Wicked Lust

by Sawyer Bennett

  "My brother," she says quickly.

  Too quickly and I know it's a lie.

  "Your brother?"

  "Yeah... Kent. Older than me by four years. He lives in the same town as Mom. I want him to check on her."

  Well, shit... that sounds plausible, but still. I don't think that's right. The tone of voice she uses just now in talking about her brother is soft... loving. There's genuine affection there.

  She's not pissed at him. At least not tonight, but I decide to let it go for now.

  I've certainly got no business poking around all of Sloane's dark secrets. Not when I have my own. Especially when I intend to cut her loose in a few days, making any of this interest moot.

  So instead, I do something I know both of us love and choose to hold onto that connection instead. I push the sheet up her legs, running my fingers over her bare skin as it's revealed. When her pussy is open to me, the sheet bunched around her waist, I put my hands under the backs of her thighs and haul her legs up over my shoulders.

  Pressing my mouth to her, I give her a rough lick. She cries out as her hands go to my head to hold me tight.

  Yeah... I'm going to miss this too.

  So fucking much.

  Chapter 20

  Sloane

  Callie Hayes is one of the most amazing people I've ever had the privilege to know and hang out with, and that little fact right there has compounded the guilt on my shoulders. She's beautiful, smart, and funny. Overly compassionate and equally passionate about issues that matter. The oppressive weight of my culpability feels like a cinder block on my chest, only made worse by the fact I have now targeted this lovely lady. My mission is clear. I'm to find some sordid dirt on this unsuspecting woman merely because she happens to be the daughter of a politician and my magazine wants to profit off the situation.

  "Want a margarita?" Callie asks as we're shown to a table at the back of The Merry Piglets for lunch. We spent the morning just browsing some of the stores on the town square, not with the idea in mind to shop, but really more of a casual meeting where we could get to know each other better.

  The thought of food or alcohol actually makes me want to puke because my stomach is so knotted up, so I just shake my head with a smile and say, "Too early for me."

  Callie snorts and says, "It's never too early for a margarita," and then snags one of the waitresses walking by, latching onto the tie to her apron. "Kimmy... two classic margaritas."

  "Sure thing, Callie," the young woman says with a wink and heads over to the bar.

  "You're popular here," I comment with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

  "I used to work here in high school," she says with a laugh. "Our family has known the owners forever... the Sanchezes... and my dad's done political rallies standing right up there on the bar."

  "Now that's cool," I say with admiration, because I could never imagine my dad doing something like that. Too much starch in his underwear back when he was representing the great state of Tennessee in the U.S. Senate. Of course, now he's a bit different.

  "So what kind of hours could you commit to me on the campaign?" Callie says as she unrolls the utensils from the paper napkin. She places the cutlery on the table and tosses the napkin on her lap.

  "I work roughly thirty-five hours a week, give or take. I have early mornings open all week, and every other weekend off. I'm usually off by four PM, so use me however you want."

  Callie's eyes gleam mischievously. "Girl... you don't know what you just offered. It's easy enough to find people who are all gung-ho and fired up to help, but not so easy to find someone with your knowledge and experience. If I had the money to do it, I'd hire you for the campaign instead of asking you for some volunteer hours. But I won't be able to take on employees for a few months yet until the campaign officially kicks off."

  I try hard not to wince as that just added a whole new level of guilt onto my shoulders. And fuck, I hate doing this.

  Hate it, hate it, hate it.

  I hate Brant for making me do this. I hate my career and politics and my fucking father who started me down this path to begin with.

  I just hate it all, and I have the overwhelming urge to run straight out of The Merry Piglets, drive my rental car back to the airport, and book the first flight out no matter where it's going. Leave everything behind, start over somewhere new.

  Except, the actual thought of not seeing Cain tonight is almost just as unbearable. Or not going to dinner at his mom's house tomorrow.

  He has enough of a hold on me at this point in our very young relationship that I have constantly battled myself over what to do. The sane part of myself... the part that still has integrity... wants to tell Revealed magazine to kiss my ass and walk.

  The other part of me though... the one that will do anything to protect her mother, even if it means submitting to blackmail... well, it's the part that's winning the war within my conscience at this point.

  Yes... it's come down now to blackmail.

  After I hung up the phone with my mom last night, I decided to check my texts. Acid backed up in my throat when I saw one from Brant that said, You're not working fast enough. I want an update first thing in morning, and I need something solid.

  Asshole!

  He told me he'd give me two weeks last time we talked. It's only been a week, and I was hoping that within the next few days, I'd be able to come up with a miraculous solution that would make all this go away and let me stay in Cain Bonham's bed--possibly his heart--for, oh, about forever.

  I sent Brant a furiously quick reply back that merely said, You told me I had two weeks.

  Then Cain came into the living room, and I shut my phone off.

  Next morning, there was a message from Brant and he wasn't fucking around. It simply said, Call me by 9AM or you're fired.

  For a brief moment, I thought about not calling and taking the termination. It would be so easy and my conscience would be alleviated. I could figure out what to do with my life after that. But the thought niggled at me that if I called him, and told him there just wasn't anything to be found, he'd let the matter go and put me on another story.

  So I called him as soon as Cain dropped me off at my house after we got a quick breakfast. It was 8:55am and I was pushing my luck, but I couldn't make the call with Cain around. As soon as he pulled out from the parking lot to my apartment, I hit Brant's number on speed dial.

  The conversation deteriorated rapidly, any hope of me being able to salvage my pride and perhaps Cain and Callie in the process was obliterated.

  "Brant," he answered, even though his Caller ID would have identified me.

  Asshole.

  "It's Sloane," I said in a tired voice.

  "Cutting it close," he remarked.

  I didn't respond and let the silence lay heavy.

  "I need some sign of progress right now. Apparently, investors are questioning the longevity of the magazine since sales have dipped last two quarters. We need something juicy to renew interest."

  "I don't have anything," I told him, trying not to sound too whiny. "I'm getting nowhere on the sex club, and I just met Callie Hayes. I'm hoping to start doing some volunteer work with the governor's campaign soon, but that could take a few more weeks to find anything."

  It was my hope he'd understand the futility of it all and let it go. No such luck.

  "Then get in tight with the daughter. Get her to talk to you--get her to disclose her involvement. I'm sure it's something a few bottles of wine will easily flush out."

  I sighed because I knew he was right. Callie and I hit it off amazingly well at dinner. You know how you can just tell when you have a connection with someone? Well, I felt it with Callie, and I know she felt it with me. She has the potential--if I wasn't here perpetuating a fraud upon her--to become best friend material.

  My heart squeezed so hard over the thought and I blurted out words that would eventually seal my fate. "I can't do it, Brant. These people are nice. They've done nothing wrong.
We can't tie anything to the governor. This isn't right."

  "You're not paid to bring your morality into this, Preston," he barked at me over the phone. "And right now, you are entrenched and have made two good contacts with key players. You are going to stick with this and you are going to get the story, do you hear me?"

  "Or what?" I sneered at him, wishing he was standing in front of me at this very moment so I could kick him in the balls. I was so angry over his lack of integrity that was being aimed at destroying two people I had come to care about, that I didn't care if he fired me. I was bracing for it actually.

  "If you don't do as I say," Brant said in a very low voice, deadly calm and ice cold, "I'm going to run the next juiciest story I can find."

  I had no clue what he was talking about, but his tone was so threatening that I swallowed hard.

  "Want to know what the story is about, Preston?" he taunted, and then gave a deep, husky laugh as if this turned him on. "It's about a senator who couldn't keep his dick in his pants, fucked a hot, young thing while on a trip to Brazil, and fell in love. Carried on an illicit affair using taxpayer dollars to fund his travel to do so, that apparently everyone in Washington knew about except for his poor, unsuspecting wife, daughter, and son. And then, when he was outted and the story revealed to the world, the poor wife, who by the way, was addicted to prescription painkillers, tried to kill herself. Isn't that just the yummiest of political scandal?"

  My fingers clutched onto my phone so hard, I thought it might crack. My teeth gnashed so forcefully, pain shot through my lower jaw. My voice was barely controlled fury when I whispered into the phone, "That happened a long time ago. That's old news."

  "But it's new news that your mom just had another breakdown and landed back in the psych unit. We're coming up on the five-year anniversary of your dad's marriage to his hot, young Brazilian wife. It would be an interesting piece to do a profile on a disgraced senator who now prefers to live on a beach in Rio with his new wife and twin girls, while his ex-wife jumps in and out of psych hospitals."

  My blood pressure spiked so high, I got momentarily dizzy. My hand went out to the counter where I steadied myself, and the first thought that ran through my mind was one of murder. I considered hopping a plane, flying to Washington, and stalking Brant home from the office where I'd unload an entire magazine of bullets into his black heart.

  My plan fizzled quickly though when he said in a calm, businesslike voice, "You've got a week to get her to disclose something to you or I'm going to be splashing poor Delilah Preston's pretty but fucked-up head all over the front of the magazine. You hear me?"

  "I hear you," I rasped out, tears filling my eyes and then flowing down my cheeks. I hung up the phone without saying another word, and then I tried to figure out how I was going to get Callie Hayes comfortable enough with me in just a week to admit to me that she attended an orgy at a sex club with her boyfriend, who is a secret owner.

  The waitress comes back and sets two frosty glasses filled with pale green, margarita heaven rimmed with salt. Callie looks up to the waitress with a smile to thank her, and I lean forward and place my lips around the straw, sucking hard on the alcoholic beverage for fortitude.

  "Whoa," Callie says with a laugh. "Thought it was too early to drink?"

  "Apparently not," I say with a slight cough after I release the straw. The drink is potent and my eyes water.

  "Hey," Callie says, her brow furrowing with a concerned look. "Are you okay?"

  I start to shake my head in the negative, because I couldn't begin to tell her all the ways in which I'm actually very sad right now, but then I'm struck with horrible, calculating, and dirty inspiration.

  I let my lips slide into a frown and raise my eyes to her, filled with conundrum and worry. "I don't know," I say vaguely, cutting my eyes around to make sure no one is nearby who can hear. "It's just... I'm not sure..."

  Callie takes my cue and leans across the table, whispering herself, "Tell me what's wrong, Sloane. Sometimes it helps to talk about things."

  So I put the bait out there.

  I cut my eyes around again, and then focus them back on Callie. In a low voice, I say, "God... I'm not sure I should even say anything... but, well... it's about my relationship with Cain..."

  "He's crazy about you," she says with a confident nod of her head and a satisfied smile on her face.

  "And I'm crazy about him too," I assure her with a soft smile, but then drop my eyes to the table. "But..." My voice filters away to indecision of whether to share, and Callie pulls on the bait harder.

  "But what?" she asks softly, and my duplicitous eyes rise up to hers.

  Totally clear and earnest eyes of fern green stare at me in solidarity and support. She's saying, I've got your back.

  Whereas I'm trying to stab her in hers.

  I almost bolt out of the restaurant as that thought crosses my mind, but the image of my mom lying in a hospital bed, drugged to capacity so she doesn't harm herself, flashes vividly, and I press forward, setting the trap.

  "Well... Cain is in to some really kinky stuff," I say, my face flushing red with embarrassment, and that's not an act. I've never been very good at sharing stuff like this, and what Cain and I did almost can't be described.

  Callie doesn't say anything, but there's no judgment there. On the contrary, there's a bit of a knowing gleam, and that makes it a bit easier to lay it all out there.

  "He... had asked me what my fantasy was, and I thought we were just... you know... talking out our ass or something. And I told him it was to have sex with multiple guys."

  Callie's eyebrows rise slightly, but she nods in understanding. "Women have fantasies just like men. Nothing wrong with that."

  "Well, he provided me with the opportunity to fulfill mine," I tell her bluntly. "And I took it."

  "Oh," Callie says as her eyes go round with surprise and then understanding. "Oh, wow. That must have been intense."

  "You have no idea," I say, an absolute truth amidst all the lies I've told recently. "It was life altering in some ways."

  "You sound conflicted," Callie observes. That's exactly how I tried to sound, so that's good.

  My eyes drop to my margarita glass, and I fiddle with the straw. "It's just... it felt so good and right, and Cain's made me feel all kinds of confident about it, but I can't help but continue to worry that it was wrong. Being with other men when Cain and I promised to be monogamous with each other. I mean... no way would I let him do that, so talk about double standard. I should have said no, right? I should have never indulged in that. And what if that ultimately ends up disgusting him? Makes me like a cheap whore or something in his eyes?"

  I end by drawing in a long breath, because that was a mouthful, and I realize that much of what I just said is actually true. Every one of those doubts and conflicted thoughts have plagued me since that wild and amazing night.

  Callie takes a quick look around, then back to me with sympathetic eyes. Her arm comes out and she covers my hand with her own, giving me a squeeze. "You didn't do anything wrong, Sloane. If Cain said he was good with it, then I'm sure he was. And if something like that happens and everyone is consenting and understanding of the ramifications... if you go into it with your eyes wide open... then there is nothing wrong with engaging in something that's out of the norm like that."

  "Easy for you to say," I say with a snort and give a laugh of nervousness that is totally manufactured by this point. "You're so sweet and normal. I'm the one sitting here feeling like I should be branded the town whore."

  Callie narrows her eyes at me and slaps me lightly on my hand before grabbing and squeezing again. "Now you listen here, Sloane. You are not a whore. You are a consenting adult, as was everyone else who participated that night. If it felt good and everyone had a clear conscience about it, then what's the problem?"

  She's still not giving me what I need. She's giving me enough innuendo about her personal experience, which I suspect is true now as I wasn't
going to accept Colton Stokes' word alone. But she's not giving me the details I need to give to Brant so he'll leave my mother alone.

  So I prompt just a bit further, "You sound like you know something about this type of thing."

  Callie's cheeks go red, but she holds my eyes and tilts her chin up almost in defiance. "I do. Know something about it. I did a three-way with Woolf and his best friend. And it was the most erotic experience of my life, and God help me... I'd do it again if the opportunity presents. I was totally wigged out about it though, like you. But Woolf helped me to understand that what I did with the other guy was nothing but a sexual act, and one that he enjoyed watching very much. It changed nothing about our feelings for each other, except perhaps cemented our bond and trust."

  Holy shit!

  Callie's been with Bridger? That has to be who she means when she says Woolf's best friend. I mean, according to Stokes, they own The Wicked Horse together.

  And suddenly, I actually have a new and different type of respect for Callie. That she was brave enough to try something out of her comfort zone, particularly with someone as intimidating as Bridger. If this stupid fucking story wasn't so necessary to protect my family, I'd relish sitting down with this woman and sharing all kinds of secrets with her. It would be nice to have another female who understands the conflicts that come when fantasy meets reality.

  "Now," Callie says dramatically as she picks her menu back up. "Let's figure out what we're going to eat. I'm starved."

  And just like that, our conversation is over and I'm still left with nothing but an admission that she had a three-way. Far less than what I need to appease Brant.

  Chapter 21

  Cain

  Outside of Rachel, and only because we were together for a few years, I've never fucked one woman as many times as I have Sloane. While we've known each other a little less than two weeks, the amount of times we've gone at it together has astounded even my inner horn-dog nature. And each time gets better.