by SE Chardou
He couldn’t have been more pleased if he’d designed her in his own image of the ideal woman for him.
Dorian was a male version of his own mother, and if there wasn’t the DNA to prove it, he would have questioned whether the man he knew as his biological father was actually the right person. He looked completely Nordic in build and stature, and when people asked, it was easier to tell a little white lie and claim his mother’s entire heritage as opposed to just the genetic half that flowed through his veins.
He watched her as she drained her glass of Cristal, and before she was finished, he’d grabbed the bottle and was ready to refill it before she held her fluted glass out to him.
“Dorian Petersson.” Alyssa sipped from her champagne. “Fancy meeting the artiste who has turned so many mediocre songs into classic party anthems. You should be quite proud of yourself.”
He smirked, knowing her comment was meant to wound but he didn’t bruise that easily. “Why thank you. I didn’t realize you followed my career.”
She smiled wryly. “Sorry . . . occupational hazard when my deceased husband was one of the biggest and most sought after producers in the music industry. He never understood why he could never get a hold of you despite working with Introspect Records as much as he did. You are one of their signed artists, aren’t you?”
Dorian raised his eyebrows knowing she’d purposely phrased the statement as a question. “True but I prefer to work with artists in my generation—no offense. I have no wish to work with stars past their prime looking for a hit because their album didn’t live up to the great expectations of being produced by the late great Richard Conlon.”
“Funny you should put it that way.” Alyssa sipped from her champagne before tracing the rim with a perfectly delicate index finger. “I always believed my late husband’s best work was behind him. Back when he worked with real artists and not these . . . geriatric performers who still want to be considered relevant.”
Dorian couldn’t stop the laughter that escaped from his mouth. “Everyone has their time in the spotlight and for many ‘legends,’ the worst part of growing old is no longer being . . . the bright, shining star they once were. At one time they had Vegas but now Vegas is too hip for them. They have to be content with performances in second-rate Reno or Atlantic City. It’s a pity but so is life. No one ever said getting through it would be easy.”
She stared at him with those fascinating hazel eyes. “My sentiments exactly, Dorian.”
“You say my name in such a formal way.”
“Forgive me but aren’t we on a formal basis?”
He shrugged apathetically. “Formality only lasts for as long as you want it to . . . Alyssa.”
“My friends call me Aly.” She glanced at him again before she downed the rest of her champagne.
“My friends call me Dough Boy.”
Alyssa laughed out loud as he refilled her champagne flute. “Sorry, not gonna happen . . . Dough Boy.”
“Then please, keep referring me to Dorian. It is my given name after all.”
“Only if you refer to me as Aly.”
His Caribbean blue eyes, so bright in color, narrowed. “When . . . exactly do we become less formal?”
She leaned toward him and whispered in her sweet, champagne-tinged breath, “You tell me.”
“Well, in my world . . . I would like to say when we fuck but seriously, it’s when the music happens. A track comes together and both the artist and I are extremely satisfied with the finished product. That . . . is intimacy—the closest I get to it anyway.”
“I’m not in the music business, and don’t have an artistic bone in my body so you tell me how we are supposed to become less formal?”
Her bright hazel eyes searched his and he couldn’t help but become mesmerized by her, and the sudden amount of vulnerability she conveyed despite her tough girl act. He forgot he was supposed to despise her. He had a vendetta to settle but it would have to wait. It wouldn’t happen tonight or the next day but eventually, she would get what was coming to her. He’d make damn sure of it.
Alyssa wasn’t a babe in the woods, and she sure as hell wasn’t innocent. Everything he would eventually put her through was well deserved but first came the hard part. He would have to find a way for her to fall for him and surrender. She was wounded; that was the difficult part. She wouldn’t show her weaknesses so easily; in the end, it was a complex game of Poker that they would both try to win. But only one person could hold the Royal Flush while the other held what looked like a winning hand.
When the time came, Dorian would make sure it wouldn’t be him on the losing end, no matter what he had to do.
He was a natural born hustler and he would use his skills with gusto if he had to. In the game of lust and love, all was fair. He would have to remember that and not allow this temptress to get under his skin.
Alyssa was good but he was better. He’d had years to perfect his craft—many more than she did despite her being a couple of years older than him. She’d known love before and lost it; he’d never known love at all from either parent. He was merely a chess piece they traded back and forth for money, power or their own fragile ego plays. It was no life for a child but he’d learned fast that the only person he had to depend on was himself.
Dorian became selfish, hardened. He learned self-love was the highest form of enlightenment, and everyone else should always come second. Never love anyone as much as he loved himself, and he’d never be hurt in this life. It had taken a lot of time and devotion but he’d reached that pinnacle; financial success and fame had been icing on the cake but he knew they weren’t real.
The only part of him that would ever last was his belief in himself and his abilities.
Everything else was a mirage, and he could handle those just fine.
Alyssa drained her fluted glass and set it on the table. She held her liquor well but he knew she was drunk. She’d never managed to eat enough to maintain her weight in the last few weeks, and he knew she suffered from weight loss. Not dramatic by any stretch but it was there.
Perhaps a heart beat in that cold, dead, calculating body of hers other than for pumping blood through her veins.
Dorian didn’t know, and he cared even less. The distance between them was a good thing. Lust and chemistry be damned—those were physical symptoms of the body and meant nothing. They had everything to do with the brain and nothing to do with the heart and soul.
If he could just remember this then he would be fine.
“So, where do you wanna go?” He leaned into her space, their lips inches from each other.
“Your place,” she whispered before she looked down. “I’m a widow . . . in mourning. It wouldn’t look right to the household staff if I brought a total stranger home. No offense . . . but unfortunately, I have a stellar reputation to maintain.”
“None taken.” Dorian pulled back a few inches. “Tell me, was your husband good to you? Did he love you?”
Alyssa chuckled out loud before she shook her head. “No, he wasn’t. I don’t think Richard Conlon was capable of love. He didn’t really like people in general—he collected possessions. Unfortunately, I was merely a trophy wife. Someone to make him feel better about getting older.”
Game.
Set.
Match.
Dorian knew this whole setup would be like taking candy from a baby. It might be too easy, and he would grow bored before the time was right.
“Fine with me. Let’s go to my place,” he whispered in her ear.
The look on her face said everything—she was ready and willing when he was. Sometimes he hated he was too damn good at his job but those were the breaks. He would stick it out because he had a plan but he would hate to let her go before he was ready to be rid of her. If that was the case, there was always Plan B.
Any good mastermind always had a secondary plot figured out. There was never any telling when the first one would be blown to hell.
I should
have had a sense of fear going to a stranger’s home but all I felt was the adrenaline pumping through my veins creating a sense of wild elation.
Dorian drove his sporty BMW M6 Gran Coupe fast, weaving in and out of the light traffic in the early hours of Sunday morning. I loved the feel of the wind in my hair and the way I watched him work the manual clutch like it was the seductive parts of a woman’s body. His movements were smooth, and fluid. There was absolutely nothing about him that was clumsy or ill timed.
He was too perfect, and perfection secretly frightened me. It always suggested there was something underneath the surface—a part of someone so repugnant and ugly—they had no choice but to hide it under a mirage.
I knew all about that feeling because I’d lived most of my life that way, and now that I was finally from under Richard’s thumb, I had to deal with Cam. Some part of me knew making a deal with the devil was better than dealing with my adopted brother. Dorian might as well be Satan in stylish Dolce and Gabbana but I would rather play this game of cat and mouse with him than Cam any day of the week.
It was the whole thought of being naughty without all the usual guilt attached, and I liked it.
I had a feeling that for the first time in my life, I would be fucked good and proper by a man who knew what he was doing in bed and out. The thought sent both chills and excitement through my bloodstream.
“So, what kind of car do you drive, Missus Conlon?” The snark in his voice was palpable though I had an innate sense he was actually interested and not merely mocking me.
“A Range Rover—what else? Of course, when I prefer to stay incognito, I choose the understated. I’m also the proud owner of a Smart Coupe.”
Dorian laughed out loud. “You’re joking, right? I can’t imagine someone like you having a Smart car.”
I turned toward him though he continued to look straight ahead. “Well, I do. It’s funny because Richard acted the same way when I asked for one but he still had it delivered to our home. I actually drive it more than the Range Rover. With traffic being hell on earth here in L.A., it’s so much more practical than the SUV.”
“True.” He was quiet for a moment as I looked outside at the sparse lighting in an otherwise quiet dark night, and realized we were heading towards the beach. He obviously lived close to the water—probably Malibu or the Pacific Palisades. “I truly hate coming here. No offense but I prefer Las Vegas to all of . . . this.”
“Too many people?” I tried to keep my voice casual though I was anxious to hear his answer.
“Yes, and well, I love the mountains. There is a wild, untamed beauty there in Nevada that can’t be found here in this place of too many people, traffic, and pretentiousness.”
“Mmm.” I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from my dress. “Isn’t that a little like the kettle calling the pot black? Since I have lived in both places, I understand the reason why you feel the way you do but . . . there are times I find myself missing Vegas.”
“What’s holding you back from taking off, and leaving all of this behind? Your ball and chain is officially fucking ash floating in the Pacific Ocean. Why don’t you just move back to Vegas or at least buy a vacation home there?”
There was something in his tone that made me look toward the window again.
This has to be a one-night stand.
Dorian was too dangerous.
He makes me feel like I can do anything yet there will be no consequences for my actions, and everything we do in life has a price tag—regardless whether we wanted to admit it or not.
“My brother . . .” I trailed off though that seemed like a very shallow reason to stay anywhere. Especially when I couldn’t stand the motherfucker, and our relationship was so fucked up and beyond merely “dysfunctional,” we’d need a whole month on the Dr. Phil Show.
“You grew up in all that Mormon bullshit—didn’t you?” It sounded more like a statement than a question. “I know about your real parents. I suppose after being surrounded by all that crap—sister wives or whatever the fuck it is they do—it’s hard to feel normal.”
I laughed out loud. “Actually my parents’ aren’t that Mormon. They’re more of the mainstream type. My dad only had one wife but yes, I have quite a few siblings. My brother, Cam, lives here with his wife. He’s a very respected elder in his particular congregation, and I would almost feel like I was abandoning him.”
“That’s your problem, Alyssa.” The guttural tone in his accent made my heart race. “You think you need to please everyone when the only way to live life fully, and without fear is to . . . be selfish. Fuck everyone else, and just seek out your own pleasure. You’ll find yourself to be much more happier that way.”
I allowed his words to sink in as he turned onto a windy steep road and drove up to a gorgeous Malibu home. It was decent but small by the standards set by his nearby neighbors.
“I don’t stay here very often. It seemed like a waste to buy some huge, ostentatious fucking place when most of the time I’m only here for business.”
He pulled into the garage and as it began to close, I undid my seatbelt before opening the door, and stepping out of the BMW. I wasn’t the type to wait for a man to take the lead except when it came to Cam but I had no wish to think about him tonight.
I planned to take Dorian’s advice. Tonight was all about me and I felt very fucking selfish.
Why shouldn’t I?
I hadn’t been properly laid in so long, I’d forgotten what good sex felt like and tonight, I planned to get my just desserts.
I had to hand it to Dorian.
He was sexually forward in the club but when it came right down to it, there was a part of him—despite his detached demeanor, and icy black heart—that had learned the best way to get results was with lots of honey and very little vinegar.
If our whole conversation in his car was a version of a very skewed form of foreplay then by the time I settled myself into his sleek, cold bachelor pad, he’d become friendly, jovial, and dare I say sexy as drop-dead sin.
He didn’t paw me the way I expected him to; instead he romanced me with a glass of expensive cognac as we made small talk on his sofa.
The house was decked out like the owners of Bed, Bath & Beyond and IKEA had personally decorated the place themselves. Everything was cold and lacked any sort of warmth that made a house a home. Stark shiny metals, sharp lines, and uncomfortable yet art-deco furniture was all organized to the point of extreme anal retention. This man had been described with many adjectives however “meticulous” and “perfectionist” were used more often than not. From his furniture down to the blond hardwood floors, everything was spotless—there was a place for everything, and everything was in its place.
I was aware of this type of behavior. Richard had practiced it as well but our home was bigger and I was given pretty much free reign in my own suite though I was required to sleep with my husband every night. My space was neat but not borderline OCD.
“You don’t really seem like a woman who enjoys cognac but since I wasn’t sure of your choice of pre-sex alcohol, I thought I would play it . . . safe.”
“Cognac is perfectly acceptable but you’re right when you say it’s not a favorite of mine. However, it does the trick after copious amounts of Cristal champagne.”
I stared into those glacier blue eyes of his, and felt him sizing me up yet I didn’t sense anything about him that might put my life in danger. Truth be told, we almost felt like kindred spirits. Both damaged and broken beyond repair that all we could do is hurt other people but we were very good at enjoying the carnal variety of the flesh. However, that didn’t mean we wouldn’t go for each other’s jugular in the end.
No matter what happened from this point on in our sexual liaisons, nothing would ever be the same again. We’d both try to wound the other into submission, and the only question really worth pondering was who would win in the end?
I’d fought much more crueler and sinister monsters than Dorian Petersson. In fact, he
was a puppy in comparison to the Rottweiler and the Pit Bull—Cam and my deceased husband to be precise. They were dangerous and unpredictable.
Compared to them, at least I knew what to expect from this man with one of the sexiest accents I’d ever come across in my entire life. That paired with an athletic body to match, lightly tanned skin, and golden silky tresses he wore close to the scalp with just enough length to run my fingers through during our act of lovemaking had me waiting with bated breath for him to make the first move.
I finished the smooth cognac in my glass before I set it on the art-deco glass magazine table and turned toward my paramour. I hoped we’d become something more than a one-night stand but one didn’t meet Mr. Right at a trendy club, and drive home with him looking to get fucked properly without seeming a bit promiscuous.
I could accept this night for what it was and would be: very good sex between two practical strangers that could bond on a cellular level without ever mentioning words like “love” or “devotion.” It was quite freeing to be honest. I’d been tied down for so long, there would be no way I would ever risk this feeling of freedom for anyone ever again.
Dorian swallowed his cognac before he stood from the sofa, and turned toward me. He held out his hand and I grabbed it tentatively before he pulled me out of my sitting position with enough strength for me to be crushed against his hard body.
It was a bit startling but it didn’t hurt at all. I continued to stare into those overwhelming pools of blue that hypnotized me, and transported me to another time—another place far beyond my current reality. They reminded me of my innocence before I became this money-grubbing gold digger who knew she’d make the perfect trophy wife for a certain type of powerful gentleman.
Not only had I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams but I’d gotten away with murder. Of course there were others implicated in my complicated situation, and if it was ever exposed, they would go down—not me. I wasn’t a doctor, and didn’t have a medical degree. I wasn’t the one who had prescribed the incorrect doses of drugs for my stressed out deceased husband but I did make sure he took his medicine like clockwork every day.
