Michael lay on his side right next to her. He used one hand to firmly hold both of hers high above her body so that it was stretched taut, leaving her helpless and vulnerable. With his other large hand he stroked her silky brown thighs with light but purposeful movements. One finger worked its way up under the silky string of her bikini, tracing a line along her hips.
“Michael,what are you doing? ” she breathed, struggling half heartedly under the lock he had on her hands.
“Claiming my woman,” he growled as he looked down at her with intensity. He leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “When I’m done with you, every man who comes in contact with you will refrain from making the mistake of not understanding that you’re taken.”
This was a new side of Michael London hadn’t seen before. Of course, she’d never been approached by another man in the three months they’d been together…especially not so offensively. She rather liked it.
The finger under the strap of her panties traced a line down to the V where the silky fabric covered her most intimate parts. London closed her eyes and reflexively felt her back arch. She groaned and twisted her body as the tip found the wetness growing beneath her folds.
He slowly worked his index finger between her dripping slit, causing her body to spasm as he rubbed the tiny nub that was already heated. She mewled with pleasure as he circled it teasingly.
He stared down at her with a wicked grin, watching her writhe in tortured pleasure. “Are we clear about this?” he inquired.
Her eyes flew open and stared at him challengingly. “No.”
In the momentary state of bewilderment that left him slack, she pulled her hands free of him and pushed against his chest so that he was once again the one lying prone.
London pulled herself up into a kneeling position and leaned on her hands to stare down at him.
“Because you also belong to me, and I want to make sure any woman that gets any damn ideas sure as hell knows it.”
She licked her lips seductively as she reached underneath the waistband of his boxers to release the powerful rod that was already rock hard.
She looked over to see him grinning then bit her bottom lip as she brought her head down. A smile grew on her face as she grasped it with one hand and grazed it against her cheek, looking up at him.
“Are you becoming clear about this?” she challenged.
Before he could answer, she covered the head with her mouth, letting her tongue give him pleasure as she lapped up his pre-cum. Her lips followed her hands down the shaft with one long, deep stroke, taking as much of him as she could.
She heard him groan as the large head glided down the back of her throat, causing it to spasm around the sensitive tip.
“No,” she heard him say.
She gradually pulled her head up and off him, pulling herself up to look at him questioningly.
He was looking at her with an intensity she hadn’t seen before now. He sat up and grabbed her shoulders, his eyes staring into hers.
“We belong to each other,” he insisted.
He pushed her back onto the bed and quickly pulled his boxers down his legs. London, on the exact same wavelength as him, pulled her own panties down.
She spread her legs eagerly, welcoming him into her as he fell on top of her, grabbing one leg to wrap around his waist as he kissed her forcefully.
She moaned up toward the headboard as he entered her, pressing hard along the walls of her pussy that ached to have the familiar feel of him inside of her once again.
“You’re mine,” he growled, grinding his hips in and out of her.
“Yes,” she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“I’m yours,” he followed, pumping harder and faster.
“Yes!” she screamed, the first orgasm overtaking her.
He felt the spasms around his shaft and the culmination of the night’s activities—feeling her wetness against his fingers, her mouth on his dick, her pussy consuming him—forced the tell-tale tightening of his balls as his own explosion occured.
“Always, London,” he groaned, coming as he filled her with the result of his climax. He fell down onto her, nuzzling the top of her hair. “Always,” he murmured again.
“Yes,” she promised, running her fingers through his hair, pressing him into her.
* * *
Once again Michael was the big spoon, a role he enjoyed playing—especially after tonight’s news. It still sent waves of anger through him as he recalled London’s experience with Dion Davis.
He’d seen the surprise in her face at his reaction. Frankly, it surprised even him. He’d never felt this way about a woman before.
From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, she had challenged him. Even now, she wasn’t afraid to put him in his place when he needed it, and not just to play games. Tonight had shown him that once again.
They were equals. She was his and he was hers.
* * *
That Friday, London was in her office reviewing potential clients.
“London,” Brandy, her secretary buzzed into her office. “Mrs. Vivienne Davis is here to see you.”
That was a surprise. London briefly wondered if Dion had sent his wife of all people to smooth things over with her and the firm. It was an absurd thought. What sort of wife, even a politician’s wife, would grovel that low?
Instead of having her sent in, London walked out personally to greet her. She wanted a good look at the woman before the poker face was cemented.
“Vivienne,” she said walking over to take her hand.
“London,” she said giving an almost sad smile.
“Please, come in,” London offered, choosing to remain neutral until she knew what this meeting was about.
“Of course, this shouldn’t take long,” Vivienne said, following her in.
That did nothing to abate London’s curiosity.
She pointed to the chair across from her desk and went to sit in her own, giving the woman a questioning glance.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Vivienne said. “Did my husband try anything…untoward with you or anyone else here? Is that why he split with the firm?”
London wasn’t sure how to respond. It was still her word against his, but obviously Vivienne was no fool. It only fueled the idea that London was hardly the first younger female to be the subject of his unwanted attentions.
Apparently her lack of shock or vehement protest was enough to answer the questions presented.
Vivienne sighed and looked away. “I suppose I thought—”
Her eyes flashed up rapidly toward London, giving her a brief guilty glimpse before she quickly recovered. London saw the curtain of propriety close, blacking out the sliver of revelation. But she’d seen enough.
Mrs. Davis had finally broken under the final straw.
Chapter 9
Alex should have known from the moment he met up with Brianna in Starbucks that letting her tag along to the reopening of Ménage was a bad idea. His job, revamping clubs, bars, restaurants, even hotels at this point, required a certain degree of predictability when launching the all-important re-opening. For the most part it was 90% fool proof. Do this, profits go up. Change that, customers will flock to your establishment.
Celebrities were often a huge boon, especially to nightclubs, but they were the 10% factor that he hated to deal with: completely unpredictable.
As evidenced by what he was looking at now.
When he got to Trina’s condo in Beverly Hills, she and Brianna had already finished off one bottle of champagne and were already working on the next one. Surround sound speakers were blasting TGIF by Katy Perry, which was a bad omen in and of itself, as Alex took in the lyrics.
Last Friday night
We went streaking in the park
Skinny dipping in the dark
Then had a ménage à trois
The two of them were dancing while Troy looked on with an amused smirk on his face and a glass of someth
ing amber colored in his hands.
Troy Higgins was dressed in cowboy boots and jeans, with a fitted gray t-shirt tucked in. The belt he wore had a Lone Star so big that it that made Alex wonder if he was overcompensating. It wasn’t too much of a problem even though it didn’t entirely fit within the boundaries of the dress code at Ménage. It fit the country-meets-rock-and-roll vibe of Down ’n Out, the band he was a bassist for. In fact, he probably would have had a harder time getting in if he’d been wearing the same slick black dress shirt, open at the collar, and dark gray, fitted slacks that Alex had on.
“There he is!” squealed Brianna as Alex walked warily through into the living room of Trina’s condo.
“Ohhh,” purred Trina, “he is nice, Brianna. Watch out Troy, baby. You’ve got some competition tonight!”
Trina Robbins had the same color hair as her new bestie and they were both the same age, but that’s where the similarities ended. She was a good 6 inches shorter, putting her at about 5’3, the tiniest person in the room. Whereas Brianna had the blue-blooded, high-cheekboned, air of haughtiness, Trina was the other type of blonde, a bubbling airhead, with overly large green eyes that presented well on screen in a permanent state of surprise, bewilderment, or terror. It was obvious why she had pretty much been typecast already in Hollywood as either the ditzy sidekick or Murder Victim #1.
The one thing the two of them did have in common is that they were both in tiny bandage dresses—Trina’s in hot pink and Brianna’s in white—with heels so high that they made Alex glad he was a man.
“Jesus, are you two already wasted?” he complained.
“Not wasted,” slurred Trina. “Just tipsy!” she laughed as she fell into Troy’s lap, all giggles and hiccups.
“Not to worry, dude,” Troy said, with an exaggerated drawl grabbing her around her tiny waist and pulling her in close to nuzzle her neck. “I’ll make sure this one behaves.”
“Oh come on, Alex,” Brianna teased. “You’ve seen me far worse than this.”
That wasn’t saying much, Alex thought to himself. He remembered full well their blackout nights and mornings waking up in pools of vomit.
“Just…put the bottle down and let’s get going,” he sighed, warning bells in his head already going off.
* * *
“Selfie time!” screeched Trina, pulling out her iPhone. Alex watched with amused exasperation as the two girls made duck faces for the camera. Even Troy, sitting next to him was shaking his head with a smile.
“Come on Troy,” Trina urged. “Join us. I gots to have my Bae with me on Instagram. People might think we’ve broken up.”
“Woman,” he protested with that Texas drawl. “You have about a million photos on that damn phone of me. Just repost, dammit.”
She gave him an exaggerated pout.
“I know!” Brianna shouted, “Let’s get Alex in on the pics.”
Before she could continue he raised a hand in protest. “No, like I said—”
“We know. You’re a big old bore these days,” she said rolling her eyes. Then she gave him a cunning smile.
“We could tag Ménage in them,” she suggested. “Trina has two-hundred thousand followers and I have almost as much. Think of the publicity,” she said, dangling that tasty tidbit in front of him.
“Yeah, we’ll only do it if you join us in the photos,” Trina said, giving Brianna a conspiratorial wink.
Alex thought about it. It was harmless fun. A few photos detailing their trip to Ménage for the opening night…for almost four hundred thousand fans. It was too good to pass up. Besides, it was innocent enough. Just a group of friends having fun.
He sighed and crossed over to their side of the limo. He could feel the tightness of his smile as he was sandwiched between the overly exuberant smiles of the two girls next to him.
In the back of his mind he wondered what Brooklyn might think of the situation. It probably didn’t create a great impression, but it could be far, far worse.
This was his job after all.
* * *
Things only went downhill from there.
As pre-arranged, they were ushered in ahead of everyone waiting in line. Numerous VIPS and well-known names were invited to the (re)opening of Ménage, a club that had fallen into obscurity under the name of Trois until Alex stepped in.
At first he was happy to see the place packed inside, a long line of the common-folk (who would eventually be the bread and butter of this venture) enviously waiting outside.
The four of them were escorted to the VIP section to watch from their pedestal as the party got rockin’. Alex was starting to settle into it all, enjoying yet another success.
Then Trina ordered a round of shots. Then, another. Blow Jobs (which conjured up memories Alex purposefully didn’t want to associate with tonight). It continued on, with more and more various shots. At some point, Alex was sure she was ordering based solely on how offensive the name was, each concoction more disgusting than the previous one.
Troy passed on every round, sticking to his continual round of bourbon. The amused expression on his face told Alex all he needed to know about how he felt about his woman drinking herself under the table, one shot at a time.
“Okay, no more shots.” Alex said, finally cutting them off.
Both blondes, already twenty sheets to the wind, pouted childishly at him. Then they looked at one another and laughed.
“Selfie time!” they squealed.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
Alex found himself wondering how he was only a year older than Brianna. Hell, even when they were 19 years old, sneaking liquor out of their parent’s cabinets she wasn’t this bad.
They snapped about twenty shots of the same facial expression taken from every which angle, lips puckered, cheeks sucked in, two fingers in a peace sign held up. It was like watching robots perform.
Alex turned his attention to the crowd below them. It brought the smile back to his face, watching people enjoy themselves, having a good time.
“Your turn!” he heard the dual screech next to him grate in his ears.
Before he could even turn his face to see what they were referring to, Trina had wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him in for a selfie as the flash of her iPhone blinded him.
He suffered through four more acts of humiliation before he was able to pull himself out of her, surprisingly strong, headlock.
One of her with her cheek pressed against his.
One of her kissing his cheek.
One of her licking the side of his face.
In the final shot, Brianna joined in, both of them actually devouring his face with open mouthed intensity.
“What the fuck!” he yelled, actually jumping out of the booth. “Don’t you dare post that to anything!”
“Too late!” she squealed, showing him the Instagram shot. #Ménage #AlexWright #BriBri #yummy
How the hell had she hashtagged all of that so fast?
As he was pondering this he could see it had already garnered 200 likes…and that number was growing exponentially. It occurred to him that the Ménage hashtag could be wildly misinterpreted by anyone who wasn’t aware they were attending the opening of this new club.
Shit!
“Dammit!” he yelled. He looked at Brianna accusingly. She only offered him a guilty smile in return.
“Relax, Alex,” she said, giggling. “It’s just fun. Besides, Trina’s the one who started it all.”
“You lying bitch!” Trina yelled, throwing a bright pink cosmo onto Brianna’s white, clingy dress that, despite having less than a yard of fabric total, probably cost more than most people in the club made in a week.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
“What the fuck, Trina?” Brianna yelled. “You’re the one with the Instagram fixation, and you’ve been eyeing Alex all night!”
“I have not!” Trina spat back. “Just because he’s more into me than you doesn’t mean I’m after him!”
&nbs
p; Wait, what?
By now, the crowd in the club was slowing the gyrations of their dancing to take a closer look at the spat going on in the VIP section.
“Slut!”
“Whore!”
That’s when the claws came out. The two of them began grabbing hair, slapping, and ripping at clothes. The entire club had become an audience and they were cheering the fighting vixens on.
Troy, who had started this entire freak show with his nose firmly planted in his umpteenth glass of bourbon, finally stepped in. He pulled Trina off Brianna like she was a tiny kitten. Alex held Brianna back and was relieved to feel her calm down instantly.
“I think this night is over,” Alex stated. “We’re getting back into the limo and I’m taking you back to Trina’s.”
He grabbed Brianna’s arm forcefully and pushed her ahead of him out the bar, looking back to make sure Troy was doing the same with Trina.
What the hell had just happened?
Chapter 10
“The woman has gone mad,” Frank Jefferson said, shaking his head at the paper in front of him. “Absolutely deranged.”
Vivienne Davis was divorcing her husband, Representative Dion Davis. Based on her interaction with Vivienne, London wasn’t surprised.
“You mean the woman has finally come to her senses,” London corrected. “Seriously, Daddy. How could you even defend him?”
Her father gave her an indignant look. “Of course I’m not defending him, I’m just worried about her. Politicians aren’t like you and me, London. Wives do not divorce their husbands in the middle of a campaign, whether it’s for Mayor of New York or Dog Catcher. It just isn’t done.”
Which meant it was bad news all around.
Honestly, if London’s suspicions about Dion were true, she couldn’t blame the woman. In fact she did a secret little cheer for her gumption.
And if it meant the downfall of the Dion Davis campaign, all the better. But her father was right, this was a doozy. Vivienne was without fault: quietly intelligent; gracious; humble; stylish; attractive. In other words, the perfect political wife. Any suspicions as to why a divorce was occurring would fall squarely on him.
Mr. & Mrs. Wright: A BWWM Romance (Wright Brothers Series Book 2) Page 5
