Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Brent chuckles and finally draws the marker out, sets it on the desk, and brushes her hair back from her face.
“Amazing, sweetheart,” he rasps. “You were incredible.”
Marnie slumps, boneless, barely able to sit up. I stand, button my cuffs, and fix her skirt, then tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“You did well,” I murmur. “Better than well. I’m looking forward to stretching you with my cock tomorrow night.”
The young woman sits upright slowly, straightening her blouse with shaking hands. “Thank you,” she says, her voice shaking but certain at once.
I bend down, scoop the Sharpie off the desk, and slide it into my inner jacket pocket. A souvenir.
Brent pulls out a pack of tissues, hands one to Marnie. “Go freshen up,” he says. “We’ll need you ready and clean for tomorrow.”
She stands, legs unsteady, and smooths her skirt. I watch her mince out, admiring the flush on her cheeks and the way she holds her head high even after being fucked in the pussy and ass by a fucking Sharpie. It’s so depraved but that’s what I love about her: the dirty nastiness, hidden behind that innocent exterior.
The door closes behind her, and for a moment, Brent and I are alone.
“You think she’s ready?” he asks.
I smirk. “Who knows? If she’s not, we’ll break her in.”
Brent laughs, low and genuine, and pours us each a shot from the bottle on his credenza. We drink in silence, the taste sharp and smoky, a perfect burn.
After, I leave the office and head to my own. The corridor is empty now, the echo of my footsteps the only sound. I take out the Sharpie, roll it between my fingers, and smile before lifting it to my nose for an inhale. Immediately, I get a hit of Marnie’s cunt scent and my cock firms up in my pants again.
Holy fuck, but tomorrow is going to be one hell of a night.
10
CHAPTER TEN — ONE TABOO NIGHT
Marnie
The city’s alive in a way that’s almost too vivid, every window blazing with stories, every street smeared with red tail lights, every dark alley a gaping mouth. I stand at the curb, phone clutched in one hand, brown bag in the other, and tell myself for the tenth time that I can still back out. But I don’t. I take a deep breath and step into the lobby of Brent’s luxury high rise.
The air smells rich somehow, like polish and money, as the concierge smiles politely.
“Go on up, Ms. Williams. He’s expecting you.”
Oh my god, Brent gave them special instructions! But I teeter to the elevator bank in high heels, and like magic, the burnished doors part soundlessly and swallow me whole. My reflection stares back in the mirrored walls, not quite me but not quite not, either. I look taller than I remember, all legs and hips and mouth, hair loose and glossy from the kind of blowout you only buy when you’re about to risk it all.
The elevator whisks me upward at a speed that does something weird to my organs, and for a split second I imagine I’m being launched to the moon, or heaven, or the place where women go when they want to lose themselves. The doors open on the private landing leading to Brent’s penthouse, and in a moment, the alpha male appears.
He’s framed by the glow of the apartment like a Renaissance oil, all harsh bone structure and blue-black shadow. He’s not in a suit, for once, but expensive jeans and a shirt that shows off his chest—broad, tanned, perfectly ridged—on proud display. There’s a gold watch on his wrist. He’s barefoot, and somehow this makes him twice as dangerous.
“Marnie,” he rasps, as if he’s been waiting all week for this exact second. His voice is a velvet trap.
I blink. “Hi,” I manage. “It’s good to see you.”
He glances past me, then back. “You bring what I asked?”
I hold up the brown bag. “Sixteen-year Lagavulin. As requested, sir.”
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine, and for a second my knees forget their job. His touch is rougher than I expect, but the gratitude in his eyes is real. “I like a woman who follows instructions.”
“I wasn’t aware there were instructions,” I quip, but the joke’s hollow, all my bravado gone to hell.
Brent motions me inside. The penthouse is as beautiful as before, but I hardly see it: slate floors, leather so dark it eats light, and sculptures that look like they were forged by warring gods. The art is original, and every window is floor-to-ceiling, making the whole place feel like it floats a mile above the city, untethered from gravity.
But of course, I’m completely focused on the alpha male before me. He hands me a flute of champagne, poured from a bottle so cold it stings my palm. The glass is thin enough to shatter with a look. “Take a seat,” Brent says, indicating the sectional sofa, which is wide enough to sleep a rugby team. “James will be here in a minute.”