Bliss Series Boxed Set: The Whole Damn Harem (117 page)

“So your mom told my mom, who told Daniel, who told me—”

“I’m getting soft here, Mac.”

The guys chuckle and the girls gasp in shock before giggling. Zoe, however, just looks down at my cock and smirks at me, mouthing liar, which makes me grin.

“Well, heaven forbid that happens,” Mac replies dryly. “Anyway, Nikki’s husband walked out on her two days into the honeymoon. Two days! Can you believe it? Well I’m sure we all can, because who would be crazy enough to hook up with Satan . . . well, you and Daniel did, but I like to refer to that period of your lives as your crazy years. Anyway, apparently Nikki is devastated but the husband is M.I.A.”

If I had it in my heart to feel bad for her, I probably would. But Satan—as we all now affectionately call her—has had it coming for a while now. She moved her wedding up to the weekend before ours purely out of spite. Not that we gave a shit, but to her it was better to get married before us to try and show us up. Shame it didn’t turn out that way.

“So that’s it? That’s why you interrupted us?” I ask.

“Well . . .” Mac starts to stay.

“She thought Zoe would at least take great pleasure at this news, and also thought it would be funny to interrupt you mid-coitus,” Daniel explains.

“Well, love you all, wouldn’t normally cut such a great call short, but my wife is looking at me as if I’m breakfast, lunch and dinner and she’s been fasting, so I’m going back to finish the job. Any complaints?”

Zander grumbles, but otherwise there is just laughing.

“No? Good. Great. See you in seven days.”

Zoe is giggling her tits off as she ends the call, turns the handset off on the side and throws it toward the floor just in time for me to lie down, sit her on top of me and fill her to the hilt.

Fucking perfect.

Coming Soon …

I have a craving.

A dark urge I’ve failed to resist despite years of trying to do that very thing.

I’ve forced myself to hide behind a mask, a perfect orchestration to hide my true self.

After I met her, my wants and needs, my inner most desires changed.

She encouraged me to embrace who I truly am, and she was willing to do anything and everything I wanted, giving herself to satisfy my most carnal appetite.

Then everything in my carefully managed world came crashing down around me. A moment in time, a loss of control, and the very thing I cherish was nearly taken from me.

My fate now lies in her hands.

The very life I’ve built for myself . . . everything I’ve ever done now waits in purgatory, all caused by a lack of focus at a time when my most concentrated attention was needed.

The very thing I crave may now be the end of me.

Keep reading for an exclusive preview of Chapter 1 from CRAVE

Another event, another night spent wearing my well-worn mask.

I show the world what they want to see. No, what they
expect
to see. A nationally renowned architect with iconic buildings attributed to his name attracts attention and garners certain expectations. I’m expected to be approachable, respectable, inspiring, and well put together. And from the outside, I’m all of those things. A good man from a great family, a man who rose to recognition for designing a few buildings that inspired national pride, and doing it by showcasing the best of modern architectural techniques.

I lean against the room’s corner bar. Catching my reflection in the mirror behind the top shelf, I square my shoulders, standing up tall as I try my best to look foreboding and unapproachable. The event may be in my honor, but I’m not ignorant to its true purpose—to raise funds from the college alumni on the back of my latest feat. The great Callum Alexander success story is the gift that keeps on giving, it seems.

Cradling my glass of Glenlivet, I peruse the room with unabashed indifference. I don’t care whether I’m here or not. To be honest, I’d rather be in my own secluded sanctuary, sitting back in my black leather chair looking out towards the bay. Instead, I’m wearing a tailored black Tom Ford tuxedo in a room full of fellow chameleons making incessant small talk about inconsequential matters.

Everything I do—the way I act, the car I arrived in, even the label on the suit I wear—all matter. I fit the mold when I’m like this. In this setting, my own chameleon costume is in its element, making small talk with university staff, professors keen to discuss their latest batch of students, star-struck students hoping to get even a toe in the door, and even benefactors hoping to pull me into the ‘old boys club.’ Everyone has an agenda; everyone wants a small piece of me. That’s why I’m more reserved at functions like this. I sit back, I watch, and I rarely engage with others unless they approach me.

There are many layers to my disguise, my public persona. Very few people get an insight into the real Callum Alexander—my family and a few very close friends, but that’s all. Everyone else gets this Callum, the well-respected, well-regarded, successful man living the American dream. Sacrificing a lot and remaining in control at all times is something that I’ve had to do, but that may have something to do with my desired predilections more than anything else.

I shake my head as my thoughts go down an entirely inappropriate track for an event such as this, adjusting my pants discreetly as I down the rest of my drink. I set my glass on the bar and signal to the barman to prepare another. When it arrives, I head toward the front of the large hotel ballroom, trying not to think the dark thoughts that are starting to blur the edges of my seemingly bright life.

As I walk through the crowd of mingling people with a narrowed brow, my lips are drawn into a thin line as I search the room for a familiar face but come up empty. The looks I get in return tell me my body language is obviously not its normal welcoming self. It’s somewhat understandable; my mind is elsewhere. I’m too busy considering why I bother with the wolf-in-sheep’sclothing facade.

I’ve worked hard and foregone a lot to get where I am today and have continued to do so in order to maintain it. To lose it all now would be unfathomable.

A man that could easily have been a mirror image of myself ten years ago steps into my path with his hand out. “Mr. Alexander?”

I take a moment to study him. He’s just short of my six-foot two-inches, with broad, confident shoulders and tailored suit that’s no doubt equally as expensive as mine, a sign that he definitely come from money. His almost black hair is slicked to the side and back off his face, adding character to his fresh, bright-eyed and hopeful expression as he looks at me.

“I’m such a big fan of your work,” he says. My chest tightens at his adulation.

I return his hand shake. His grip is strong, firm, but not threatening. There is no semblance of ego in this exchange. “I’m in my third year and we’ve been studying your designs this semester ahead of tonight’s event,” he continues.

My eyes widen at his revelation. Studying my work? I’m only thirty-four. When I was a student, we studied the greats. Not a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants modern designer lucky enough to have overextended his abilities and caught a big break—twice.

“Thank you. I hope you haven’t been studying my work
too
closely. You might find something to improve on,” I add with a wink. Now it’s his turn to be shocked.

“No chance of that happening, Mr. Alexander. Your concept for Spera House in Boston was genius. Inspired. The way you contrasted the stark lines of modern concrete with the curves of the building’s historical neighbors was amazing.”

Well, the young man certainly studies well. “The location motivated me. What can I say?” I smile at him.

“I’d love to discuss the possibility of an internship at your firm, Mr. Alexander. It would be an honor and a privilege to learn and work under you.” The man has done his homework. The internship has only just been formally announced a week ago.

I nod and note his clenched fists by his side as I reach into my jackets inside pocket and pull out my business card. It’s a crisp cream thick stock with silver script printed, saying
Alexander Richardson.

This is me on autopilot—smile, converse, and hand over the business card with instructions to contact my assistant. It’s straightforward, direct, and leaves little room for confusion. For a man like me, it’s the perfect networking strategy.

I hand the card over to him, and he grips it tight in his fingers and looks at it, running his thumb over the print before staring back at me.

“Give my secretary Annie a call tomorrow, and she’ll run through the application process with you.”

His shoulders square up and it’s obvious that the opportunity to work with me is something he would value highly. “Remember to tell her you met me last night and to schedule an interview for you with me straight away.”

The young man opens his mouth and then closes it again before nodding once and pocketing the business card. “Wow, that would be such an amazing opportunity. Thank you, Mr. Alexander.”

I reach out to shake his hand again. “Thank you for admiring my work. Us creative types love appreciation as you well know, Mr. . . .”

“Gregory Graves.” Shaking my hand quickly again, he pulls back and again draws a fist against his leg.

“Mr. Graves, nice to meet you. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Have a good evening,” he says quickly before walking back into the crowd and out of sight. I have to give it to him, to approach me so assuredly and ask straight out about the internship says a lot about his ambition and drive. Normally the selection of applicants for our intern program are far from ideal. Gregory Graves might just lift the standard of this year’s options.

I continue to walk through the middle of the room, I scoff to myself as I take in the large soirée for something that seems so trivial, but these events are never what they seem. The ticket prices are inflated and the propaganda surrounding the walls of the room tells the real truth of tonight’s get together; put me front of stage like the prized pony they’re all so proud of and in the process, raise funds for a new business center.

“Callum!”

I turn my head to see my best friend and business partner, Grant, walking towards me. The tension that had been building for the past hour starts to dissipate and I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that there’s at least one person I can be myself with tonight.

I can’t help but laugh at him. He’s only just arrived and already he’s trying to adjust his bowtie. Grant Richardson, my best friend since high school, the only person in my inner circle, and another one who doesn’t like the pretense that this event signifies, is not a fan of tuxedos. Actually, he’s not a fan of anything restricting, marriage included. He looks around the room and huffs out a big gust of air from his mouth.

“Damn, this is the real deal tonight, isn’t it? Callum Alexander returning to Mecca.”

I bump his shoulder with mine. “Fuck off, Richardson. You think I want to be displayed like a work of art?” My light tone matches the ridiculousness of his statement.

He raises an eyebrow at me, his face full of disbelief. “Really? They’re proud as hell of you, Cal. It just so happens to also coincide with their need to raise a shitload of cash. Fluke?” His smile is full of mirth.

I chuckle. “You know as well as I do that it’s not. It makes good business sense, even if they are using me as the big draw card.”

He nods in agreement.

Looking up at the large clock on the wall I realize it’s only eight p.m. and I’ve still got another two hours of this crap to put up with before I can make my escape. Lifting my glass to my mouth again. The warm swill of whiskey goes some way towards making the night slightly better

“Anyone good to look at?” Grant knocks me out of my thoughts, steering my mind toward the fairer sex.

He moves to my side to scan the room’s guests and I join him, looking around absentmindedly.

“Not that I can see, but the night is still young. You never know your luck in this fine city at night.” I laugh.