by Nyla K
She sees me as someone just dangerous enough, without having to worry about her reputation. Marry the tattooed billionaire instead of the preppy one, to satisfy her fantasies while still keeping her family happy.
Makes sense.
“Lazarus, I invited you over tonight for a couple reasons,” she says, and her tone is soft while also very assured in what she’s saying. She obviously knows how to come across confident, yet docile, because that’s what she thinks men want.
She’s not entirely wrong.
“And those reasons would be?” I sip my wine, keeping my eyes on hers.
“First, I wanted to let you know that I’d like to explore this relationship, if you’re really interested,” she goes on, and I’m not surprised by her forwardness, since the intentions we have with each other are clear. “But second, I need to make sure there’s at least some chemistry between us. I know there is already… I mean, I’ve felt it. But I’ve also been set up with guys before through my father, and while they look good on paper, they’re usually lacking in a few areas that I’m not willing to compromise on.”
She lifts her brows, and I can’t help but huff a small chuckle, because I see where she’s going with this, and it’s exactly what I’ve been thinking since I got here.
They’re bad in bed. Probably small dicks, impotent, can’t find the clit… Something pathetic like that.
“So you want me to audition to be your husband?” I smirk and she laughs. It’s actually a decent sound. I don’t hate it.
“It sounds ridiculous when you say it,” she sighs, placing her wineglass on the table.
“It’s a little ridiculous.” I do the same.
“So you’re not interested?” She looks hurt.
“I didn’t say that.”
A small smile curves her full lips, and for the first time since I met her, she allows herself to visibly and blatantly look me over. I sit still and take it for a few seconds before standing up and tugging my shirt over my head. Evangeline looks momentarily baffled, but her stare quickly turns heated, I’m guessing when she sees something she likes.
So I go for my pants. Might as well strip for her. See what she does.
Pushing my jeans down my legs, I step out of them and honestly, her expression makes me want to laugh. I’m not sure what she thought I looked like under my clothes, but I think I’ve caught her off-guard. Maybe with all the tattoos? Or the excessive muscles?
Who knows, but either way, she’s practically drooling, which isn’t exactly new for me, but I’ve never been in a situation where the girl might be more than just a fuck.
“Thoughts?” My lips curl in amusement as her cheeks flush.
“You just… don’t look like any billionaire I’ve ever seen.” She stands up before me.
Leaning in, I whisper, “You must be hanging out with the wrong ones.”
She grins then bites her lip, untying her robe and letting it hang open to reveal a sneak peek. My eyes drop over the inner swells of her ample breasts, toned stomach and bare pussy.
Well, damn.
My dick is already thickening, becoming more visible in my fitted boxer briefs. She inches closer to me, slipping her fingers inside the waistband and sliding them down my thighs, eyes remaining locked on mine the whole time. It’s not until I’m completely naked that her hooded gaze falls to my cock and her breath hitches audibly.
With no further discussion, her fingertips graze my erection and I hum.
“Does this work for you?” My teeth are set on edge as indifference chases my arousal.
This isn’t passionate, or driven by lust. It’s more appraising than anything, and despite how uncomfortable it might be, I’m mostly alright with it, already getting onboard with the idea of our relationship being forced for mutual benefit.
After all, I’ve had enough passion in my life when it comes to sex. More than once I’ve found myself in situations where a carnal hunger takes over, clouding my mind. But that’s not what’s happening here.
This thing with Evangeline is calculated. It’s a game, and while playing can be fun, there’s always a goal in sight: winning.
Evangeline glances back up at my face, then shrugs her robe off her shoulders. And now we’re both standing naked, with only a couple inches of space between us. Reaching out slowly, I slip my fingers between her thighs to trace the slit of her pussy. She’s soaking wet, the feeling of which causes a hard twitch in my cock as it swells up further.
She whimpers, pressing herself into me while shivering, and I can tell right away she hasn’t been touched properly in a while.
“Can we go upstairs?” She whines quietly, hand at the nape of my neck, nails scratching through my hair as she breathes by my ear. “Explore this a little deeper…”
Sucking in a breath, I squeeze her ass hard and she gasps. “Deeper is the only way I do it, gorgeous.”
She purrs and forces herself to pull away, giving me a seductive look before trotting her fine, naked ass through the living room toward the stairs. I watch her as she goes, picking up my glass of wine and killing the rest.
I don’t doubt this venture will prove beneficial, for both of us. My only worry is how long I’ll be able to keep myself invested without the one thing that usually drives me.
Need.
Chapter Thirteen
Traci
It’s the Fourth of July, and we’re having a small cookout at our house.
Nothing fancy, just me, Dad, Merci and Lazarus.
Aka my future husband.
I’m obviously kidding. I mean, sort of…
I have my Lazarus obsession under control, I swear. I’m leaving my love for him where it belongs; in my dreams and my bedroom.
Ever since the first time I touched myself thinking about my godfather, it’s become my new favorite pastime. I’ve spent the last many months dating him in my imagination, and imaginary Traci puts out, constantly.
One Saturday afternoon, I masturbated so many times I could barely stand up after.
That being said, I have a grasp on my attraction to Lazarus. I contain it, like a monster locked up in my mind. I don’t let it into the light. It only comes out at night, and during the day, to everyone’s perceptions, everything is as normal as ever.
We never talked about me trying to kiss him that time. After all, Lazarus Weston is a grown man. He runs a billion-dollar company with my father, attends business dinners and functions, dates high-class broads who wear Valentino and Dolce and Gabbana. No passing thought to the small blonde teenager with the blue doe eyes too big for her head, and the breasts she’s constantly drinking milk to try and grow by even one cup size.
I’ve sprouted some generous B’s at this point, but I still want them bigger. I’ve seen the women Lazarus dates… I need bigger.
Outside of my secret imaginary love affair, my lack of concentration is at an all-time high. I resorted to finally taking my Adderall, occasionally, when I need to get schoolwork done. The problem is that when I take it I can’t sleep, or relax at all, to save my life. It makes me so anxious sometimes, my mind runs and runs like a hamster on a wheel.
My psychiatrist prescribed me Xanax to combat the anxiety. I have to break them into small pieces to take or they knock me out, but at least it’s an option. Otherwise I end up going days without sleep, like the week I had my biology finals.
The doorbell rings and I scamper out of the living room to get it, because I know it’s Merci and I’ve been waiting for her to get here. I need help choosing an outfit that might make Lazarus talk to me for more than two minutes.
When I pull open the door, it’s not my best friend I see, but my crush himself. I instantly freeze like a total deer in headlights because of how freakishly intense his presence is, and how positively wonderful he looks in linen pants that fit his tapered waist much better than I’ve ever seen them fit anyone else before, paired with a white button-down open at the collar, showing off some sexy ink.
I swallow hard an
d blink, unable to register anything other than him. Deep gray eyes beneath dark brows and darker lashes; a masterpiece of a jawline, almost harsh in its angles. Straight nose and pouty lips, the bottom a pink cushion, and all I can do is remember how good it felt when it touched mine, even for just a second. And that unruly silken black hair… God, who has hair like that?
He looks like a model. Lazarus Weston could have easily been a model if he didn’t think such things were pointless and stupid. But he honestly looks exactly like the kind of man who should be sprawled, half-naked and oiled, on the pages of a fashion magazine, his perfectly sculpted body much more appealing than whatever brands he’s showcasing.
On the reverse, Lazarus looks the way you’d imagine someone evil. So beyond beautiful, he could persuade you to do whatever devious, depraved thing he wants without having to utter more than two words, or even change his facial expression.
I finally snap out of my trance when he grumbles, “Hey, Trix. You gonna let us in or what?”
Time comes speeding to catch up as my brain processes that he never usually rings the doorbell.
And he just said us.
Glancing behind him, my heart stops when I notice the drop-dead gorgeous brunette with long, slender legs standing beside him in a white dress, her hand resting comfortably on his back.
My lips part, but I can’t get any words to come out. I’m too busy staring up at them. Lazarus is very tall, over six feet, and the bombshell next to him also towers over me in some obviously expensive wedge sandals.
My bottom lip quivers and I bite it to make it stop, because this is annoying and I can’t be reacting this way. I’ve seen Lazarus with women before.
But this is a family cookout. No one was supposed to come other than family.
He was supposed to be mine today…
Shaking the chaos out of my head, I step away from them, turning before they can see the obviously jaded look on my face. I’m about to ditch this whole stupid day and run upstairs to cry when Dad stalks over.
“Oh good. You’re here.” He grabs my arm while smiling at Laz and his friend. “Evangeline, did you meet my daughter, Traci?”
“No, I didn’t get the chance yet,” the goddess speaks, her voice so melodious for a moment I forget she’s the enemy. And then bile promptly rises in my throat.
Dad yanks me until I turn around and I’m face to face - well, not quite, since she’s still much taller than me - with the pretty, glowing, immaculately made-up South Beach Princess.
She extends her hand to me, and it takes all my strength to remember my manners and shake.
“Nice to meet you, young lady,” she smiles, and I cringe from the unintentional jab.
Okay, awesome. So I’m six years old.
“You too,” I mutter, snatching my hand away before peeking at my father. “Dad, I need to go change.”
I plead with my eyes that he won’t make me do anything like show her around or help with dinner while I’m still dressed in regular jean shorts and a ripped up Ghostbusters t-shirt that used to be Mom’s. Especially after seeing what this lady is wearing.
“Sure sweetie.” He presses a kiss on top of my head that makes me feel like even more of a little girl, and I dart away before I’m forced to listen to more of Evangeline’s voice, or witness anymore of Lazarus allowing her to touch him.
Laz isn’t a touchy-feely guy at all. Actually, the one thing I do remember specifically about any time I’ve seen him with women is that he rarely touches them, and prohibits them from hanging on him in return.
But Evangeline down there seems to think she’s special, with her dainty hand all resting on his body like it belongs there.
“Ugh,” I growl as I stomp into my bedroom and grab my phone.
I text Merci telling her to get her ass over here immediately, then strip out of my clothes. Naked, standing in front of my mirror, I observe myself. My blonde hair is soft and flowing past my breasts. I used to love it because of how much it resembled my mother’s, but now it’s making me feel too young. Too typical.
My body has gotten more toned, thanks to running in gym class, and my butt looks perkier than it used to, thanks to squats. Still, I’m praying for bigger tits. The ones I have are nicely shaped, but they’re not large enough. I want them to overflow out of Lazarus’s hands when he holds them.
Oh boy… Between my thighs pulses, and I wonder if I have time for an imaginary quickie before Merci gets here.
Deciding against it, I slip on some of my new panties. I convinced Dad to let me go shopping for undergarments recently, and he seemed too tired to argue, which is always a good thing for me. So I went to Victoria’s Secret with Merci and got lace panties of all different colors and varieties.
I feel like much more of a woman with these.
Striding into my walk-in closet, I sort through dresses that could gain Lazarus’s attention without prompting my dad’s. I have a lot to choose from, and now that I know there’s a poacher in the ranks, I want to look especially good.
A moment later, there’s a knock at my door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, bitch! Let me in!”
A sigh of relief leaves my lips before I shout to her that it’s unlocked.
Merci scampers into my closet and hugs me from behind. “Hey, sexy ass.” She smacks my butt and I squeal.
“Who let you in downstairs?” I ask.
“Your dad. Why are you still standing around naked? It’s like seven o’clock.”
“I need your help picking something sexy to wear,” I run my fingers over a lavender sundress.
“Oh my God! Is it because your secret crush is coming over?!” She gasps, jumping up and down.
“Uh, actually he’s already here. And he brought a date.” My jaw clenches at the reminder of the caramel-skinned beauty.
“A date?! Well, that sucks. I’m sorry, boo.” Merci rifles through my clothes, not needing to be asked twice.
“It’s okay. I’ve seen him with women before, so it’s nothing new.” It’s a weak shade of denial I’m wearing to convince myself of this, because deep down I am nervous.
It’s not like Lazarus to bring a date to a family dinner. And the way the two of them were standing there together, the way Dad smiled at her. It’s adding up to something my brain isn’t ready to accept.
“Okay, well let’s pick you out something hot, so he’ll be forced to look at you instead of his dried-up old hag of a date,” Merci sneers, to which I burst out laughing.
We settle on a flowy rose gold sundress that displays a lot of my shoulders and even more of my legs. Merci says I have great skin and that I should show it off, and I have to take her word for it.
Before we head downstairs, I excuse myself to the bathroom and pop half of a Xanax. I’m jittery right now and I need to ease some of these nerves.
When I get to the kitchen, Merci is leaning against the island talking to my dad. As soon as she starts twirling her hair around her finger, I have to intervene.
“You need help with anything?” I ask my father, shooting my best friend a scathing glare to which she shrugs and smirks like the wicked little devil she is.
“Yea, can you bring this to Laz?” Dad hands me a tray of corn on the cob.
“Sure.” I breathe out slowly, lifting my brow at Merci as I ruffle my hair with the hand not holding the tray. She gives me a discreet thumbs up.
And I’m off. Strolling casually to the doors that lead to our patio, I step out of the refreshing central air conditioning and into the suffocating heat. It’s hot and humid as hell today, and I can’t wait for the sun to set so we can get some relief from this.
Fortunately, our barbecue enclosure is covered, so it blocks out the direct rays. Still, it’s much hotter by the grill, so as soon as I sidle up to Lazarus, I’m immediately sweating. I swear it’s the heat…
He doesn’t even look up when I arrive, which isn’t surprising. He simply continues to fiddle with the grill s
ettings, then places a steak down on the grate. Growing impatient, I clear my throat and hold out the tray of corn.
Lazarus glances at me for a moment, and then he looks again and actually sees me, filling my stomach with a warmth similar to that radiating off the grill we’re standing next to. His eyes scroll over me for a split second, barely even anything; no appreciation in his gaze. No lust or desire. None of the things I’d like to see there. Still, it’s more than I usually get and for that, I’m ecstatic with the dress choice.
“Do you, um, need help with anything?” My voice comes out fluttery, which is embarrassing, but I move past it.
Lazarus is focused on the meat he’s grilling, but his eyes do snap over to me for another brief second, before returning to his task. Then he grunts out a sound that I’ve come to learn means no, thank you in Lazarus Weston language.
Not wanting to leave his side yet, I shift on my toes, sifting my hair through my fingers.
“So… Evangelina,” I hum, tapping my nails on the counter next to the grill. “Where’d she come from?”
His lips quirk subtly. “Evangeline. She’s the daughter of a client.”
“Hm.” I keep tapping, waiting for the effects of my anti-anxiety medication so I don’t have to feel this way anymore.
I desperately want to ask if she’s his girlfriend, because I know he won’t lie to me, and he’ll tell me exactly what she is to him. But I’m also terrified to hear the answer. And it shouldn’t matter… It’s none of my business. Asking will make me look crazy and I can’t do that, not after trying to kiss him.
So instead I swallow my pride with my emotions and say, “Should I go show her around or something?”
Glancing across the backyard, I see Evangeline sitting at one of the cabanas, fully invested in her cell phone. When my eyes come back up to Lazarus, he’s staring at me. I’m startled by the unexpectedness of his gaze.
The shimmery gray irises bore down on me, and I don’t know what to say, think, or do. I just soak it up, because it doesn’t happen often, and I love the feeling of those eyes, even if he doesn’t look particularly happy at the moment.
