Page 71 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

I love you.

“We need to talk,” I decide on finally after pouring an inch of creamy oat milk into his mug, bringing the frothing wand to it. “We need to decide a few things.”

Lance nods. “I want to move back in. And I want B to move in, too.”

I grin. “That’s one item on the list of things we need to talk about. The other–”

I’m interrupted by a very aggressive knock on the front door. And that aggressive, loud, borderline abusive knock is followed by four doorbell rings.Four. Back to back. And then yet another door pound.

It’s a quarter after seven on a goddamn Saturday, and I do not appreciate whoever this is and they are moments from finding out what a pissed off Augustus Moore looks like. “Who is it?” Lance calls as he trails after me, his bare feet slapping against the tile as I stomp toward the door.

“I don’t fucking know but she’s asleep, goddamn it, and I’d like her to stay that way until she’s ready.” I slip the chain from the lock and twist the deadbolt, yanking the door open with so much force that my doorstop vibrates and shudders under my wrath.

A tall man stands on my porch, hair the color of Lance’s. Except his is cut shorter, combed neatly in a style that can only be described as “someone’s father”, but he wears a well-tailored suit and from the looks of it, he’s fit beneath that suit. He stands tall, shoulders back, amber eyes searching mine. Something about him is slightly familiar, or something about that shade of brown in his eyes reminds me of someone.

“Augustus Moore?” he asks loudly, almost indignantly. My eyes drop to his hands, looking for a manilla folder or any sign that I’m being served or something. But I find his hands empty, nothing but balled up fists.

“Who are you?” I ask, shoving a hand through my sleep-styled hair, realizing just now I’m in nothing but sweats, not even a shirt. But the man’s eyes never leave mine. In fact, they stay pinched on mine like he’s afraid to look away, and that interests me. I scratch up my sternum, studying him. “Who are you?” I ask again as he just stares at me.

Lance’s chest connects with my back slightly as he steps up behind me. “You pound on doors and ring doorbells before eight in the morning everywhere you go or what, asshole?” he snarks and in response, the man in the fitted suit with the shiny blonde hair, rolls his eyes.

“Oh shit,” I breathe, my chest hollowing at the gesture. I recognize those eyes and I’d know that eye roll anywhere.

“I’m an asshole?” he shouts, stabbing his fingers into his chest as he wavers forward toward Lance. “I think I’m looking at the asshole right here,” he tells Lance, waving up and down my body without so much as a glance. “I’m not the one who lures young women to my porno studio and fucks them with my buddy, then makes them cut contact with their family.” Slowly, his dark eyes drift to mine. “I’m Quincey Parker. Where is my daughter?”

My mind spins. My first reaction is to rear back and sock him in his filthy fucking mouth for talking about what we have in such callous and simple terms. But Lance grips my wrist and steps forward, speaking in a low, calming tone, which is what I need right now. Someone to offset my out of bounds anger.

“She’s inside, and she’s asleep. Keep your voice down and you can come in and we can talk about this like rational adults.”

Quincey glares at Lance then me, and finally gives a curt nod, stepping inside the house. We usher him into the den and slide the slatted doors closed.

“She’s in that program to learn, not to be dragged into some weird sex cult,” Quincey growls, making Lance stifle a snort. I grab my hip with one hand and pinch my gaze in on the man that raised our woman. I see her in him, the old her. The her that thought Crave was a mistake, the her that existed before she knew her own talent and worth.

“We’re in a relationship. She started at Crave as a protégé, and she still is. But outside work, we developed a relationship. The two are unique and separate,” I say, holding onto calm with all my damn might.

“Church and state,” Lance adds.

“So when you get tired of her and dump her, you mean to tell me she’s gonna stay at your little company and get equal treatment? You mean to tell me she’s gonna find the same job afterward that she’d have found if she wasn’t some grown men’s sex fantasy?”

“Dad?”

The three of us turn to the partially opened den doors, and there she is. Golden hair in long, tangled but beautiful waves all around her face and down her chest. Over her silk pajamas she’s wearing my fleece hoodie, and on her legs are Lance’s sweats. She looks adorable. And more than that, she truly looks likeours.

Lance and I outstretch an arm each at the same time, and she comes to us easily, her eyes on her father. We drop our arms around her shoulders and hold her as she blinks at her father.

“Why-why are you here?” She pushes hair off her face, prompting Lance to gather her long hair and place it down her back for her. “How did you know I was here?”

“Not important,” he says quickly, nostrils flaring, eyes flicking to us briefly before going back to his daughter. “The fact is, you’re ruining everything you’ve worked for, Brielle. This is a mistake. This is an embarrassing, humiliating mistake.” He motions toward the door, straightening his suit with this other hand. “Let’s go. Come on. I’ll take you back to your apartment, and I’m willing to overlook this.”

“She isn’t ruining anything. And whether or not we fell in love with her doesn’t change a single thing: she’s talented. She has an eye for human connection, and her talent is best served in adult work. And if you gave half a shit about her talent being put to use, you’d have looked up Crave and learned that ourlittle companyis the most profitable, safest, best adult film production company in the nation.”

“He’s the best director in the business,” Lance says of me, his voice thickening with irritation and defensiveness. He is my passive pup but he can also be my fierce and loyal pup, too.

“She will, so long as she wants, be a director at Crave. She will make more money than you make, and go on to win many awards. How do I know? Because she’s like us. She sees the things we see. She recognizes opportunities, spots shortcomings. And she’s artful. And she doesn’t just belong at Crave, but she also belongs with us. Men that love her unconditionally, that let her thrive where she blooms instead of forcing her into a field of barren soil that doesn’t nurture her whatsoever.”

Silence floods the few feet between us. Her voice is so weak and unrecognizable from the strong, vibrant woman I work side by side with every day. “How did you know I was here? And how did you know about us?”

She steps out of our hold, toward her father, and the sight of her chin wobbling nearly breaks me.

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