STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers, Book Three)

by Harper James

  I smile, panting in anticipation. “I want you to fuck me, Tyson.”

  “Why?”

  I glance over his shoulder and meet his eye, words I never dreamed I’d say leaving my lips. “Because I’m yours. I’m all yours to fuck.” I pause, bite my lip, then say what I’m really thinking, what I can’t believe I’m really thinking. “You’re in control, because I’m your fuck toy.”

  “That’s right you are,” he says with a groan, and swats me on the ass with his hand before sinking his cock into my pussy.

  Chapter 14

  The fact that I described myself as Tyson’s fuck toy feels wild and strange after we’ve finished, and yet no less true— I’m his, and I love the feeling that he’s in charge of my body, in charge of positions, in charge of me. I’ve never given up control like this before, I’ve never considered myself someone else’s property before, but I love it. I love the feeling of Tyson possessing me. I love the idea of being used for his pleasure— especially since he’s so good at pleasuring me as well. I trust him completely, and the more I give in, the better it all feels, the harder I orgasm, the more I want.

  We finish the night exhausted, my body sore and bruised from where he got carried away spanking me.

  He rubs the area tenderly, but I like the redness on my butt every bit as much as I liked the marks he left on my neck. I’m lying flat on the comforter while he runs his hands up and down me, reviewing my body, like he’s cataloging all my curves and tender places.

  “You’ll be so sore tomorrow, Anna. I should have held back even more,” he says, shaking his head.

  “I loved it,” I say sleepily. “Don’t hold back.”

  “When I stop holding back, you’ll understand why I did,” he answers. His cock is no longer hard, but it’s still massive, pressed against me with numbing heat. He came three times, and each time I took him in my mouth afterward, licking the come away, preparing him to fuck me again. The last time he shook his head, and admitted defeat— I’d worn him out. It still feels like a wild victory, knowing he not only came while fucking me, but came until he physically couldn’t any more.

  “What time is it?” I ask, arching back so he can run his fingertips across my breasts.

  “Nearly seven o’clock in the morning,” he admits.

  “Seven?” I ask, startled.

  “That’s right,” he says, kissing my temple. “We fucked all night. You have amazing stamina, for a virgin.”

  “Former virgin,” I say with a smile, thinking on how it felt as I rode him, sliding my hips down onto his cock, letting him go places no one had ever ventured. He kisses my temple again, and it feels like my heart is glowing.

  “We need to go, though. They’ll be opening up the theater soon, and besides, I have to drive to Raleigh today.”

  “Raleigh? For what?” I ask, turning to him.

  He licks his lips unhappily, like this is a topic he didn’t want to bring up when we’re wound up together, naked. “There’s a hearing today for my father. My mother asked me to go. I don’t want to, but…I’m the only one of her sons that’s willing. I’ll go support her, even though I know the press will think I’m there to support my father.”

  “Oh,” I say, going still. “Okay. Do you…want me to go with you?”

  I expect him to say no— I’m already formulating my response, in fact. To my extreme surprise, he frowns for a long while, then says, “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Okay. What do I…what do I wear?” I ask, which feels like a stupid thing to ask, but for real— what does someone wear to a hearing for someone’s father’s murder trial? I don’t think there’s a Google-able answer to this one.

  Three hours later I’ve showered and am wearing the most professional-looking outfit I’ve got on hand— a fitted black skirt and a white blouse that drops a little lower on my chest than I remember it doing. I pull my hair up on top of my head, and put on a little extra makeup, just in case I’m caught on camera. It isn’t until I think this that I realize that if I’m on camera, it means that I’m on camera with Tyson. Has his hesitation to call me his girlfriend passed? And if it has, do I want to go public?

  He can’t have gotten over that hesitation this fast. We must be avoiding the cameras somehow.

  “Whoa. Where are you going?” Trishelle asks when I emerge from the bathroom. I blink in surprise— I’ve been so focused on Tyson, on going with him today, on all we did last night, that I sort of forgot about everything else, my roommate included.

  “A court thing,” I say swiftly, then when her eyes widen, hurry to add, “Not for me— just to study a case. For a class.” I’m a terrible liar, but Trishelle is distracted by something on her phone, so she doesn’t catch it.

  “What about the guy you were interested in? Is that still a thing? How’s it going?” she asks, finally looking away from her phone and sitting on the back of the couch. I glance to the door— I need to leave if I’m going to meet Tyson on time, but I like talking with Trishelle so much that I can’t bring myself to open the door just yet.

  “It’s going well. Really well,” I admit, wishing I could tell her all the details.

  “Have you kissed yet?” she presses, a sneaky look in her eyes.

  I nod, flushing, glowing, thinking about Tyson’s mouth on mine.

  “Have you…done more than kiss him yet?” Trishelle presses, looking delighted and scandalized.

  I nod again, and Trishelle squeals, then grabs my hand. “Anna! How could you not tell me? What have you done? I need details. Lots of details.”

  “I never see you!” I say defensively. “And what sort of details?”

  “Like how much more you’ve done! You were totally innocent, so this is huge. Are we talking…oral?”

  I nod once more, and I think Trishelle might actually have some sort of fit right here in our living room. I give in and tell her what she really wants to know. “We’ve had sex.”

  Just last night, and it was perhaps the most amazing experience of my life. I wish I had the nerve to tell her about the earth-shaking orgasms, about how it felt to have something as big as Tyson’s cock inside me, about how we went all night long, about how when we’re together, I let him have me in every way, and love it.

  “Oh my god. You’re not a virgin anymore? You beat me!” Trishelle says with a wail that’s half excitement, half genuine dismay. “Was it painful? I’ve heard it can really hurt. Or was he not that big?”

  “He’s…quite big,” I admit. “But it didn’t hurt, exactly. I think the pain depends on who you’re with. He took his time, made sure I was ready, went slow…” I take a deep breath. “It was amazing.”

  “So when do I finally get to meet this mystery man?” she asks.

  I stutter. “I’m…we’re kind of keeping things chill…like…”

  Her eyes narrow and then widen. “You’re having an affair, you crazy girl!”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “Sure it’s not,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I guess we’re both doing things we never thought we’d do.”

  I swallow and feel my eyes tearing a little as I turn to go.

  “I guess we are doing things we never thought we’d do,” I mutter.

  Like lying to our best friends.

  Chapter 15

  Tyson picks me up in a car— one of those mid-sized SUV things that still feels entirely too small to contain someone of his size. He smiles when he sees me out by the front gate of my apartment complex, like doing something so normal amuses and pleases him. I can’t tell if I’ve gotten better at reading his stone-faced gazes, or if he’s merely started expressing more emotion in front of me.

  “Hi,” he says when I get in. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I say, folding my hands in my lap. We’ve never been in such a small space before, so isolated, and it makes me suddenly shy. Tyson reaches over and takes my hand, though, and I feel my hesitation melting away. What’s there to by why about, anyway? He’s
seen every part of me, put his hands and mouth and body against mine in a variety of ways. Moreover, he’s gotten me to walk away from what used to be my most defining, but frustrating characteristic— my ultra responsibility. My good girl status. My fear of letting go.

  “Like the car?” he asks after a moment.

  “Um…yes?” I answer, looking around. It’s nothing fancy, but it is immaculately clean. It’s only as I give the vehicle this once over that I see the UPC tag in the back window, and notice the “No Smoking” sticker on the dash. “It’s a rental?” I ask.

  He nods. “I didn’t want the press to see my car and follow us. It’s not a huge hearing and my father won’t be there, so it might not attract much attention…but I wanted to be safe, especially since you’re with me.”

  It’s such a tender expression that it floors me, and I put my other hand over Tyson’s, sandwiching his enormous palm between mine. We talk as we make the two- hour trek, and the conversation rarely turns to sex. As much as I enjoy all things carnal with Tyson, it’s nice to have such a simple, basic conversation— like a palette cleanser after last night’s marathon session. I also get the impression that he needs this sort of conversation to quell his nerves. Powerful and confident as he may be, I can feel tension rising from him, tension that thickens with each mile. By the time we’ve pulled up to the massive courthouse framed by soaring buildings, it fills my lungs like water vapor.

  “I don’t see any photographers,” I say helpfully.

  “You never do, till they’re out taking pictures,” he says, gazing at the courthouse as we wait for a light to turn. “They’ll pop out of nowhere if we take the front steps. The judge closed the session to the press, though, so if we can get in and out without being seen then we’ll be fine.”

  “Is there another entrance?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yep. I only found it a few months ago. Before that my brothers and I all took the front steps together. Show of solidarity, you know. Plus, when there were three of us, the camera flashes didn’t feel quite so blinding.”

  I look away— I don’t know how to respond. I knew Tyson felt isolated when his brothers stopped supporting their father, but now I can tell it’s more than that— he feels abandoned. I picture him and the other two Slate brothers walking side by side up the stairs, each as broad-shouldered and strong-chinned as the next. They probably looked like their own miniature army, charging on an enemy stronghold.

  Only…now it’s not clear who the enemy is. The courthouse? Or their father? And no matter who the enemy is, how could Tyson’s brothers abandon both him and their mother to face that enemy alone?

  Tyson pulls into a parking deck and takes a ticket, then parks in a faraway corner with flashing fluorescent lights— the sort of place that I’d never in a million years park my own car. He glances around, then we climb out and head toward a door labeled “impound enforcement office”. There are hours posted on the door, and even though we’re early, it’s unlocked.

  “The staff gets here an hour before they open. The judge suggested I start using this entrance at the last hearing,” Tyson explains as we slip inside. We wind through stairwells and hallways until I’m thoroughly turned around. The courthouse has been added on to and expanded so many times that the second floor on one end of the hallway becomes the third on the opposite end— but Tyson moves through them with practiced skill. I notice, though, that the deeper we delve into the building, the farther ahead of me he walks. At first I attribute it to his longer stride, but then it becomes clear to me that he’s intentionally keeping distance between us. Just enough that, should someone spot us, he could easily pretend I’m just another courthouse patron who happened to be walking behind him.

  I wanted to be safe, especially since you’re with me. I thought he was protecting me, when he said it, but now I know he’s protecting himself just as much. I can’t fault him for this, can I?

  He knows I don’t want the drama or the attention.

  Still, when he asked me to come to court with him, I thought I’d be…well…with him, not jogging behind him to keep up.

  We round a corner into a long, wood-paneled hallway lined in courtrooms. There’s a buzzing noise from the opposite end of the hall, and I realize that it’s photographers and a small crowd consisting of Dennis Slate supporters and haters. I can’t quite see them, and they can’t quite see us, but the clatter of shutters and heavy chants of “Clear the Slate!” or “Infamy isn’t innocence!” give them away. Tyson glances back at me and swallows.

  “Oh, honey! I’m so glad you came!” a woman calls out, and pushes through the small pack of attorneys and officials waiting outside the courtroom. She’s Tyson’s mother, obviously, and is so impossibly tiny in comparison to him that I shiver at the thought of her giving birth to not one, but three Slate boys.

  She’s even shorter than Trishelle, with a tidy bob haircut and a red suit. She’s wearing a matching red pin that bears the logo of the sports franchise Dennis Slate played for back in his glory days. Tyson hugs her; her head barely comes up to his chest, but she presses her cheek to him and closes her eyes like she’s trying not to cry.

  “I’m here for you, Mom,” Tyson says.

  She nods, looking discouraged. “Well, I’m here for your father. I wish your brothers had come with you. They aren’t even returning my calls.”

  Tyson sighs. “We’ve talked about this. They don’t want to hear you talk about Dad anymore, and that’s all you want to talk about.”

  “How can I talk about anything else?” she answers, before her gaze finally flicks towards me.

  “Is she with you?” Tyson’s mother asks.

  “Yes,” Tyson answers in that unreadable voice. “This is Anna Milhomme. Anna, this is my mother.”

  “Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Slate,” I say quickly, and reach forward to shake her hand. My ultra-responsible nature might not always be the most fun thing in the world, but it does mean that I know how to make a good first impression with parents, bosses, landlords, and professors. Her handshake is as firm as my own, and I understand from that single touch that while she may be a loving and devoted wife, she’s no shrinking violet.

  “Anna Milhomme. Mil-homme— French?” she asks.

  “I suppose. I’m not totally sure of the origin,” I answer.

  “You should look into it, Anna. Where you come from is everything,” she says, elbowing Tyson a little as she says this— another dig at him for distancing himself from his father. “I wasn’t aware that you had a new girlfriend, Tyson.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Tyson says quickly. Very quickly. There’s a burn in my chest that I ignore, forcing a smile instead. I open my mouth to explain that I’m just a friend, but Tyson continues, “She’s my minder from the team.”

  “What’s that?” Mrs. Slate asks. I want to ask the same thing, frankly.

  “The team doesn’t want any more drama, so they sent Anna to make sure I get in and out without any interviews or reality producers or whatever,” he says dismissively. “Sebastian’s school wanted to do it for him too, I think, but he was so close to graduation it never happened.” His voice takes on a note of irritation, like I— the minder— am irritating at best, and straight out annoying at worst.

  The burning in my stomach moves to my chest and up my throat. I feel sick.

  “Oh. Well, Anna, Tyson rarely gets into any trouble. That’s Carson’s purview, usually. Though I think playing with the pros has cured him of that.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s Astrid’s influence,” Tyson answers.

  “Perhaps. Maybe that’s why they sent a pretty girl to mind you, Ty— they figured that having one around worked for Carson,” Mrs. Slate jokes. Despite the fact that it’s a compliment, I feel sunken from this entire conversation. Not being called his girlfriend I could handle, but to be reduced to an assigned keeper and nothing more?

  I blink a few times to keep tears from welling up, and smile again at Mrs. Slate. I can’t loo
k at Tyson— I’m afraid I’ll see something in his eyes that makes me unable to contain my hurt, or, worse yet, see nothing in his eyes at all. Don’t be ridiculous, I berate myself. He never said you were his girlfriend. He was clear, in fact, that you aren’t. You were okay with that. You are okay with that. The whole minder thing is just a story to make it easier. What did you expect, that he’d introduce you to his mother as the girl who he fucked for six hours straight last night?

  We finally enter the courtroom, and despite the high stakes nature of the hearing, I have to admit that I’m too caught up in my own emotions to pay close attention, especially considering the fact that I don’t really know all that much about the case. From what I do hear, though, the fact that Carson Slate has retracted his alibi means Dennis is more or less screwed. Without an alibi, the defense’s case is built around character witnesses and little else. It’s a quick affair, and soon we’re being shepherded back out into the hallway. Mrs. Slate is talking animatedly with the lawyers while Tyson watches, waiting for a moment to say goodbye to his mother.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” he mutters to me when the silence between us becomes deafening.

  “Sure,” I say immediately— politely. “I mean, it was for the team, after all.” I mean it as a joke— I even try to chuckle as the words leave my mouth. But it isn’t a joke, and Tyson’s eyes flit to mine so fast that I know he hears the pain in my words.

  “Anna—“

  He’s cut off by his mother calling his name, and the massive team of lawyers ushering him over. He gives me a “one minute” sort of glance, and heads their way. They talk in hushed voices, circled up just like a football team before a big play. Tyson begins to shake his head; his mother smacks him on the arm, first gently, then harder. Then she begins to cry.

  “Why can’t you do this one thing? After all he’s done for you! Your entire college career— your future professional career! It’s all because of that man, Tyson,” she says, voice shrill. One of the lawyers puts a hand on her shoulder, the gesture begging her to lower her voice lest the prosecutors hear. She brushes the hand off, though, and continues shaking her head at her son, her mouth a grim line. I hear him mumble something in response, something apologetic, but it clearly doesn’t soothe her. Mrs. Slate glares at Tyson, like she’s been betrayed on the deepest of levels, and then turns sharply on her heel. It’s as if she’s slammed a door in his face. Tyson watches her go, body stiff and uneasy. One of the lawyers says goodbye to him, but I’m not sure Tyson hears him.