Page 46 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

Jessica doesn’t respond right away. She stares into the eyes of her friend, daring to glimpse her reflection from his perspective. The longer they stay silent, the longer he remains next to her, the more his words penetrate, creating a crack in the wall of shame she built around her in her sleep. As her thoughts fill with memories of Godrik—his generosity, his silent power, his indisputable prowess—she peeks through that crack and sees what’s on the other side.Beth. The woman for whom she would doanything. As her guilt begins to wane, the foundation of her shame begins to crumble, and she reaches for Stefano’s hands.

He weaves his fingers between hers, and she stares down at their connection as she murmurs, “What if he asks for me again?”

She can hear the smile in his voice as he gives her fingers a squeeze and replies, “Dove, if he asks for you again, he’ll no longer be a legend—youwill be.”

Feeling strangely buoyed by the thought, she peeks at Stefano from beneath her wet lashes. Miraculously, a small smile plays at her lips when he pulls one of her hands toward him, turning her wrist so he can press a kiss there.

“We’ll also have to come up with a reason to explain to your mom why you’ve got money falling from the sky.”

Jessica’s smile falls as she dips her head and lifts her shoulder, pressing her cheek against it with a sigh.

“You’re also free to tell him no. Your contract permits you to walk away at any time.”

When her stomach twists uncomfortably, she pulls her hands away from Stefano and sits up straight. Shoving aside the acidic feeling of disappointment which accompanies the thought of never touching Godrik again, she tucks a bit of hair behind her ears and clears her throat.

“Our coffee’s getting cold,” she says, reaching for hers.

At first, Stefano doesn’t move. Jessica can feel his eyes on her, but she refuses to acknowledge him; refuses to acknowledge what she’s sure he interprets in her swift change of subject. He knows her far too well, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to talk about it. Shecan’ttalk about it. Not anymore. Finally, when he stands, pressing a kiss on top of Jessica’s head, she stifles a sigh of relief, grateful for his silent reprieve.

Khalohn wakes laterthan usual on Saturday morning, the sun pouring into his bedroom through the windows he neglected to cover before sleep. He’s so distracted by the physical proof of beingalone, he doesn’t concern himself with checking the time our looking out at the morning. He tucks one hand behind his head as he lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling,remembering.

He’s been a client at Clandestine’s for a long time. Long enough to lose count of the number of women he’s taken to bed. Long enough for most of the women to blur together into faceless, lithe bodies in various shades of luxurious underwear. Long enough that he shouldn’t wake up the morning after a night of sex thinking of nothing but her face.

He remembers the look in Bryn’s eyes, darkened and smoldering, her painted lips round and open on a gasp, her back arched and her hardened nipples grazing his chest when he entered her for the first time. In that moment, she was wholly his—his in a way no one ever had been before. He could feel it in her grip, her hands clinging to him in raw and transparentneed. It wasn’t surprise. Not entirely. He’s sure of this because it wasn’t the only time he felt it as the night turned to morning and he owned her body again and again.

The longer Khalohn spends immersed in his memory, the more aroused he becomes, until his erection is mocking him. He ignores his longing, all the while wondering if he can arrange to have Bryn again that very night. Then he remembers how much he spent on the four orgasms he delivered less than twelve hours ago. Using his free hand, he reaches up and rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Another night would be another twenty thousand. Twenty thousand would bring Bryn’s ongoing tab to seventy thousand dollars. It would be a careless investment—regardless of how delectable she tastes; how perfectly their bodies fit together; how turned on she makes him with the little sounds she makes; or how utterlygorgeousshe is stripped completely bare.

Gorgeous enough to get my dick up three times in a single session with hardly any reprieve.

Hell—gorgeous enough to get my dick up when she’s not even here.

He sighs, a part of him wanting to be careless. He never is. Not to mention, it’s not as if he doesn’t have another twenty thousand to spend frivolously. Yet, knowing the transaction would be just that—frivolous—he comes to his senses. Furthermore, he knows one more night won’t be enough. The need he saw and felt in Bryn when he slid inside of her wasn’t one sided. He knew it then. He acknowledges it now. It isn’t Bryn he’s hesitant to invest in—it’show.

As confidential and convenient as Clandestine’s is, seventy thousand dollars could get him a private apartment in Manhattan for almost an entireyear. Khalohn stops at the thought, allowing it to circle around his mind for a minute. The hand at his face moves up, until his fingers are submerged in his hair. The longer he thinks about it, the more figures start to compile in his head, until he knowspreciselyhow he can invest in Bryn in a way that would benefit them both.

He lingers in bed just long enough to plot his plan of attack, and then he’s up, phone in hand, heading toward his office in nothing but his underwear. Once in his oft used domain, he sits down behind his desk and opens the bottom drawer, where he finds a copy of the NDA and contract he signed with Beatrice years ago. He goes over it carefully, the details murky after all this time. When he’s assured his latest business proposition won’t violate any agreement he’s made with Clandestine’s, he unlocks the screen of his mobile and searches his contacts. Upon finding the number for his real estate agent, he pushes a call through straight away.

“Diaz,” the man answers on the second ring.

“Khalohn Morgan,” mutters Khalohn in greeting.

“Mr. Morgan, good to hear from you, sir. What can I do for you?”

The men don’t speak often. Khalohn’s personal property needs are few and far between. Neither are the two men friends. Nevertheless, Khalohn is well aware of the weight his name bears and the value Walter Diaz understands comes with a simple phone call.

“I’m in the market for an investment property. A condo or loft space. Single floor plate. Near or around Lower Manhattan.”

“I’d be happy to help you with that, Morgan.”

“I’m only interested in a quick turnaround,” Khalohn insists, his gaze shifting out the window and what he can see of the Upper East Side from his vantage point. “Ready to occupy. Can I expect a list of properties by this afternoon?”

“I can guarantee that list within the next four hours.”

“Then we’ll be in touch.”

They disconnect, and Khalohn doesn’t second guess his motives, his intentions, or his plan. If everything works out in his favor, it’ll be money and time well spent.

When Jessica wakesup Sunday morning, Godrik is still at the forefront of her mind. She sighs, as if in resignation, resolved to the fact that she can’tun-feelhim anymore than she canundowhat’s already been done—the choices she’s made, the body she gave, the pleasure she took…

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