by Holly Hart
“Nobody gave a fuck that you died.”
I push my chair back, smiling. “Right. Well. Enjoy life in prison.”
“Wait! You can’t—”
The receiver makes a satisfying click as I set it in the cradle.
Behind me, Neil howls with rage. I can hear him bashing his phone against the glass, but I don’t look back. I’m done, and so is he. I’ll get him a good lawyer. Make sure he avoids the death penalty. After that, well... I’ll never think of him again.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lily
Brandon’s penthouse is nothing like I expected. I was picturing a lot of beige and glass and metal, about as inviting as an IKEA showroom, but this place is comfortable. Homelike. A lot of the furniture looks like it was passed down from his parents, maybe his grandparents: refinished, reupholstered, well-loved. “This is where you live?”
“I’m not really here much, but...yeah.” He looks around like he’s forgotten where everything is.
“I love it. It’s...you.”
Brandon sinks into a soft red sofa, pulling me into his lap. “So if you love it, and it’s me... Does that mean you love me?” He’s smiling, but there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes, and I find I can’t look away.
“Would it be too soon to say I do?”
“I could say it first.” He leans in and kisses my forehead, my eyes, my lips. “Because it’s true. These last three weeks have been the worst of my life. But when I look back, it’s you I think of: paddling that rowboat, kicking ass at laser tag, taking care of me after my great escape. I’d live it all again, over and over, just to get to those moments. And I want a million more of them. And I love you.”
My heart swells, overwhelmed. “I—I think I’ve known I could love you since our first date. When you hugged me, outside the hotel.” I throw my arms around him and whisper the rest into his shoulder. “And now I’m sure. You’re everything I want. And I love you, too. Sir.”
“Mm....” He holds me a little tighter, hands firm on my hips. “You call me that. But I’d do anything for you.” Brandon’s leaning over me, bearing me down to the cushions. It’s intoxicating, basking in his full attention: that smile on his lips; that glint in his warm, dark eyes—all for me. “Oh, I could just....”
“What?”
“Everything.” He hooks one finger under the hem of my skirt, dragging it up my thigh. “Tease you with ice and hot wax till you beg me to soothe you with my tongue. Pierce two lines of steel rings down your back, shoulderblades to waist, and lace up your skin like a corset. Tie you to the bed and show you how good I can make you feel with my lips and a riding crop. I’m ravenous for you.”
“That last one.”
“Hm?” He stretches my garter and lets it go with a snap. “Didn’t quite catch that....”
“That last one. With the riding crop. That’s what I want. Please.”
“Eager.” He kisses the swell of my thigh, where the skin’s still pink and stinging. “Lucky for you, so am I.” His warm breath’s driving me insane, tickling me just right. “You have no idea how much I wanted to pull the blanket over you on the plane, slip my hand under here—” One finger trails down the front of my panties, stopping just short of my clit. “—see what I could get away with, under that air marshal’s nose.”
I shiver and try not to arch into his touch. “And if I forgot myself—a gasp? A sigh?”
“I’d have stroked your hair nice and soft, like you had a headache...turned your head to the window...and slipped a lemon slice between those pretty white teeth. Something bitter, to remind you to be sweet.” He pushes my panties aside and flutters his tongue between my lips, just for a moment. “And then—then, I’d have kept you on the edge till nothing on earth could hold your tongue.”
“Sadist....”
“My name on your lips, loud enough they’d hear it in coach.”
“Oh....”
“Come on, then.” Brandon scoops me up without effort. I cling to him, reveling in his strength: his steady heartbeat; the ripple of muscle under his shirt. He tosses me on the bed, following me down in one smooth motion. Pinning me. Overpowering me. I rise to meet him, desperate for his lips on mine.
He kisses me like we haven’t seen each other for years, one hand cradling my head, the other unlacing the front of my dress. I hiss as he cups my breast, the rough lace of my bra brushing my nipple. I need more, more, but he’s determined to make me wait for it, moving with easy deliberation, a touch here, a nip there, till I’m tearing at his clothes, locking my legs around his waist, anything to feel him closer.
At last, he lifts me to the pillows, bracing my back against the headboard. He spreads my arms wide. “Grip the bedposts.”
I do it, and then he’s binding me in place with infinite care, loop after loop of soft silk rope around each wrist, and then my ankles. Even as he’s lashing me to the bed, I find myself trying to reach for him. He soothes me with kisses across my knuckles, whispered words of praise. The low rumble of his voice only fans my fire.
The smart of his crop catches me unawares: he must’ve taken advantage of my distraction to lay hands on it. I yelp as the leather bites the sole of my foot, more startled by the sound than by the pain. He runs the tip along my arch, light and ticklish, only to snap it up at the last second, slapping the sensitive tips of my toes. I press my lips together: it seems wanton to moan for him so easily.
Keeping quiet soon becomes impossible: it’s astounding, the sheer variety of sensations he can wring from me with such a simple instrument. Harsh smacks alternate with playful swats as he works his way up my legs, to my sensitive inner thighs. The bed frame rattles as I jerk forward in my restraints, only to fall back on the pillows. As promised, he follows the crop with his lips. I melt for the coolness of his breath on my reddened skin, for the teasing flick of his tongue.
“This what you like?” His teeth nip at the crest of my hip.
“Yes....”
The crop swings again, crisscrossing pink marks across my belly. “This?”
“Yes.”
He slides the leather tip between my thighs. A quick twitch of his wrist, and an electric thrill races through me at the barest of taps on my clit. “And this?”
“Yes!”
“Perfect...just perfect.”
A tremor races through me at the teasing puff of his breath, and an instant later, he’s lapping at my slit. He abandons the crop and thrusts two fingers inside me. This time, I can’t keep quiet. Don’t want to. I moan for him. Jerk my hips. Tug against my restraints, trying to close my thighs around his face. He chuckles and rests his forearm across my hips, holding me in place.
Only when I’m hovering on the brink does he pull away, leaving me taut and panting. I toss my head and strain in my bonds. Brandon slaps me, bare-handed, across the hip.
“Behave.”
He’s got me right where he wants me. I watch, aching, as he unbuckles his belt. He unbuttons his fly, slow and teasing. A wicked smile curls his lip as he takes himself in hand.
I want him now. “Come over here....”
He cocks his head. Tightens his hand on his shaft. I can’t look away.
“Please....”
He trails the backs of his fingers up my leg, over my hip, across my stomach. I shiver for him. Murmur his name.
“You look so good like this.” Brandon kisses the swell of my breast, still pink from the kiss of his crop. “All mine. In my bed.”
“And you...you’re a tease!”
He raises a brow. “That’s how you talk to your Master?”
“When he keeps himself way over there....” I scrabble at my bindings. “Come up here and fuck my mouth.”
That gets a reaction out of him. His hand stills as a shiver courses through him. I want to seize him by the tie and reel him in. Curl the ends of his belt around my hands to keep him from getting away. Swallow him as deep as I dare.
“You do have a nice mouth....” He straddles my chest
, one hand on the wall, the other guiding his cock between my lips. It’s silky on my tongue, thick and salty-tasting. I tilt my head back to take his length. Now it’s his turn to lose control. I feel him throb, hear him groan. His fingers tighten in my hair, guiding my head to just the right angle. The sounds he’s making are driving me wild...those feral growls and hisses, the way he snarls my name. He pulls my hair, digs his short nails into my scalp. Slaps my face with his cock, leaving a slick streak across my cheek. And the way he’s looking at me, those rich brown eyes black with lust... I could almost come untouched.
The second the thought crosses my mind, he pulls out, gasping. I lean forward, all hunger, but he holds himself out of my reach.
“Oh—!”
Brandon smiles, running his thumb across my lower lip. “Relax... I’m done teasing.” He pulls out a condom and rolls it on, gaze never leaving mine. “Shall I untie you first?”
“No!—no; don’t wait!”
I sigh in satisfaction as he thrusts inside. His lips capture mine; his hands roam my body, exploring the fading pink marks. My nails score his wallpaper as my pleasure crests, and crests again. If he notices, he doesn’t care: his eyes flutter closed, and he dips his head to nuzzle at my neck. He’s mumbling something—something I can’t make out, and it doesn’t matter. I abandon myself to the moment as his cock throbs and pulses inside me.
He’s already setting me free as I come down from my high. I flex my hands, and find he bound me so expertly there’s no tingle of returning circulation. The rope’s left a faint impression on my skin, delicate coils spiraling down my wrists. Brandon thumbs at them, smoothing out the lines. He gathers me into his arms, and we curl into the pillows and each other. Outside, it starts to rain, a light spring drizzle.
“Mm...even the weather’s welcoming me home.”
I stretch out against him. “I like it. Good weather for...this.” A stray thought crosses my mind. “One question, though—why does it smell like apple pie in here?”
Brandon laughs. “I don’t know. It just always does. Think it might be the bakery downstairs. Like, it comes in through the vents, or something. Been that way since I moved in.” He steals a lazy kiss. I kiss him back, hoping it rains forever.
48
Epilogue
Brandon
Lily’s never looked so radiant, all in blue and white, golden hair cascading over her shoulders. And my choker, as always, glittering at her throat. I have a matching piece for her, and tonight’s the night. After the concert. If we can keep our hands off each other long enough to broach the subject.
I’ve seen this show nine times in nine different cities, and it never gets old. Lily comes alive under the lights. Sings her heart out every time. Even in London, when that skinhead rushed the stage and trashed her guitar, she borrowed Jed’s and kept going. Brave and defiant, no matter what.
They’re going into Brightsky, now, always their big finish. Still gives me the strangest feeling, hearing her sing that. Like being back in college and above the clouds, and falling in love with her all over again. All at the same time. The crowd’s on their feet, and I’m right there with them, swaying to the beat like a teenager. My heart’s already pounding, my blood singing in my ears. Can’t wait to find her dressing room, have her to myself.
It’s been fun, lining up our schedules these last six months. Wouldn’t trade the memories for anything: stolen moments behind a club in Vienna, on a deserted soundstage in Rome—but she’s home now, and for the rest of the year. Mine at last. And I’ll have all the time in the world for her, with the last of Neil’s mess cleaned up, and everything running smoothly.
The music dies away on a lingering electronic scream, drowned out by the roar of the audience. I slip out before the rush for the exits gets underway, threading my way backstage.
Lily’s at her mirror, plucking strands of shining jewels out of her hair. I step up to help her, undoing the sparkling clasps one after another.
“Thanks. I swear, I always find one of these things still clinging, in the shower.”
“Not this time.” I comb my fingers through her hair: nothing but soft, pale strands. “Did find this, though.” My breath catches in my throat as she turns to look.
“It’s....” She reaches for the ring—sapphires and diamonds, to match her choker—and hesitates just shy of taking it. “Put it on for me.”
I smile, toying with her ring finger. “It comes with a question, you know.”
“One you know the answer to.” Lily’s trying to act tough, but she’s smiling, too. Holding out her hand. I slip the ring on her finger: a perfect fit.
“I don’t want to wait.” I pull her close. She’s warm from the stage lights, smelling faintly of smoke and some sharp chemical. Her pulse is still racing; I can feel her excitement. “The twelfth of next month marks a year since we met. We should do it then. Get married.” Just saying the words sends a thrill down my spine.
“Everyone’s already here—it’ll be perfect.” Lily takes hold of my tie in that possessive way she has. “I knew you’d ask tonight.”
“Mark ratted me out?”
“No.” She pushes my hair out of my eyes, kisses the tip of my nose. “I wanted you to. So I knew you would.” Her eyes are shining in the mellow light. “This whole year’s been...better than a dream. Everything I wanted, and I don’t even have to wake up at the end.”
“Put that in your vows. No—in a song.”
“Not a bad idea. Better than a Dream—think it’ll top Brightsky?”
For me, nothing’ll top Brightsky, ever. It’s Lily, herself, to me. Still.... “It’ll go platinum for sure.”
“Sentimental fool.” She kisses me again, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. She probably does.
Out in the hall, I can hear the rest of the band—Jed and Adina, Mark and Jake, chattering happily. Any second, they’re going to swarm in here, demanding to see the ring—like they haven’t all seen it before. I sneak one last tight hug before they can. A stray string of beads slithers down my shirt and gets lost in my pocket: guess I did miss one.
“The rest of our lives,” she whispers.
The door bursts open.
Hand in hand, we turn to face the music.
Part I
The Deal
Three billionaires.
A dark secret.
And one rule: Don't fall in love.
The Deal. We made it to keep us safe.
We agreed never to marry, never to let a woman close enough to find out what we did.
But men get urges.
We need the touch of a woman. The smell. The taste.
So we found a solution.
We decided to share.
We picked three women, to spend a year with each of us in turn.
And then live the rest of their lives in luxury.
It worked for years. It protected us.
Until Stella.
There’s something intoxicating about her.
Her curves. The way she arches beneath me.
I'm addicted.
I don’t want to share. Not this time. Not her.
So I won’t.
But Stella has a secret, too. One that wasn't part of the deal.
And now my former partners are coming to seek revenge.
But I'll risk everything to save our family.
I lived my life by one rule. It's time to break it.
Chapter One
Stella
I toss my gym bag in the corner and peel off my sweaty top and sports bra in one. Time to get into character. Countess BeeBee never breaks a sweat, any more than the pampered maltipoo she’s named for.
We dreamt up a whole life for her—me and Jen and Asha—over lattes and tiramisu, the day I came up with Countess BeeBee’s Bee-Lieve It Or Not. She’s up at the crack of noon, downing mimosas in the bath till one. Two to five is champagne brunch; five to seven’s mani-pedi time. Then, it’s party, party, party, till dawn sweeps the glitterat
i away. She drinks like a fish, eats nothing but chocolate and foie gras, and somehow weighs ninety-five pounds. Thinks food stamps are edible postage. Dyes her dog to match her outfit. Owns a Segway. She’s Marie Antoinette, New York edition.
I can’t afford the arsenal of lotions and gels the Countess would use, or spare an entire hour for a bath, but I spice up my shower with a foamy, bougainvillea-scented body wash that reminds me of home. Afterwards, I slip into my other indulgence: a sinfully fluffy robe that cost me a month’s coffee money. A glass of sparkling water, BeeBee’s Favorites on my iPod, and it’s time.
My browser’s already open to Wordpress. I open a new entry and hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys.
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
I sip my water, frown, and backspace over that. BeeBee’s a dirty girl. She’d say something more like...more like—
The Three Booty-aires: Good Things Cum in Threes?
Yeah. Straight to the point.
I keep typing. It’s getting downright easy to slide into the zone.
Klara Dunston. Shazia Khatri. Anne Sherman. What do these three wannabe socialites have in common, besides tragic hair, man-hands, and, ahem...problems walking in heels?
Picture time: I drag in a photo of Shazia stumbling on the red carpet during Fashion Week, arms flailing, chunky necklace smacking her in the face. Caption: Have a nice trip! See ya next fall!
I hit up Facebook next, in search of dumb middle names, wardrobe disasters—anything I can mock without stooping too low. And there it is, under “home town”—
Well, they all burst onto the scene out of literally NOWHERE (Medicine Hat, Anne? Is that even a place?), they’ve all been spotted clutching limited edition Birkins (like, what!?!?!?!? HOW!?!?!?!?), and they’ve all banged the same three billionaires.
