Page 9 of Dirty Little Secrets
“I guess. No plans.”
“Perfect. I’ll plan something. Wear something hot.”
I arch a brow. “Define hot.”
Her grin is pure sin. “Something that would make Landon cry.”
I think of options: leather, silk, sheer fabrics that cling to curves. Something powerful. Something unapologetically feminine.
After lunch, I stare at my monitor, ready to send my weekly report. Drazen’s name glows at the top of the recipient line. Just seeing it sends a shiver down my spine. His voice saying my name replays in my mind like a forbidden melody.
My phone buzzes.
Kristina: Red. Wear red.
6
The red lace top hugs my curves in a way that makes me blush. The heels make me stand taller. The slit in the pencil skirt is high enough to entice but low enough to be respectable. I tug on the hem, heart pounding, questioning my sanity. I‘m supposed to be covered. Quiet. Proper.
The need to forget my past outweighing any rational thought about not agreeing to celebrate my birthday with Kristina and a bunch of coworkers. Three weeks of saving every penny I could for this outfit so I could feel good on a day I’m not used to celebrating.
Today, I’m nothing like my mother. Nothing like the women I was forced to watch growing up or the ones I had to leave behind with a promise to help them if I could.
I glance at the blazer folded on the bench near the mirror like it’s armor I’m choosing not to wear. My hand above it, fingers trembling with indecision. But even now, I can’t hide the reflection staring back at me.
This is me.
Then his voice creeps in. The one that haunts me in my dreams.
“You look so pretty, Noriana,” Brent’s voice slithers into my memory like beautiful poison, curling in my ear. “Pretty enough to fuck. Now watch how much she loves it.”
I close my eyes, and the unwanted memory crashes in. Memories you don’t have control over because when you’re trying to forget, they have a way of dragging you to that dark place you fear the most. In my case, the room at the club. Where I lost my innocence. Where I was taught to pleasure a man. A place no girl should go unless she absolutely wanted to. A place I had no choice to be in but can’t ever leave.
The sound of the wood floorboards groaning under every step of Brent’s boots. The smell of tobacco and whisky singing my nose. The brunette, her back arched, eyes on mine. Her red spandex skirt bunched at her waist. Her long black painted nails holding her pussy open. I’ve seen her around the club before but don’t know her name or where she came from.
“I want to watch you fuck her,” she purrs.
Brent chuckles. “Who said you could watch me fuck her? She’s not for you. You’re here so she’ll know how I like it.”
My breath hitches.
“She’s so hot dressed like that. Red lace over her pink innocent pussy. Is that what you like, Brent?”
“She’s what I crave.”
Kristina bursts through the bathroom door, shattering the memory. “Whoa,” she blurts, her phone pressed to her ear. “That top isillegal.”
“It was on sale,” I mumble, adjusting the neckline.
She lowers her phone, eyes wide with admiration. “Yeah, well, it looks like you could sell souls in that outfit. And tonight? We’re celebrating your birthday, not apologizing for it. Got it?”
My lips twitch into a nervous smile. It’s like she can read my mind at how nervous I am. I’m not in the that room. This isn’t a biker club. This is The Carlyle. An upscale lounge with marblefloors, crystal lights, and velvet lined elegance. A bar to die for and a friend who’s excited that it’s my 23rdbirthday.
We leave the restroom from the main lobby and head to the bar. Dim lighting softens every edge, and golden warmth spills from the bar. Bottles glitter like gemstones behind the counter. Velvet booths line the walls filled with laughter. People from work are already here. Some have familiar faces, free from the confines of office politics, bathed with tipsy smiles and afterwork energy.
I spot Landon near the bar. The air tightens around me. His jaw locks when he sees me. Since I showed up after work on Monday three weeks ago, I was surprised he acted like nothing was amiss. We went about our normal routine and boring conversation at dinner. His way of apology was to eat my pussy in the morning before he left to work. It wasn’t the best I’ve had but I had to take what was available. Faking an orgasm has become a norm for me most of my life.
“Jesus,” he mutters, loud enough for me to hear.
