The Suit (The Bro Series Book 3)

by Xavier Neal

  “Is that why you decided to become a divorce attorney?”

  “Nah.” I prepare to place the cigar back between my lips. “That was just about the money. During my last year in high school, I had the unfortunate opportunity to get a good grasp of the law and the fucked up loop holes.” Resentment has me sucking the sanity out of the soothing object. I enjoy the flavors mollifying my senses before releasing the smoke to continue. “But I didn’t wanna get wrapped up in that side of shit. I didn’t wanna spend the rest of my life fighting for causes I wasn’t sure I could change, any more than I wanted to sit around listening to horror stories that made me regret not taking an opportunity that would’ve had be doing years in prison.”

  Ryann’s mouth twitches in question, but I bulldoze past it not prepared to relive those moments.

  “Found out this was more my style.” My fingers carefully caress the cigar. “There’s something about making sure someone gets what they’re willing to fight for that I understand. It’s a bit primitive in principle yet civilized because it’s done with laws, paperwork, and intense debates. I’ve always fought like hell for what matters to me…for who matters to me, so why not roll those skills over and get paid to do it.”

  To my surprise, she hits me with an awe inspired expression.

  Most people, outside of my bros, think I’m full of shit when they hear that.

  Ryann damn sure isn’t most people…

  “What about you? What do you do?”

  “I work for McCormick and McCordick.”

  As she continues, I steal another taste of my birthday dessert.

  “I work in the appraisal and acquisitions department. I specialize in art appraisal of antiques and antiquities. Basically, someone else gets to go out and do the fun finding while I get to tell them the magic beans they found are really just lima beans in gold glitter.”

  A small chuckle bounces my chest.

  “Occasionally, I go free hunting for the company, but it’s rare. Most days, I’m given a list of clients that have contracted us to examine an art or antique collection. They provide photos and information for the research team to present me with a starting point for my own research prior to personal investigation. My job is to authenticate. Point out the flaws. The fakes. The failures. Once I have an idea of its worth, I send my report to the financial side of the department for them to decide on market value. I.E. what a museum might pay, what a private collector might pay, how the object may increase or decrease in value over the next twelve to fifteen months. It’s an interesting job.”

  “Because of the finds or the people?”

  “Both.”

  My eyes drink in the way her beautiful body has melted back to a relaxed and trusting state. Seeing her with her guard down rather than adding sharpened sticks to the perimeter shifts something deep in my chest.

  I want her to always look like this around me.

  Be comfortable.

  Be at ease.

  I scoot my seat a tad closer and ask, “How would you appraise me?”

  Ryann girlishly giggles at the comment yet decides to play along. Her eyes wander around my cut face, down my neck to my chest that’s struggling to remain still, and settle unapologetically on my crotch. “From first glance?” She pulls her eyes back up to mine. “Your suit and tie alone are worth anywhere from two to three grand. The belt and shoes easily another K. Hours of obvious gym time increase the price because it means you keep yourself well maintained. And while smoking could easily depreciate your value, the lack of yellow teeth or stale, lingering smell of cigarettes implies you only smoke high dollar cigars and only short bursts at that. All in all, I’d say you’ve got a very high value.”

  Her impressive explanation along with the way the final line of her answer is dripping with sexual promise causes me to grind my teeth once more. “High enough to see me again?”

  She stretches her hand out across the space, winds her fingers around my cigar, and soars it to her own parted lips. “Maybe…”

  There isn’t time to retort.

  A heavenly moan slithers out of her and straight underneath my skin.

  Her head falls backwards on another silky sigh. “Incredible.”

  “Pales in fucking comparison to that moan, Buttercup.”

  Another hungry noise flitters in her throat as her head swivels my direction. She slightly cracks her jaw to let a stream of thick smoke flow from her mouth to mine.

  I don’t bother pretending she’s not what I want or that I’m not eager to have her again.

  That’s a bullshit waste of time.

  Time is valuable.

  You never know when it’s going to be stolen or terminated without true consideration.

  In one swift motion, I drag her chair over so that we are side by side, and can angle our lips to lightly touch. The sweet smell of tobacco and her banana shampoo swirl around my senses until they’ve successfully enslaved them.

  Until they’ve successfully signed her name on my soul.

  Ryann carefully removes the object and whispers, “How about I blow out your birthday candle?”

  My dick thumps repeatedly against my suit pants as if trying to locate the zipper to speed the process along.

  The selfish part of my brain screams to my fingers to get moving, but the logical part of my mind, the part that I swore I’d never stop using after an incident a few years ago, has me questioning, “Should we worry about being caught by your daughter? Her waking up? Wait. How old is she, anyway?”

  A sweet smirk slides onto her expression as she slips the cigar back into my mouth’s possession. “Six. And the girl could sleep through a tropical depression.”

  I briefly smile.

  “Your concern actually turns me on even more.” Ryann seductively descends to her knees and positions herself between my legs. “Relax, Pax. I promise you’ll enjoy this treat almost as much as the one you’re sucking on.”

  “Guarantee I’ll enjoy it more.”

  She wets her lips in preparation and busies her hands with my belt.

  I nestle the cigar securely between my lips, so I can devote my full attention to the vixen I can’t wait to have another taste of.

  Ryann doesn’t handle the situation with caution. She roughly tugs on the objects in her way and yanks down the zipper. The lack of fear or shame as she eagerly removes my cock from its confines, with minimal assistance, convinces a drop of pre cum to make an unexpected appearance. Her big, honey brown eyes peer up at me through her dark lashes at the same time she takes a slow swipe of the tip, savoring the sticky proof of my pending satisfaction.

  A deep, dark grumble festers behind the object.

  Fuck, I don’t remember the last time I felt like I was gonna come from barely being touched.

  The teasing licks continue at the same speed, each more tormenting than the last. I allow for the momentary exploration. I allow her tongue to leisurely drag itself from the base of my dick to the very tip. I even allow for the sucking of each ball to familiarize herself with the weight, the curves, and the pressure I enjoy having on them.

  She should take her time mapping to mind what the man in her life likes.

  And I am the man in her life.

  I’ll be the only one.

  That’s also a guarantee.

  When Ryann’s finally had her fill of toying with my sanity, she leans back on her heels and practically begs, “Fuck my face.”

  “Open. Wide.”

  Her jaw drops like its presenting me the gift of a lifetime.

  Which it absolutely fucking is.

  Best. Birthday. Gift. Ever.

  Another animalistic growl escapes at the same time I grab her by the hair and yank her forward, dick diving towards the back of her throat without a second thought. As soon as her mouth closes around my shaft, she sucks with such fervor; I’m yanked to the edge of the chair. My fingers latch themselves onto the loose locks for leverage and force her tiny little throat to constrict around me. Ry
ann doesn’t shut her eyes or attempt to pull back. She whimpers around my cock and clamps her nails into my sides. The vibrations shatter the minor control I was clutching onto. Both hands ruthlessly tug her towards me until the previously faint choking sounds are so prevalent I’m convinced she may never breathe again.

  My balls begin to draw up tight, indicating how close I am to coming. “Solo un po 'di più.”

  Just a little more…Just…a little…

  More garbled melodies invade the night air like a never ending round of the Happy Birthday song. I continue vandalizing her wavy hair, using it to alter and adjust the angle, frantically searching for the perfect combination of sensations to shatter me.

  All of sudden, Ryann’s watery eyes meet mine and she releases a soft cry of surrender. The sweet sound rips a roar from my chest, knocking the cigar to the ground. Thick ash showers us just as cum streams itself down the back of her throat.

  She greedily continues to swallow my satisfaction while I hold her firmly in place to prevent her from spilling a drop.

  I want her to have all of me.

  I need her to.

  To taste me.

  To feel me.

  To love me.

  Fuck, falling this fast for a woman I barely know can’t be good.

  Chapter 4

  My neck stretches forward to allow me to give the brush strokes one final skeptical stare. On a heavy sigh, I gently place the portrait down, step back, and remove the glasses I use for magnifying as well as my gloves.

  “Well,” the brunette woman impatiently huffs, “is it worth anything?”

  “Unfortunately, Mrs. Ward-”

  “Ms.”

  The sharp correction shuts my mouth.

  This isn’t unusual behavior from people of this tax bracket. Actually, in comparison to most of the clients I cross paths with, it’s about on par for someone who had heard me say the word “unfortunately”. A major difference between those with wealth and those without is the response to certain words that have a negative connation. Most people who bring in six figures do not respond well to hearing them. In fact, they typically respond similar to the way my six year old does, which in return causes me to prepare my tantrum tactics such as remaining silent until their outburst has lost steam.

  “After the nightmare I’ve been through in this marriage I’m not even sure I’ll ever be a Mrs. again,” she continues on, now pacing back and forth. “Hell, I’m not even sure having you come all the way out here was worth the money it cost to have this damn thing appraised! Do you have any idea how much this consultation costs?!”

  I do. It’s one of the many aspects of my job that allows me to keep my daughter from suffering the public school hell that I went through. Lord knows her sperm donor’s measly child support doesn’t even cover the cost of keeping her fed.

  “I need every penny I can find! My divorce lawyer is costing me a fortune! My piece of shit ex is determined to leave me nothing but this fucking penthouse apartment, which I can’t afford, where I caught him getting a handy j from the maid!”

  Ouch.

  She tries to soothe her rattled nerves by running her hands down the side of her beet red face.

  Once it appears she’s calmed down, I toss my powder-free nitrile gloves in the nearby garbage and fold my fingers together. “Ms. Ward, the portrait is unfortunately an imposter.”

  “What?! What do you mean imposter?!”

  “I mean it is an impressive forgery. It could easily fool a novice art collector or perhaps even someone a bit more familiar with 17th century paintings. However, there are a few modern differences laced into the foundation of this portrait such as the brush strokes used by fine tool rather than the tips of the finger. Klaas von Bingen, the German painter who this work of art is pretending painted it, had an obsession with the way the oil felt on his fingers as well as a religious belief that when the oils of his fingers mixed with the oils of the paint, it captured his soul and would allow him to become resurrected at a later point in time.”

  “Nut job.”

  “Eccentric.”

  Though that’s really the professional inside of me talking. He was out of his goddamn mind. Brilliant painter, but a complete Looney Tune. I had to do a biography on him in college, and it had me and Eden laughing late into the night.

  “So, you’re telling me this so called classic painting, that my dick head future ex-husband spent a fortune on, is worth nothing?”

  A sympathetic smile plants itself on my face. “Yes.”

  The banshee shriek that shoots out of her has me struggling to keep my eyes open.

  That shit belongs in a horror movie.

  “Unbelievable!” She throws her hands in the air. “’Liquidate assets’ my lawyer drones on and on about. ‘Sell whatever looks expensive in the apartment since he gave it to you on a silver platter.’ Silver platter? That shits probably plastic!”

  Her comment causes a tiny laugh to spring into my throat.

  Ms. Ward continues her tirade, resuming her previous pacing while I allow my eyes to wander to the dishes on display in the cabinet beside where the portrait was residing. I mentally toss out the cheap knock offs masquerading as something priceless and hone my attention on the tea set occupying the last row.

  “Is that a complete set?”

  She abruptly stops rambling and turns her attention to me.

  “There.” I motion my hand towards the items. “Is that the complete set?”

  “Those old things?”

  I bite my tongue to stop from verbally shredding her apart.

  “Think so.”

  “Are they yours?”

  “Thurston insisted I have them when his mother died. Said he had no use for ‘girly bullshit’.”

  “Well, if I were you, Ms. Ward, I would schedule another consultation to have your 19th century Tiffany and Co set appraised as well as insured.”

  Her mouth moves but no words crawl out.

  God, her silence truly is golden.

  With a wink, I collect my things, have the paperwork signed, and escort myself from the premises.

  I love my job. Putting to use the years upon years of art knowledge crammed into my brain not only feels amazing, but validating. So many people waste their time in college learning about this asshole and that asshole to never need that knowledge again while I toss it out like confetti. Even in the years since graduating, I’ve had to continue and expand my education to include knowledge about antiques and antiquities. I’ve had to attend seminars about spotting fake pieces and lectures on properly handling the pieces I’m inspecting. There is constant continued research required in the art industry, and it is one of those things that I consider a perk rather than a burden. One of the few things in my life that builds me up rather than drains me dry. It probably helps having a daughter who takes an interest in what I’m learning. Watching her try to recreate some of the paintings is equal parts heartwarming and hilarious.

  Upon returning to the office, I take the elevator to the first floor and drop off the paperwork on the opposite side of the building where the financial branch of my department is located.

  Mere seconds after I’ve plopped down in my office chair, Brad, one of the members of the research team I work with, appears in the doorway with a wide grin on his face. “How’d it go?”

  I lean back in my seat. “Not as expected.”

  He strolls inside. “What happened?”

  “Fake.”

  “Really?”

  “An impressive one. Like, had she not brought it to us first, it could’ve easily sold to a collector for a hefty price.” A cynical thought crosses my mind. “Who knows. She might still sell it to someone willing to believe it’s the real thing without the paperwork to prove it.”

  He folds his white dress shirt covered arms over his lean chest. “She seem sketchy?”

  The rant over her skeezy ex, something I can unfortunately relate to, has me borderline defending her. “Desperate.”<
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  “Divorced?”

  “In the middle of it.”

  “Ah. Last client of the day?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got a shit ton of paperwork.”

  There’s a small hum out of him before he casually approaches the desk. “Do you have… plans later?”

  The question takes me by surprise almost as much as the knock on my opened door.