Devastated
Page 1
His For A Week:
DEVASTATED
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
DEVASTATED: A BILLIONAIRE AUCTION ROMANCE
First edition. October 25, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 EM BROWN.
Written by EM BROWN.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Excerpt: | Mastering the Marchioness
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
OTHER WORKS BY EM BROWN
Chapter One
“I don’t know about that,” Sam Green, the editor of the San Francisco Tribune, replied to Kimani Taylor’s suggestion. “A profile on Gordon Lee? It sounds like a fluff piece, and we don’t do that kind of stuff.”
Kimani, sitting on the other side of Sam’s desk in his office overlooking downtown San Francisco, persisted. “The paper did a profile of the mayor of San Francisco last year.”
“San Francisco is our base. You know our East Bay section is limited as it is.”
“The election of mayor to the eighth largest city in California is a big deal.”
Sam eyed her carefully, seeking her ulterior motivation. “You seem to want to do this as badly as you wanted to do that scoop on the Scarlet Auction.”
Kimani lowered her eyes for a moment. Her undercover story of the Scarlet Auction, in which women sold themselves for a week to the highest bidder, had yet to be published, at the request of the district attorney’s office, which had begun an investigation into the Scarlet Auction and didn’t want to sound any alarm bells before they had collected enough information to bring charges.
It was actually no longer Kimani’s story. She had become too involved, thanks to the man who had “bought” her. Benjamin Lee.
In case Sam believed she was biased in favor of Gordon, Benjamin’s uncle, she added, “I’m not suggesting we do a profile just on Gordon Lee, but all the other candidates in the Oakland mayoral race. So it’s fair.”
Sam steepled his fingertips. “That’s a lot of real estate you’re asking for.”
“I don’t think the people know the real Gordon Lee. They see him as a boring bureaucrat, but he’s more than that.”
“And you know this because you’re well acquainted with the guy?”
“Not so well that I can’t remain impartial, but if you’re worried about that, I don’t mind doing the work, the research, the writing, and handing it off to someone else so they can have the byline.”
“That’s very philanthropic of you, but you’re not going to get very far in your career with charity. You know that there are very few jobs in journalism these days. It’s a dog-eat-dog world now.”
Kimani appreciated the advice from her mentor and former graduate school of journalism instructor, but until she made things right with Gordon Lee, guilt would forever gnaw at her.
She had screwed up. Badly. Royally. If she had never told Sam of the text that had come across Ben’s cellphone when she was using it, a text that was a private communication from one of Ben’s business colleagues, Sam wouldn’t have thought to write an article about Oakland Forward, a political action committee formed by local developers and business interests in support of Gordon Lee for mayor.
By law, independent expenditures such as Oakland Forward could not coordinate with the campaign of an individual candidate that it was supporting, but because Ben was family to the candidate, Gordon was implicated. As a result of the article, the state’s Fair Political Practices Commission had launched an investigation into Gordon’s campaign. While Ben had been the one to suggest the formation of a political action committee, he had stepped away from the PAC before its official formation. It was not his fault that the new chairman of the PAC had chosen to share some good news with Ben.
It had been an oversight. Kimani was sure of it, but in her initial skepticism of Ben and her eagerness to give Sam what he wanted, she had betrayed Ben.
In her defense, she didn’t know what Sam had planned to do with the bit of information she had unwittingly passed on to him. But that didn’t exonerate her. She could’ve done better. And even though she had gotten what she had set out to achieve—landing her dream job as a reporter for the San Francisco Tribune—her dream-come-true felt miserable. And even Ben’s forgiveness would not wash away the pit in her stomach.
The fact that he hadn’t forgiven her, however, did make her feel worse. He hadn’t returned any of her calls. After trying him several times, in all the ways that she knew how, she had written him an old-fashioned letter addressed to his office in San Francisco.
His receptionist had said Ben was back in China, with no word of when he would return to California. Kimani didn’t know if the letter would reach him, and if he would read it if it did. She had omitted her name in the return address to bolster the chances that he would at least open the envelope. But after seeing it was from her, maybe he would just cast it into the nearest wastebasket.
She had ceased trying to contact him after sending the letter. At this point, she didn’t expect to ever hear from him again. And she didn’t blame him for not wanting to talk to her.
But even though she reminded herself each day of the benefits of putting Ben out of her mind, deep down, a part of her still wished he would call. Even if it was to put some closure to the end of their brief but emotional relationship.
Relationship wasn’t quite the right word. It was four and a half days of sex. The guy had “bought” her for a fling because he had been the only guy at the cabin without a date. He’d wanted a fucktoy for himself.
Somehow, in the course of their time together, she had developed feelings for Ben. And it wasn’t just because he was the nicest compared to the other three men she considered racist, misogynist, or naïve frat boys. She had to admit that being with Ben was exciting, exhilarating, enlightening, and fun. Not to mention he’d taken her to the most amazing sexual heights, always pushing her body to the brink when she thought there was no way she could take any more, when she thought she would crack, but instead found greater and greater euphoria.
Now, her vibrator had never looked so boring. It was hard not to relive those moments bound in his shibari, pinned to his hardness, and falling to pieces at his touch. For a while, she had avoided pleasuring herself so that she wouldn’t drift back to those memories, but the memories had a way of coming after her anyway. She had purchased the Womanizer and the LELO SONA, both of which Ben had used on her their first night in his penthouse, but it still wasn’t the same. The fact that he’d wielded them had made all the difference.
“You want me to undo the best weave I’ve ever done?” Keisha had asked when Kimani had gone to s
ee her a few days ago. “Not that you weren’t a fine sister to begin with, but this here weave makes you look hotter than Beyonce.”
Kimani hadn’t been thrilled to see the braids with gold sewn in taken apart, but she remembered all too vividly Ben’s reaction to her weave, and how he had taken her in the bathroom of the coffee house afterward.
“I got a new job as a reporter for the San Francisco Tribune,” Kimani had explained. “I need a look that’s less flashy and more professional.”
Keisha had put a hand on her hip. “You saying my weave doesn’t look professional?”
“No, it’s just...”
“You can’t look gorgeous and professional at the same time?”
“I just want a different look. More ‘me.’”
Keisha raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Un-hunh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he ain’t out of your system, is he?”
“Who are you referring to?” Kimani stalled, knowing that Keisha more than likely referred to Ben.
“That Asian guy. You still got a case of rice fever.”
“I don’t have rice fever.”
“I heard you only had two dates with Marcus, and that brother is fine, so I figure you—”
“Look, Marcus is a nice guy, but—”
Keisha put up a hand. “Hold up. You don’t have to say anything more. ‘Nice’ says it all. This guy from Hong Kong must be something for you to turn down Marcus. You don’t even have to date the brother. Just sleep with him. I heard the brother is so damn hung, his dick could dig its way to China.”
Kimani rolled her eyes. “You going to do my hair or what?”
“Un-hunh. Just like I figured.”
Though Kimani knew Keisha was just trying to bait her, she took it. “Figured what?”
“That you ain’t over him.”
“Just because I don’t want to talk about him doesn’t mean anything.”
“And I thought you were smart, being a Stanford grad and all. It’s obvious that because you don’t want to talk about this guy, means your feelings for him are still raw—that and the fact that you aren’t even considering doing it with Marcus, because any woman in her right mind would do it with Marcus.”
“Just do my hair. Please.”
Keisha had let it go after that, but Kimani had to acknowledge that, once again, Keisha’s insight was right. Maybe the woman was able to read minds somehow through her contact with a person’s hair.
Talking about Ben only reminded her of her pain, and the emptiness she felt that he was no longer in her life. She had thought herself too smart for that old adage about not knowing a good thing till it’s gone. She liked and understood Passenger’s “Let Her Go,” but she never thought to experience it firsthand. Yet, she hadn’t realized the full extent of her feelings for Ben until everything was over between them. And now she missed him.
She even missed the way he made her drink green tea. She had never been much of a tea drinker, and green was probably her least favorite flavor. But just yesterday she had found herself ordering a green tea at the local coffee shop.
She had rationalized to herself that she couldn’t fall for a guy like Ben. A guy willing to buy a woman for sex. Men like that had issues. She still believed that to be the case, but somehow, she had been lucky enough to find the one in a hundred who wasn’t so bad. And who happened to be amazing in bed. It was like something out of a fantasy, or one of those erotic romance novels that Claire liked to read.
In real life, fairy tales don’t always come true. In real life, rakes don’t suddenly become relationship material because they found the “right” woman. In real life, a desperate journalist still trying to pay off her student loans wouldn’t be dating a billionaire. And if she was dating a ridiculously wealthy man, he was unlikely to be the man of her dreams.
So now that Ben was out of the picture, her life was back to normal.
After taking out the braids, Keisha had taken a flat iron to Kimani. The resulting style would require more maintenance, but Kimani welcomed the extra labor. She didn’t want too much time alone with her thoughts.
“Look, we owe it to the guy,” Kimani said to Sam.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“That piece you ran about Oakland Forward.”
“I reported only the facts.”
“And because the FPPC is investigating, Gordon Lee is taking a hit in the polls, even if he’s innocent. In the court of public opinion, you’re not innocent until proven guilty. Just the possibility of wrongdoing has an effect.”
“It’ll sort itself out. If Lee is innocent, the FPPC investigation will prove that.”
“But will the investigation reach that conclusion before the election?”
“I know this is going to sound callous, but it’s not our problem.”
“You could have waited to publish that article. Until we had more to go on.”
She held her breath during his silence. She had never before challenged her mentor, the man she owed her job to.
“Okay,” he acknowledged. “Maybe I jumped the gun a little because I knew ownership was talking soon. They’ve been pretty tight-lipped about the future of the Tribune recently, but one of the owners did let slip to me that there’s a chance the paper won’t shut down. They’re waiting for the ink to dry on a deal before releasing any details.”
Kimani perked up. “That’s great! So, can we do a profile of Gordon Lee or not?”
Sam thought some more before answering, “Do it. But I’m trusting your professionalism and the fact that you’re not going to let personal biases influence your work.”
“You don’t have to give me the byline.”
“Work with Alvarez on the profiles. You’ll have to do all the candidates, even the ones who have zero chance of winning.”
Kimani was so happy she would have hugged Sam if the table wasn’t between them. It was better she didn’t, because she didn’t want to appear too emotional in front of him.
Now that she had gotten Sam’s go-ahead, the harder part remained: convincing Gordon Lee to grant her an interview. She didn’t know what Ben had told him about her part in the Oakland Forward article, but she bet none of it was in her favor.
However, if she could write this profile of him and give the public a glimpse of the man she had seen when she’d been with Ben, it might alleviate some of the damage done by the ongoing FPPC investigation. She wanted to write this piece as badly as she’d wanted to write one on the Scarlet Auction.
As Kimani rode the municipal light rail back home after staying at the office past eight o’flock, she received a text from her roommate, Marissa:
Have to work late. Thinking of going to The Lair. Will let you know.
The Lair was the BDSM club Marissa used to frequent. Kimani was glad to hear that Marissa might head to The Lair since she hadn’t been active there since her experience with the Scarlet Auction.
By the time Kimani got off at her Muni stop, the streets leading to the duplex she and Marissa rented together were fairly dark. An elderly couple, James and Michael, lived in the upstairs unit and were rarely home because they enjoyed traveling. Currently they were on an Alaskan cruise, scarfing down at the all-you-can-eat buffet, their favorite part of cruising.
As Kimani fumbled through her purse for her house keys, she had the odd sensation that she was being watched. She looked behind her but saw only a neighbor across the street walking her dog. Glad that she wasn’t alone, Kimani found her keys and let herself in.
After taking off her shoes and going through the refrigerator to find a snack, she looked through the mail Marissa had left on the table. Amidst the bills and credit card applications was a letter addressed to her with no return address. Kimani opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was blank except for six typed words:
I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, BITCH.
Chapter Two
The naked, petite wo
man dangled from the ceiling of the dark room. On occasion, a flash of blue from the strobe lights downstairs in the bar area would permeate the room. An experienced submissive, Yuki could spend hours in predicament bondage. The rope wrapped her upper body in asymmetric formation from the top of one shoulder to the bottom of the other, squeezing down on one breast while the other orb was pulled upward.
Benjamin Lee stared at his shibari handiwork on the woman. Though he didn’t favor waifs and women who looked far younger than their age—Yuki was twenty-eight but could easily pass for jailbait—he had specifically chosen Yuki out of the many submissives making eyes at him in the Tokyo BDSM club because she was different from Kimani in almost every way. Yuki had poker-straight hair—currently tied back messily in a ponytail—alabaster skin, and, except for her breasts, had a straight and skinny figure.
“Irete kudasai,” she said with large, imploring eyes.
When Ben did not respond immediately, she tried English instead. “Fuck me.”
Fluent in Japanese, Ben didn’t need the translation. He hadn’t reacted because he had been distracted, thinking about the different ways he had wanted to tie Kimani in suspension bondage. Her legs spread apart. With and without a crotch rope. Upside down. Right-side up. One leg stretched skyward.
Fuck that.
Unzipping his pants, Ben grabbed a condom and went to stand behind Yuki. After sheathing his cock, he pulled her hips toward him and thrust himself into her.
She cried out in Japanese as his cock entered her with ease, for she was dripping wet thanks to their earlier foreplay, which had included nose hooks, a favorite of hers.
He pounded away at her, gripping her hips tightly because she barely weighed a hundred pounds and would have flown across the room. Unlike Kimani, who had more substance, more muscle. He would have liked to test how hard Kimani could take it. The anger still lingered, so he probably wouldn’t have held back if it was she and not Yuki speared upon his cock.
Bloody hell.
It had been weeks since he had left California. Why was he still thinking about her?
He drilled himself into Yuki as if doing so could drive Kimani out of his head.