Page 22 of Black Lies

The media machine coined me Lucky Layana, due to my supposed inspiration for Brant’s last creation: the Laya. The Laya was single-handedly responsible for increasing BSX’s bottom line by an extra eight figures that quarter. A shining star. All thanks, in the media’s mind, to me. Ridiculous.

“So are you?”

My return to the candy quandary was looking like a lost cause. “Am I what?”

“Lucky.” His voice low, it grated of intentions, desire, and Iwannafuckyourighhere sex.

I looked up, meeting his gaze and was taken aback by the sizzle of chemistry between us. This was nothing like how it was with Brant. This was electricity and danger and raw want, a combination that pushed my feminine buttons and made me reckless. “Why don’t you try me and find out?”

He chuckled, stepped back, the yellow suede of his work boots creaking on the linoleum floor. “You’re not that kind of girl.”

I kept the eye contact, swallowed the apprehension sitting in my throat. This was wrong. This was bad. I should run home, wait for Brant, and forget this ever happened. My voice disobeyed, coming out cool, confident. Exactly as I’d always wished a flirtation to sound, yet this time was when I finally nailed it. “Not that kind of girl? Then you really don’t know me.”

“Anybody can talk big in public.” His eyes dared me, his cocky smile returning, and he glanced at the hidden magazine, then back at me.

“Then take me somewhere private.” The challenge was in my tone, even as my conscience screamed a long, silent death somewhere in my bones.

Private turned out to be the back of the store, a gravel lot enclosed on both sides with privacy fence and junk cars, an abandoned bucket and empty packs of cigarettes littering the ground that our feet kicked through. He shoved me against the wall, his hands pulling at my Vince sleeveless tank, sliding it down over my shoulders, the neckline popping as it stretched beyond its means, his strong hands ripping further until the pale top of my br**sts were exposed, peeking out of the lace of my bra. “Nice,” he murmured, dropping his head, pulling down with greedy hands until the cups of my bra were pulled aside and my br**sts hung free, out of the cloth, his hands cupping and squeezing them as his body pressed against me. Inside me, my conscience battled with need, every brush, grip and grope of his hand like fire across my skin, lighting my arousal till it was at the point of madness. I struggled with my emotions, unable to keep a clear head as I gasped for breath, his head lifting until we were staring at each other and everything paused.

A long freeze in time, both of us caught until he broke the moment with the long scrape of a chuckle. “What are you doing Lucky? Aren’t you late for afternoon tea?”

I growled at him, leaning forward and biting into his neck, the taste of his skin one of sweat and salt, heat and man. Dirt and want. A far cry from the cologne and dignity of which I was accustomed. “I thought you were a man of action. You nervous? Worried you can’t compete?”

He pulled my mouth from his neck. Twisted my face with his hand until I was staring full force into him. Dominant eyes, the playfulness gone. Nothing but gorgeous alpha male, competitive forces at play in their depths. I’d seen the look in Brant’s eyes before. When he was attacking a problem. Going after a competitor. But never when he’d stared at me.

“I’m worried I’ll f**k you so well I’ll ruin you for life.”

God, I know it was wrong. But in the face of recent events, I closed my eyes to reason.

I liked it. I wanted it. I wanted it to f**k me.

And it did. Right there in that overgrown parking lot. An employee’s car watching us pulse and moan against dirty brick. Heaven above cursing my soul while I spread my legs and let his c**k take me hard. A cheap gas station condom on his cock. Hard and clean and hotter than I’ve ever gotten it before. Including from Brant. He f**ked me to use me, his focus on his pleasure, his attraction to me not masked in any way. It should have felt wrong, it shouldn’t have been hot, but it was, dirty and desperate, and I came hard, my hands gripping the rough brick, my legs shaking, the pleasure ripping a forbidden path through my body.

He finished a minute later with a roar, not attempting to censor his speech, his cry whipped by the wind, my own moan loud against his neck, his hands tight on my ass, pulling me into him, the gasps and pants letting me know how long and how good his finish was.

“Fuck,” he swore, pushing off the building, his c**k dropping out of me, one of his hands hard against my shoulder, keeping me pinned to the wall as he stripped off the condom and tucked his c**k back into his pants. Zipped up ripped jeans with one hand while his heavy breaths and wild eyes traveled up my body. “So that’s what the other half gets.”

“Fuck you,” I shot back, with as much challenge as I could, given that my linen shorts were stretched tight around my ankles, my shirt up, tits out. A strong breeze gusted, and my ni**les responded, the skin tightening, my cunt heavy and wet with my arousal.

He squatted before me. Gripped the top of my shorts and worked them up, my legs sliding together to aid him, the scuff of jeweled sandals against gravel as the heat of his fingers drug up my legs, his eyes never moving from mine, their directness more of an invasion than his cock.

At my navel, I felt the turn of his hands as he fastened the button, then he slid his knuckles higher. The rough skin of them brushed over my stomach, then the curve of my br**sts, my breath hitching as he rolled his hands over and squeezed possessively. Hard enough to almost hurt, he used the grip to pull himself up, and I had to look up as he rose to his full height.

Another squeeze. I felt every single finger as they spread across my chest. He alternated the pressure and I would have laughed except that I was on the thin verge of asking him for round two.

His hand released. He pulled up my bra and down my shirt so quickly that I got distracted from whatever I was about to say. And… with clothes in between us, we suddenly had less in common.

“Get back to his mansion, Lucky. I’m sure he’s waiting.”

“He’s not.”

He grinned again, this one less playful, harder, cynical. “You always f**k strangers within five minutes of meeting them?”

“Did they leave that fact out of the article?”

“I guess high class bitches like c**k just like any other.”

“I guess low lives don’t know how to take a girl on a date.”

A catch in those eyes. A slow nod, the corners of his mouth turned up a tad, a dimple breaking through. Brant had a dimple, though I hadn’t seen it in months.