I tap out a text to Eliza: “Thanks. See you on the other side.” I delete it, then rewrite: “I’m doing this. Wish me luck.” I hit send before I can change my mind.
As I step into the cold, the wind slaps my cheeks awake, making me feel raw and new. I walk toward the office, eachstep measured and deliberate. Tonight, I’ll have to be all-in, no matter what.
Because the wolves are waiting.
And I want to see what happens when I run straight into their jaws.
5
CHAPTER FIVE – MAKING THE DEAL
Brent
It’s ten minutes to seven and already I’m restless, scotch glass sweating in my hand. Where the fuck is Marnie? I can’t wait to see the gorgeous young girl, hopefully dressed in some slutty outfit. After all, I’m not doing this for my health. I’m here to fuck the teenage blonde until her eyes roll back in her head, so she better get herefast.
James isn’t much better. My law partner is perched on the far end of the sofa, feet bare and shirt unbuttoned to a degree that makes him look more like a billionaire’s pool boy than a managing partner at the third-largest litigation firm in the state. Outside, the city glows like a circuit board, every window lit, every street boiling with Friday night momentum. There’s a view, and then there’s this: the river as a black ribbon, the skyline serrated and pulsing, the world reduced to toy scale through a wall of perfect, un-smudged glass.
Where the fuck is she? I don’t like waiting.
Except, if I’m being honest, I do like it a little because the anticipation makes everything sweeter. I can’t wait until Marnie shows up on our doorstep, innocent and curvy. We’re going to ravage those curves until she can’t think, speak or move. She’ll be a brainless puddle of soft womanflesh, squealing and moaning, by the time we’re done fucking her.
James stands and refills his glass at the wet bar, then glances at the time. “Relax,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “She’ll be here soon.”
I frown. “She better.”
A few minutes later, the security phone buzzes. I cross to the console, push a button, and the doorman’s voice crackles. “Mr. Gibson, you have a guest. A Miss Marnie Williams in the lobby.”
“Send her up,” I growl, and the doorman murmurs an assent.
James lounges back onto the sofa and stretches, resembling a massive lion. “Want to bet how long she pauses on the landing before she knocks?”
I shake my head. “Not long. She’s brave, our Marnie.”
Sure enough, a minute later there’s a faint metallic chime and I stride to the massive door, opening it to reveal our blonde goddess, all deliberate grace and sassy voluptuousness.
Marnie’s dressed to the nines, and my dick twitches at the sight. Her black number is painted on, sleeveless with a neckline deep enough such that the shadowy vee between her giant tits is visible. The skirt does that magic trick of being both indecently short and classically elegant. Her legs look a mile long in stilettos, and her hair—usually scraped into some kind of junior-exec bun—is down and loose, falling in golden waves to hershoulder blades. She’s wearing a necklace: something gold and delicate, resting right at the hollow of her throat. She’s even done her makeup, which is more than I would have expected. The lipstick is the color of plush roses, making me itch to kiss it off of her.
James whistles, low. “Damn. Hi, sweetheart. You look good.”
Marnie sashays into the living room like she’s auditioning for a role—knows we’re watching her, wants to be watched, but pretends not to notice. I catch the flicker of nerves under the mask, but it’s gone in a flash.
“Ms. Williams,” I say formally, setting down my glass and moving to greet her.
She gives me a sweet smile that could be either threat or invitation. “Thank you for having me,” she purrs, and she means it: her voice is steady. “I love your place.”
I glance around, surveying the penthouse, from the original art on the walls, the view, the low-slung furniture, the bottle of Dalmore 25 open on the bar, to the tray of crystal glasses.
“Yeah, it’s fine. You get used to it after a while.”
Marnie laughs liltingly, tilting her elegant throat back.
“Oh, I don’t think I could ever get used to this. It’s the epitome of luxury. But can I get a drink, Mr. Gibson? Pretty please.”
With that, she sashays to the couch as I pour her a glass of the Bordeaux, and we settle into the seating area: James to her left, me to her right, a triangle of leather and musk and raw anticipation.
She crosses her legs, careful, and I catch the flash of bare thigh above the hem. There’s nothing accidental about it. She knows how to tease men, and my cock twitches again, urgently this time.
“So,” Marnie smiles playfully, after a beat. “What’s on the agenda for tonight? I assume this isn’t just a social call.”
