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Authors: Alessandra Torre

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BOOK: Black Lies
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My second nap ended sometime after lunch, the irritated growl of my stomach punching through any alcohol-induced slumber. I made it through half the steps involved in a chicken salad sandwich before I was reminded of Brant’s call, mayonnaise fingers plucking my phone and dialing my voicemail.

One new message. Received at 11:07 AM.

“Layana. This is Brant Sharp. I enjoyed last night, sorry to skip out without saying goodbye. I’d like to take you to dinner tonight to make up for it. Let me know if you are free.”

No goodbye salutation. Just an ending of the call, my recorded voice informing me of my options in regards to his message. I pressed 4, saved it, ended the call, and tossed down the cell. I finished fixing my sandwich, a frown pinching my features.

He called two more times that week. Left two voicemails.

The next week nothing.

The next week nothing.

The fourth week he sent a large arrangement of orchids. The card simply said, “Call me.”

Day thirty-four: BSX wired their annual donation, meeting our request, eight million dollars.

On day thirty-five, I called him back.

“Hey.” Total silence in the background. No hum of machinery, no busy San Francisco street.

“I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, I won’t leave in the middle of the night again. I learned my lesson.”

I laughed. His wry tone made me smile. “It wasn’t that. Truly. I just needed to get some things in order before I saw you again.”

His next sentence was a grumble in words. “Clear the bench?”

More like wait out a contract
. “Something like that.”

“So… your bench is available?”

I laughed. “As unsexy as that sounds, yes.”

“Good. I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

I smiled. “Pick me up at seven.”

Jillian must have had a direct line to this man’s brain. She called within three hours. The number unfamiliar, I answered it while folding laundry, whites laid out across my sofa like flags of surrender.

“I didn’t expect you to be a woman who would renege on a deal.” No polite words of greeting, no introduction before diving into the meat of the issue. I recognized her voice instantly, my smile widening as I got a month’s worth of pleasure in the sound of the irritation in her voice.

“All’s fair in love and war, Jillian. We have a year before BSX’s next donation to HYA. That should give us both enough time to sort this matter out.”

“I don’t expect to remember your name in a year.”

I clicked my tongue at her. “Word of advice, Jillian? Don’t push back. It’ll only cause me to pursue him more.”

“Word of advice,
sweetie
?” She dunked the last word in poison, drawing it out in a manner that made my brow arch with admiration. “Realize when someone is trying to do you a favor.”

I didn’t have a witty comeback for that one. Didn’t really understand it enough to respond. I swallowed, folded the white tank top over twice in my hands and added it to the pile. “Don’t worry about Brant. I won’t hurt him.”

“That isn’t really what concerns me.” She hesitated; I could hear the catch in her breath before she spoke again. “Call me when you find out what does.”

I didn’t talk to her again for nine months. I called her the night I discovered his secret.

Chapter 7

Wealthy men were a breed I knew well; a wealthy man raised me, my impressions of him stolen during brief moments of notability during my first eighteen years. I had dated the young versions, ones who had been born into the world of trust funds, Harvard legacies, and country clubs. Their sense of entitlement had been seconded only by their undeserved egos. Then, I graduated college and moved into the world of men, older versions who reminded me too much of my father, men who took rather than asked, and who expected subservience from anyone with breasts.

Wealthy men had their benefits: the limos, vacation homes, private jets, and exorbitant gifts. They also had their shortfalls: arrogance, unfaithfulness, an impossible schedule, and, more often than not, an opinion of women that left much to be desired. But hey—that was the rare thing I’d had in common with most of my dates, a mutual lack of respect. And probably the reason why I’d never had a relationship bloom to fruition.

Brant was completely different than every other wealthy man I’d ever met. He listened when I spoke. Looked into my eyes and not at my breasts. Asked my opinions, valued my intellect. He approached our new relationship in the cautious way that a cat approached food, pushing delicately before gaining footing, his steps as new and explorative as my own. We danced around each other, our moves becoming stronger, more sure-footed with each passing day. Together, we created and explored our roles; sex the only area of our life where no practice was needed.

The man… was an animal. I sipped my coffee and shifted in my seat, the sore ache of my body reminding me of a few nights before, his skillful manipulation of my body that had brought me to orgasm four, five… then six times. I twisted slightly, watching Brant as he stepped into the coffee shop, his eyes finding me as he walked over, brushing a kiss against my lips.

“Been waiting long?”

“Five minutes. Here.” I pushed across his coffee. “Straight black, you unexciting man.”

He settled into the seat, picking it up with a dignified scowl. “It’s manly. Puts hair on my chest.”

I laughed into my cup. “I don’t want hair on your chest. I prefer it as is, perfectly manicured by your team of beauticians.”

That earned me a real scowl. “I don’t have beauticians. They’re…” My eloquent man seemed suddenly at a loss for words. I laughed, pushing gently on his wrist until his coffee was out of reach, then leaned across the table and stole another kiss. He grabbed the back of my neck, pulled my mouth harder to his, asserted his masculinity in a rough moment of passion. I pulled off, blushing as I sat back down, a passing woman glaring at me as if we’ve just screwed on the coffee shop’s floor.

“I’m sorry about yesterday.” The joviality was gone from Brant’s voice.

I shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. I shopped. Ran some errands while downtown.”

“I’ve been fighting a deadline on this wireframe overhaul… sometimes I get in a zone working and lose track of time.”

“It’s
fine
. I was just worried. I’m not mad—just hated bothering Jillian about it.” Hated bothering Jillian was a mild way of putting it. Brant and I’d set dinner plans: 6 PM at Alexander’s. I’d waited at our table for a half hour before leaving, my calls to Brant going unanswered. I had hesitated to text Jillian, my fingers finally moving across the screen purely out of concern—in case something had happened, in case he was missing. I half-expected a snarky response, something that referenced how unimportant I must be to him. But she had responded quickly and professionally.

HE’S HERE AT THE OFFICE. WILL PROBABLY WORK LATE. NO DOUBT LOST TRACK OF TIME. I’M SORRY.

The fact that she had been civil in her response only irritated me more, tipped the scales a bit in her favor, setting precedence for an act of similar civility on my part. I broke off a piece of muffin.

“Let me make it up to you.”

I watched him while chewing, blueberries mixing with sugar and flour to make a delicious combination in my mouth. “Go ahead,” I mumbled.

“Today, I’ll blow off work. Be all yours.”

I swallowed the bite. “But you’re under deadline. You’ve been working for three weeks to make—”

“I don’t care.” He reached over the table and gripped my hand. “You are more important, and I have set aside a full day of groveling to make up for last night.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A full day? That’s a hefty commitment, Mr. Sharp.”

He met my eyes. “One I’m ready to make.”

I leaned over, lowered my voice. “And what do you have planned in this day full of groveling?”

He tugged my hand up to his lips. “I thought I’d start by us dropping by my condo. I have some ideas of ways to make it up to you.”

“Sexy ways?” I whispered playfully.

He leaned forward, a gentle hand pulling on the back of my neck until his mouth was against my ear. “Ways that will make your legs tremble around my neck. Ways that have me so hard and ready that I may not make it all the way there. Ways that will have you screaming my name and—”

“Let’s go.” I jerked to standing, the legs of my chair squeaking as they slid across the floor. Pulling on his hand, I bee-lined for the door.

Chapter 8

Brant’s downtown condo was his sex den, the place where high-class hookers had entertained my man and satisfied every carnal desire he’d had over the last two decades. Yes, I was now standing in a room where other women had moaned his name, serviced his cock. I could care less. Because the man standing before me, his eyes dark, body clenched, fingers stripping the clothes from my body… I could see into his soul. He didn’t have eyes for anyone else in the world. He wasn’t thinking, picturing, wanting, anything but what I had to offer. He lifted me, setting me on the bar top, his hands sliding my shorts off my legs, removing my sandals, caressing the skin as his hands journeyed back. He knelt on the floor, looked up into my eyes, and pushed on the inside of my knees, spreading my legs until I was open, his eyes dropping, the new height of him at a perfect level.

“Brant,” I moaned, the exposure too much, the open stance causing air to hit places that were typically hidden.

“Be quiet, baby.” He slid his hands up my inner thighs, my hands finding their way to his full head of hair the same time his right hand brushed over me. I inhaled, opening my legs further, and he groaned slightly as he ran a finger over the lips of my sex, outlining the folds with a whisper soft touch, the teasing brush causing my body to react, to cry for him in the only way it knew, moisture collecting, his breath hissing as he pushed a finger partially in. He looked up, his head moving beneath my hand, his eyes coming up to mine, the eye contact held as he pulled his finger out and tasted my juices, his eyes closing briefly. “God, you taste so sweet. I want to bury my face in you, Lana.” He reestablished eye contact, his finger returning, teasing the outside of me, soft strokes breaking me apart as he caressed every bit of me, the pad of his fingers exploring, testing, circling, and pushing, my back arching, mouth dropping as I stared at him, unable to pull my eyes from the scene of his touch.

I pulled at his head when I couldn’t take it anymore, pulled his mouth to my sex, my body starting when the hot touch enveloped me, his tongue dipping inside me before covering my clit and starting a wet suction of stimulation that had me gasping into the air, my hands frantic on his head, my eyes catching in the faint reflection of us in the window, the picture it showed one of desperate need. I clutched the counter and pushed at his head, unable to… I bucked underneath his mouth… “Brant—I…” then I screamed, unable to stop myself, my hips grinding a frantic pace against his mouth, his hands gripping my hips, pinning me down, holding me to him as I broke apart.

He relaxed his mouth as I came down, his tongue keeping the movement but softening it, the orgasm stretched out beneath his tongue, my breath coming hard, and my arms giving out. I collapsed on the bar, my legs going limp, his hands finally letting my legs close. I opened my eyes when he lifted me up.

BOOK: Black Lies
12.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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