Page 35 of Black Lies


“She showed up at the In Between the other night. A few minutes after I got there. Wanted me back.” Lee rubbed a fresh callus on his palm and glanced at me, eyes studying.

Wanted him back. Not a surprise. I tried to keep my voice level. “What did you do?”

“You mean, did I f**k her?” He stood from his spot by the window. Moved closer, towered above me. His eyes contrasted the dark look on his face. More cocky than angry, turning more sexual by the second. He knew I was affected. He stared into my eyes and saw the fear that I so poorly masked. Saw it. Fed on it. Loved the look of jealousy when he saw it. He reached a rough hand out and cupped my head. Pulled it to his pelvis.

“Suck my cock.”

“What? Right now? No.” I pushed on his stomach with my hand and he caught my wrist. Shoved it down, until my fingers were at his jeans.

“Suck it and see if you earned the right for me to tell her no.” We battled with our eyes. I wanted to suck his dick. God, my mouth watered for the taste of his hard c**k scraping over my tongue. But I’d be damned if I was forced to do anything.

I pushed against his jeans and he pulled my head harder. Kept me in place. “Suck it and remind me of why I said no.”

“You said no?” I looked away from worn denim and back into his eyes. Eyes as tortured as my own.

“Yes.” He gritted out, letting out a hiss of breath when my fingers undid the button of his jeans, swiped a needy finger along the edge of his skin. Pulled the zipper down with an insecure motion. “God, I don’t know why I did, her beautiful face just begging for me to bend her over and f**k—” the rest of the sentence was lost in the groan that came when I buried his c**k in my throat. He fisted my hair, stared at my face, and rocked against my mouth, his words of Molly replaced by my name.

“You f**k him,” he said, as his c**k fully hardened, as I gripped his thigh and his shaft and prayed the tears in my eyes were from sucking and nothing else. “You f**k him all the time and then expect me to be a saint.” I ignored the comment, focused my attention on redirecting his, the soft moan from his lips letting me know I was on the right track. “Why?” he asked. “Why should I?”

I never answered his question, only his need. And… when his orgasm was over and he pulled me above him on the couch, his arms enveloping me into his chest, my wet mouth against him, the answer didn’t seem to matter any more.

Chapter 40


My house was unaccustomed to a man’s presence. The weight of one on its couch pillows. The sprawl of dirty shoes kicked off in its foyer. Lee’s scent invaded its hallways, competed with the scent of polish and flowers, masculinity meeting delicacy and crushing it into dirt. The male impact was new to my home; Brant had visited twice, early in our relationship, then never returned. I still had a few of his things hanging in a guest room closet, all items I had worn home in my early days, before I had a closet at his mansion.

I’d seen Lee almost every day of the last week, sucking up my time with him while I could take it. Brant had been MIA. Jillian said she’d only seen him a few times, darting into the office at sporadic times, not answering calls or texts. She said it was normal—that he got like this. Mostly at times of high stress. And, with iTunes negotiations at a breaking point, a few billion dollars up in the air, now was a time of stress. A time when he should be around, but he was not. Life went on. She handled it.

I didn’t mind. It gave me time with Lee. Time I was embracing with both hands. Holding onto, unsure how many more instances I would have left. I could feel the end of our future. It sat on a ledge of probability. He would disappear. I knew it, could feel it in every moment of perfection. And then, this entire cycle would start over. With a new man, a new someone that would be my side piece to Brant.

He stood in front of the fridge, a hand on the top, his eyes skimming, the float of cool air frosting through the space. “You have nothing,” he announced.

“It’s full. That hardly constitutes as nothing.”

“No beer. No junk food. No ice cream. I could eat every bite in this fridge and lose weight.” He shut the door, sauntered into the living room. “Let’s go grab dinner.”

“Now?” I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost nine.”

“Which is why I’m hungry. That pathetic excuse for dinner we ate four hours ago didn’t count.”

I rolled my eyes. The ‘pathetic excuse for dinner’ was foie gras. It was Brant’s favorite dish. I should have known, in this complicated scenario of conflicts, that Lee would hate it. “Fine.” I stood, tossing the remote down on the sofa. “I’ll go change.”

“Uh uh. You’re fine.” He grabbed my elbow, steered me towards the door.

I glanced down at my jeans. “Where are we going?”

“Let’s just drive. There’s got to be somewhere around here that’s got the game.”

I stepped out, grabbing my keys off the counter and pressing the button for the garage, my pull on the front door pausing when I saw Lee, standing in the driveway. His head was turned toward the garage, the full range of cars slowly revealed as the doors swept up.

I yanked the door shut, stepping down the front steps in time to hear his low whistle. “Damn, Lucky. I might start f**king this guy.”

I moved past him, irritation sweeping through me. “I do have my own money. Not everything is from Brant.” A ridiculous defense to say to Lee, made more so by the fact that three of the four cars were gifts from Brant. I stepped toward my Mercedes, my everyday car, his hand reaching out and stopping my movement. “Let’s take the black one.”

I came to a sudden stop, whipping my head to him. “The black one?” I stalled.

The black one in question was a 2004 Land Rover Defender. It was the only car in the garage I’d paid for, traded my last vehicle in on it. And, as awkward as this situation now was, I purchased it as a gift for Brant. Wanted to, in some small way, repay him for the gifts he had a tendency to lavish.

Unfortunately for me, Brant hadn’t been a fan of the vehicle. In the brutally honest fashion that I loved, he had told me as soon as I had handed over the keys.

“SUVs aren’t really my thing.” He held the key awkwardly, glancing from it, to the black vehicle, and then to me, a sheepish look coming over his face. “I don’t like the insecurity of them. And the IIHS safety rating placed them in the worst classification for risk of rollover. The—”