by Stasia Black
And so I’m completely unprepared when he reaches around to the front of my dress, grabs it at the center of the bodice, and tears it down the middle.
I gasp in shock but then try to stifle my reaction. My eyes shoot briefly to the three businessmen sitting on the couches facing us. Their eyes all zero in on the show. On me.
I’m wearing a lacy semi-see-through black bra and matching panty set.
Not for long.
Kennedy undoes the clasp of my bra. He doesn’t jerk it down my arms, though. Instead, goddamn him, his lips drop to the back of my neck and his fingertips caress my arms as he gently pushes the bra straps down.
Goddamn him. My breathing comes out stuttered. All my nerve endings light up. His breath on the back of my neck… The barest of his touches on my skin and already, my body’s completely alive for him. Wetness soaks my underwear.
If he entered me right now, even after everything that’s happened, I’d be completely primed for him.
The cups of my bra drop and his hands take their place, massaging gently one moment and then harshly pinching and pulling on my nipples the next.
I jolt and cry out. He’s never done that before. Never been so rough—not even when I asked. I pant and twist against him.
“You like that, don’t you? And look at them watching you. You’re making them hard. That makes you even wetter, doesn’t it?”
He knows just how much it turns me on. And they are watching me. These three powerful, rich men look captivated as they watch Kennedy touch me. One man—Bruce—has his hand at his pants, rubbing his crotch. Oh shit, that’s hot.
I can’t believe Kennedy is touching me like this in front of these strangers. God, it’s so wrong, so dirty. Their eyes on my bared breasts, watching Kennedy work me like a fucking slut.
And work me he is. He’s relentless as he twists the peaks of my nipples, plucking and rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. He licks and bites at the back of my neck and continues torturing my nipples until I’m twisting my legs together and panting in need.
He knows just how much all of this turns me on—the audience, me being on display, and God, how to work every inch of my body with his talented fingers.
Then he slaps my breast. It’s not hard, more of a sting, but still. What the fuck?
“On your knees.” He snaps and points at the floor.
And damn him. God-fucking-damn him.
I drop to my knees. I’ve lost all thoughts of one-upping him. He knows all my kinks and has learned my body far too well.
“Take my cock out.”
I unbuckle his belt in a frenzy and undo his button and fly just as quickly. Finally I get to that big beautiful cock of his and take him in hand.
He hisses as soon as my hands close around him.
“Now suck it,” he says, the low, gravelly quality of his voice in full effect. “I want you choking on it.”
I glare up at him. And I lick just the tip. Then, slowly, I tongue all around the rim. Next, I scoot over on my knees and make sure I’m angled sideways so the men on the couch can see me in perfect profile. I look over at them as I tease the tip of Kennedy’s dick with my tongue, giving all three of them fuck me eyes in turn.
Kennedy’s not the only one with power here.
Both Bruce and one of the other men, Malcolm I think his name was, have their cocks out of their pants and in hand now. I pause my licking of Kennedy’s cock to smile at them.
Kennedy lets out an angry growl and grabs my hair, then he shoves me down on his cock so that I’m forced to swallow him deep.
It’s the reaction I was going for. I want him to lose control. He’s just as helpless against this animal attraction as I am. I lathe my tongue against his balls, come up, and then suck him deep again so that he bottoms out at the back of my throat. I feel his groan and the way his body tenses. And God, I relish in my mini-victory.
I’m going to drive him so fucking crazy, he’ll be haunted by my mouth, my pussy, every bit of me for the rest of his goddamn life.
I continue working his cock, deep-throating him and then bobbing up, licking around his crown and taking him deep again. Each time I do, I groan around him to give him a hummer. The first time I do it, he bucks into my throat. Oh yes, that’s right. I peek up at him through my lashes and catch him looking down at me.
And I freeze when our eyes connect. Because damn it, the way he’s looking at me. For the briefest flash, it’s the same worshipful expression he always has when we make love. But then, as if realizing where we are, who we are now, he pulls me off his cock and drags me up off the floor.
He shoves me over the side of the couch where he was sitting, my ass out. The next second, he has my underwear pulled down my thighs.
He bends his body over my prone back until his mouth is next to my ear. “You want to run? Last chance.” His cock bobs against my ass, just hovering there. He’s not shoving inside and no matter what I might think of him at the moment, I know he won’t unless I give the go-ahead.
I turn my face slightly, but not so much that I look in his eyes again. Just enough so that when I whisper, “Fuck you,” only he can hear me. Then I reach down between us, grab his long cock, and guide it inside me.
That’s all he needs, apparently, because he gives my ass a stinging slap and then starts fucking me like he’s a teenage boy learning how to masturbate for the first time. In and out so fast, I swear he’s making an Olympic sport out of it.
I can tell what he’s trying to do.
He’s literally trying to fuck me out of his system.
I clench around him and move my body rhythmically, forcing him to slow down or slip out. I start massaging my clit. He’s obviously not interested in my pleasure this time around. Well screw him.
Intuitively knowing it will drive him crazy, I angle my body toward the watching men. I make eye contact with Bruce since he’s the best-looking of the three.
Bruce isn’t shy about jacking himself off to our show. He’s doing it slow and leisurely, though his pace quickens when I make eye contact.
I draw my hand back from where I’ve been touching myself and suck my finger into my mouth. I roll my hips against Kennedy’s each intrusion and slurp at my fingers like I’m still sucking cock. And I make clear just how turned on I am by all of this. Because I am. Hell, the more fucked up it all is, the more turned on I get.
Watching Bruce’s eyes get even more intense, his gaze moving between my sucking fingers, my bouncing breasts, and the place where Kennedy’s cock rams into my body has me edging near the brink. Kennedy’s hands on my hips grip tighter.
“You like that bastard watching you get fucked?” Kennedy whispers furiously in my ear. “You wanna be his whore too?”
He flips me over on the couch so that I land on my back. My sweaty skin sticks to the smooth leather, but I barely notice. The lines of Kennedy’s gorgeous face are taut with anger as he undoes the top few buttons of his dress shirt. He pulls it along with his undershirt over his head in that sexy way that guys do, yanking from the back. He throws it to the ground and then lands on top of me, his cock sliding smoothly back in.
He doesn’t go fast this time. Instead he starts fucking me with deep, hard thrusts that jolt my body deep into the couch. I can’t help the high-pitched cry that escapes my throat each time he lands so deep, it feels like he’s rocking the very core of my body. And not just the center of my pleasure, but something deeper, far further inside me. Something closer to my soul.
I can’t help it. My eyes find their way to his and lock there. The hazel of his irises catch in the light from a nearby lamp and I swear I see a thousand things in the depths. Confusion. Pain. Anger. Love.
God, I think I still see love there. Is it possible?
The rest of the world fades away. There’s just Kennedy and me.
I don’t care about being a spectacle. I don’t need that right now. I only need the man on top of me, inside me, surrounding me. I grasp hold of his shoulders.
Never let me go.
I don’t say it out loud. I can’t. But I’m begging him just the same. If I can see what I see in his eyes then surely he’ll read it in mine.
Never let me go. We’ll figure it out. Somehow. We’ll find our way through this disaster. Together. Somehow. Don’t let me go. Don’t let us go.
My hips roll up to him and when the sweetness hits, I cry out and clutch Kennedy to me. He stills inside me and for what feels like an infinite moment, it’s everything.
It’s everything. Him and me in the warm cocoon of us.
We’ll make it.
We can do it.
We’ll defy the odds.
Do the impossible.
Forgive each other’s sins and build a future together.
Kennedy rolls off of me, pulling out and turning away in the same moment.
Connection lost.
I try to grab for him, but he’s already pulling up his pants.
“Now,” Kennedy says in a jovial, fake voice I don’t recognize. “Who wants this gorgeous cunt to deep-throat them next? I can promise she’s got great fucking suction. Like a goddamn vacuum.”
And for the second time in my life, Kennedy Benson shatters my whole world.
PART I
KENNEDY
Chapter 1
One Month Earlier
“Remind me what I’m doing in this shithole again?” I ask my PA Stella as I lift a ladle to stir a huge pot of some sort of indiscernible stew. I drop the ladle in disgust and take a step back when I get a whiff of the noxious concoction. Christ, my new Salvatore Ferragamo shoes are sticking to the grimy floors. I don’t give a fuck if it’s not manly to be brand conscious. Having the money to appreciate the finer things in life is one of the perks to being me.
Not that you’d know it to see me now.
“I’m Kennedy fucking Benson,” I hiss, looking around at the grungy kitchen and dirty brownish walls that I can only assume were once supposed to be cream colored. No one else is around, though no doubt someone will come back in at any second to continue pulling out trays of food to serve.
As if they can call this shit food.
“My brand can’t be associated with…whatever this is.”
Stella stares me down, admittedly impressive since she’s just five-one to my six-two. “Your brand is the reason why we’re here in the first place. Do I need to remind you that when you cheated on Hollywood’s latest indie film darling, Heather Harrison, you took a giant shit all over your brand?”
I feel myself shrinking under her glare. She takes a step forward, bringing up a finger to wag at me like an angry schoolmarm. Oh fuck, not the finger. I cringe back from her, but she has no mercy.
“Because someone had the genius idea when we started all this to make his name synonymous with the brand. So guess what? When Kennedy Benson fucks up, Benson’s restaurants take a hit. Even Chandelier,” she states, mentioning the name of the popular club I own. “Heather tweeted that everyone should party at our competitors and guess what? Our revenue was down eight percent last weekend.”
She reaches to a table beside her, grabs a stained apron with KISS THE COOK written in atrocious cartoonish letters, and shoves it in my hands. “So voila, you’re spending the afternoon at this lovely soup kitchen. Now get your ass out there and give some service with a smile so the paparazzi I paid to be here can snap some pics of you making nice with the homeless.”
I stand there a moment staring her down, my jaw ticking. Only Stella can get away with talking to me like this. She’s been with me from the beginning, nine years ago, when I was fresh off working as a sous chef at one of the best restaurants in Paris and finally had the financial backing to start up the first Benson’s House in San Francisco’s Nob Hill District.
So yes, Stella’s been my employee, sounding board, friend, and confidant for almost a decade now. I was the best man at her wedding to her wife Kiara. Most of the time I like having at least one person who isn’t constantly sucking up to me because I’m one rich and increasingly powerful son of a bitch.
Today isn’t one of those days. “I broke up with Heather before I slept with Kaitlyn.” I frown and look to the wall. “Or was it Katie?” I wave a hand dismissively. “Anyway. It wasn’t cheating.”
Stella lets loose and punches me on the arm.
“Ow!” I rub my arm and step back. Stella boxes and she packs a mean fucking punch.
“You broke up with Heather over text message. That doesn’t count.”
I just stare at her. “Yeah it does. I gave notification. It’s not my fault she didn’t read it before she came up to visit. She’s an actress. Of course she’s going to dramatically overreact to the whole thing.”
Stella breathes out through her teeth, but if her red face is any indication, she’s only getting more pissed. “Kennedy, I’m trying really hard to remember you have good qualities right now, because you sound like a pig. Just,” she shakes her head, her hand slicing through the air in a sharp motion, “go out there and don’t you dare say anything about Heather, or break-up texts, or anything else stupid that will make me want to punch you again. Think you can manage?”
One of the soup kitchen volunteers comes back through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The young woman smiles wide at me and I manage to arrange my features into something I hope comes off as more grin than grimace. Stella gives me a thumbs up sign, paired with her death stare that warns, don’t fuck this up.
I give her my lady-killer smile—all teeth and easy-going charisma. Her thumbs up turns to a middle finger as she exits through the back door. Now that gets a genuine chuckle from me.
“Mr. Benson, can you help with this pot of soup?” asks the volunteer, a short brunette with badly done highlights and too much eye makeup. “It looks heavy and you’re so strong.”
Then she lifts her hand and bites the tip of her forefinger. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Her voice goes all breathy. “Your restaurants are so successful.” She arches her chest out.
Wow, really? Zero points for subtlety with this one. When I was first introduced to the team, I think her shirt was buttoned all the way up, but now several buttons are undone, revealing a lacy blue bra and the tops of two small curved breasts. She’s pretty enough but so young—she looks like she might still be in college.
She takes a step toward me. “I’ve always wanted to meet you. I saw that special about you on TV, how you overcame adversity and became one of the city’s top restaurant and club owners.”
That damn TV show. It was just a small local documentary that I thought might get a little publicity for Chandelier. I’d only had experience with restaurants and was nervous about the club doing well, so I said yes to almost every publicity opportunity that came my way.
Mistake.
Especially when the documentary got picked up by Netflix and suddenly the world was so captivated by Kennedy Benson, San Francisco’s favorite tortured bachelor with a tragic past. One line from the review in the Chronicle became a catchline that I’d be taunted by for months afterward from friends and strangers alike—the American Dream has never looked so sexy.
And it was true. I was the American Dream packaged perfectly in an hour and thirty-nine-minute docu-drama. I’d pulled myself out of poverty by my bootstraps and all that bullshit. My sharp cheekbones and wide shoulders didn’t hurt ratings either, apparently.
I didn’t know how the filmmakers would spin everything or that they would focus so much of the show on me rather than my restaurants and the club. If I had, I never would have signed on. But, as Stella reminded me so bluntly a moment ago, I’ve become synonymous with my brand. If the public became fascinated with me, well, it only meant good things for my businesses. Hell, maybe it’s the reason Chandelier became such a hot spot for celebs. I’m not going to be one of those assholes who’s all woe-is-me about his success. Fuck, I’m twenty-eight and I run a small empire. No complaints here.
The brunette reaches me and puts
her hand on my chest. Then she runs her forefinger down the center of my sternum.
I just stare at her. This isn’t the first time a woman has approached me so boldly and touched me like this.
“Maybe after we’re finished here, you could take me back to your place,” she says, not even bothering to whisper now. “You must be so lonely. Losing your mother like that, I can’t even imagine—”
“Enough.” I gently but firmly remove her hand from my chest.
I release her and take a step away, ignoring her startled cry. I wasn’t rough. In fact, I made sure to be overly gentle when I touched her. The last thing I need is any fucking lawsuits from one of these situations. But what the hell gives people the idea that molesting me a minute after meeting me is okay? Or that they have the right to bring up that monster who called herself my mother?
Not that documentary filmmakers got any of the details of what my home life was really like growing up. Some secrets I’ll take with me to my grave.
“Where’s the hand sanitizer?” My voice is cold.
“What?” She’s still gazing at me with her chest thrust out, though her eyes have filled with confusion.
I raise an eyebrow at her like she’s slow to catch the plot. “I don’t like strangers touching me.” I lift the hand I used to pull her off me. It takes a second, but when the words register, the slight pink of her cheeks burns all the way red.
“Oh.” She ducks her head for a second. Then her head whips back up, eyes narrowed.
“Fucking asshole.” She spins away from me. She stops before pushing through the doors I assume lead to the dining room and looks over her shoulder. “Here’s the hand sanitizer,” she says acidly, pointing to the wall beside the doors. There’s a soap-like dispenser there. She makes a big show of pumping it once, rubbing it on her own hands, and finally shoving out of the kitchen.
I just shake my head. I’ve never understood how I get labeled asshole for shit like this. I’m not going around touching people without their permission.
A ping sounds from the phone inside my pocket. I pull it out and read the message from Stella.