The Contract

by Stella Gray

  “Brooklyn, stop.”

  “Make me.”

  He drags me inside his office and shuts the door, then locks it before pulling the shades. Crossing my arms, I lift my chin and prepare for whatever he might throw my way. I’m beyond caring anymore. He doesn’t just want his cake so he can eat it, too. He wants to roll around in that shit and wear it like a badge of honor.

  No way I’m letting him have a pass at being seen publicly with his arms around Monica, or any of her other model friends. “If I have an image to uphold, so do you,” I tell him.

  “Is that what you think?” Luka storms over to me and takes my chin in a firm grip.

  “Get your hands off me,” I growl, slapping his hand away.

  Undeterred, he wraps an arm around my waist and draws me up against his chest. I squeal angrily, shoving against him. But the hard, warm feel of his toned body under my hands sends electric shocks down my arms and straight to my nipples. They perk hard beneath the thin fabric of my billowy blouse. I’m not wearing a bra.

  Luka notices immediately. A wolfish grin crosses his face. “You want me to show you just how hands-on I can be, wife? Is that what you want?”

  “Fuck off.” I’m still leaning away, but I’m barely struggling now. “You disgust me.”

  He actually laughs. “Do I?”

  “Yes.” I think of Monica’s arms around him. The way he touched the small of her back as he returned the embrace. How they both lingered a little too long. Rage makes my breath come faster, and I wrench in his grasp.

  “I hate you. Let me go!”

  “Never,” he says smugly. “You’re mine, Brooklyn. Whether you like it or not.”

  I have the urge to lash out and make a total disaster of his office—knocking over lamps and chairs, pulling books off the shelves and art from the walls. My heart is racing and I’m pumped with adrenaline. I’ve turned into the crazy wife, the one who’ll tear this place apart and won’t leave an inch of it recognizable. I’ve never been this person.

  But right now, Luka makes me feel like I could be.

  I take a deep breath, trying to get myself and my temper back under control.

  “You didn’t like my pictures, then?” I taunt. “I thought you’d love how well Mateo stepped into the sex-god role. I’ve never felt a body quite like his. I mean, I’ve felt him up before, but the boy’s been working out. He’s upped his game.”

  Luka’s expression goes dark. It fuels me.

  Smiling, I embellish further. “Everything about the shoot was hot, to be honest. Very sexual. The photographer said he’d never seen chemistry like that between models before.”

  “So, kind of like Monica and me, then?” Luka asks.

  He says it so smoothly, so easily, that there has to be more than just a ring of truth to it.

  With a burst of resentment I twist away, toward the door. Luka grabs my wrists and pushes me up against the wall, our eyes locking, breaths coming fast and hard.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he says.

  “Anywhere but here,” I say, glaring.

  He moves closer and I arch back, my breasts pressing into his chest. The heat from our bodies and his scent wrapping around me flames my lust. I turn into an animal, and not the raging crazy wife kind.

  I hate him.

  I despise him.

  And I need his cock in me right now.

  Our hands move at the same time as we both reach for the hem of my shirt and whip it over my head. He palms my bare breasts, kneading them roughly, making me cry out. A satisfied noise purrs from his throat. He tweaks my nipples gently between his fingers, as if to make up for the pain, but it only makes me want him more.

  “Harder,” I beg.

  “Like this?”

  He pulls my nipples with enough pressure to send a lick of pain through each, and I groan, leaning into his touch instead of retreating from it.

  As my head falls back against the wall, I jut my hips forward, grinding against his thigh. Luka slips one hand down the waist of my jeans, and I gasp as he cups my pussy in his palm. He presses hard there, stroking my lips forcefully before drawing his finger up my slit, circling my clit and making me cry out.

  “Does Mateo make you this wet?” he groans against my ear. “Or were you thinking of me when you were practically dry-humping him for the camera?”

  He leans in and I turn my face away, denying him the connection of our mouths. I won’t share that level of intimacy with him. “Did you think of me when you were with Monica?” I ask, still helplessly riding his fingers, my pussy slippery with intense arousal.

  “No.”

  Luka grabs my hair in his fist, his other hand still fingering me, and backs me across the room step by step until I’m in front of his desk. Then he forces me to turn around and bends me over it, my palms flat on the surface for support. Part of me wants to storm out of here and leave him hard and wanting, just for the revenge of it. But I love this too much. I love ripping the rage out of him and having him take it out on my body.

  Still behind me, Luka tugs my pants and thong down and then pushes my upper body flat onto the desk. My head is turned so I can see the door, thankfully locked so that no one has to know he’s hate-fucking me in his office right now? My tits press into the desk calendar, and I feel deliciously trapped between the rigid wood and the heat of his hard body.

  “Spread your legs, darling.”

  “Make me.”

  He huffs a laugh. Suddenly, there’s a sting to my left ass cheek as a resounding crack fills the air. I go rigid, warmth radiating through my skin, making my clit ache.

  “Fuck,” I pant. “Yes.”

  “More?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I grind out, the admission making me feel vulnerable. “Please.”

  He does it again, spanking me with enough force to make it tingle and burn. The heat blossoms and slowly fades, taking the pain with it and twisting it into something pleasurable. With a moan, I press my ass back against him. I need more.

  I need all of him.

  “Fuck me,” I beg.

  There’s no point in pretending I don’t want this. I can’t wait any longer.

  I spread my legs and he slides into me. I’m so wet, his huge length just glides right in, filling me up until I can’t breathe from the pleasure. He thrusts back and forth, faster, deeper, cursing under his breath as he quickly finds his rhythm. He’s stretching me to the hilt and hitting all the right places. I can’t stop the cries from flying from my mouth.

  “Yes,” I cry out. “Fuck yes.”

  Luka pulls my hips back and the new angle sends the tip of his cock straight to my G-spot, sending heady bursts of pleasure through me with each stroke. I feel like I’m unraveling even as I battle my blazing anger. I don’t know which sensation to hang onto.

  “Harder, Luka. Harder.”

  He slams into me again and again, pounding my body against the edge of the desk so hard I’ll probably have bruises. I don’t care. I need this. I want this. And I won’t be the only one to shatter. He will too, and all that power he thinks he has over me will become nothing for those intense, helpless moments when he’s lost in his release.

  The release I give him.

  So who has the power now?

  The thought sends me over the edge. I clamp tightly around him as I come, clenching my jaw as wave after wave bursts through me. Luka goes rigid, spearing into me with one last huge thrust before he spills inside of me.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters as he collapses over the desk.

  I’m too weak to move. We’re both trying to catch our breath, but the anger inside me hasn’t lessened one bit. It quickly flames back to life as I ease out from under him and slowly right myself. Luka spins me to face him and then sinks down to grab my pants, pulling them up and over my hips.

  “Get your shirt on and go home.”

  My lower lip twitches. There’s so much I want to throw in his face, but I’m worn out. Tired. Weak. He’s fucked
the fight right out of me. Just not the fire.

  I’ll have to let it simmer until he gets home.

  He almost looks surprised when I don’t respond. Righting his pants and shirt, he follows me around the desk as I retrieve my blouse and slip it over my head.

  “Make sure you take the long way out through the offices so everyone who works here can see that I just fucked you.”

  He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I head to the door, grip the knob in my hand.

  “What?” he calls after me. “My wife actually has no response for once?”

  I grin as I pull open the door, not bothering to lower my voice.

  “I faked it,” I announce.

  Then I slam the door in his face.

  Brooklyn

  Chapter 21

  It might not be Maxilene, but the job I just landed is huge—and definitely worth celebrating. So instead of throwing together my usual “healthy dinner for one” tonight, I ordered Thai delivery with two fat slices of coconut mango cake for dessert and set it all out on the table with candles and cloth napkins. Now I’m waiting for Luka to get home and share it all with me.

  But the second he walks in the door, he’s nothing but grim and unsmiling.

  My own smile falters. “What’s wrong? Did my theme park gig fall through?”

  He scoffs. “I’m insulted at how excited you are about this, and honestly, you should be embarrassed.” Setting down his work bag, he shakes his head.

  My jaw drops. I wish he were wearing a tie, because I’d love nothing more than to strangle him with it.

  “Are you kidding? These ads are going to be plastered all over the country, increasing my visibility and pushing me that much closer to being a household name,” I tell him, my hands fisted in my lap. “A ‘congratulations’ would be nice.”

  “Congratulations,” he says sarcastically. “What’s next, then? Top model for Burger Palace? Maybe they’ll let you dress up as a Kid’s Meal.”

  I’m seething, out of my chair now, dinner forgotten. “What the hell is your problem? It’s Happyland! Family friendly, well paying, G-rated. I thought this is what you wanted for me!”

  “Brooklyn, use your head! You’re my wife and you reflect on me, on the whole agency. Under what circumstances do you think I would ever consent to having the Zoric name attached to an amusement park franchise? Danica Rose Management is all about class, sophistication, sexiness. There is nothing sexy about Happyland. Their mascot is a deranged wombat.”

  “It’s a quokka,” I correct him. “It’s known as the happiest animal on Earth.”

  “I don’t give a shit!” he says, slamming his fist down on the table and making the silverware rattle.

  This is not the reception I was anticipating.

  After our hate-sex at the office a few weeks ago, Luka had blocked me from all the good modeling jobs with his rule that I could only do “wholesome” work. I knew I was partly to blame after the racy photo shoot I did with Mateo, but Luka’s ultimatum still pissed me off. Regardless, I worked within my husband’s parameters the best I could. So today, after getting the offer from the Happyland execs, I felt like I’d finally hit the jackpot. It was a huge campaign for the most popular theme park in the country, and a chance for me to prove myself with a big client. When I’d called Mateo earlier to tell him about it, my BFF had practically screamed with delight. I had assumed that Luka—as my manager—would have a similarly positive response, since he had surely given it his stamp of approval.

  Guess I was wrong.

  “The paycheck is great,” I insist, trying to squeeze some support out of him.

  “I’m aware,” he says. “That’s the only reason I signed off on it. DRM isn’t exactly in a financial position where we can be turning down contracts.”

  I bite back a bitter reply and continue crusading for myself. “And it’s not totally un-sexy. The ads are going to show a bunch of college-age people letting loose on Spring Break—to appeal to the 18–35-year-old demographic—so maybe we’ll still be able to send the message—”

  “Happyland does not equal prestige or success in my book,” he says, cutting me off. “And in the future I expect more from you. Gloat when you land Chanel.”

  With that, he grabs a container of pad Thai and carries it into the living room to eat in front of the TV. Well, at least that hasn’t changed. It’s his usual post-work routine.

  As I sidle over to the counter between the kitchen and the living room, I watch him flip through the channels, feeling my anger rise. This is the new status quo with us. Tentative peace (fueled by slightly angry sex), where we seem to get along for brief stretches of time, and then we blow up at each other out of nowhere, which somehow always leads to us losing all our clothes and having several orgasms. And then we’re back to square one.

  I can’t seem to find any footing with him anymore. I’ve done everything I can think of. I’m the perfect wife; making sure the house is clean and the fridge is stocked, that I’m usually home when he is. I play the sex kitten, eager to take him on whenever, wherever. I don’t stay out all night and I always tell him where I’m going and when I’ll get back. I get his opinion on things (opinion, not permission) and keep him in the loop with any hint of modeling jobs that might come my way. I’m legitimately trying to make him happy and be a good partner, yet nothing is working.

  At the same time, I feel like I shouldn’t complain. I have a better life right now than I’d have on my own, at least in terms of finances and my living situation, and of course this is all temporary anyway. But I can’t help how pissed off I am. At so many things, most of which I can’t even name.

  Sure, I love Luca’s cock, but I’m tired of only feeling his touch when he’s trying to punish me or use me as an outlet when he’s frustrated or pent-up. Not that I don’t use him the same way—but I know we’re capable of connecting on a deeper level. We’ve done it before.

  “Where’s Kibs?” he asks, glancing around the room. By now, the dog has usually scrambled off his doggie bed to jump on Luka and whine for ear scratches and games of fetch.

  “He’s at Emzee’s, having a playdate with Munchkin,” I tell him, grinding out my response. My husband is obviously more invested in the emotional health of our dog than in my own. “She’ll drop Mr. Kibbles back here later.”

  Luka looks over. “So…are you going to just stand there and watch me eat, or do you want to come sit down?” he asks, popping the takeout container open.

  I narrow my eyes. “I was just thinking that you’re being terribly dismissive of this national opportunity, considering you did nothing to land me the Maxilene account. If that’s the kind of prestige you’re after, I’d say you dropped the ball.”

  He smirks disbelievingly and looks to the ceiling before returning to the news on TV.

  “Nothing to say to that?” I goad him.

  Pushing the food away, he turns to face me. “Maybe you’re not the best candidate for that campaign, Brooklyn. Did you ever think about that?”

  “Really? Who is, then? One of the new models you’ve signed lately? I’ve seen plenty of photos of you wining and dining them all over town.”

  He levels me with a hard stare. “I’m not getting into this with you. You’re being petty and exhausting and I don’t have the bandwidth right now.”

  I bite my lip hard to keep the tears from coming. I hate that he brings out all the insecurities and weaknesses in me, that it’s so easy for him to compartmentalize during our arguments. I can never tell how he’s really feeling. And it bothers me even more that I have no poker face. I can feel my emotions pulling my facial muscles tight, and I know he can see it. Yet it doesn’t seem to affect his attitude toward me at all.

  His indifference stabs through me.

  “I’m not trying to be petty, Luka. I’m trying to build my career up with better gigs, but the restrictions you’ve put on me hold me back more than elevate me. You realize that, right?”

  “You agreed to play by
my rules when you signed up for this marriage.”

  “Yet you look down at me for wanting to do jobs you feel are lowly, even though they’re the only offers coming my way because of the restrictions you set! How is this getting either of us anywhere?”

  “I guess it’s not,” he says breezily.

  Again with the indifference. My blood is boiling. “What do you want from me?” I ask, raising my voice. “I keep trying to make things better, yet all I ever do is fuck up in your eyes. Just tell me what you really want so I can stop guessing and getting it wrong all the time.”

  Without warning he stands and stalks over to the kitchen, where I’m leaning back against the counter’s bar top. His arms box me in on either side, so I couldn’t get away if I wanted to.

  I look up at him, and our eyes lock.

  “I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. “I want you to stop all the yapping. Unless you’re screaming in pleasure, everything else that comes out of your mouth just sounds like noise.”

  I’m about to hiss a retort when he slips a hand under my skirt, sliding it up my thigh, making my stomach flutter in anticipation.

  “In fact, why don’t I help you out with that?” he says, his hand stroking higher.

  He groans when he realizes I’m not wearing panties. I start to shift away, but he sinks to his knees before me, and I lose my willpower when I see that dark head level between my legs.

  “Spread,” Luka commands.

  My core goes instantly hot and achy, and I clench my jaw as a shiver of desire spreads through me. I’m powerless against my own need, legs spreading wide as my hands clasp around the back of Luka’s head. His fingers trace the shape of my pussy, making me instantly wet. I tilt my head back, closing my eyes as he presses a kiss to my apex, and then suddenly, his tongue is where I need it the most. Licking and lapping at my clit. Stroking and circling, hot and wet.

  “Mmm,” I murmur. He’s too good at this.