Filthy Beautiful Lies
Page 4
"Don’t," he says, his voice low.
I swallow and release the breath I’ve been holding, my shoulders relaxing and my body returning to its natural state. I stare straight ahead, meeting his eyes, unflinching, and not daring to look away. Something inside me feels rebellious and strong, even though I’m obviously the one in the weaker position right now.
"Take off your bra," he says next, his voice a rough growl.
My fingers reach behind my back and I release the clasp, my heart thundering against my ribcage as I let the bra fall away. My instinct is to cover my breasts yet again, shield myself from his view, but deciding it would be pointless and show how weak and helpless I feel, I let the bra drop to the floor between us. My nipples tighten in the cool night air, begging for attention. I’ve been wound tight ever since I’d sucked his cock, my panties slightly damp and my body aching and confused. I shouldn’t want this – I shouldn’t crave this moment between us, but knowing we’ve been building toward it all night only makes me want to see it through.
"The panties too, sweetness," he whispers roughly, his voice sending little darts of electricity flickering across my skin.
Sucking in a deep breath, I push my fingers into my panties, easing them down my hips and giving my bottom a little wiggle as they round my backside and drift to the floor.
His eyes are still locked on mine. He hasn’t looked down at my now completely naked body and something about his control unsettles me. I felt no such restraint when it came to perusing his body. My eyes had greedily soaked in every detail.
I never expected to be physically attracted to the man who purchased me, and I know it will only complicate things for me. It’s disheartening knowing I don’t have the same effect on him. Maybe he’s not impressed.
But finally, his eyes begin a slow descent, wandering down my body like we have all the time in the world, and his tongue wanders out to meet his bottom lip.
His gaze settles on my breasts. They feel so full and heavy they’re practically throbbing. Does he want me? I’m not sure why that matters to me, but suddenly I know that it does. My self-esteem has never been entirely robust, but it’s never been completely lacking either. Yet there’s something about standing nude before a rich, powerful, sinfully attractive man that makes me want to measure up.
Drake swallows, the bulge in his throat bobbing, before lowering his eyes to my bare juncture between my thighs. I want to press my legs together, but I remain steady. Heat zips through me as his gaze rises, glancing up to meet my eyes again. That’s it? He ordered me to strip just to look at me?
But then my gaze lowers and I see the long, thick erection rising in his pants. The only indication that he likes what he sees. Then why won’t you do something about it? The errant thought flashes through my brain, along with a catalog of erotic images – his full mouth at my throat, the feel of his large palms cupping my breasts as his thumbs move over the sensitive peaks. I would grip his solid arms, lay my head against his warm chest and come undone as his cock, that I know from experience is hot and hard, nudges restlessly at my center. A warm shiver races up my spine and I swallow down a helpless whimper.
"What do you like to sleep in?" he asks, his voice completely composed and unshaken.
"Usually a t-shirt and pajama pants," I say, digging my big toe into the plush carpeting.
He nods and heads for the closet, retrieving a gray t-shirt and a pair of cotton pants for me. They’re both a size large – but they’re soft and comfortable as I slide them over my overheated skin. I ball my discarded clothes into a pile and wonder where I’m supposed to put them. I have nothing here – no belongings, no sense of purpose and the realization is dizzying. I shouldn’t have been focused on tempting him with my curves. I needed to be clear-headed and figuring out how to survive in my new life.
Drake enters the bathroom and closes the door behind him, giving me a chance to wander the large suite uninterrupted. I pad across the floor toward the closet and realize that I’ve never felt carpeting so thick and soft before. It’s like it’s padded underneath with pillows of cotton. It’s heavenly. A slight smile curls on my lips. At least I’m able to find some silver lining in this crazy situation. I live in a freaking mansion. And besides, it could be a lot worse.
As I wander toward the closet, I can’t help but notice the faint scent of women’s perfume that clings to the interior of the bedroom. The scent is stale, but it’s still present. Lingering like a mystery. I wonder briefly who the perfume belonged to.
The large walk-in closet is bigger than my bedroom back home. One half is filled with designer suits in various shades of black, navy, gray and pinstripes, a rolodex of ties in every color hangs from one wall, neatly folded stacks of cotton shirts rest on built-in shelves along with various men’s items. A stray watch, a leather portfolio, cuff links, loose change. But the main thing that stands out to me is that one entire half of the closet has been emptied out – just a few loose padded hangers remain along with a red silk camisole dangling from one of them haphazardly.
I wonder what happened to the owner of the perfume and the camisole. He said I was his first sex slave, so perhaps she was an ex-girlfriend. My brain fills in the details, giving him the benefit of the doubt too much, I’m sure, but I imagine his failed romantic relationship is due to his vigorous work schedule and his closed off nature. Enter his need for someone like me. Regular sex without the commitment of an actual relationship. I push the useless theories from my head, knowing they won’t do me any good. I’m stuck here with him, regardless of his background and issues, and I have to make the best of it.
A big part of me wants to believe he’s a nice, normal guy who’s been through something tragic that pushed him into hiring a sex slave, but the truth is, I have no idea. He could be a crazed psycho with a penchant for too rough sex and kink I’ve never even imagined. Yay, me.
I stuff my wadded up clothes into an empty basket on the shelf of the closet and return to the bedroom. I grab my phone from my purse and sit down on the bed.
I send a quick text to my mom, and then Becca letting them both know I’ve decided to visit a friend in LA and will be out of town for a while. I know it’s low – letting them know through text message that I am essentially a runaway, but I hope they’ll understand. There’s too much pressure at home. Taking a spur of the minute vacation isn’t outside the realm of possibility. In fact, they’ll both probably be happy.
Becca’s text back is a smiley face, followed by a note that I should have a hot fling with a surfer and then tell her all the gory details. My mom’s return text simply asks when I’ll be home and I responded honestly – that I don’t know, but probably not for a while. It scares me to think about what could happen to Becca in the time I’m away. In the in the morning, I’ll let her know about the money.
The bathroom door opens and Drake is standing there expectantly. He’s dressed in just his black boxer shorts I got a peek at earlier and his body still has the ability to make my jaw unhinge, but I’m more prepared for it this time. I keep my expression neutral, even though I’ve never seen such sculpted pecs and an eight-pack outside of men’s fitness magazines. He is positively lickable.
I stuff my phone back in my purse and rise from the bed. I’m curious about the sleeping arrangements he’s envisioned. We’re in his master bedroom…so does that mean?
He pulls back the soft-looking white puffy down comforter and folds back the sheet. "Companionship is part of the deal for me. I don’t like sleeping alone," he says, as if reading my thoughts.
So the big bad CEO is afraid of the dark? A small part of me feels comforted by this fact – it makes him more human somehow. The bed is plenty big enough to accommodate us both and if I’d been locked in a room of my own all night, I would crumble into a sobbing hysterical mess as the gravity of my new living situation hit me. Being near him means I have to keep my carefully crafted mask in place. Besides, I’m used to sharing a bedroom with Becca since we were infant
I crawl into the far side of the bed and curl into a tight ball, praying for sleep to come easy.
"No fuckin’ way," he grunts. "Over here, sweetness."
I exhale slowly and slide my body closer to his, keeping my back to him, only stopping when the firm wall of male warmth stops me. He wraps one heavy arm around my middle and tugs me close – until my back is pressed against his chest. My heart kicks up speed in my chest. There’s something about this close, intimate contact that unravels me. Although I’m used to sharing a bedroom with Becca, I’m certainly not accustomed to spooning with a man all night long. Let alone one I hardly know who’s already turned me into a puddle of hormones. Geez.
His rough hand settles against my bare hip and my breathing instantly falters. His fingers splay open across my abdomen, lightly caressing me. My muscles stiffen as I wait for his hand to push between my legs, taking what I’ve kept guarded most of my life.
"Relax," he encourages, his voice whispery soft and sleepy. "Nothing more will happen tonight." He continues rubbing me – my hip, the indent of my belly, the top of my thigh, almost like he’s testing me, training me to be comfortable with him The warmth of his breath against my hair and his hand lightly caressing my skin make it tough to relax, but eventually I do, growing accustomed to the new sensations. My eyes slip closed and I enjoy the soothing touch he’s delivering before drifting off to sleep.
Chapter Four
Sophie
I’m not sure what I expected, but the following morning when I roll over in the gigantic bed, Drake is already gone. The crinkled white Egyptian cotton sheets are the only bit of evidence he’d been there at all. He was a good sleeping companion. Quiet and true to his word – he didn’t try anything with me.
I stretch leisurely and take my time rolling from the bed. In the opulent bathroom, I debate taking a shower – I’m dying to use the luxurious steam shower with its six shower heads, but decide instead to make it brief in case Drake is expecting me downstairs.
After smoothing my hair down in the mirror, I wander downstairs in search of coffee. The house is completely silent. As I pass by room after room on my way to kitchen, it feels like I’m walking through a museum.
Drake is sitting at the breakfast bar, leaning over his iPad with a cup of steaming espresso sitting nearby.
"Morning," I say.
His gaze lifts up to meet mine, his mouth tugged down in a frown. I feel like I’m interrupting him. He taps a few more keys on his tablet and then glances up again, his frown now absent. "Morning."
"Is there coffee?" He said I should make myself at home, and so I try to fight off the feeling that I should retreat to a dark corner of the house and stop interrupting him.
He tips his head to the elaborate stainless steel brewing system installed into one wall. That is not a coffee pot. It could very well be a time machine for all I know. "My staff – the housekeepers and cook have all been made aware of your presence here. They think you’re a friend who’s staying with me. So if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Marta’s my favorite. You can trust her, okay?"
I nod. "So, what’s our story? About how I know you."
A crease permeates his brow as he thinks it over. "You’re the younger sister of a college friend of mine. You’re in LA trying to make it as a model and I offered you a place to stay until you get a job. How does that sound?"
"A model?" Me? I glance down at myself and nearly roll my eyes. I don’t have the height or weight requirements to be a model. "Let’s make our story at least somewhat believable."
"Yes. A model. And it is believable."
I chew on my lower lip, internalizing this information at how he views me. "Okay." Whatever. "Does this brother of mine have a name?"
He thinks it over. "Anthony."
"I’m not Italian."
"Fine, John."
"Where did you and John go to college?"
"Harvard," he says without batting an eyelash.
Wow. Impressive. I guess the multi-million dollar home sitting directly on the beach in Malibu and the running two companies thing makes sense. He has a top notch education. He’s smart, powerful, and sexy. Altogether, a lethal combination. I still don’t understand how he’s single. "Are you from the east coast originally?" I ask.
He nods. "Connecticut."
Just then, the doorbell rings – it’s an obnoxious chime that goes on for what seems like forever. My eyes flick over to his. "Are you expecting someone?"
He sets the porcelain espresso cup down on the counter. "I guess it’s a good thing we came up with that story," he says, then heads off to answer the door.
What the hell? I’m standing in his kitchen wearing the baggy T-shirt he gave me last night, no bra, and paper thin cotton pants without any panties, and apparently I’m about to meet someone from his life. Perfect.
Seconds later, Drake reenters the kitchen, flanked by two men who share his same features. The resemblance is uncanny. My first thought is: there are three of him?
It’s overwhelming to have them all in the same room, all of their brilliant blue eyes watching me.
"Who’s this?" One of the Drake look-alikes asks with a cocky grin. His eyes are devouring me and his mouth is curved up in a crooked smile. He looks to be a few years younger than Drake, which makes me realize for the first time that Drake must have a couple of years on me.
"Sophie, these are my brothers." He points to the cocky-grinned younger version of himself. "Pace." And then to the slightly taller version with kind eyes, "And Collins."
"Hello." I tug at the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing, all too aware of my braless state. Shit, and I’m sure my hair’s a wicked wreck too. "It’s nice to meet you."
"Last night’s conquest is still here?" Pace’s mouth tugs up in another of those uneven grins I’m already coming to love.
"Sophie is John’s youngest sister."
"John?" They both ask in unison.
Here we go. Time to test the story.
"John – from Harvard. He was one of Derek’s buddies."
Both brothers nod like this makes perfect sense. I suppose there are a lot of Johns at Harvard, and since they have no reason to doubt him, they quickly accept the story. I breathe a little sigh of relief while Drake finishes explaining that I’ve just moved to LA and I’m looking for a modeling job, so he offered me a place to stay since he has like fifteen empty bedrooms.
"Where are you from originally?" Collins asks.
"Boston," I blurt without thinking. That’s where Harvard is, but I wince realizing I’m completely missing the telltale Boston accent. Nice, Sophie.
"So you guys aren’t, like, an item, then?" Pace presses on. He eyes my ensemble – it’s obvious I’ve slept in Drake’s clothes.
"No," Drake answers without offering anything further.
"The airline lost my luggage," I explain, gesturing to my outfit.
"Bastards." Pace grins at me again.
"I’m Collins. It’s good to meet you." The eldest of the three extends his hand to mine and gives it a warm shake, his large hand completely enclosing my own palm. His blue eyes crinkle in the corners and seem to see too much – it’s the same feeling I get looking directly into Drake’s eyes.
"You too."
"Ignore these two idiots. Welcome to the City of Angeles. If you need anything – please let me know," he says.
"Isn’t Tatianna a model, bro?" Pace looks at Collins and asks.
"Who?" Collins’ eyes still haven’t wandered from mine.
"Your girlfriend," Pace reminds him. "Your very committed, live-in girlfriend."
Drake almost chokes on his laughter.
"Right. Yes, that’s what I meant." Collins straightens his shoulders. "If you need anything while you’re here and trying to get established, let me know, and I’ll see if I can help."
Pace and Drake are both chuckling at their older brother. Watching them interact, I can see they’re a close-knit family and I immediately miss Becca. Although it’s been a while since she and I could just have fun and joke around so carefree like this. Lately there’s been too many hospitals, too much stress, and too many bills to even remember how to laugh, let alone breathe.
"Thank you, I will let you know." I tip my head to the floor. My desire for coffee is gone, all I want to do is flee this kitchen and these three big men who are all watching me closely. I want to take a shower – put on a damn bra and get dressed.
"What the fuck, Coco, don’t you have anything of Stella’s she could put on until the airline finds her luggage?" Pace questions, throwing a mock punch toward Drake.
The glare Drake shoots him is akin to an atomic bomb going off in the kitchen. Note to self: Do not anger Drake, or Coco… or whatever his name is.
Whoever she is, Drake’s body language screams that the name Stella should not be mentioned in his presence. Of course, this only makes me more curious.
"I’ll call Marta," Drake says, rather than answering the direct question.
"On her one day off?" Collins raises an eyebrow.
I watch their exchange in fascination, I get the sense there is so much not being said that I need a translator just to keep up.
Drake turns to face me, his expression softening. "Go upstairs and shower if you like. I can give you fresh clothes to change into until Marta can get here. I forgot that I have plans to go golfing with my brothers today. But she’ll take you shopping and get you everything you need. Until your luggage arrives," he adds, giving me a smirk.
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