, the TV comes on and I stare at the screen waiting.
Emmy lets out a loud groan, falling back onto the bed and covering her face with a muffled scream. I ignore her overdramatic behavior and spend the next forty minutes with my stomach in knots, bile rising in my throat and my blood pumping so fucking hard that I was on the verge of a migraine.
It was the episode where they went to London. I should have sought solace in the fact that she had been fucking me behind his back yet that didn’t make it any easier seeing them with each other and the way the episodes were edited to make them so united.
I switch off the TV and stare blankly at the black screen.
“You’re your own worst enemy,” she says stubbornly. “You can either sit there, sulk like you always do and not talk to me for the rest of the night until you crack because, again, you’re your own worst enemy. Or . . . you can turn around and keep perfectly still, quiet if you want to brood. And I’ll just give you a show.”
It piques my attention yet I maintain my broody persona because I didn’t want to jump the gun so quickly and look like a pussy.
And speaking of pussies . . . there’s one staring at me when I turn around.
She’s lying back on the bed, two pillows propped up behind her so her body is angled perfectly. Her long, lean legs appear even longer in that position. Smooth and irresistible. Her knees are resting against each other but when she notices that she has my attention, she spreads them enough for me to see the full view.
“I realized when we began our steamy affair, you enjoyed when I tried new things.”
My lips remain still, desperately trying to hide my smirk. “Well, you didn’t like anal play.”
“I didn’t.” She shakes her head. “I think we can both agree that I do now.”
“You certainly do.” I lick my lips, crawling towards her until I’m close enough to smell her arousal. “So, what’s left?”
“What did you tell me last week was a fantasy of yours?”
This is a trick question. My male instinct tells me not to answer yet I still do because I have some sort of death wish.
“A threesome?”
She snorts. “Two guys and me?”
“Is that a joke?”
“Much like your answer.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes at her and continue to play this ridiculous game hoping I’d get a ‘happy ending’ soon. “Bondage?”
“No, but I’m not opposed to it.”
“Fisting?”
“Oh, my God!” she yells, wincing. “NO.”
I give up in frustration; her naked body is begging to be fucked.
“Honestly, do you know how much I say during sex? You’re catching me at a weak moment. I can barely remember my name half the time.”
“Squirting,” she responds with a satisfied smile. “You told me you wanted to watch me squirt. Now, I can’t make any promises but this bad boy over here is supposed to do the trick.”
With a wide grin, I lean my head in far enough to rub the tip of my nose against hers; our lips inches away from each other.
“Do you know how much I love you?”
“Uh huh,” she says with a straight face until her mouth widens into a smile. “Talk to my vagina because the face don’t wanna hear it.”
I slap the side of her thigh which causes her to squeal, then straighten my back. My woman is about to give me the show of a lifetime. I realized then that she would do anything for me, as silly and boundary-pushing as it may be. And so, I would do the same for her.
Tonight, after all is said and done and I’m completely covered in her juices, I would sign the dotted line on the contract that had been sitting on our dining table for weeks. A contract that causes this huge divide between us every time we tried to discuss it.
Our own reality TV show.
Eight episodes.
One season.
All us—completely raw and unscripted.
The words are coming out of her mouth but they don’t make any sense.
Farrah continues to talk while standing in front of the mirror—wearing only her pink laced thong—applying fresh red lipstick onto her fake pout.
“I mean really, Wes, did you honestly not see that Emerson was fucking Logan behind your back?”
I saw. I watched. I felt completely helpless after my own actions. Despite our somewhat turbulent relationship, Emerson had a way of standing her own ground. She got what she wanted indirectly even if I didn’t know it at the time. I had controlled her wild spirit as much as I could over the years, but even then—she had a way of making me feel like I had zero control over her.
And perhaps—that’s why I proposed marriage.
Yeah, I loved her. She was convenient. We worked together and it was either her or some Hollywood bimbo like Farrah that would end up my wife. At least Emerson was hot and intelligent. She just had an annoying family that I planned to get rid of. Distance her from them as much as possible because I couldn’t stand them stealing her attention away from me.
That, and her brother was a fucking moron.
“What do you care anyway, Farrah? You sucked my dick, hell, you even shoved it up that tight ass of yours. Let it fucking go already.”
The shrill in her laugh is disturbing. “How can you let it go? You got played in front of the whole world!”
This bitch is riding my tail and it is time to cut her loose. I didn’t need anyone else shoving my failures into my fucking face.
“You’ve always been jealous of Em. The whole world saw that,” I respond too eagerly.
Her face remains stiff. Emotionless from the Botox injected into her once-youthful skin. I knew she was threatened by the truth. Finally, it’s enough to shut her up already.
Moving to the bed, she crawls towards me until she’s straddling my body with her tits against my chest. They’re massive—an eyesore—great for a tit-fuck but not as good as the real deal. Not as soft as Emerson. Don’t torture yourself.
“Funny, Wes. I was never jealous of Emerson Chase—I just didn’t like her. In fact, I despised her. Enough to make sure that big dick of yours got in trouble in Amsterdam.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s just say it was my idea that those two whores visited your hotel room, and maybe, it was the network’s idea to break the two of you up. You know, for ratings and all.”
My memory jogs back to that night. Some boys and I had been at the club, drinking hard and hanging with some girls. It was innocent until the last drink where things got blurry and I lost control of my actions. I just remember being in the room with these women and on the biggest high ever. Yeah, I’d sniffed coke before but that was years ago. These women came to my room with the goods and I just caved. I don’t know why . . . I just did.
“Are you telling me this was a setup?”
Farrah laughs while caressing my cheek. “Sweetie, Emerson wasn’t right for you. So you fucked two whores? Even if I didn’t send them to your room, you would have fucked someone else anyway.”
I had never cheated on Emerson. Okay, like when we were first dating I scored some head from some random women. But I hadn’t cheated on her since we moved in together. It was only when I had my suspicions about Logan that I let Farrah fuck me. Purely because she offered and I needed a release.
“Get off me,” I demand, angry and uncontrolled.
“Why are you so worked up? The whore moved on to Logan.”<
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“Why?!” I ask loudly. “Because this would have NEVER have happened if you didn’t fucking get involved. You’re telling me it was a setup and you expect me to fucking act like my whole world didn’t fall apart??”
I push her off me, her body losing balance as she tumbles off the bed and onto the ground. With a yelp followed by small cries, she manages to stand up examining the bump on her head from hitting the table.
“You’ll pay for that Wesley Rich.”
“Fuck off Farrah.”
“You’ve got a choice.” She composes herself and fixes her hair with a calm smile planted on her unreadable face. “You can tell the world that the baby inside me is yours and not Jeffrey Marsh’s, or, I can take a snap of this beautiful bruise and share your dark little secret.”
“What the fuck are you going on about?” I spit out with frustration.
“That Wesley Rich is an abusive drug addict who tried to hurt me when the cameras weren’t around.”
“You wouldn’t dare . . .” I warn her.
She walks to where I’m standing and wraps her arms around my waist. Her naked torso disturbs me because underneath the plastic lays a cold and bitter heart. One so dark and twisted that nothing else could taint it.
“Try me, Wesley. When I don’t get what I want—everyone gets hurt.”
I had no choice—again. My life dictated by a woman driven by greed, money, and power. Jealous of everything that brought me happiness. Out to destroy anyone in my life who I loved.
A replicate of my mother.
The person I hated most in this world.
Born and bred in Sydney, Australia, Kat T. Masen is a mother to four crazy boys and wife to one sane husband. Growing up in a generation where social media and fancy gadgets didn’t exist, she enjoyed reading from an early age and found herself immersed in these stories. After meeting friends on Twitter who loved to read as much as she did, her passion to write began and the friendships continued on despite the distance.
“I’m known to be crazy and humorous. Show me the most random picture of a dog in a wig and I’ll be laughing for days.”