The Suit (The Bro Series Book 3)

by Xavier Neal

  “Six,” Hattie laughs with a roll of the eyes.

  Their adorable exchange plants a wide grin on my face as well.

  Indulge…

  Something I’m not sure I remember how to do but damn sure wanna try.

  The three of us color multiple pictures together, the conversation alternating between just the two of us and the entire group. Hattie asks Pax a million questions about what he does, why does he do it, and if he always has to wear a tie. In between her ramblings, I squeeze in a few about where his knowledge of the restaurant sprang from, how long he’s been an attorney, and praise him for the fantastic flavors flowing across my tongue. Dinner rolls smoothly, and Hattie eats more of her food than expected. Pax and I pretend to steal pieces and the playfulness seems to prompt her to eat more just to prevent us from having a bite. We order dessert, play in the sandbox while we wait, and then share a giant piece of chocolate cake.

  On the ride home, Hattie dozes off in the first five minutes. We keep our conversation just above a whisper and leave the topic light. We playfully argue about different types of cake. Reflect on our first experiences with sushi. Swoon over our favorite wines and rest our folded fingers together on top of the console.

  As we pull into the driveway of my home, Pax kindly offers to carry Hattie to bed for me. I let him cradle her into his arms and lead him straight to her room at the end of the hall. He places her down on the mattress before excusing himself to let me change her in private. She barely stirs during the process. It doesn’t take long to tuck her in with the bear Pax sent her, turn on the Hello Kitty night light, and slip out of her room.

  The moment Pax comes into my vision my pussy anxiously clenches.

  All night long he has been something fantastic.

  Someway, somehow he managed to balance a healthy conversation with me and a healthy one with my daughter. He got her chatting like someone pulled her string and had me laughing until my sides hurt. Every opportunity he had, he put our interests first. Allowed me to have the first bite of our food. Allowed me to have my fill before even picking up his fork. Allowed Hattie to eat all the frosting while wearing a soft smirk. He’s not only turned what I thought was going to be a nightmare situation into a dream, he did it effortlessly. And now all I want to do is show my gratitude.

  Our eyes connect, and I offer him a seductive smirk as I saunter my body past his. “Glass of wine?”

  Pax’s posture noticeably shifts like a predator aware of new prey. “Red.”

  The answer is preceded with him prowling after me into the kitchen. Teasingly, I ask, “And if I don’t have red?”

  “Water.”

  His decisive nature is frustrating and sexy as fuck. It keeps me torn in two directions. I don’t like anyone taking away my right to choose, whether it’s in the bedroom or at the dinner table, but there is something so freeing about the person you’re sleeping with knowing you well enough that you don’t have to think. You just have to feel. Vibe. Allow yourself to be set on fire by the basic human need of satisfaction.

  And for a man who I’ve had minimal encounters with, he somehow knew my body belonged to him before the first lick.

  The memory of that night has me tucking my bottom lip between my teeth at the same time I reach for the wine glasses on the top shelf of the cabinet. However, Pax’s large frame boxes me in just as my fingertips curl around the stems. The pressure from his firm chest and hard cock has me struggling to stifle a whimper.

  A hot breath brushes my ear. “Spread. Your. Legs.”

  Without hesitation, I do.

  “Stay. Still.” Pax’s wide palms travel along the sides of my simple, sleeveless black dress that doesn’t give my actual figure much shape.

  I had to dig through my wardrobe for something that looks even remotely date appropriate. Most of the dresses I have are too professional for anything other than a business lunch and showing up in a skirt and button down shirt still teetered too close to “let’s sign a business contract” rather than “let’s make a sex pact”.

  When his hands reach my bare legs my head threatens to dip back, but the stern reminder not to move reverberates around my mind. He doesn’t toy with the situation. He doesn’t delay his actions. He moves his fingers directly to the edge of my lacy panties and carefully pulls them down. The delicate yet direct process receives a warm sigh of approval.

  How can a man so large, so powerful, frequently be so tender?

  Once they’re completely removed, he returns himself to a standing position, though this time he slides a hand underneath the front of my dress. Another whimper festers behind my closed lips from the feeling of his fingers splaying themselves on top of my bare pussy.

  Pax’s teeth capture my earlobe providing it with a tiny tug, freeing the previously imprisoned sound. He groans his gratification before doing something completely unexpected. His hand draws back to deliver a short, sharp slap to my pussy. My gasp pushes my ass back into him, which is when he swiftly repeats the action.

  “Stay. Still.”

  The opportunity to retort is nonexistent. He delivers another sting right on top of my slick lips and a choked sob lingers in the back of my throat. In tandem, he harshly sucks on my lobe and repeatedly pops my pussy creating a carnal combination. Each blow receives a brush of his finger, secretly providing pleasure while each suck involves the faintest bite of pain. As much as my body wants to contort away from the dribbles of discomfort and press into the sprinkles of delight, I remain completely still.

  I leave myself to his command.

  Surrendered.

  Vulnerable.

  Pressure begins to build like never before. Wetness shamelessly coats his fingers. Drips down my thighs. Floods out of me like I’m continuously coming despite the lack of penetration.

  Desperation for the latter has me quietly pleading, “Please, Pax…”

  His growl grows wild, and his hand movement follows suit. “Please, what?”

  “Let me come.” I squeak loudly at the delicious burn being delivered. “Make me come.”

  Pax’s chortle is depraved. “Big difference, Buttercup. Which is it you want?” He increases the speed of the swing. “To give me the power to make this pussy come or wait until you do it yourself?”

  Despite the rapid way my mind is racing, the reference to the earlier part of our date isn’t lost upon me.

  He’s definitely earned the right to have me tonight.

  To break me.

  My face tilts to peer at him over my shoulder. “Make me come, Pax.”

  A feral growl seeps from his parted lips. “Keep your eyes on me.”

  While the angle isn’t ideal, I once again, do as I’m told.

  Pax’s slaps grow in numbers as my pussy weeps in protest. The agony twists with unknown thrill until my eyes are hooded and my chest is heaving. At that point, he slides his hand down, cupping the area with so much force, I unexpectedly begin to spiral. My mouth thoughtlessly drops to scream in pleasure yet his free hand soars to repress the sound. He tightens his hold on my mouth before piercing the pulsating walls with his thick digit. More strangled cries crash into his palm. Pax’s thrusting finger shows no mercy. It brutally pumps and his suit confined cock mimics the movement from behind. Every grind against me causes the glasses I’m grasping to clink like a standing ovation. His rapid movements from opposite directions paint the portrait of being properly filled by him…

  In every way.

  All the time.

  The commitment to delivering what I want as well as what I need thrums proudly through his expression. He adds an additional finger, and I silently swear it’s going to shred me in two. Together, they repeatedly curl inside, beckoning another orgasm to come out and make itself known. All of sudden, the muscles I’m not sure ever actually stopped pulsating; begin to do it in another rapid succession. A loud, body shaking scream surges out of me as cum drips down his fingers into his palm.

  “Perfezionare.” He quietly groans his grat
ification. “Fucking. Perfect.”

  Pax drops his hand from my mouth and replaces it with his lips. His fingers coil themselves around the waves of my hair while his tongue tangles with mine. Our presses aren’t soft or sweet. They’re not filled with question or curiosity. They’re chaotic. Each lash cogent. By the time his lips are falling from mine, there isn’t a single doubt in my mind that he isn’t the one.

  This is the man I wanna share my load with.

  My daughter with.

  My life with…

  I just pray that someday he feels the same way.

  Chapter 6

  Me: Lunch.

  These past three weeks seem surreal.

  Like a drunken dream I’m having while staring off into the dark.

  Most days, I have to quietly remind myself that what is happening to me is real.

  That Ryann is real. That’s she’s not some New Age hologram or sex doll Holden sent me because he decided I needed better female contact.

  Knowing that fucker, that’s something he would definitely do.

  And he wouldn’t be completely wrong. I’ve fucked a blow up doll, and I’d at least give one of those computer chicks a chance to get me off. I’ve put my dick in stranger places drunk and sober. Fucking a robot wouldn’t be off my radar…

  I give my chin another stroke as I stare down at the screensaver on my phone.

  Ryann and Hattie have instantly become my entire world.

  And it’s insane…

  I mean, I know it’s insane. No one’s entire life should revolve around a woman they just met and her adorable six year old, but to live life any other way feels wrong. It’s dangerous. Slightly neurotic. Borderline unhealthy, yet I don’t give a fuck because they’re happy. Fuck, I’m happy. The three of us have gone out to dinner. Caught a movie. Went bowling. We’ve had pretend Playdough BBQs while I was grilling actual dinner and water gun fights I was ill prepared for. I start most mornings with a phone call from the two of them and end most nights kissing Hattie on the forehead and coming alongside Ryann. While I haven’t buried my cock inside her yet, I damn sure have been doing everything to keep her from complaining. She wants to wait until Hattie is out of the house. Apparently, it’s one thing to ride my face while her daughter is fast asleep and a completely more private affair to ride my dick.

  I get it.

  I respect it.

  I fucking hate it.

  Next weekend, Hattie will be gone for a slumber party, and Ryann says she’s arranged something special. At this rate, all I need is a box of condoms and an expensive cigar for us to smoke afterwards.

  A small grin weasels itself onto my face at the thought of the vintage cigar box we found last Saturday morning while garage sale hunting.

  For postcards. They collect postcards from around the world together. Hattie likes the colorful ones, but Ryann seems to have a deeper attachment to them. Like her lost dreams are kept on the back of each one she collects. Like they’re puzzle pieces from a different life she never got to have. They insisted I have the one they found during our time together. It has a beautiful shot of Venice at night. I had my assistant frame it Monday morning, and now it sits just on the other side of my computer, beside my unused Hello Kitty pen that Hattie demanded I write with at work.

  Ryann says she’s typically not so pushy.

  I think it’s amazing. She’s just trying to peek out from her shell.

  Suddenly, a text comes in blocking the background picture of the two of them.

  Holden: Where?

  The other problem with spending this much time molding my life to fit into Ryann and Hattie’s schedule is the neglect I’ve been tossing my bros. Honestly, can’t remember a time since we’ve been friends I’ve gone this long without seeing them. Sure, they’ve all been busy these few weeks with their own shit. Wyatt’s bouncing around Fiji drinking mojitos out of college girls’ belly buttons and being fed coconut shrimp by cougars. Nate started a new job and recently moved into a rental home closer to his girl’s college. He didn’t want help moving. He let the professionals handle it complaining that we’d break shit. And Holden has been the same old Holden. Neck deep in work for the FBI and throwing away nanny’s like used rubbers. Our schedules haven’t exactly been coinciding, but I haven’t been making the extra effort, either. Not at all like I used to. My first thought when I’m done for the day is dinner with my girls. Where we will go? Do I need to stop for milk? Should I bring them fresh made gelato for dessert? Over dinner with my parents this past weekend, they both tried to reassure me it was normal. That fresh love does this to a person.

  I wouldn’t fucking know.

  This is the first time in my entire existence I have ever felt this way.

  It terrifies the shit out of me…

  Love morphs into obsession, and I’ve witnessed what can happen first hand.

  I don’t want that for Ryann.

  I’d rather die.

  Just as I start to text Holden back where we’re meeting there’s a knock on my office door.

  It cracks open, and Jenna’s young face appears around it. “Excuse me, Mr. Rossi.”

  Her use of my last name indicates the obvious. “There’s a client here.”

  “Potential.”

  The response furrows my eyebrows. “Have them make an appointment. I don’t take walk ins.”

  “I know,” Jenna softly sighs. “But she’s refusing not to be seen.”

  “Call security.”

  “She said they’d remove her clothing not her from the building.”

  There’s a small tug at the corners of my lips.

  Ballsy. That I appreciate in this field.

  “Tell her, we’ll meet after lunch.”

  “She says you’ll see her now.”

  “I won’t.”

  The unseen woman firmly states. “You will.”

  That voice…

  Those phrases…

  I begin to grind my teeth as a dirty, little secret I buried reaches through the dirt of its grave to make a grand entrance.

  “Ms. O’Hara is here to see you,” Jenna pointlessly announces.

  My eyes lock onto the soul sucking gray ones I haven’t seen in years. “Go out to lunch, Jenna.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once she scurries away, Charlotte closes the door and braces her back against it. “God, I love hearing you take charge.”

  I don’t move a muscle, knowing better than to show any sign of weakness.

  Any of sign of life.

  She’s one of those monsters that feed off the fear of others…

  It’s how she made it to the top.

  Fuck, how she’s convinced men on top to marry her four times.

  “Reminds me fondly of the night you ordered me to my knees and demanded I rub myself off while you came on my face.”

  The images attempt to flash through my mind but are immediately blocked with a solid blink.

  Not looking to empty my stomach of its current contents.

  She toys with her long, stringy red hair. Her bottom lip pokes itself out. “I gave you a lovely greeting, and you can’t even muster up a warm welcome?”

  My expression doesn’t change.

  “I think I deserve a little something for being the reason your tight apple ass has the pleasure of sitting in a firm you own instead of the one you were playing bitch boy under when we met.”

  When she got her sea urchin hooks into me.

  “You swore you’d never step foot in this office, Charlotte.”

  “I also swore I would love Bartholomew until death do us part.” Her bony shoulders that are currently home to an off the shoulder red dress, bounce. “I lied. I’m a compulsive liar. It’s literally the definition of what I do.”

  A living, breathing, non-mythical fucking succubus.

  “I’m getting a divorce.”

  “What else is new?”

  “From an actual Duke.”

  Not sure if that classifies as new. T
he last three men were basically the American equivalence. Of them, only one wised up to see through the schemes before it was completely too late. Unfortunately, his loss was my fault.

  His loss is the foundation of my gain.

  First financially, and now emotionally since I’m fucking his new step daughter.

  Since I plan to someday marry his new step daughter.

  I swallow the trepidation tickling my throat.