Pulling my hair over one shoulder, I turn away and run my hands down my sides, over my hips and slowly, slowly over my ass. Good thing I’m religious with my yoga. Lifting my arms above my head, I drop to a forward fold, working my ass back and forth in little rotations as I bend and take my calves in my hands, my leg muscles stretched tight. I could look at him from between my legs, but I don’t. I hold still for several seconds, letting him enjoy the view before slowly coming back up. My heart is racing, my skin flushed as I stand tall before him once again. Cupping my breasts in my hands, I strut over to him and stand with my legs spread, so close that he could reach out and touch me.
Our eyes lock and I don’t realize how hard I’m breathing until just then. My pussy aches for him. My nipples are peaked hard inside the fabric cups.
“You’ve made it to the second round.” Luka unfastens his belt and unzips his pants. “Now get up here and audition on my cock. Show me how good you can ride it.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I get on top of him, one knee on either side of his hips on the soft cushions. As I grip his cock and guide him toward me, he pulls down my bra, freeing my aching breasts. We both cry out as I slide down onto his generous length. I feel deliciously full, and begin to grind back and forth, helpless little moans escaping my lips. This is so good.
He brushes his thumbs over my nipples before pulling me closer and taking one in his mouth. I let out a whimper, and then he finds my clit with his other hand and begins to stroke agonizingly slowly—a tantalizing contrast to my fast, desperate pace. The sofa creaks on its wooden peg feet, sliding slightly across the floor as I drive myself down on him again and again. Luka strokes me harder, faster, until my pussy tightens around him, and the swirl of orgasm teases me. It takes everything I have to hold back. I’ve waited too long for this and I can’t let myself come after only two minutes. I force myself to slow down, really feeling him inside me.
“Fuck yes,” I groan. “Fuck me, Luka.”
His cock swells, and I’m both stunned and pleased at how fast I can drive him to the edge along with me. Suddenly, he reaches down and grips my ass, pulling me off his dick and up toward his face as he scoots down on the cushions. I find an awkward position with one knee bent against the back of the couch, the other on the side of Luka’s face. He pulls my hips forward and slides his hot, open lips against my pussy. His tongue darts against my clit. I buck and moan as the sensation becomes a delicious blend of pleasure and nearly painful intensity.
He won’t let me go, holding me firmly against his mouth as he plunges inside me with his tongue. Suddenly, I come against his lips, his strokes sending a shockwave through me that I ride out on his face. Before I can think straight, he pulls me back down onto his cock, both of us on the floor now. He thrusts into me hard, three, four times before he grunts, turning to stone. His fingers grab handfuls of my hair as he rams up into me, jutting his release into my wetness.
I collapse onto him, bracing myself against the sofa behind him until our breathing slows. My brain is in a daze, but the feel of Luka lightly pushing me with his hands grounds me.
He’s pushing me away.
“Get up,” he says.
I slide off him and he wastes no time putting himself together. Buckling his belt, he looks me over without an ounce of expression. My heart sinks.
“You aren’t the only one in the running for this. I need to see the other girls before I make my decision. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
He turns and walks away.
Luka
Chapter 12
The paparazzi are everywhere. I pull back the blinds from my office window and glance down at the sidewalk lined with loitering camera crews, reporters, and a few random gawkers. My mouth hardens into an angry line. I don’t know why I expected anything different.
My father’s trial has begun, and as his sins become more and more exposed, the court transcriptions continue to make villains out of all of us.
No matter how prepared I told myself I was for this, it was a lie. The media is laying out his heinous actions for the public in gruesome detail, tarnishing both the Zoric name and the business that our family worked so hard to build. I try to remember that the victims are getting justice, that my brother and I have done everything in our power to support the models who were subject to these crimes. But I still feel like I’ll never dig myself out of this emotional hole.
I should’ve realized what was going on sooner. Should have done more.
In my lowest moments, I wish I had someone to hold my hand through all of this like Stefan does. I don’t, though.
My arrangement with Brooklyn has been a lot more difficult than I anticipated. After Paris, I thought it would be easy to come home and go about our separate lives, staying out of each other’s way. So far, it’s just been a mess. And I’m taking it out on everyone around me.
The worst part isn’t even that I don’t trust my wife.
It’s that I still want her anyway.
Despite the fact that the feelings I had for her at the beginning of our marriage are dead, I’m still jealous and full of lust. I don’t know why I can’t put those instincts aside. I knew it would always be like this—a sham relationship. Nothing but a contract. Yet something inside me just won’t let go. It’s like she brings out the most primal parts of me just by walking into a room.
My mistake was prioritizing Brooklyn’s feelings over the business. DRM was the whole reason I agreed to go through with this marriage to begin with, so I need to keep my head straight and remember that the agency always comes first. The less time I spend around my fake wife, the easier it will be to compartmentalize—and it’s the only way I’m going to survive both the tension at home and the PR nightmare that this trial is causing.
The crowd of photographers below is swelling by the minute, until the street is swarming with them. I came in through the underground parking lot today, having an inkling that we might get overrun with tabloid media trying to nab a quote or a picture. But I’m going to need to come up with some new strategies, because this kind of shit is going to go on as long as my father is on trial. No one knows how long that will take. There are witnesses to put on the stand. Evidence to present. Counterarguments to make. And then there’s the question of my father’s health. We’d received word that he wasn’t doing well in incarceration. He’d been to the hospital a couple of times for general complaints of weakness. I don’t know if his doctors found out anything.
I’m not sure I care.
Stefan, meanwhile, has been working tirelessly to fight the stigma attached to the Zoric name. I’m waiting on him to finish up a meeting now so we can discuss our next steps with PR. My marriage was supposed to help the Zoric family clean up its image, give DRM a fresh start. What a shitshow that turned out to be. My backstabbing wife isn’t batting an eye at collecting on her compensation for taking my last name, judging by her proposition the other night over dinner. Brooklyn Moss,theface of Danica Rose Management? I silently scoff, even though I know she’d be the perfect fit. It irks me that she’s grabbing for the top of the ladder after what she did to me. No conscience, I guess.
A hard laugh puffs out of me. Funny, lack of a conscience was always my issue.
