Page 35 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

Khalohn stays atthe office until it’s as quiet as it was when he arrived. While he’s got a few analysts who are known for burning the midnight oil, he spots not one as he takes his leave. But who is or is not still on the clock is not at the forefront of his mind. As he makes his way toward the elevator, he acknowledges his thoughts are already far from work.

Resigned to the truth that Bryn has a way of infiltrating his thoughts in a way no other woman has in years, he doesn’t fight it. He knows it’s temporary—his routine making any woman who inhabits his bed hardly more than a fleeting moment. It appears life has given him an opportunity to embrace a level of excitement that doesn’t happen every day. He’s stumbled upon a treasure of sorts, the value of which he has yet to assess. Tonight, he intends to unearth his finding and extract from it what he desires.

Atzel stands patiently beside the Maybach as Khalohn makes his way out of the building. When he’s a few feet away, the Honduran man turns slightly to open the passenger door, his movements as practiced as the breaststroke Khalohn executed in the pool what feels farther away than that morning.

“Atzel,” Khalohn greets politely.

He unbuttons his jacket as he steps into the vehicle. Absentmindedly, he takes note of Atzel’s polished shoes as the man replies, “Good evening, Mr. Morgan.”

The sound of Wall Street’s traffic is hushed with the soft thump that accompanies a closed door. Khalohn’s attention is drawn out the window, and he doesn’t bother to look elsewhere as he instructs Atzel to take him to Lower Manhattan. For the duration of his ride, he thinks briefly of his schedule for the remainder of the week, his mind unable to tack down a single thought for longer than a few seconds.

When he’s only a block away from his destination, the streets almost as familiar as the map on the palm of his hand, he closes his eyes and pulls in a slow, deep breath. He exhales unhurriedly, reminding himself of the control which personifies him. He opens his eyes just as Atzel opens his door, and he steps out onto the curb without hesitating.

“Stay close. I don’t intend to stay all night.”

“Yes, sir,” Atzel agrees.

Khalohn dips his chin in a slight nod, buttoning his jacket in the same swift manner. Without another word, he strides toward the front entrance of Clandestine’s Closet. The boutique still boasts of a few browsing costumers, but they pay him no attention as he makes his way through the store. He chances a glance over his shoulder only after he’s allowed the heavy, black curtain blocking off the back hallway to fall closed behind him. When he is sure he is alone, he approaches the antique mirror, uttering the password just loud enough to be heard. It clicks open a second later, and Khalohn checks his surroundings once more before slipping inside.

Stefano stands behind the golden desk, poised with the same graceful air as always. As Khalohn approaches, it dawns on him that everything about his evening is as ordinary as it usually is. His routine is punctuated with the same reliable and predictable details which define it. The woman he is about to encounter is the one piece of his evening he cannot predict. He’s underestimated her before, but he has no intention of letting that happen again. His experience has taught him, to assume he knows the likes of Bryn is reckless—and he’s never been a reckless man.

“I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction,” says Stefano, sliding his private room key across the counter. “Your fee this evening will be the same as your previous visit, and payment will be extracted at the end of your session.”

Khalohn nods his understanding and reaches for the key. He notes the gatekeeper’s slight hesitation, similar to their last encounter. Stefano removes his hand from the key before Khalohn can think too hard about it. Slipping the possession into his pocket, he continues toward his ultimate destination. His strides even, yet purposeful, he allows himself to embrace the anticipation he feels as it builds with each step. When he arrives at his door, he wastes not a moment before he grants himself entrance. After he locks the two of them inside, he doesn’t take off his jacket or loosen his shirt cuffs. He doesn’t fall into the rhythm of his usual routine, his curiosity blindsiding him with the urgent desire to see her.

Much like their previous encounter, he finds Bryn perched on the stool directly across the room. Her face is hidden from him as she stares into her lap, not bothering to look over at him even as he tries to tempt her with his silence. Rather than her fingers grasping desperately to one another, Bryn’s hands are resting calmly atop her bare knees. There’s something unpresumptuous about her stance, and a quiet sense of appreciation invades Khalohn’s mind.

Without taking his eyes away from her, he sets the skeleton key on the table beside him. Slipping out of his jacket, he studies her, his fascination increasing as he tries to call to mind a single woman who has occupied the room the way she seems to be able to. In an inexplicable sort of way, she manages to consume the entire space with nothing more than her essence. It’s as if his memory of her and the way she moves surrounds them both, permeating the air they breathe. Khalohn has no idea what she tastes like, but his mouth begins to water as he hangs his jacket. He has no idea what she looks like completely naked, but as he unfastens his cuff links and begins to roll up his shirt sleeves, his skin begins to perspire; like the anticipation he feels is beyond what his body can contain for even a moment longer. As he starts to cross the room, he allows himself to feel impressed.

They always look at me. A coy smile. A flirtatious laugh. An enticing touch drawing my attention to what she considers to be her best asset. Every woman who has ever entered this room has always looked at me. Begging me in a single glance. Pleading for me to live up to the whispers that fill these underground halls. Trying to convince me she is worth more than two nights in my bed. If not on our first encounter, without a doubt on our second, they always look.

But not her.

This time, when he stops a mere foot away from her, it’s not her chin for which he reaches. Wanting her to meet his gaze in her own timing, he grazes his fingertips through her hair. Just as slowly as he sweeps the silky, thick strands behind her ear, she lifts her face enough to peek at him from beneath her eyelashes. For a moment, he feels triumphant. A slight scowl causes his eyebrows to twitch, and he questions what he possibly has to feel triumphant about—I’ve done nothing,he admits. Regardless, the feeling cannot be denied, and he wishes only to amplify its effects.

He traces his fingertips, still lingering at her ear, along the curve of her jaw toward her chin. With every inch of skin he covers, her face lifts a little more, until her warm brown eyes are open wide and staring at him in quiet wonder. In the silence that continues to fill the space between them, he pauses, enraptured by the reflection of himself in her eyes. He doesn’t know who it is she sees when she looks at him, and the uncertainty that exists in her knowledge of him makes him feel as though he’s been given an opportunity. She is his conquest—his untarnished treasure—her value hidden in pleasure he fully intends on unearthing and exploring. Yet, captured in her eyes is an unspoken gift, one he is sure she has no idea exists.

It’s not just her body that’s not been touched. Her mind is pure. She’s not been taught to play a part. She’s not been forced to learn the game. I am not a client with a reputation. I am her first. I am the unread definition.

For the first time since he was offered the woman who sits in front of him, he fully appreciates what he’s been given. He thought he knew, but he didn’t. Even more, if he had not left so abruptly three nights ago, had he given in to his impatience, he would never have known. The triumph that fuels his excitement now is not unearned.

A chill races down Jessica’s spine as Godrik’s touch travels up her chin and onto her lips. She doesn’t know what to make of him. She can practically smell the power and control he possesses; but it’s not an unpleasant scent so much as it is an intoxicating aroma that causes her stomach to tingle in anticipation. As he stares at her, his touch as gentle as if he knew her, she allows herself to get lost in the fantasy that Bryn belongs to him. She convinces herself that if tonight is to be her last within the extravagant world of Clandestine’s, she will allow herself to seek whatever pleasure she can find.

So long as I’m in this room, so long as he’s looking at me likethat, I’m not Jessica. I’m Bryn.

Godrik’s fingers linger on her lips, and Jessica’s stomach clenches anxiously as she opens her mouth for him. For a moment, fear takes hold of her, but she closes her eyes and forces herself to pretend. Before she can change her mind, she darts out her tongue, in search of his warm skin. In an instant, she can hardly breathe. Faster than she could possibly anticipate, he leans over and hooks his arm around her waist, yanking her to her feet and pressing her flush against his chest.

Jessica’s eyes fly open, her hands instinctively clutching at the man’s shirt as she tries to catch her breath. The strength found in the arm wrapped around her and the solid muscle she can feel pressed against the entire length of her torso makes it nearly impossible for her lungs to function.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, speaking for the first time.

Trusting his words to be true, Jessica nods. Still, she doesn’t relax against him until his lips find hers in a decisive kiss. He doesn’t open his mouth as he allows the kiss to linger, and he doesn’t force her to open hers. As if to make his intentions perfectly clear, he slips his free hand around the back of her neck, gently tickling the hair at her nape with his fingers. When he has her wholly in his grasp, he pulls his mouth away from hers.

Jessica’s eyes flutter open. When her gaze collides with Godrik’s stunningly blue stare, she wonders when her eyelids lost the fight to his touch. Then he kisses her again; and it dawns on her, she is powerless against his lips and the way the whiskers of his beard tickle her face. With him so desperately close, her senses are so utterly confused. He smells incredible—masculine and fine, yet somehow deliciously delicate. His hold is firm and unyielding, but she is not frightened because his kiss is honest.

Godrik is a stranger. Except, in spite of her inexperience with situations such as these, Jessica is even more sure now than she was before that she is safe in his space. If their first night together wasn’t enough to prove it, the self-control she can feel in his touch does. She doesn’t have to know him to be aware of his respect for her.

This isn’t my first kiss. I know an animal when I taste one, and he isn’t.

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