Page 41 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

Jessica opens her mouth to explain she isn’tthatspecial, and she hasn’thadGodrik once, let alone twice and gearing up for a third; but before the truth comes out, her curiosity stops her, and another question tumbles out of her mouth.

“How—how does anyone know who my John is?” she murmurs softly, feeling a little embarrassed.

If ever she’s felt like a novice, it’s now. Regardless of the previous two nights she’s frequented Clandestine’s, she knows very little about the other women or the innerworkings of the club. As far as she’s aware, Stefano and Beatrice are the only ones who know which woman is in which room on any given night.

Dahlia’s smile stretches wider as she informs Jessica, “The rooms require preparation and cleaning. They’re cleaned the morning after use. They’re prepped an hour before use. Girls around here pay attention. The Legend is one of only two Johns who has a room belonging to him and only him. That room has been prepped three times in the last seven days—and none of us have been requested, which leaves…you.”

Before Jessica has a chance to respond, Stefano enters the room. Instinctively, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her plain, short, black satin robe, slipping her arms through it and hurriedly shrugging it over her shoulders. It’s the third time Stefano has come to collect her in order to escort her to Godrik’s room; it’s the third night he’s seen her in lingerie the likes of which she never thought she’d be able to afford. As she ties the belt tightly around her middle, she recognizes it doesn’t matter that they used to live together. It makes no difference that he’s seen her in as little as a towel. It doesn’t matter—none of it matters—because the scraps of fabric that cover her now are like chains. They are a heavy burden that is the truth of her circumstances, of their agreement, and the indiscretions which have led them to this moment.

“Bryn,” he mutters, offering her his hand.

Jessica’s heart constricts within her, and she allows herself to enjoy the feeling at the sign of Stefano’s mercy. In one word—with one name—he’s reminded her that in the ready room, with the rest of Bea’s collection, and throughout the halls of Clandestine’s, she’s someone else. She’s not his dove, she’s the fantasy belonging to Mr. Morgan.

At least for another night,she thinks as she slips her palm against the one he’s offered.

“Bryn?” Dahlia comments, her right eyebrow lifted in intrigue.

“Bryn van Doren,” says Jessica as she stands to her feet.

Dahlia shakes her head before she shifts her attention back onto her vanity mirror. All the while she whispers, “Respect.”

“What was that about?” asks Stefano as they step into the quiet hallway.

Thinking about her exchange with the voluptuous blonde, Jessica glances down at her strappy, black, stiletto sandals as she places one foot in front of the other. She remembers how she introduced herself as Jessica the first time they met, and she realizes she still doesn’t know ifDahliais the blonde’s real name.

Is anything real in this place?

Stefano squeezes Jessica’s fingers, and she brings her gaze up to find his. She can read the assessing way he’s studying her, and she forces a smile as she shakes her head at him.

“Nothing,” she replies. “It was nothing. Shop talk, I guess.”

Neither of them says another word as they approach Godrik’s suite. Stefano unlocks the door and grants her access, but he doesn’t cross the threshold. For this, Jessica is both grateful and disheartened. She closes her eyes as he shuts her inside, and she wills herself to get over it. She doesn’t want his encouragement. Doesn’t need it. Neither does she wish to see his worry or apprehension. As she slips out of the robe, laying it over the back of one of the couches, she shoves aside who sheisand slips into the skin of who she needs to be.

Tonight, she sits on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed. She’s not sure what time it is, but she’s confident she’ll have no more than fifteen or so minutes before she’s no longer alone. She crosses her legs and stares at her surroundings, trying to let the setting swallow her up; trying to forget who she is; trying to immerse herself fully in the fantasy. Soon, her eyes fall closed and she drifts into a memory.

She remembers the taste of Godrik’s kiss.

She remembers the heat of Godrik’s mouth.

She remembers the generous way he uses his tongue.

When Jessica hears the insertion of a key in the door a few minutes later, her eyes fly open. She’s no longer nervous—she’swetand wanting, and she doesn’t allow herself to fight it.

As Godrik enters the room, rather than stare down at her hands, she looks over at him. Right away, she notices he’s as casual as she’s ever seen him. He’s in a button-up shirt, tucked into a pair of tailored slacks. Still, he looks like money. But there’s something more. Something different about this version of casual. The fabric of his shirt hugs his broad shoulders and accentuates his narrow waist. She can tell, by the way his pants fit from his hips down to his ankles, his thighs are solid and strong. When she wonders what he might look like beneath his clothes, she embraces the thought, clinging to the fanciful notion, willing herself to be brave.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Godrik stands at the door as his eyes complete a body scan. As soon as his blue eyes find her brown ones, he reaches behind him and locks the door—all the while keeping his gaze trained on her. Jessica doesn’t notice he’s holding something in his hand.

As he crosses the room, silently and intentionally, her heart starts to beat faster. By the time he’s standing in front of her, she can hear her bloodwhooshingthrough her body as if someone is pounding a drum inside her head. When he holds out his free hand, palm up, Jessica looks at his offering before hesitantly sliding her fingers across the plane of his slightly calloused skin. As soon as her palm kisses his, he wraps his long fingers around hers and tugs. Instantly, she’s on her feet. She hardly has a chance to acclimate herself to their proximity or the delicious smell of him—a smell, she’s decided, that can’t be found in a bottle, but only wafting off of him with every decisive move he makes—before he drops her hand and reaches behind her.

Jessica can barely feel it as his hand brushes against the tips of her hair while his fingers work to unhook her bustier. It takes him asecond. When the hooks are free, he slowly traces his fingertips up her naked spine and then around to her left shoulder. His eyes still trained on hers, he drags his fingers across her shoulder, catching the strap of her bralette. Jessica is hardly aware of her breaths, now more accurately described asheavesas she gapes up at him. However aroused she was seconds ago, it’s completely overshadowed by a rising sense of panic. She knew this night would be different—but the substantiality of it staring straight at her alerts her to the truth that she’s not ready.

Ready or not…

Her bralette falls to their feet, and Khalohn finally tears his eyes away from hers in order to look down at her breasts. The faint sound of her rapid breaths becomes more apparent at the sight of the quick rise and fall of her chest. He notices her pink nipples are hard, and he slides an arm around her back, splaying his hand across her warm, soft skin as he dips his head and captures one of her peaks into his mouth. Bryn gasps as her back grows rigid. Khalohn swirls his tongue, and she emits the faintest mew. Then he sucks, and he feels it as her body starts to melt at his touch.

He takes his time, savoring the taste of one breast before showering an equal measure of attention on the other. By the time he’s done, her hands are clutching the fabric of his shirt at his sides. When he lifts his head, Khalohn searches Bryn’s face. Her lips are still parted, her breath still rapid, but her eyes seem darker. Warmer. Softer, yet with a tinge of what might be doubt or apprehension. In her gaze, he sees exactly what he wants—exactly what he plans to unearth—and his penis starts to harden at the thought.

Remembering his gift, still clutched in the hand dangling at his side, he takes a step back. As if the loss of his touch is a reprimand uttered in the silence, Bryn’s eyes grow wide, and a bit of the warmth he saw only a moment ago starts to disintegrate. In a split second, he recognizes her reaction as the sole reason behind his gift. Tonight, any doubts she harbors about how much he wants her, he plans to eradicate.

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