Page 88 of A Secret and a Lie
Ford
Istare up at the recessed ceiling, Genevieve’s ear-shattering screams still echoing through my mind. Even hours later, my cock still throbs, but I refuse to touch it. The only hands I want wrapped around me are hers. I haven’t come since I spilled myself down her throat, and I won’t do it again until I’m inside of her.
Adjusting the sheets for the hundredth time, the fabric slides over my bare torso, though I can’t seem to get comfortable. I shouldn’t have burst into her room, but that first scream hit me like a gunshot to the left side of my chest, and I needed to be sure she was okay.
Once I peered through the open doorway of the bathroom, and found her soaking in the bathtub, her body hidden by bubbles, I should’ve left. However, the seductive arch of her back, and her painted toenails peeking out of the water, curling around the edge of the tub, told me a story that I was now physicallyachingto read.
I stayed for far too long, observing her unravel like an exquisite spool of yarn. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the tightening and elongating of her elegant neck, the way her head lolled heavily against the lip of the tub, or the scream of undiluted, raw pleasure that tumbled from her open mouth. Even if I never see it again, I’ll forever remember the beautiful rapture that consumed her.
She was—is—perfect. As brilliant and flawless as a star.
What can I do to assure her that I’ll treasure her and the sliverof herself that she was about to give to me before I went and sold her out to the government?
We had each other once, so how do I claw my way back to her now? It’s as though I’m dangling on the side of a mountain face with no rope and only sheer determination to get me to safety. She is my safety. She was my refuge when I was deployed.
We might’ve changed a little over the years, but we’re still the same people who were always meant to be together. I simply need to remind her of that since she’s stuck with me.Forever.
Deep down, I think she trusts me; otherwise, she would’ve left, would’ve told the world that I wasn’t really her husband. She has options now that she’s not in prison anymore, yet she hasn’t made any moves to throw me into the pond to be eaten alive by the piranhas, which tells me that she doesn’t hate me quite as much as she pretends to.
I shovel the oatmeal into my mouth while glancing at my schedule for the day. This is my last week navigating Crawford Enterprises with the assistance of the team my grandfather put together. I sigh when I realize that I won’t be home until late tonight.
The scandal of being married to the woman busted for solicitation has created more work for me, smoothing over connections for Crawford Enterprises and shutting down rumors that I’ll be stepping down as the CEO. My grandfather never took the business public, so I don’t have to abandon my position. But there’s a lot of sweet talking that I’m having to do to keep investors and business partners happy. To everyone else, Genevieve is my wife, so it’s been easy to chalk it up to a misunderstanding with the FBI.
I’ve found that people will usually accept the simplest explanation for things, even if it’s a lie.
Heels clicking against the floor draws my attention, and I look up just as Genevieve enters into the kitchen. I didn’t expect to see her this early, nor did I anticipate her being dressedlikethat.
The neckline of her white silk top plunges nearly to her sternum, revealing plenty of skin. An oversized bow is tied at her neck, the tails brushing her perky ample breasts when she moves. It’s tucked into black slacks that seem to be tailored to her figure. Her hair is stick-straight, the blunt edge of her short bob sharper than the blade of a knife. She’s dressed for retribution.
I don’t recall grabbing that blouse when I raided her closet, moving her things into my place, but I’m glad I did. She looks beautifully vicious.
I have to hope bloodletting isn’t on the agenda for me today, but I’d let her slice into my vein if she asked.
“Going somewhere?” I ask, lifting my cup of black coffee to my lips.
I’m a little surprised when she bypasses the coffeemaker and begins to fill my electric kettle with water.Do I even have any tea?
But she doesn’t make tea; instead, she slices into a lemon and juices a wedge, dropping it into the mug before adding the steaming water.
It’s not until she takes a seat at the table that she answers me. “Work.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
She stares at the screen of her phone, her thumb moving, and I wonder who she’s texting and if it’s a secure line. The device itself is brand new, but I still don’t trust that it’s not compromised.
“Definitely,” she replies firmly, still not meeting my gaze.
My jaw tightens. “They’re going to be watching you. You cannot continue to see your clients, even if they’re willing to see you again.”
The only reason none of the people who work for her were charged was that the FBI couldn’t prove they were doing anything illegal. I’m sure Gen kept a careful log of each of their sexual encounters, but since everything is coded, there was no way to prove their involvement in sex work. It’s not like they could ask the clients either since that list is inaccessible, too.
Taking downAllisonwas the sole objective anyway, which meantthere was no extra precaution should that charge have fallen apart. Idiots thought they had a slam dunk, and I suppose they did…until I made the Madam my wife.
Her hazel eyes flick up then, drilling into my very soul as she explains, “I know what it is to look over my shoulder. I’ve been thoughtful and wary. So cautious, in fact, that it took an undercover job to put me away. An operation that you’re responsible for organizing, and quite frankly, had you been anyone else, I never would’ve gone to prison.So, I’ll be going back to work today.”
What does that mean? And what argument do I really have against that? She has a point, even if I think that anything short of playing it safe is a mistake. Genevieve is headstrong, and she’s not going to back down from this.
She goes back to typing on her phone, and I resist the impulse to rub at my temples to ward off the blossoming headache.
