“I was working,” he says roughly. “Working when you stepped outside. Do you have any idea how hard I get when I see your body?”
He waits for a response, my mouth moving without sound. I clear my throat, almost whispering the words. “No sir.”
“Feel it. Now.”
My hands move quickly, jumping into to action, anxious for what awaits them. Wet hands on expensive fabric, unzipping and unbuttoning, reaching in and grabbing impressive, hard heat. Rock hard. Ready.
He bats my hands away, pulling at the strings of my top and letting it fall on the pool deck, the sun hitting my swollen breasts, the nipples hard and aching from his touch, then steps back, looking my body up and down. “Go in my office and get on your knees. You’re going to finish what you started.”
I move quickly, his presence behind me, my skin tightening as I move into the air-conditioned house. My feet cover the distance, turning corners and then stepping onto the plush carpet of his office, my wet feet sinking.
“Before the chair. Kneel.”
His order comes from behind me, and I do as I am told, my knees hitting the carpet, his steps coming beside me, my eyes looking up to find him staring down at me.
“Perfect,” he said hoarsely, sitting down and reaching in his pants, pulling out his cock and laying it out before me. “Swallow it. Deep.”
He keeps his eyes on me, watching as I run my hands over its length, wetting my lips and inching closer, trying to keep my eyes on his but pulled to the magnificent sight before me. It twitches beneath my hands, and he pulls on the back of my head, eager to have it in my mouth.
When I close my mouth on it, sliding my lips over his head, the veins in his cock swollen under my fingers, he groans. A long, slow groan of release, satisfaction. He cradles my hair in his hands, his head tilted, watching me suck, watching my eyes close as I gag, the width and depth of him too great to take.
“Fuck,” he swears. “Do you know how often I think about you at work? Think about you just like this, behind my desk? I get fucking hard thinking about you.” He pushes my head harder, sitting up slightly and watching the slide of his cock intently.
His cell buzzes, on the desk, and he reaches for it, his eyes never leaving mine. He answers the phone, pulling at my head, his eyes ordering me to continue.
I love the taste of his skin. How hard he grows in my mouth, the moments when I taste the sweet drops of his arousal. There is nothing that turns me on more than having him before me, his hands urging me on, his most sensitive organ twitching underneath my tongue. I work my hand over his length, pulling him from my mouth and moving below, taking his balls into my mouth, and rolling them along my tongue, his words pausing in their speech, a brief hitch in his tone.
I smile, skimming my teeth lightly over the skin, watching his eyes close briefly, his mouth struggle to return to the conversation, his words halting when they come. I return to his cock, sucking with renewed energy, my hands and my mouth working in a wet, sexual tandem.
He stands, pulling my head back slowly, dark eyes watching as inch after inch of his cock leaves my mouth, my cheeks hollowing from the suction, my tongue teasing and flicking as he pulls me off. “John. My wife needs me. I’ll call you back.” He ends the call and tosses the phone aside, pulling me to my feet in one quick movement.
“Bend over. In my chair. Right fucking now.”
He yanks at the strings of my bikini bottom, pulling it away before I am in place, my knees hitting his chair a moment later. It is a wide leather chair, worn and sitting low, my knees putting me at the perfect height for his entrance. He pushes a finger inside, swearing when he feels my readiness. “Is that from this?” he asks, thrusting inside, my insides tightening around him, anxious for every inch of his entry. “Does it turn you on to suck my cock?”
I nod, knowing that it won’t be enough. Knowing that he will want more, will want to hear my voice. I want the reaction my silence will bring. He slaps me, the hard, rough impact against my skin causing me to jump, to moan, the possessiveness of the contact causing a curl of pleasure to shoot through my body. “Answer me.”
“Yes.” I gasp. “Please. Spank me again.”
He waits, fucking me hard, the percussion of our skin quick, the anticipation of his touch causing my legs to tighten, my core to grip him tightly. It is building, my mountain of lust, my body shaking and breaking around his stiff rod, each thrust perfectly timed, the entire act too erotic for me to take. Being fucked like a whore, I am learning, turns me the fuck on. Then it comes, hard, open hand slaps, against my skin, his fingers gripping after each contact is made, each stinging stroke taking me closer and closer until
Ecstasy. My body breaking into a thousand splinters of pleasure, a series of gasps spilling out, my back arching and pushing against his hard pelvis, our bodies joined as I am torn apart in a sea of desire.
CHAPTER 5
The Bahamas plans are moving along. Drew has booked us flights; our departure scheduled a week from now. Last week, a travel agency rep came to the house, took my passport photo, and presented me with an application to sign. Drew oversaw the process, checking the application thoroughly before making a copy and handing them the original.
This morning, I held a brunch at the house with two society ladies, women that Nathan insists I befriend. I smiled, sipped iced tea and served catered food, and we made polite chit chat for eighty agonizing minutes. It felt strange, sitting in the dining room that I pretend to own, playing house for women that I have no interest in knowing.
They finally stand, hugs and air kisses all around, promising to get together soon, flowery bullshit stacked upon flowery bullshit. I feel ten pounds lighter when they finally leave, when I wave cheerfully and shut the door with a smile. I sit in the window seat, watching them walk down the white steps, willing them to hurry-the-fuck-up, to get into their car and off of this property, so that I will be alone with Drew. Today is a quiet day—no Beth, no landscapers, no housekeepers. It will be just him and me, and I plan to take full advantage of the opportunity. Not just to seduce, but in hopes of getting access to the house, my fingers itching to explore Nathan’s office.
He walks in slowly, glancing out the window, his eyes watching as they get in their car and start the slow process of preparing to leave. “Why are you still in here?”
I fight to keep the smile on my face. “Nathan is always so concerned with appearances. I thought it might be odd for me to run to the guest house before they pull out.”
He nods, avoiding looking my way. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come into your room the other night.” His words are soft, almost whispered, even though the cameras are off—the security system only activated at night and by his control.
I say nothing, swallowing, and look out the front window, seeing the two women engaged in a conversation of some sort, adjusting controls and taking their dear sweet time in pulling out. He’s sorry. This might throw a wrench in my plan for the day. He should be sorry. He has put me in a terrible position, he has put my agreement with Nathan in jeopardy, risked my father in the meantime. But this sudden change of conscience is terrible in its timing.
The car in the driveway moves, going forward around the large circle and heading towards the entry gates, out of sight of my perch. I stand, moving to him and looking up into his face, my hand stealing around his neck and pulling his face down, forcing him to look at me. “Drew, please stop talking.”
His eyes reluctantly meet mine, moving from my eyes to my mouth and back to my eyes. Then he pushes, a hurried gesture, hard on my shoulders, and steps back. “No.”
My heart sinks, my plan thwarted.
“Not here. It’s too visible.” He steps to the window, standing to the far left of it, where he can see the clear driveway, the closed gates. Then he turns, striding toward the back, grabbing my hand and pulling me along with him.
Sex the first time was hurried, him demanding permission with his body, my own response hesitant, terrified of
the giant cliff that we were taking a step off of. This time I hold nothing back, letting his hunger devouring me, his hands placing me where and how he wants it. And this time, he is the one who seems unsure of the wisdom of our actions.
Impact. He pushes me against the wall, his hands fumbling with my shorts, jerking them down so he can lift and wrap my legs around his body. His mouth, breathing hard, whispers words that contradict his motions. “Are you sure? We shouldn’t…” Then he groans as my bare legs pull him tight, his body supporting me against the wall, my arms wrapping around his neck and pulling his mouth to mine. I yank at his shirt while we kiss, pulling the fabric up, our mouths separating for a brief moment as it is pulled over his head. His hands move beneath me, unzipping, yanking, ripping open a condom, an initial bump of bare cock against the curve of my skin.
Thrusts. Our bodies on the bed, my legs spread before him, his hips moving in strong, slow fucks that are increasing in rhythm. It is a beautiful site, his eyes blazing with possession, his chest tightening, the slide of his cock as it thrusts in and out, his gaze dropping to watch it, his mouth slightly open in lust. His hands grip my thighs, holding my legs against his chest, and he releases any control, starting a furious pace that has my body shaking, intensity building.
Orgasms. Mine while he is behind me, his balls drilling a steady beat on my clit, his hands squeezing my ass, holding me still while he sets the pace, brings me to completion. His while I am beneath him, his arms framing my head while he thrusts inside of me, his mouth brushing mine, the pace increasing until he grunts, shudders, and then whispers my name, lowering his body to mine, giving one final full thrust that takes him completely inside of me.
***
I hear the rush of water as he opens my shower door and steps in. I sit up, moving quickly and silently out to the pool deck, then into the main house. To be safe, I am giving myself less than five minutes, my feet running as soon as my bare soles touch the cool tile. I trace the path Drew led me down one week earlier, the path to Nathan’s office.
I skid around the edge of his desk, my hand gripping the wooden edge, tugging on handles and drawer pulls until one slides open. Files. There has to be something on me, a folder of my history, or a diagram of their evil plan. I skim over the folder titles.
Three minutes.
The drawer seems to be filled with mostly family-related items, ‘Dumont’ present on most of the tabs.
Dumont Family History.
Dumont Estate.
Dumont Trust.
Files for names I am not familiar with, his parents, most likely. Then, I see my name, and time slows.
Jennifer Dumont.
The title is written as painstakingly neat as the rest of the tabs, my place among his family files as an equal. I almost missed the file, its thin depth lying against the one before it, shielded by a tag with similar placement. I reach forward and pull it out.
Two minutes.
My heart sinks as the file slides out, too quickly and easily, its weight too light to hold many secrets. It feels, in fact, empty. I open it slowly, and my eyes fall on a single piece of paper. It is a piece of Nathan’s letterhead, a half-page card that is familiar enough to my eyes, the embossed letters of his name across the top. On it, in the painstakingly neat writing of my husband, is one short message. I read it quickly, then stop, my heart thudding heavily in my chest—slow, loud thumps that rattle my thinking. Then I read it again.
I loved Jennifer more than I have ever loved another soul on this planet. Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled. Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.
One minute.
CHAPTER 6
I am laying in bed when he emerges, his hair wet, a towel around his shoulders, his jeans unbuttoned and hanging low on firm, muscular hips. I stretch, my body still naked, in hopes of distracting him from any erratic thoughts. The shower had been off when I returned, no rush of water to hide the sound of the door. Hopefully the walls are insulated enough to hide any noise of my return. I close my eyes, trying to keep my face smooth and calm, trying to paint the picture of a woman whose heart is not racing, whose mind is not panicking.
“We can’t keep doing this. I can’t …” His words hang, unfinished, and I open my eyes to see him bend down, picking up his shirt and walks to the edge of my bed, his eyes traveling over my skin until they stop at my face. He puts a knee on the bed, leaning over to brush his lips over my skin, placing soft kisses on my stomach, the underside of my breast, my collarbone, and then my lips. He studies me, his green eyes cloudy. “Neither one of us deserves you,” he says, his voice thick, his lips taking one last drink of my mouth. Then, he stands, buttoning his pants and pulling on his shirt, his expression dark and worried.
I close my eyes, roll over, and wait for him to leave.
I loved Jennifer more than I have ever loved another soul on this planet. Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled. Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.
There are very few explanations for that note, written on Nathan’s stationary, in handwriting I recognize as his, placed in a folder that bears my name. My mind can only grasp one. In Nathan’s world—his meticulous scheduled, perfectly planned universe—my life ends in death. It is planned for, a statement already prepared, everything in place except for my dead body. How am I planned to die? And for what purpose?
I hear the slide of my door and feel the air lighten as Drew leaves. My eyes look at the clock. Six hours until Nathan arrives home. Six hours to think, before the next man fucks my mind.
I dress, wanting to get out of this house, needing space to think, space to figure out a new plan. I keep it simple, jeans, a silk camisole, and ballet flats, pulling my hair into a low bun and putting on mascara and powder. I pause before the mirror, staring at my lips. Red and puffy, irritated by the scruff on Drew’s face. I dab on a little polish and grab my purse, stepping out the back and heading toward the garage. Once in my car, once the large door opens and I am through the estate’s private gate, once my foot is hard against the pedal and my windows are down, I allow my thoughts to flow.
Yesterday, sitting at my father’s side, I had contemplated escape, my mountain of self-pity great enough that I had wanted to eject from this life, abandon his needs, just for the pathetic reason of being miserable. Now I have a whole new reason to run: my personal safety. But am I being dramatic? Am I grabbing ahold of this note with two gleeful hands, happy to have something that I can twist into a justifiable reason to leave my father? I cannot leave without something in place for his care. No matter the reason, no matter how miserable I am, or whatever danger I choose to manifest in my mind, I am now in the rare position of being able to actually help my father. Provide for him, visit with him, unconditionally financially support his care, and not just through this sickness, but for the rest of his life.
***
“What happens to my father upon my death?” I am fingering the buttons of a Chanel blouse, one I took the tags off this morning, wondering if it is salvageable with only half its buttons. Nathan had ripped it open without concern for the fine fabric, his need too great for something as silly as unbuttoning.
Nathan’s head snaps so quickly that I hear a bone pop, his expression alarmed. “What do you mean?”
I drop the shirt and reach for my skirt, stepping into it sans underwear, not wanting to hunt for them in the sheets of Nathan’s bed. “I mean, if I die, what happens to my father? Would you continue to provide for his care?” I shouldn’t have said anything. One of the unwritten rules, made clear by Nathan’s attitude, is that I get up and leave after sex. No chitchat, no goodbye kiss. Feet to door, in silence, as soon as possible.
“Do you plan on dying?” His face was almost distraught, his question spoken quickly and urgently. Obviously suicide would clash with his carefully laid plans.
“No. I don’t think anyone plans on dying. But what would happen if I do? The agreement doesn’t m
ention anything about that.” The omission indicates to me that my father will be left high and dry upon my expiration.
He frowns. “I can have my attorney draft an amendment. I didn’t expect your father to outlive you.” His blue eyes lock with mine; studying me carefully; I wonder if I have made a mistake in asking the question, if I am raising suspicions that will only make my escape more difficult.
“I would like that,” I say quietly, zipping up the side of my skirt.
He fastened the buttons of his shirt, his expression grave. “Then I’ll do it this week.”
This week. I need to leave, his face showing the thoughts that are running through his head. I ball up the broken shirt in my hand and scoop up my heels, leaving the room and heading outside, wanting to put distance between us before he starts asking questions of his own.
CHAPTER 7
I cannot sleep, my mind running laps in the small cavern that is my head. My afternoon drive did nothing but raise more questions. Thinking about my situation seems to do nothing but stress me the hell out. I kick off the covers and stand, my muscles jumping, my head aching with the effort of trying to not think. Swimming. Maybe that will clear my head, exhaust my muscles, and allow my body to finally sleep. I step to the curtains and slip through, unlocking the slider and stepping outside.