Page 57 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

As soon as the thought crosses her mind, she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and looks around. A smile fights against her captured lip, and she’s quick to pull her hair up into a ponytail. She then reaches for her phone, opening up her music app as she kicks off her shoes. In bare feet, she slowly makes her way to the dining room table as she finds the song she’s looking for. The choreography she learned in Miah’s class, just a couple days before, still lingers beneath her skin. The thought of dancing it out right here and now brings her a sort of peace she’s only ever granted in movement.

As soon as the beat drops to “Movement” by Hozier, her hips sway from side to side and she feels herself being pulled under. She turns up the volume on her phone until it’s maxed out, then tosses it on the dining room table before she completely loses herself in the dance.

Khalohn powers onhis phone as the plane taxies to the gate, already impatient to be back in the city. It’s been a packed couple of days sandwiched between two long, transcontinental flights. He wants to get to the office, take care of his urgent tasks, then indulge in his latest investment. He allows his thoughts to conjure the memory of Bryn, as he’s done a dozen times throughout the week. Then he shuts his daydreams down in an effort to focus his mind on his present needs.

He sends a text to Atzel, alerting him to his status, and then scrolls through the emails he received since he powered down his computer a few hours into the flight. The sleep he caught in the air wasn’t much, but it’ll get him through the rest of the day. When the plane finally comes to a halt and the seatbelt sign goes dark, Khalohn is quick to stand from his seat. He gathers his suit jacket from the hanger it hung on for the journey, slipping his arms into it before he reaches for his bag in the overhead compartment. He’s one of the first off the plane, and he weaves his way through JFK Airport as quickly as the crowds allow. When he spots Atzel climbing out of the front seat of the Maybach at his approach, Khalohn feels at home—the familiarity of routine making it so.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Morgan,” greets the man, reaching for Khalohn’s bag.

“Atzel,” replies Khalohn with a dip of his chin.

The Honduran opens the backseat door, and Khalohn folds himself inside. His bag is stowed in the trunk, then Atzel returns to his spot behind the wheel and eases into the traffic leading out of the airport.

“To the office, sir?”

It isn’t until the question is posed that Khalohn considers an alternative. He checks the time, noting it’s nearly two in the afternoon. His stomach growls, alerting him to his need of a decent meal, but it’s his curiosity which has him going off course.

Pulling out his phone, he brings up Maribelle’s contact information and opens their thread of messages. “Tribeca,” he mutters, typing out his late lunch order to his secretary.

“Right away, sir.”

After he’s certain his lunch will be waiting for him upon his arrival at the office, he mulls over the business he must see to before he can call it quits for the day. He returns a few emails and takes a couple incoming calls during the forty-five-minute drive to the apartment on Broadway. As Atzel comes to a stop right in front of the building, Khalohn looks up the length of it, a mild sense of anticipation mingling with his curiosity. He wonders what the space looks like. He knows it’s complete. He knows because that’s the arrangement he made with Bryn; but also because that’s what he paid Michelle to make happen, and he saw the charges that hit his account as necessary purchases were made throughout the week. Now he’s impatient to see another side of Bryn by way of her tastes.

Atzel opens his door, and Khalohn steps out, buttoning his jacket as he addresses his driver. “I won’t be but a few minutes. I need to return to the office.”

“Of course. I’ll keep the car running.”

Khalohn strides into the building, passing the doorman without even a glance. He pushes the call button for an elevator, and one opens right away. As he rides to the sixth floor, he does so remembering Bryn’s declaration that she wouldn’t give up her apartment. With this in mind, he doesn’t expect to find her inside. Moreover, as he steps off the elevator, he reaches for his phone with every intention of sending her a message—beckoning her to 601 that night.

He’s barely got her contact information pulled up when he arrives at the door. He pauses, the sound of music coming from the other side indisputable. When he reaches for the knob, he frowns when he finds it unlocked.

Quietly, he grants himself entrance. He shuts the door behind him, then steps out of the front entryway and into the mouth of the loft, where he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes find Bryn immediately. He doesn’t see the décor of the space. He doesn’t notice the colors of the furniture, the accents of the rugs, or the way his footsteps don’t echo as loudly as they did the last time he was here. All he sees is Bryn, her body moving in such a way he’s never seen before. Each movement is synced with the beat of the song; but it’s more than that. Sheisthe music.

He’s so transfixed, he can’t decipher the lyrics. But he doesn’t need to hear the words. He canseethem—with every dip, twist, turn, leap and lunge Bryn makes. In the span of a single verse, something inside his mind recognizesthisis Bryn. The woman in front of him isn’t just dancing, she’s a dancer. The way she moves her body, it’s outrageously sexy. Not because her movements are sensual, but because she’s so completely in control of her body. Never before has he seen someone soat homein their skin. Without being able to put it into words, he understands while he’s seen her stripped naked—it isn’t until this moment that he’s reallyseenher.

She’s dancing in the space in front of the windows across from him, her back to him at first. Yet, even as she moves and spins, she doesn’t notice him, too lost in the song. Just as lost as she is to the melody which fills the room, he is as lost in her. He can’t take his eyes away from her. The first time she danced for him, it turned him on. Now, watching her, it doesn’t arouse him. It’s more than that. More arresting than the base urge brought about by his carnal nature. To him, she’s mesmerizing—the glimpses of her face he catches are evidence of a peace he’s sure he’s never known.

As soon as the song ends, it starts up again. Except, as Bryn stands to reposition herself—breathless from her efforts—she finally spots him. A yelp erupts from her mouth, and she jumps back. She almost collides into one of the wooden beams in the middle of the room as she claps her hands over her lips. Realizing its him, her hands drop to her chest, still rising and falling in rapid succession as she stares at him.

“I didn’t—didn’t hear you come in,” she breathes unnecessarily.

Khalohn doesn’t speak right away. He takes her in from top to toe. Her thick mane is hardly contained in a ponytail, the hair tie drooping at her nape, loose strands framing her face, now glowing in a thin layer of sweat. She’s dressed down, her face void of makeup, her outfit functional—her clothes made to give her the complete freedom of uninhibited movement.

This is Bryn.

His dick comes to life in his slacks, reminding him of his desire.

He doesn’t realize the length of time that passes as he stares at her. When she straightens, quickly tugging her hair tie off, her long mane falls around her shoulders. Self-consciously, she runs her fingers through the strands, tossing a bit to the side, creating a voluminous effect he finds appealing.

“Come here,” he finally speaks.

She nods but doesn’t move immediately. He watches her swallow nervously before she slowly crosses the room. The closer she gets, the more defined her features become. Without her makeup, she appears younger. Purer. Natural, in the most beautiful and appealing way. Her cheeks are tinted pink, the residue of her exertion lingering on her face. He wants to touch her, to slide his hand beneath her tank top in search of the damp skin at the small of her back. He wants totasteher skin, perspiring with her very essence. He shoves his hands into his pockets instead, curling his fingers into fists in an effort to restrain himself.

Tonight.

In spite of his self-assurance, when she stops a foot away from him, it’s too far.

“Closer,” he demands.

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