Spencer bared his throat, growling as Jenah’s mouth worked its magic. He wanted to come in her mouth, but only after he went inside her. Reaching down, he eased her large golden breasts from the bustier, smiling when he saw the large bloodred nipples. Jenah Morris was lush, curvy from her lips to her long, sexy legs. She’d become his private dancer, performing on cue. She was only twenty-six, yet she had a sexual repertoire rivaling an experienced courtesan.
Easing his penis out of her mouth, he placed it between her breasts, smiling while she masturbated him, alternating licking each of her breasts. The uninhibited coupling moved to the bedroom, articles of discarded clothing trailing behind them.
Jenah lay on the bed, legs bent at the knees and arms raised above her head. She didn’t have to wait long before Spencer loomed over her, his dick grazing her thighs. He placed his hands on her knees, spreading her legs until she felt the muscles pulling in her groin.
“You’re hurting me,” she gasped when he applied more pressure than necessary.
Lowering his body, Spencer buried his face in the large breasts. “I’m sorry, baby. You know I’d never hurt you.”
“Love me, Spence.”
Grasping his erection, he eased the rigid member into her vagina. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you when we’re together. I love you when we’re not together.”
He told her what she needed to hear, only because he wasn’t ready to give her up. Damon Paxton has issued an ultimatum and he would follow through. He would continue to sleep with Jenah, getting his fill before he settled down to become a father, judge and a faithful husband.
Jenah was the only woman he’d slept with and not used protection. He’d accompanied her to an ob-gyn in Philadelphia to have her tested for STDs and to be fitted with an intrauterine device. And she was the first single woman who’d become his mistress. Spencer preferred sleeping with married women, because all they wanted was sex without declarations of love or happily ever after.
“Fuck me, daddy,” Jenah chanted when she felt every inch of his prodigious penis moving in and out of her. Internally she was a big woman, and Spencer was the first man who’d been large enough to bring her to climax.
If possible, he became longer and harder, and she bucked wildly while trying to get closer when he thrust into her with the power and speed of a piston. Grabbing her breasts, she squeezed them as orgasms tore her asunder. She screamed over and over as they kept coming. Spencer’s triumphant growl overlapped hers; he ejaculated, a hot rush of semen filling her core.
They lay joined, waiting for their respiration to return to a normal rhythm. It was another half a hour before they stirred to begin the dance of desire again.
Chapter Twelve
“Mari.”
“Sí, m’ijo,” Marisol answered without glancing up. She’d spent most of the morning sorting receipts and writing checks.
Bryce walked into the office, sinking down to the chair beside her desk. Although they worked out of home offices they rarely got to see each other until the evening. Most times Marisol was out of the house before ten to meet with clients and vendors, while he got up later, lingering to make breakfast. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could prepare a more than passable breakfast. If there weren’t leftovers from the night before, Bryce usually skipped lunch and waited for his wife to return. Most times Marisol opted to cook rather than eat in one of the many wonderful Georgetown restaurants.
Their marriage had been one of adjustment: culture and lifestyles. He’d been born into money, while Marisol had grown up below or at the poverty line. He knew which college he would attend and he’d learned everything about politics while sitting on his grandfather’s knee, and when his grandfather retired and his father went into semiretirement Bryce took the reins, shepherding the company in another direction because the complexion of politics and the country had changed yet again.
He stared at the profusion of ebony curls falling around Marisol’s face in sensual disarray. “I have a new client for you.”
Marisol’s head popped up and she smiled at Bryce. “Who is she?”
His sandy-brown eyebrows shot up. “It’s not a she.”
Resting her elbow on the desk, she cradled her chin on the heel of her hand. Without makeup Marisol looked twenty-two rather than thirty-two.
“Then who is he?”
“Congressman Wesley Sheridan.”
“Where is he from?”
“St. Louis.”
She blew out a breath. “Missouri or Kansas?”
“Missouri. He just bought a house and would like you to decorate it.”
“Thanks for the referral, m’ijo.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“I said thank-you. What else do you want me to say?”
“Don’t you want to know about Wes?”
Marisol gestured to the computer monitor. “I’ll look him up online.” It was something she did before agreeing to take on a client. She wanted to know what to expect before meeting them.
“That may be too late.”
She angled her head. “What aren’t you telling me, Bryce?”
“We’re meeting today for lunch.”
She looked at her shorts and tank top. “I hadn’t planned to go out this morning.”
Reaching over, Bryce ran his fingers through her mussed hair. “What if I order in?”
Smiling, Marisol rose slightly and kissed him. “Thanks, m’ijo.”
He returned her smile. “Anything for you, baby. I’ll call and tell him we’re going to meet here.”
Marisol wanted Bryce to leave so she could massage her temples. She hadn’t wanted to tell him that she had a headache—again. It was the third one this week, and this time it’d lasted for two consecutive days. She went to bed with a headache and woke with one. The headaches had begun when she’d first enrolled in college and after a battery of tests specialists determined they were result of tension. Even after she took a tranquilizer the headaches continued, so she’d stopped taking them.
“What time is your meeting?”
Bryce glanced at his watch. “Twelve-thirty.”
She nodded. It was ten-fifty. “As soon as I finish up here I’ll set the dining-room table.”
“Don’t forget to change into something less revealing. I don’t need Wes leering at you with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.”
Marisol clenched her teeth, intensifying the pain in her head. “I believe I’m mature enough to know what is and what isn’t appropriate for a business meeting.”
“It’s just a reminder, Mari.”
She waved him away before she said something she wouldn’t be able to retract. “Go, Bryce, so I can finish writing checks.”
“Why do you have an attitude?”
“I don’t have an attitude.”
“Well, you sound like you do.”
Covering her face with her hands, Marisol took deep breaths in an attempt to relax. “I don’t have an attitude, but if you’re looking for one then you’re out of luck, because I have a monstrous headache.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the headache?”
“There’s no reason to tell you.”
“Yes, there is, Marisol. Have you forgotten that I’m your husband?”
She rolled her eyes. “As if you’d let me forget.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You always make it sound as if I’m your possession. Like this house and everything in it. I’m not some inanimate object on display. Do you realize whenever we go out together you always monitor what I’m wearing?”
“I just want to make certain you look nice.”
Standing, Marisol came around the desk. A sweep of lashes touched her cheekbones when she stared at the design on the area rug. “In case you’ve forgotten, I do have degrees in fashion and design. I think that qualifies me to know what I should wear or what looks best on me.”
Bryce cradled her chin, raising her face
. “I…I haven’t forgotten, baby. It’s just that the first time my mother met you she said you looked like a homeless ragamuffin. She—”
“Your mother!” Marisol gasped, cutting him off. “You scrutinize what I wear because of something your mother said how many years ago!” The outfit she’d worn was gypsy-inspired, and she’d had no idea beforehand that Bryce was taking her to meet his parents.
Bryce tightened his hold on her face. “Baby, baby. You don’t understand. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
“¡Yo no puedo creer esto! El todavía escucha a mami.”
“Speak English!”
“Learn Spanish,” she spat out.
“You said something about my mother, didn’t you?”
Marisol jerked his hands away from her face. “You bet your ass I did. I said I can’t believe you’re still listening to your mother. You’re a thirty-six-year-old man, not an insecure six-year-old looking for mommy’s approval.”
“I don’t want you talking about my mother.”
“But it’s okay for her to talk about me.”
Bryce closed his eyes. “Can we discuss this some other time?”
“No,” Marisol said. “I don’t want to talk about it at all. I want you to leave me alone so I can finish with my banking.”
“I don’t know why you refuse to use my accountant. He handles all my expenses.”
She held her hair off her face with both hands. Marisol loved Bryce, but he had the annoying habit of trying to convince her that what worked for him should work for her. “Why do we argue about the same thing over and over?”
“We don’t argue, Mari. We have discussions.”
“Okay, we have discussions. I’ve told you before I want to keep my design company completely separate from your consulting business. I don’t care how much money you make or lose, and you don’t need to know about mine. That’s why we have different accountants and file separate corporate tax returns.”
Bryce threw up his hands. “That’s asinine. We’re married. We’re supposed to be a couple, but it’s as if we live together but are living separate lives. Now you know why I don’t want to bring a child into this shit!”
Hot tears pricked the back of Marisol’s eyelids. “You’re right.” Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that she and Bryce weren’t parents. Walking over to the door, she grasped the knob. “Please get out of my office.” She waited for Bryce to leave, slamming the door so violently behind him the prints on the wall shook.
Pressing her back to the door, Marisol exhaled. How had she been so clueless? She’d talked about Bethany Paxton being a trophy wife when she’d also become an ornament. Over the years Bryce had bought her enough jewelry that she could open her own store. Then there was the walk-in closet with mink, sable, fox and chinchilla coats, jackets, vests, scarves and earmuffs. You would have thought she lived in Alaska where the winters were long and bitterly cold instead of the D.C. region.
Realization washed over Marisol like an icy wave. She had no one to blame but herself. Bryce was the ringmaster and she had become the main attraction. He would introduce her as “my wife” before mentioning her name.
Deanna was right. She was Bryce’s muñeca. A doll he’d put on display to impress his mother and those in his family who still thought she never should’ve become a part of their family.
Marisol returned to her desk, picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a familiar number. Her call was answered after the third ring. “Hey, Dee.”
“Hey, yourself. What’s up?”
“What does your calendar look like for tomorrow?”
“I just have to proof some invitations. Other than that I’m free. Why?”
“I’d like to borrow your shoulder.”
“I’m available now if you want to come over.”
Marisol grimaced. “I have to interview a new client in a couple of hours.”
“Come over after you’re finished.”
“What about Spencer?”
“He won’t be home until late.”
Marisol nodded even though Deanna couldn’t see her. She didn’t want an audience when she unburdened herself. “Then I’ll see you later.”
She knew some people viewed her as hard, brusque, but Marisol saw herself as brutally honest. With her there was no pretense, and although she called a spade a spade she was usually open to accept corrective criticism. For the first time since she’d gone into business for herself the excitement of meeting a new client had lost its appeal.
Chapter Thirteen
Marisol didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the tall, elegant man with silver hair, olive skin and piercing laser-blue eyes. She’d done a quick search of Wesley Sheridan online, reading that he’d been appointed by the governor to fill a congressional seat when a popular representative from a St. Louis suburb resigned after a bribery scandal. It was noted that he was one of eight representatives in the current session who were bachelors. Wesley, with Bryce McDonald as his political strategist, had run and won the seat when his predecessor’s term ended.
Bryce, resting a hand on Wesley’s shoulder, made the introductions. “Wes, I’d like you to meet my wife.”
The slight lifting of Wesley’s black eyebrows was barely perceptible when he stared at the petite woman who’d come highly recommended for her designing skills. “Does the wife have a name?”
“Marisol,” she said, pronouncing it with the Spanish inflection. Smiling, she extended her hand. Bryce had done it again. He’d referred to her as “my wife.”
Wesley took the proffered hand, his gaze sweeping over the delicate features of the wife of the man who’d spearheaded his election bid with a stunning runaway victory.
He returned her bright smile with an admiring one. “¿Habla Marisol español?”
Marisol’s smile grew wider. “Sí.”
“Tomo eso como un signo que nos llevaremos bastante bien,” Wesley said in fluent Spanish.
“So do I,” she replied in English, watching the frown forming between Bryce’s eyes.
The fact that Wesley spoke Spanish was a good sign, because it wasn’t often that she had the opportunity to practice the language. She didn’t speak it as well as her grandmother, because like her mother, they tended to intersperse English when they couldn’t come up with the Spanish equivalent quickly enough.
“Bryce will show you where you can wash up before we sit down to eat,” Marisol continued in a controlled voice although her heart was racing uncontrollably. There was something about Wesley that sparked a modicum of anticipation, because she felt an immediate connection with the gorgeous man.
She walked into the formal dining room and inspected the table with place settings for three. Decorating the town house was what Marisol called her work-in-progress stage. She’d designed the offices on the first floor to reflect her and Bryce’s personality. His was furnished with heavy, masculine mahogany tables, desk and built-in bookcases, while hers was in shades of oyster-white and soft blues: white furniture with blue-and-white upholstered chairs, area rugs and framed prints of Audubon flowers and birds.
A gourmet kitchen, formal living and dining rooms, library and media room occupied the second floor. The master bedroom with en suite baths and dressing rooms, three guest bedroom suites and a solarium took up the third floor. If Marisol wasn’t in the kitchen cooking or working out of her home office, she could always be found in the solarium reading or watching the flat screen she’d had installed several months ago.
Every time she entered the dining room, Marisol felt as if time had stood still. The Federal-era-decorated space was graced with a wonderful bay window and working fireplace. She’d included a variety of blues often found in a traditional Federal-era setting, ranging from ethereal sky-blue to a rich royal blue. The table with seating for eight and a buffet table were exquisite Federal-style reproductions.
Bryce had ordered dishes from a Georgetown restaurant specializing in authentic Northern
Italian cuisine. Marisol had transferred the entrées from take-out containers to covered serving dishes. She had offset the pasta dishes with freshly made insalata caprese: alternate slices of tomato and mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil, then sprinkled with salt and fresh pepper and garnished with basil leaves.
Marisol loved cooking, preferring home-cooked meals to those prepared in restaurants because she suspected some of the ingredients they used were the source of her headaches. Her business meetings were usually conducted in a restaurant over breakfast, lunch or dinner. It was a very, very rare occasion—like today—that she would invite a client into her home. Technically, Wesley Sheridan wasn’t her client, but Bryce’s. He wouldn’t become hers until after their initial consultation and when he agreed to and signed her contract.
She’d opened a bottle of red wine, allowing it to breathe, while a bottle of white sat in a crystal faceted bowl filled with ice when Bryce and Wesley walked into the dining room. Both men were in shirtsleeves. Wesley had removed his suit jacket and tie.
Bryce pulled out a chair for Marisol, seating her, while he sat at the head of the table and left Wesley to sit opposite Marisol. “You told me you liked Italian, so that’s what we’re having for lunch.”
Wesley unfolded the cloth napkin, placing it over his lap. “Italian and Caribbean are my favorites.” He smiled, his gaze lingering on Marisol. “That’s probably why I usually vacation either in Italy or the Caribbean.”
Bryce handed Wesley a napkin-covered basket filled with warm semolina bread. “You have to come back one night when my wife makes her roast pork and rice with pigeon peas.”
Wesley took a slice of bread. “If you were to ask me what does Christmas smell like in the Caribbean I would have to say pernil y arroz con gandules.”
Marisol speared several slices of tomato and mozzarella, placing them on a salad plate. “Where did you learn to speak Spanish?”
Wesley paused, staring at his plate before his eyes moved up and he gave Marisol a long, penetrating look. “My father was in the import/export business, and by my tenth birthday I’d lived in Peru, Mexico and in a few islands in the Caribbean. My mother hired a tutor who lived and traveled with the family.”
Capital Wives Page 9
