Private

by Xavier Neal

  Seeing where the line of questioning is going, I glance up. “If you wanna listen to music baby, just say so.”

  “No,” she argues. “If I wanna listen to music, I will.” The correction is followed by her standing up. “I was just asking. Some people love it while they're working. Some people listen to audio books. Just seeing what my boyfriend prefers.”

  Hearing the word swells my chest as much as my cock. Every time either one of us announces it, something is sparked in the other one, and getting naked to physically prove it becomes the priority. The worst was telling her mother and realizing we couldn't just go next door and strip our clothes off. Lauren is finally getting back to normal. She's not on bed rest anymore, but she's only allowed light duty of basic scheduling and supply ordering as far as work is concerned. Thankfully, after she seemed to be doing alright with visitors, Matt put the idea of anyone purposely trying to hurt her to rest. It's for the best. That's one fight with Brynley I really don't want to have.

  She saunters off towards one of the other laptops sitting on the conference table. I divert my attention back to the papers as a pathetic attempt to distract myself from the idea of fucking her over the edge of it.

  I pass on several trite ideas, relieved when I finally land on one worth my time. The aged whiskey would be put in a mini barrel with the option for glass or wood. Our brand label along with my signature would be etched into the design.

  At the same time, I push it to the yes pile, a slow drawn out melody fills the room. “Do you know this song?”

  I shift my gaze across the room to a slow swaying Brynley. “No.”

  “You should,” she scolds with the point of a finger. “It has the word whiskey in the title for fuck's sake.”

  On a chuckle, I lean back and question, “So that means I have to know it?”

  “There's an unwritten law that requires you to know all songs with whiskey in the title.”

  “All of 'em?”

  “Every. Single. One.” She insists, now lifting her arms above her head as she gets lost singing along. The seductive movements enslave my eyes to the point I forget to even breathe. At the end of the chorus, she announces, “This one is called Tennessee Whiskey.” Brynley begins crooning again, her voice surprisingly smooth like a good bourbon itself. She rocks her hips entrancing me until I have no choice but to feel her against me. Despite her change of location now being my lap, she continues singing, arms wound around my neck. I lean forward and swipe a taste of her bottom lip. It manages to stumble her singing, which immediately prompts me to do it again. This time she sweeps her tongue into my mouth, meshing them together in a titillating flow. Her hands drag themselves down my bare chest while mine snake underneath the edge of the shirt to caress her cheeks. The hitch in her breath spurs me to kiss her deeper, grab her firm ass harder, and monopolize every portion of her with every portion of me. In an intense, unhurried manner between languorous licks and sucks, I slip off the shirt and she sheds my boxers. As soon as my cock is wrapped she lowers herself until only the tip is covered.

  The torturous tactic grabs a low grumble out of me.

  She lifts up and repeats the motion.

  After one final time, I command, “Stop fucking teasing me, Brynley.”

  Her heated challenge is against my neck. “Or what?”

  I growl, wrap my arms around her, and anchor my hands to her shoulders. In a swift thrust, my dick is diving deep, drowning in a flood of pure euphoria. She gasps sharply before tossing her head back on a carnal cry. Her pussy pulsates in unison with her pants. The sound of our moaning blends with the beautiful melody she placed on repeat. I wind one hand through her hair and tug her lips back to mine. Our brazen bouncing increases in speed seconds after her first orgasm breaks free. All of a sudden, her lips leave mine to let her eyes seize mine as she shifts to a reckless rocking. I sink my teeth into my lip to prevent from coming from the change of pace. Like always, her determination threatens every fiber of my will power. The moment her pussy begins to clamp down in warning of another orgasm, my balls clench refusing not to cave. Together, we plunge face first into waves of erotic ebullience. Our heavy, unbridled moans continue ringing down the halls while our bodies quake and quiver themselves into exhaustion.

  Several long, deep breaths later, she braces herself against my chest. “You think we woke anyone?”

  I don't bother glancing to the open doorway. “Kinda hope so.”

  She snickers, plants a kiss on my chest, and sighs, “Can we have those enchiladas now?”

  A chuckle escapes before I cradle her tighter, unable to get her close enough. She can have all the late night snacks and sex she wants from me. Hell, she could have anything she wants from me. All she has to do is ask. I know that idea would terrify most people yet I find comfort in it because Brynley isn't your average girl. She doesn't really ask for anything, making the small moments she breaks her vow of independence that much more meaningful. This is what I imagine my parents had when they were alive. Now that I have it, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep and protect it.

  I watch my mother needlessly tidy my room as she fusses on about my inability to keep any place I stay at orderly.

  “You've been like this since you were a child,” she complains. “It didn't matter how many times or different ways I showed you how to keep everything in order, it all ended up in piles on the floor.”

  Leaning against my headboard I counter, “Or the closet. Or the counter. At least they were somewhat organized piles.”

  Her head whips around and she gives me a look of disapproval. “I'm serious, Brynley.”

  “So am I. Why do you think I barely have any shit? Less shit to clean up and care about.”

  She sighs, shakes her head, and says, “Could you do me the honor of at least pretending to care about this place? Wes has gone out of his way to accommodate you-”

  “Because I'm sleeping with him-”

  “Because he's a good man, Brynley Elizabeth Winters.”

  Now that's definitely true. He is a little too good. I'd never admit it out loud, but sometimes I wonder if I've tainted all the sweetness inside of him. Sure, since being around me, he's found new comfort in his own skin, a bit of confidence that was crammed up deep inside, and a fondness for horror movies, but he's also begun to demand more out of himself. All of sudden the bars and limits he's spent years living by are unacceptable. All of a sudden he doesn't work hard enough. His ideas aren't brilliant enough. Never mind the fact he not only helped the brand of the company by starting an online auction page for rare and exotic liquors but is also the sole reason their name is synonymous with high-class hotel bars such as the one my mother used to work for. J.T. has tried to assure me, it's not a bad thing. He also explained to an extent this is just the way Wes works. He creates new goals and pushes himself to the brink to achieve them. To him, it would be a disservice to not expand his family's brand even wider and sink it in even deeper. J.T. also assures me, all I've done is become the muse for the creativity he thought was fading. Of course, rather than accept the compliment, I told him to suck it and turned up the television because I wanted to hear what Mr. Spock had to say.

  “And you deserve each other,” she continues, drawing my attention back to her.

  “He deserves a princess, not the palace maid's daughter who rocks a push-up bra to pay her phone bill.”

  My mother scowls. “You're still working there?”

  I shrug. “The pay is amazing.”

  “I can-”

  “No.”

  “Wes will-”

  “Definitely, fucking no.”

  She huffs, “Are you at least still applying for jobs in your field?”

  An image of Wes pushing my laptop out of reach before starting the process of taking me from behind bounces around my brain. “Um...it's been a couple weeks, but it's on my list of shit to do this weekend. Right along with apartment hunting.”

  Though I'm now seriously not in any hur
ry to ditch this castle. It's not even the amenities that I'll miss every day, which for the record are outstanding. It's waking up to the man I accidentally fell in love with. Could do without our sex sessions being interrupted by Penny, Clark, and occasionally one of the maids named Althea, but in comparison to having him whenever I want, however I want, it's a small sacrifice.

  “Does Wes know you're looking for an apartment?” She finally reaches for the cup of tea she was delivered almost twenty minutes ago. “Did you ask him how he feels about that?”

  “It's not an apartment for him,” I argue.

  “I understand that. However, you have more than just yourself to think about now, Bryn. That's how relationships work.”

  The motherly lecture about romance causes me to groan and flop over onto my side like I'm sixteen all over again. I guess I should count the blessings of being fortunate enough to not only have a mother who cares but to have one period. Wes' behaviors are proof of the pain that can result from not having one. Even a pushy, complaining one.

  After she has a long sip, she follows up with, “You never know, honey. He could want to move you in here. To his room. As opposed to letting you destroy one of the guestrooms. Seriously, Brynley Elizabeth, how are you this rough on a room?”

  I turn my head towards her. “I'm not that bad. You're just looking for something to do because you're still on light duty and fussing over me makes you feel useful.”

  She tries not to smile.

  “Besides, Wes basically spends an equal amount of time in here with me. Don't hear you bitching about how he doesn't clean up better.”

  “It's his manor.”

  “Fine print.”

  She starts to chuckle, but the sound is short lived. All of us a sudden she begins to cough, confusion and fear clouding her face. Her hand touches her lip. The look deepens.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  In an odd voice, she states, “I can't feel my mouth...”

  Leaping off the bed, I rush for her. “What the fuck do you mean you can't feel your mouth?”

  “It's...numb,” the answer proceeds her pointing. “Tongue...feels...tingly.” Before I have a chance to respond, she mumbles, “little light-headed,” and collapses to the ground.

  A sharp, gut-wrenching scream shoots out of me as I drop to my knees beside her. Any air remaining in my lungs evaporates. I begin shaking her body rapidly, hoping it'll wake her up. While I mumble and ramble profanities in a panic, I mentally plead she'll hear one, snap out of this and try to wash my mouth out with soap.

  My fingers are fumbling around to check for a pulse and if she's breathing, when Wes' voice appears in the room. “I heard a scream and-” He quickly falls to the space beside me, a look of horror immediately joining his expression. “What the hell happened? Is she okay?”

  “I-I-I don't know,” I stutter out. “One minute she was talking and the next she said she felt funny and then this.”

  Alarm races through his eyes as he pushes my hands out of the way. He checks her neck and her nose before declaring, “She's alive. Breathing....”

  “We need to call 911.”

  “I'll call Matt.”

  “No!” I shout at him. “Call the goddamn paramedics!”

  His eyebrows dart down and he argues, rising to his feet. “I'm gonna call Matt. The fucking doctor I keep on retainer. He'll figure out what's wrong.”

  “Oh like he did before?!” I snap again. “Because clearly he didn't if she's lying here on my bedroom floor passed out!”

  “What's with all the yelling?” J.T. joins us. Almost instantly his eyes fall to the ground. “What the hell is wrong with Lauren? Why's she on the ground?”

  “I don't know,” my voice whimpers as I look back her. “One sec she was fine and the next-”

  “Matt,” Wes' voice sharply bites. “We need you-”

  “We need 911!” I scream harshly.

  He gives me an angry look and backs out of the room to continue the call.

  “What the fuck is his fear of hospitals?!” The yelling continues.

  J.T. lowers his body to make eye contact with me. “Bryn, you've gotta calm down-”

  “Calm down?!” I bite. “How the fuck do you expect me to calm down when my mother is possibly dying on my bedroom floor!”

  “Breathe,” his voice remains level and kind. “Just...breathe.”

  Fighting the urge to scream more, I follow his instructions and attempt to regain my composure.

  “And Wes hates hospitals because they weren't good to him. Initially after his accident they spent a great deal of time trying to scare tactic him into getting more surgeries and skin grafts. They swore it would be the only way to save his life and prevent infection. They didn't even bother listening to what he wanted or what he felt was best. They saw an opportunity to land themselves in papers and medical journals. Not a person who needed help. Dr. Hamilton, err....Matt was the only one to treat him differently. He was the only doctor convinced to help Wes live the way he wanted even if it meant he had to live a life disfigured. Matt cares about the mental well-being of a person as much as their physical health.” The information drops my shoulders. “Just try to trust him with this. If he thinks Lauren needs to be at a hospital, we'll take her. No questions asked. Just...give him a chance first, okay?”

  “Ten minutes,” Wes announces in the room. “He'll be here.”

  “Is he helicoptering in or something?”

  J.T. tries not to chortle. “He doesn't live far. He lives out by the lake and there's a private road from his property that runs into the back end of this one. No speed limit.”

  “You built him a private road?” I question up at Wes.

  He gives me a short shrug. “Yeah. I take shit like this seriously.”

  “Also helped him start his concierge practice, which mainly consists of Wes and two other clients who are aware that Wes always comes first.” J.T. brags. “You know what he does when he's not working?”

  “Golfs?”

  “How'd you know?”

  “Lucky rich person guess,” I sigh and glance back down at my mother who looks like she's sleeping. “Should we....move her?”

  “No.” Wes declares. “Matt said to leave her where she is and monitor her. If anything changes, like if she stops breathing or suddenly starts vomiting, call 911. Tell them we'll chopper her in if necessary.”

  I toss him another look of sarcasm. “So you really do have a helicopter for that purpose?”

  “It serves multiple purposes.”

  Mumbling under my breath, I bob my head around, “Of course it does.”

  Before another snide remark can leave me, J.T. intervenes, “Let's just all take another deep breath. I'm sure Lauren will be fine. If she needs anyone to save her, Matt can definitely do it.”

  I give him a single nod and drop my eyes to the only person in the world I love more than the one I'm furious with for not doing more to save her. To actually protect her like he swore he would. He better hope she wakes up from this because if not, losing his best staff member will be the very least of his worries when I get finished with him.

  Matt exits the hospital like bedroom she has spent more time in over the past few weeks than I feel is healthy.

  The moment he does, Wes and I pop up off the bench in unison and rush towards him.

  “Well?” Wes manages to speak first.

  “You're not going to like what I have to say,” Matt announces in a frigorific tone.

  “The hospital,” I insert myself into the conversation. “I knew it! She needs to be in an actual hospital, right?”

  His face falls to mine. “No. She'll be fine here. But she'll be in quarantine once more. She's awake now and stable. The fever is coming down, though the numbness of her mouth is still evident. I'm running a few tests and should have the answer to what caused that within the next few days.”

  “Days?” My arms fold across my chest. “She has to be quarantined days again?” Before he has a
chance to answer his previous statement nails me in the chest. “Wait. Why do you think Wes wouldn't like what you had to say? What else did you have to say?”

  Matt clears his throat in discomfort. “Most likely, what is causing your mother's unpredictable prognosis is an outside source.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I believe and the most logical conclusion for the belief is that someone is purposely making her ill.”

  “What?!”

  “This again?” Wes' voice tries not raise. “We're back to this?”

  “I never left it.”

  “What?!” I interrupt them. “What do you mean back to this and that you never left it? When were we ever on it!”