by jm blake
My eyebrows raise, and I try desperately to rein in my amusement. “First, what?” Her beautiful eyes roll back and she crosses her arms across her chest. “You know what I mean, and you’d better not say that hussy Niamh, either”
I can’t catch the laugh that erupts from my mouth. “What did Niamh ever do to you?” I try to pull her against me, but she resists, scooting all the way over to the door of the car.
“She’s just no good, ok? So, who was it?” I don’t think informing her that Niamh is still calling me for a bit of seeing to will help much.
“It wasn’t her,” her face relaxes, and my lips quiver. “It was her cousin Milly and …” Her outraged shriek fills the car, and even Clayton can’t hold back his chuckles.
“That whole family is a menace.” I lean over to bite her pouty lips and laugh against her mouth. “Wait, what do you mean ‘and’? There was more than one?” Her voice gets louder with every word, my stomach hurting from the hilarity— I can’t even hear her over the sound of my laughter. “Pack it in, Doctor” I bite her again as she continues muttering.
“…I should have known. At least my first time was with only one guy. Jamie was great about it and…” That stops my amusement in its tracks. I slap my hand over her mouth and growl. “I do not want to hear about you and your first time with Jeffrey.”
“Jamie.”
“Sorry. Jessup.”
“Jamie! J.A.M.I.E!”
“Right. Jasper.”
“Ayden!”
* * *
“When you aren’t in the city, where do you live?”
I’m thoughtful for a moment. “I have a country house outside of London- that’s my main dwelling. I’m not there as much as I like; however, I do try to make it out there at least twice a month. I also have a lodge in Scotland and a smaller house in Provencê. And a few more around the Continent.” I smooth the wrinkle that’s creasing between her fine, dark brows. “What’s this face?”
Her straight nose scrunches up, and she shrugs. “Why does one person need so many houses? How do you even keep up with them? I only have one little house, and I feel like I’m rattling around in there.” She makes a funny little shimmy with her shoulders. I chuckle.
“I have a house manager that takes care of everything for me- and I have a myriad of cousins and distant relations. There is always someone, somewhere at one of my homes. I also inherited a gaggle of properties, so mostly I keep them for Bash’s future children.”
She nods slowly, and eventually, a smile dances across her lips. “I hope his kids wreak havoc on you. Muss up your houses, steal your clothes, write on the walls— just a complete circus.” Her smile turns into tinkling laughter when my face stretches in terror. A nightmarish vision of a dozen mini-versions of my brother tearing through my houses with sticky fingers and runny noses - touching my artwork and jumping on my custom mattress. I gulp, and she laughs even harder.
“Oh yeah, baby. You are in for it.”
* * *
“Fucking hell, Cassidy. Let me come, please.” She’s been driving me further and further to a climax, only to draw back whenever I get close. I lean slightly to my right to take in the sublime view of her cherry arse swaying in the air, only to have a sharp spike of pleasure slam into my chest. My back arches off the bed, and a hot sweat breaks out on my skin.
“Holy fuck, what was that?” A throaty chuckle drifts up, and her lips pop off with a loud smack.
“I researched ways to bring men to an intense orgasm. That little button push was top of the list. Liked it, huh?” Her smug voice brings a laugh to my throat, along with a long groan as her hands continue their twisting motion.
“This is what I get for being with a genius. Love, please…” I’ve given up all pretense of control and resort to begging. Her mouth spreads in a devilish grin before she dips her head again. My full length disappears down her throat in a slow single motion, her hands sliding to cup my sac. That’s all it takes. The fire streaks up my spine, and I cry out loudly. Thick spurts erupt, and the wicked girl swallows each drop with a low moan. She eases me out of her mouth, and sits up, a picture of triumph. I, on the other hand, am a manky ball of mess- I can barely open my eyes, and my arms are thrown to my sides like a fallen angel.
She drops next to me, head propped up on her hand. I peek over at her and snort, rather rudely. Her unreal face is a mixture of pride and curiosity. “What is it?’
“How come you have that apartment at the hotel if you have a whole townhouse a few miles away?”
Ouch. Talk about timing. I consider my words carefully. “I don’t always like to take, erm, dates to my home. This is my private space, and I need to trust whomever I bring here. That apartment is a nice alternative.” Please God, let her drop it. I take another peek at her and see that the curiosity has been replaced by proper skepticism.
“So it’s your fuck pad, then?”
“Cassidy!” Dammit.
“I’m just saying. You gotta the whole house here, and a ‘fully-equipped’ sex palace a few miles away.” Her one free hand drops two fingers in an air quote. “I guess I should feel special that I got to the real house,” her voice changes into some odd American accent. “That explains the drawer.” Those lips twist into an annoyed frown.
My own mouth hasn’t closed in a full minute. “What drawer?” She huffs and flops back on the pillow, eyes glaring at the ceiling. “You’ve got a drawer in the bathroom full of fifty shades of dirty. Vibrators and butt stuff. I saw it when I got up to pee.”
Sweet fucking Christ. I have no answer for that. I lead a colorful life, and it’s the first time I’m ashamed of it. “I’m sorry you saw those things.” And I am. I can only imagine what went through her mind- a one-night stand that sweeps her off her feet with a box full of kink. “Is that why you left?” I wince at the thought, and a guilty flush sweeps her face.
“Ummmmm. Yes?” She yanks the duvet until it covers her face, and I wrestle to pull it back down. “What’s that mean? Tell me the truth, Cass.” She pouts and sighs deeply, muttering something quickly. Her teeth dig at her bottom lip, and I reach out to halt the violence. “Say again?”
She flails her hands around in the air, covering her face before finally blurting it out with a loud rush. “I thought maybe you were a hooker. You know. A gigolo or whatever. I was worried I was going to have to pay you or something.” She glances at me through her fingers, and I just stare blankly.
“You mean you thought I was going to spring out of bed and present you with a bill? ‘Hullo, ma’am. Please swipe your card here, we prefer American Express’.” She shrugs in abject embarrassment, and I laugh. A loud, rough laugh that rumbles from my toes, I laugh and laugh some more. “Of all things you could have said…” I laugh harder and hear her sugary giggles joining in. I pull her close to me and hold her while I settle down. “Let me make it up to you.” Her lovely eyes look up at me, and I brush her sweeping lashes with a forefinger. “How much cash have you got?”
“Ayden!!”
* * *
“Do you want some more?” My tone reeks of sarcasm, and judging by the way she rolls her eyes; she’s picked up on it. Her cheeks are furiously moving with each chew, and I hand over her third glass of milk. After a long gulp and a discreet pounding on her chest, she beams at me. “Those were the most delicious things I have ever tasted. Jaffa cakes for the win.”
“More than the beef bourguignon we ate for dinner last night?” Her smile dims a bit, and she begins tapping her plump bottom lip with a finger.
“More delicious than the Tartufo that you stole from Pat?” The tapping intensifies. Pat and the two of us went out for dinner a few nights ago. It took three bites for her to finish her portion, and one giant, dimpled smile to snatch my V.P’s plate from under him. I didn’t even attempt to take a forkful of mine—I just handed it straight over.
“You like them better than the full English breakfast you have had for three days straight?” The tapping has turned i
nto full-on lip-pulling with a frown. “Ok, maybe equal to those things. Definitely the most delicious thing I’ve eaten today.” She starts to get up to take the empty plate and glass into the kitchen, and I pull her at the waist until she is sitting on my lap. I lean in and whisper in her ear.
“It’s only noon.”
Bash
I love my brother.
I know that it seems as if I go out of my way to be an arsehole to him, but what are little brothers for? It’s surely scribed into our DNA that we must torture and annoy our older siblings daily. See? It’s genetic. I admit that there are days when I wake up with a snarky comment ready and a plan of how to get under his skin, but at least it’s not every day. Right? I admire him as a person, and someone has to shake that stick out of his arse. Why not me?
I’ve grown up watching Ayden shoulder a tremendous amount of responsibility, both from a familial standpoint and from a business one. He has always had a fierce sense of ambition even when we were younger (hence the short-lived Scouts thing). He was never satisfied living off of our ridiculously sizeable trust- he always wanted to create a space of his own. Ayden started DevCo with a lot of determination and good intentions, and it has grown into an eco-powerhouse. He even carved out a space for lil ol’ me, and I’m having the time of my life watching him rule an empire.
Everything always seems to come quickly to him, and if I was a different type of man, I might be a wee bit envious. Looks, breeding, success. Women.
So that’s what I wanted to talk to you about—the women part. Look, Ayden is what some people would call ‘a ladies man.’ Under their breath, they may use ‘manwhore,’ but hey, that’s just the jealous ones. Ever since he started puberty, birds have been flocking around him. There is an untouchable arrogance about him, a challenge that swirls in his eyes. Women can’t help but attempt to tame him, even though there is a ninety-nine point nine percent chance that he will fuck them into unconsciousness (or tooth loss- poor gel) and then never speak to them again. They all know this, but every single one of them thinks that they will be the exception. Sometimes I wish that I could flash a warning sign, a “dangerous turn ahead” signal, to stave off some of heartbreak and disappointment. He has vowed never to marry, or produce offspring, no matter what tradition dictates. It’s not a secret that any children I may have will be his sole heirs, much to my mum and grandpop’s dismay.
The rags fill pages and pages with his exploits; musings about possible past partners, salacious gossip about his “sexual abilities”- picture upon picture of his handsome mug, almost all candid stalker-like shots. He has a steadfast rule about social media (he has none), dealing with the paps (he never does), and allowing interviews to skew personal (not going to happen). He has been voted “Europe’s Best Dressed” five years in a row, yet refuses to pose for any magazines or acknowledge the honor. He’s brilliant with it, and everything that is ever written about him can be chalked up to speculation. He never indulges in it, and never pays attention, and unless it could potentially have an adverse effect on DevCo, never cares about it.
Until one little picture popped up in one of the most famous tabloids in London, this past weekend.
I was minding my business at a friend’s house (okay, a woman I picked up the night before, but I AM going to call her again. Probably.) when she asked me if my brother had finally found a girlfriend. My first instinct was to ask her how she knew who my brother was, -though that would be a stupid question- before she slid the paper under my nose. Buried on page three was a small photo of Ayden in a ball cap (we will get back to that in a minute), and a petite dark-haired woman. Her face was turned away, but you got a good shot of his, smiling with his arms wrapped around her. They were standing outside of a shop I know is near his townhouse, and the caption read: “Has The Famous Philanderer Found Love?” There was a short paragraph about his reputation and rampant speculation about who the mystery woman could be.
I pushed the paper back toward Meg, er, Maggie, and told her that the picture was old nonsense. As soon as her back was turned, I snatched my phone and typed out a teasing text.
Hottest Bloke: Does Mummy know about the wedding?
Most Miserable Bloke: What are you talking about, Puddock?
The use of his nickname for me made me grin.
Hottest Bloke: You are on page three of The Targeted. Lovely cap, by the way.
Most Miserable Bloke: That rag? Not interested.
Hottest Bloke: I hope Cassidy doesn’t mind. She strikes me as a private type.
About three seconds went by.
Most Miserable Bloke: What do you mean, Cassidy? There is a photo of her???
Hottest Bloke: Yep
My phone vibrated instantly, and I connected after I let it go for a few rings. Let him sweat a bit. “Hullo?”
“Sebastian, please tell me you are fucking joking.” First, his use of my full name, and then the harsh tone? This is too good.
“Quite serious, old man. There’s a smart little photo of the two of you outside of Lyric’s Cafe. Since when do you wear caps? And I do believe you are in a hooded jumper? Were you ill?” I tried to make my voice as dry as possible. There is dead silence and then an extremely irritated huff.
“No, I was not ill. We had just gotten up, and Cassidy wanted a pastry. I wasn’t thinking about my attire. And the cap is Cassidy’s, she asked me to wear it.” I can hear the impatient tap of him composing a message. “I just contacted Hugo from legal and told him I want an immediate takedown of that picture. And I want the rights to the photos, then for him to destroy them. I will not have her drug into this circus. She has a flawless reputation- I will make sure it stays that way.”
A normal, functioning adult would applaud his fierce protectiveness and agree with his reasoning. A good brother would jump on the train and ride off to the battle, shield and sword in hand.
And then there’s me.
“Well, well. Could it be that my wee baby brother Ayden got himself into a trap? First, she has you dressing like a plebeian, and now you are going all knight in shining armor? I never thought I would see the day. I think a call to Mum is on the docket,” I drawl.
“If you value your life, you will refrain from that ridiculous notion. And if you even attempt to dial-up Mum, I will obliterate you. Full stop. And furthermore, you fucking ape, I am your older brother. I haven’t been someone’s baby in many years.” I hear the low sound of Cassidy’s voice, as he muffles the phone to answer her. Her quiet laugh tickles me, and his tone immediately changes.
“Bash, I need to go. Speak soon.” He abruptly hangs up, and I sit back, smiling. I turn toward, erm, Mary, batting my eyelashes.
“Darling, I have a family engagement. Do I have your number?” I hold out my phone and allow her to program it. I glance down at Claire’s number (I was way off) and trot off to get dressed. I kiss her lips absently and tweak a pert nipple on my out of the door. My Jaguar is parked just outside her door, and in the daylight, her neighborhood is a bit dodgy. Ayden’s townhouse isn’t that far, and if I time it just right, I can catch him before things get too interesting for him. I speed off, not even minding the limit.
Ayden’s doorman knows me well, and he accepts the keys to my car, tipping his hat. I take the short elevator ride to the top floor and briefly contemplate using my key. If I happen to catch Cassidy in any kind of compromised position, Ayden is liable to have my head. So just to be safe, I knocked on the door. I heard a brief, scuffled sound and then knocked again. The door swung open, and standing there in a pair of tight black leggings and a loose men’s vest looking positively gorgeous was Dr. C. Michael Masters. I gave her a big shit-eating grin and gently moved past her.
“Was there a meeting that I forgot about? Let me check my calendar.” I made a show out of pulling out my phone, and the goddess behind me snorted. “Ayden, you owe me ten pounds.” She closed the door behind me and jabbed me lightly in the ribs. “I bet him that you would show up this morning.” Her bare fee
t make tiny slapping noises against the Moroccan foyer tile.
