Black Lies

Chapter 7

Wealthy men were a breed I knew well; a wealthy man raised me, my impressions of him stolen during brief moments of notability during my first eighteen years. I had dated the young versions, ones who had been born into the world of trust funds, Harvard legacies, and country clubs. Their sense of entitlement had been seconded only by their undeserved egos. Then, I graduated college and moved into the world of men, older versions who reminded me too much of my father, men who took rather than asked, and who expected subservience from anyone with breasts.

Wealthy men had their benefits: the limos, vacation homes, private jets, and exorbitant gifts. They also had their shortfalls: arrogance, unfaithfulness, an impossible schedule, and, more often than not, an opinion of women that left much to be desired. But hey—that was the rare thing I'd had in common with most of my dates, a mutual lack of respect. And probably the reason why I'd never had a relationship bloom to fruition.

Brant was completely different than every other wealthy man I'd ever met. He listened when I spoke. Looked into my eyes and not at my breasts. Asked my opinions, valued my intellect. He approached our new relationship in the cautious way that a cat approached food, pushing delicately before gaining footing, his steps as new and explorative as my own. We danced around each other, our moves becoming stronger, more sure-footed with each passing day. Together, we created and explored our roles; sex the only area of our life where no practice was needed.

The man ... was an animal. I sipped my coffee and shifted in my seat, the sore ache of my body reminding me of a few nights before, his skillful manipulation of my body that had brought me to orgasm four, five ... then six times. I twisted slightly, watching Brant as he stepped into the coffee shop, his eyes finding me as he walked over, brushing a kiss against my lips.

"Been waiting long?"

 "Five minutes. Here." I pushed across his coffee. "Straight black, you unexciting man."

He settled into the seat, picking it up with a dignified scowl. "It's manly. Puts hair on my chest."

I laughed into my cup. "I don't want hair on your chest. I prefer it as is, perfectly manicured by your team of beauticians."

That earned me a real scowl. "I don't have beauticians. They're..." My eloquent man seemed suddenly at a loss for words. I laughed, pushing gently on his wrist until his coffee was out of reach, then leaned across the table and stole another kiss. He grabbed the back of my neck, pulled my mouth harder to his, asserted his masculinity in a rough moment of passion. I pulled off, blushing as I sat back down, a passing woman glaring at me as if we've just screwed on coffee shop's floor.

"I'm sorry about yesterday." The joviality was gone from Brant's voice.

I shrugged. "It's not a big deal. I shopped. Ran some errands while downtown."

"I've been fighting a deadline on this wireframe overhaul ... sometimes I get in a zone working and lose track of time."

"It's fine. I was just worried. I'm not mad—just hated bothering Jillian about it." Hated bothering Jillian was a mild way of putting it. Brant and I'd set dinner plans: 6 PM at Alexander's. I'd waited at our table for a half hour before leaving, my calls to Brant going unanswered. I had hesitated to text Jillian, my fingers finally moving across the screen purely out of concern— in case something had happened, in case he was missing. I half-expected a snarky response, something that referenced how unimportant I must be to him. But she had responded quickly and professionally.

HE'S HERE AT THE OFFICE. WILL PROBABLY WORK LATE. NO DOUBT LOST TRACK OF TIME. I'M SORRY.

The fact that she had been civil in her response only irritated me more, tipped the scales a bit in her favor, setting precedence for an act of similar civility on my part. I broke off a piece of muffin.

"Let me make it up to you."

I watched him while chewing, blueberries mixing with sugar and flour to make a delicious combination in my mouth. "Go ahead," I mumbled.

"Today, I'll blow off work. Be all yours."

I swallowed the bite. "But you're under deadline. You've been working for three weeks to make—"

 "I don't care." He reached over the table and gripped my hand. "You are more important, and I have set aside a full day of groveling to make up for last night."

I raised an eyebrow. "A full day? That's a hefty commitment, Mr. Sharp."

He met my eyes. "One I'm ready to make."

I leaned over, lowered my voice. "And what do you have planned in this day full of groveling?"

He tugged my hand up to his lips. "I thought I'd start by us dropping by my condo. I have some ideas of ways to make it up to you."

"Sexy ways?" I whispered playfully.

He leaned forward, a gentle hand pulling on the back of my neck until his mouth was against my ear. "Ways that will make your legs tremble around my neck. Ways that have me so hard and ready that I may not make it all the way there. Ways that will have you screaming my name and—"

"Let's go." I jerked to standing, the legs of my chair squeaking as they slid across the floor. Pulling on his hand, I bee-lined for the door.