I stand there for a long time, the city buzzing and winking on the other side of the glass, and wonder what the fuck just happened. I’ve never had a woman walk out on me. Not once in my fucking life, so what the hell?
Then again, Marnie’s special. Different. Proud, hungry, intelligent, and lush. She’s not just a woman with big tits and a round ass that she lets me fuck, but smart and sassy too, with a mouth that talksandsucks.
I love it. And I’m trying to steal her for myself, from another man. Holy shit, I’m so fucking fucked.
16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN — THE OTHER MAN
JAMES
Inever cook for myself. I order in, or eat at my club, or let the fridge go empty except for cold brew and the occasional protein bar. But tonight, I’m dicing sweet potato with the kind of focus I usually reserve for closing arguments, every knife stroke clean and deliberate. The apartment is silent except for the click of the ceramic blade on the cutting board. Outside, the city is a neon grid, a living thing, but inside, everything is angles and shadows and the clinical whir of the induction cooktop.
I wonder, for the thousandth time, what the fuck I’m doing. Am I really boxing out my law partner? The guy whom I met during college, who’s my so-called “best friend”? Shit. I’m an asshole of the first degree because we have a system, Brent and me—a tag-team, a dynamic. We learned early that together, we’re irresistible and absolutely unstoppable. Women love being a part of a threesome with two rough, dominating alpha males who also happen to have huge cocks. So why am I hosting Marnie, alone, at my place, without telling my bud? Why am double-crossing a person I’ve trusted for decades?
The answer’s easy, but I don’t like it and force myself not to think of it. After all, I’m not supposed to be doing this. Yet I’m on the warpath, and moving forward at an inexorable speed.
At nine, the security panel blinks. “Ms. Williams for you, Mr. Grant,” hums the doorman.
“Send her up,” I say, and the words taste like something new.
When the elevator doors open, Marnie steps into the foyer, arms crossed against the chill. She looks tired, like she hasn’t slept, but she’s as beautiful as ever. The dress is different than the last time—simple, black, a sheath. Her hair is up, except for a few runaway strands that make her look softer. She’s not wearing makeup, or if she is, it’s the kind that erases itself.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” I say, and realize as I say it that I mean it. “Thanks for coming.”
She steps out of her heels, leaves them by the door. “I’m early,” she says softly, “but I can kill time downstairs if you need.”
“No, no, come in,” I say, waving her toward the kitchen. “I’m just finishing up.”
Marnie stands at the edge of the kitchen, arms still crossed. “I didn’t think you were the home-cooked-meal type,” she says, glancing around at the space. The kitchen is all black lacquer and steel, the cabinets seamless, the counter a single slab of basalt imported from a volcano somewhere I’ll never visit.
“Neither did I,” I say. “But I like it because it lets me focus. Relax, even.”
She laughs, and it’s a small, gentle sound. “Good, I’m glad.”
I pour wine—white, not too sweet—and set the glass on the counter. She hesitates, then takes it, sips, and lets her guard down a millimeter.
The meal is plated until it looks like a piece of art: roast chicken, glazed sweet potato, a wild rice thing with parsley and charred lemon. We eat at the bar, not the formal table, and for the first ten minutes, it’s quiet. Marnie eats like she’s a gourmand, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Her lips and tongue are delectable, and I can’t help but to imagine them on my pecs, chest, and then clasped around my dick. Holy fuck, I’m losing it. Meanwhile, Marnie turns to me with a sweet smile.
“You’re good at cooking,” she says, after a while.
“I’m good at everything I do,” I grin. “Why, do you want me to cook more?”
She giggles. “Yes, but you didn’t invite me here to compliment your cooking, James,” she says. “So why am I here?”
I take a long breath. “You want the truth?”
“Yeah. Try me.”
I reach into the side drawer beneath the island, pull out a manila envelope. It’s worn, the edges soft. I slide it across the counter.
“What’s this?”
“Your dad wrote you a letter,” I say. “Years ago. Stanley gave it to me during the appeals process, asked me to deliver it when you were old enough. But I didn’t, because I thought it would just fuck you up more.”
She stares at the envelope like it might detonate.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But Stanley wasn’t a nice guy. He loved you, yes, but in his own way.”
