She glances down and her jaw drops.
I laugh softly. “Told you my stamina’s gotten better.”
“You can’t be serious.”
I flip her over on the soft mattress. My cock nestles between her taut ass cheeks, and her breathing hitches with excitement. “Serious?” I lay a kiss on her nape, pulling a soft gasp from her. “Baby, I’m just getting started.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bryce
Nine forty-five a.m.
By now, I should be showered, dressed in an I’m-gonna-fuck-you-up suit and meeting a client who’s more anxious than an abandoned chihuahua on the Serengeti. Instead, I’m still in the suite, my body parked in the armchair near the bed, nursing my third iced Americano. The chilly drink doesn’t do a thing to ease the suffocating knot in my chest.
My hair has long dried, slicked back and firm with the gel the concierge sent up earlier. A black Armani suit and a muted burgundy tie wrap around me like armor—not my favorite, but it’s a spare Amélie sent from the office. Of course, she included a note:
Your freshly pressed power suit has arrived. Along with it comes my hopes that you remembered your toothbrush (and your standards).
I took the liberty of having the inseam shortened by 2 inches. Figured it would help draw attention from your bleary eyes and undoubtedly rumpled hair from last night’s exploits.
Ever your servant’s servant, etc.
–Amélie
The suit, of course, fits perfectly.
Fiona hasn’t stirred. She’s on her stomach, face half buried in one of the fluffy pillows. Hickeys dot her neck and shoulders. There are more on her chest and stomach. I wiped her down last night when she finally passed out…I think. It’s difficult to be sure—I remember very little of what happened after I called her.
Now that overheated blood has quit pooling in my dick and a fresh dose of caffeine has burned the rest of the drug out of my head, remorse kicks in. Even though my memory of last night is fuzzy, there are fragments of feelings floating around in a kaleidoscopic way: I’d die without her; I wish she’d look at me the way she did before; a stupid craving that we could go back to the way things were, even though it can never be. She’s changed—or rather, shown me her true colors.
People don’t change. They just eventually reveal what’s underneath.
We both know the score, and what we have right now isn’t about being nice to each other.
I’m just being responsible, making sure she’s okay after last night,I tell myself for the tenth time since six thirty, when I should’ve left the hotel to head to the office. Part of me wants to prove I’m impervious—it isn’t too late to walk out—but I swat it aside. Whatever ridiculous things I wanted last night weren’t me. It was the damn drug.
I can’t believe I ever thought you were nice. I have no clue what made Fiona say that. I probably did something to earn it.
I swallow more of the dark coffee to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth. No more Mr. Nice Guy. That’s what I’ve been striving for—and apparently achieved. Should be happy, but I’m restless.
My phone vibrates.
–Dad: Are you okay? Amélie says you’re sick today.
I inhale. He knows something’s up. I’ve never called in sick, never complained about the impact Mom’s kidnapping attempt left. I’ve become a master of faking wellness, both physical and mental, in frontof my family. So when Amélie told him I’d called in sick, he undoubtedly had to check in.
–Me: I’m fine.
–Dad: Akiko wants to stop by.
–Me: I’m not home right now.
I love my stepmom. Although we have our differences, some of them cultural, she’s one of the sweetest and most patient people I know. She’s from a Japanese zaibatsu family, ultra-wealthy, that owns a massive multinational conglomerate, and could’ve married anybody, not a divorced man with three highly traumatized boys in therapy.
She expresses her love with bento boxes so beautiful, it’s almost a crime to eat them. She tiptoes around our childhood trauma, always worried that she might say something to make things worse.
–Dad: What’s going on?
