Black Lies (6 page)

He carried me to the bedroom, my limbs struggling to reawaken, his deposit on the bed gentle, his hands moving my arms and legs into place, the drop of his pants revealing how ready he was. “Wow.” My arms worked enough to prop me up, my eyes flicking from his arousal to his eyes, catching on the half smile that tugged at his lips.

“You are so beautiful right now,” he said, ripping open a condom and sliding it over his shaft, the bob of his sheathed cock tempting, the level of his erection mouth-watering. I bent my knees and spread my legs, giving him the carnal view I knew he wanted, a low swear emitting from his mouth as he kneeled on the bed, running his hands along my legs before preparing himself for entrance. “Tell me if it hurts,” he murmured, moving forward, the head of him pushing inside, the girth causing a sigh to slip from my lips, my eyes dropping to drink in the gorgeous sight of my pussy’s lips wrapped around his cock.

He was thick. Cut. Groomed. Beautiful. He pushed slightly in, then out, several more inches left, the condom wet with my arousal, the sparse hair of my cunt wet and matted, framing his cock as he took his time, letting me adjust, the slow drag of him so… everything. I lost intelligent thought, broke from my view of us and looked up to him, his eyes on mine, and the look on his face so vulnerable, so raw. He stared down at me as if I was his world, as if our month-long courtship was so much more, as if I already had his heart and he had mine. He worshipped my face with his stare, and the only movement was the rise and fall of his face as he thrust and pulled at my self-composure. The moment when he fully pushed, when he broke past the sweet and moved to the painful, the moment when my body fully adjusted to his length and girth, the need as great as the satisfaction… I saw it. We said it through our eyes, the words unnecessary, our bond completed as he lowered his mouth to mine and stole a piece of my soul.

I was falling for him.

I rolled against his chest, my touch finding its way over his stomach, the lines of his body, his abs jumping beneath my fingers as he exhaled. My hand moved lower, sliding under the sheet, a growl coming from his throat as I closed my hand around him, the thick muscle awakening underneath my touch. “Don’t start unless you want more.”

“Of that?” I teased. “I’ll always want more.” I gave him a final squeeze and then released, dragging my hand back up to his chest, wanting a few more minutes of this. Brant was relaxed, his intensity subdued to a level that was adorable, his eyes currently closed against the pillow, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest underneath my hand.

We lay there in silence for a bit, after-sex pleasures still shooting the occasional synapsis in my limbs. I closed my eyes and replayed the sex. I didn’t enter this relationship a virgin. I’d had my share of lovers, seven or eight if I had to guess. I’d had orgasms. A few freaky nights where I’d walked on the wilder side of the sheets. But I’d never had the sex I’d had with Brant. A full session with a man where the focus was on one thing: my pleasure. His orgasm came, it was always included, the final act, but it was a side effect, not the goal. Brant’s goal, each and every time, was to leave me sated, every possible orgasm pulled, tugged, and yanked from my body with his greedy hands, mouth, and cock.

I wrapped my leg around him, pulled tighter. Felt his hand squeeze me in response. “Tell me about the escorts.” I didn’t know where that came from; it jumped from my lips without warning. Beneath me, I felt Brant’s body tighten a bit, his hand stopping the lazy exploration of my skin that it had started.

“What have you heard?”

“Hundreds. That they came here, not your home.”

“This is closer to the office. And… I have too many valuables at home, my work, my privacy. This worked better.”

I propped my chin on his chest and watched his face, his blue eyes coming to mine. “Hundreds?” I asked.

He frowned. “No. Over the last twenty years…” He shrugged. “There have probably been fifteen.”

I digested the number. On one hand, it was more than mine. On the other, it was less than I had expected. “And… why prostitutes?”

He blushed, something I had never seen from him. “Pleasing a woman… it’s important to me. I wanted to be taught, by a professional.”

“Taught?”

He moved a curl of hair from my cheek. Wrapped it around his finger before tucking it behind my ear. “I was young the first time. Seventeen. Had never even kissed a girl before, my whole world pretty much confined to the basement. I wanted to date, my hormones were going nuts, but Jillian and my parents didn’t want me running around town flagging down the first girl I saw.”

“So they ordered you a prostitute?” I pushed up off his chest, the motion causing my breasts to move, his eyes dropping to them, a deep exhale easing from his chest as he took a moment, his hands sliding up my back and curving forward, cupping my breasts with reverence. “Brant,” I said, trying to focus as he shifted total concentration to my chest. “Brant,” I repeated. “Your parents got you a prostitute?”

“No,” he mumbled, trying to pull me higher, his mouth coming up, kissing my neck and trying to make its way lower. “Jillian got me Bridget McCullen, an eighteen-year-old girl straight off the pages of my fantasies.”

“A prostitute,” I repeated, sliding lower, moving my breasts farther away, the new position letting me feel exactly how much my body affected him. I grinned despite myself.

He finally looked up. “Well, I didn’t know she was a prostitute. Jillian had her knock on the door one day when I was home alone. The girl pretty much dragged me from the basement to my room. Gave me my first blow job and made me forget all about computers for a good three minutes.”

“Isn’t that… illegal? You were seventeen. She’s your aunt! That’s creepy in so many different ways I can’t even name them all.”

He laughed. “It was the best thing they could do for me at the time. And I didn’t want to leave the house, didn’t want…” He looked down, busying himself by pulling our sheet higher. “I understood them keeping me close. Protecting me. I didn’t know she was a prostitute. I thought she liked me, and had just moved in nearby. She hung around for two years. Took me from a boy to a man. Then… she was gone.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “Moved away, got a boyfriend? I don’t know. I was heartbroken. Was certain we were meant to be, ‘til Jillian had a heart-to-heart and told me everything. How the girl was interested in payment, nothing more. How I should concentrate on the good, what I had gotten from the relationship. I was pissed. Didn’t talk to her for a few days. I’d moved out by then, was living here. A few days passed, then she sent over a new girl. I understood the test. I couldn’t be pissed at her for giving me something I wanted. So I could turn away the girl, knowing she was a prostitute, or take her and accept the screwed up reality that was my life.” He looked at me. “So I fucked her. And it was different than with Bridget. I understood the dynamic, and I could control the situation. So I focused on what I wanted—the ability to please a woman. And I figured, one day, I would have a woman worth using that ability on.”

I stared at him. Blinked. Stared some more. “You realize,” I said slowly, “that you shouldn’t be sharing all of this with me. This is the stuff that you’re supposed to keep secret. The skeletons that show your vulnerability.”

He laughed, his arms wrapping around me, rolling us over until he was on top, and his cock was still there, still begging for attention. “Then there you have it. All of my skeletons. Will you still have me?” He nibbled a path along my neck, and I giggled beneath him, reaching a hand down and gripping the part of him I couldn’t get enough of. “Skeletons?” I mused. “Well, I do like a good bone.”

He groaned into my neck, thrusting into my hand. “That was so cheesy.”

I laughed. “Good cheesy?”

He shook his head against my curls. “Bad cheesy.”

“I like bad,” I whispered, my voice dropping, my hand tightening, his hips fucking his cock into my grip.

“God, woman.” He reached forward, stretching across my body and yanking at the handle of the bedside table, his hands knocking over items in his haste. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Really?” I teased. “You don’t know what to do with me?”

“Correct that,” he rumbled, lifting off me just long enough to cover his cock, his hands slightly shaking in his urgency. “I know exactly what to do with you.”

Then he was back above me, and his cock was inside of me, and he showed me exactly what his plans entailed.

Jillian and I engaged in a silent battle, one where she pushed in every passive-aggressive way she could, campaigning with all her strength against the relationship that Brant and I were forming. A battle without words, but through the man she loved and I had fallen for.

I walked into the next roadblock on a Tuesday morning, my day dedicated to HYA. Pulling through the gates, I was greeted by a shiny new male specimen, complete with a genuine six-pack, blinding white smile, and rugged good looks that a Hilfiger model scout would trip over herself to snag. He jogged across the grass, lines of dirt smeared across the ripped muscles of his chest, a trio of kids tailing him, their arms fighting for the football he carried. I watched him run toward me and wondered who he was and what he was doing inside the sanctuary that was this property.

Employees and volunteers at HYA were carefully vetted. Background checks, drug tests, and references were required. We’d had the same staff, give or take, for the six years I’d been involved. A new face wasn’t often seen. I watched him, his head coming up as my convertible came to a halt, his hand raised in greeting.

I put the car in park, my mouth curving at the view of the kids, detaching from the stranger to run toward my car. Opening the door, I was accosted with hugs, greedy hands pulling at my clothes, and one helpful boy closing my door with solemn responsibility.

“Thanks Lucas.” I wrapped a casual arm around his shoulders and hugged him briefly.

“They like you.” The stranger stood before me, legs slightly parted, the football jumping a lazy trip between his two hands.

“They like everyone.” I smiled, extending a hand. “Layana Fairmont.”

“Billy,” he said, giving my hand a firm shake, then holding the grip a bit longer than necessary.

I pulled at my hand, turning to the children to disguise the motion. Reaching out, I snagged the closest body and pulled her to me, tickling the little girl briefly before turning toward the main house and sprinting forward. “Race you guys to HQ!”

My tennis shoes hit the damp grass, the squeal of voices behind me causing me to increase my speed. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing the new guy—Billy—staying close behind me, his eyes leaving my legs to come up to my face, a flirtatious grin shot at me.

I ignored the look, turning back and focusing on the hill before me, my legs pumping up the embankment as I slowed my stride a bit to give the kids a fighting chance. Reggie, a seventh-grader who’d come to us three years ago, his arms already covered with gang ink, passed me, his long legs eating up the distance. I let him go, casting a quick glance around me to find the other kids. I slowed a little more, then let out a yell of mock frustration when the race ended.

I bent over, breathing dramatically, my back patted consolingly by Hannah, my personal favorite at the HYA compound. I turned to smile at her, my eyes catching on Billy, who watched me closely, an interested grin on his face. I looked away.

“How long have you been a volunteer here?” The question came from the other end of the main house’s kitchen. I didn’t stop my PB&J production, didn’t turn, knew the source of it without looking, the manly drawl a dead giveaway.

“Five or six years. I’m only here twice a week.” I unscrewed the lid to the jelly, avoided looking at the man who I was pretty sure just moved closer.

“I’m new.”
Duh
. “Just a volunteer.”

“How’d you find out about HYA?”

“Who?”

I paused my jelly application. Glanced over to see the man’s eyes darting around. “HYA… Homeless Youths of America…” Something was wrong with this picture, and I tried to pinpoint it. The man was nervous.

“Oh.” He let out a short laugh. “Umm… I think I read about it online.”

Nope
. We were a privately funded organization, ran by donations. We stayed, for the most part, fairly discreet.

“Who was your referral?” I had abandoned the sandwiches, had set down the knife and was leaning against the counter, any attempt to avoid staring at his abs somewhat successful.

“My referral?” Fascinated, I watched the points of sweat dot his forehead and wondered what the hell this man was hiding.

“New volunteers require a personal referral from someone inside the organization.” I crossed my arms and watched his face.

His eyes darted like ping-pong balls. I knew he’d had a referral. Had to have. Wouldn’t have gotten in the gates, wouldn’t have the official nametag, which his shirtless self had stuck to the front of his workout shorts.

“Umm…” He looked around, as if for rescue. I stepped closer, tilted my head and pinned him in place, my eyes not wavering from his. I couldn’t figure out what he was so worked up about, my innocent question one that had never caused anyone a moment’s pause. He swallowed, the bulge of his Adam’s apple moving painfully in the tight stretch of his neck. By the time his mouth worked, I was ready to crawl into his throat and pull the words out. “Jillian Sharp.”