Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I leaned back against the closest wall and pulled him back before me. "Kiss me."
His eyes darkened and he obeyed, his body slamming against mine, his mouth hard and possessive as he groped me through the thin cotton of my sundress. "I guess that's a yes," he muttered against my mouth.
"Yes," I agreed. "Now, take me eight ways to Sunday."
"Yes, Ms. Fairmont," he drawled, lifting up my sundress and yanking down my panties in one confident motion. "With pleasure."
Chapter 56
I know you don't understand.
I know you hate me.
You’ll soon find out Brant's secret. I can't keep it hidden. It won't stay quiet; it’s screaming silently until the plug is pulled and its howl will fill the air.
Once you find out, you’ll understand. You would have done the same thing.
I'd spent almost two years on Lee. Breaking into his life, removing any obstacles, forcing love and affection to squeeze from his pores and envelop me.
I had succeeded. I had him fully in my hands. The problem was, I had no idea where to go from there.
You could only control and manipulate a man so far before your leash of control broke. Especially a man like Lee, one who grabbed at every straw he could and wanted more. I could feel the twinge of his leash. The crackle of weakening threads as he pulled hard against my grip, straining in the direction of Brant. His hatred for him grew stronger the more Lee felt for me.
Jillian was right. I was playing a dangerous game and risking everything for my own selfish goal.
Chapter 57
TWO MONTHS AGO
The ocean-level guesthouse became our sexual den and was far enough from the main house to be our own private oasis. Sometimes Lee visited twice a week, sometimes twice a month, his appearance as sporadic as a warm day in San Francisco. Lee's concern at getting through the guards waned with each trip through our gates. They didn’t hesitate to let him in and always gave him a respectful nod and friendly wave. I’d told him not to speak to them, to just approach the gates, windows up, and they would let him through.
"Your guards suck."
"What do you mean?" I craned my neck back, my head in his lap, and met his perturbed gaze.
"I could be killing you in here.” Lee gestured to the open space, the beach house living room finally put together after weeks of hand-picking materials and pieces.
I laughed. "Then I'd have been dead months ago." I flipped the channel, switching back to ESPN. I'd watched more sports in the last year than I had my entire life. Brant read manuals and brainstormed product improvements in his free time, while Lee watched mindless athletic games that had no impact on anyone's life.
"I'm serious. What's the point of having guards if they just smile and wave at anyone who pulls in?"
"I told you, they know who you are."
"Which is what, your fuck buddy?" His tone was bitter enough to give me pause.
I muted the TV and turned to look up into his face. “I told them to always let you in. Just stop worrying about it.”
“I don’t understand. Why aren't they loyal to Brant? He's the one who pays their salary. Pays everyone's bills in this place. And where the fuck IS he?”
This was my least favorite version of him—when his passion turned angry. When he got like this, he was so moody, and would get pissed off at anything.
Lee continued, his voice rising. "I've been over here ten times, and he's never been home. Does he even live here?"
"You know he does." I dropped my head back on the cushion and stared at the vaulted ceiling, wondering how I got myself in these situations. More impossible questions from Lee. Would they ever end? "Remember? We had a huge fight about it." Lately, fighting seemed to be all that we were doing. Fighting and fucking.
"Rich dick." He shoved me off his lap as he stood up, knocking me from the couch onto the floor. My elbow caught on the coffee table, and I yelped in pain. I glared at him, but he was oblivious.
He paced to the window, hands on his hips, the pose accentuating every cut of his bare upper half. "I swear, Lay, you better hope I don't ever run into him. You send me down here like some fucking pool boy while he fucks you up there in that mansion—"
"You hate the main house. That's why we come down here,” I said quietly.
"Has he fucked you down here?" He turned abruptly and stared at me with eyes full of hatred and hurt.
"Please stop saying fuck," I whispered.
"Has he fucked your sweet little pussy in this place?" He moved closer, emphasizing every word, his voice a snarl as he pulled me to my feet and lifted me by my waist, his grip so hard it hurt. He carried me to the granite kitchen counter and sat me on it, then pushed open my legs and took his place between them.