Page 6 of Chase
“If you’ve burned my meal, Mr. Chase,” I purr, “what would have been a reward this evening, may have to morph into a punishment.” Placing my lips against his perfectly white shirt, I press firmly, then nip taut skin through the soft fabric. When I pull back, a smudge of red stains the pristine surface. “Whoops,” I say with a giggle. “I’ve messed up your shirt with my lipstick. We may have to take turns punishing each other.”
“Fuck this,” he growls, spinning to face me. “You’re pushing my limits on being a gentleman.”
“I didn’t say you were a gentleman,” I shoot back, cocking my head to the side and widening my eyes. “I said you were well-behaved. And good boys deserve a reward.”
“And I am fucking claiming it.” He turns back briefly and flicks the switch on the stove, then grabs my ass lifting me in one motion up onto his waist. My legs and arms wrap around him as he walks across his kitchen to sit me on the island.
The surface is an expanse of cool black granite. As he releases my body and steps away, I place my hands behind me and shake my hair. Strong fingers come to my knees and encourage my legs wide, exposing the see-through scrap of material covering my pussy.
“You look incredible,” he says, the lilt of arousal clear in his tone.
“What about dinner?”
“I’m skipping straight to dessert.” He takes one of my ankles in each hand, encouraging them upwards until my knees are bent and heels are balanced on the worktop. “Lie down,” he orders firmly, and I push myself backward then lower myself, my hair splaying across the dark surface.
Connor stands between my legs and looks down at me, lying in the middle of his counter with my legs wide. He places a hand on either side of my waist before lowering his lips to my stomach and pressing gently just above my belly button. He repeats the process slowly, each time moving his lips fractionally farther down. Strong hands move under my legs and lift them onto his shoulders.
He glances up at me. “Raise your hands above your head,” he says. “You look perfectly laid out, like a final meal. If I were on death row, you would be my last request.” I do as he asks, and hungry eyes run over my skin. “Now, stay like that while I get to know the part of you I’ve been dying to meet.”
“I was rewarding you,” I protest.
“If I do a good job, you can pay me back later. The only sound I want to hear now is your moans. It’s rude to interrupt someone while they’re eating.”
Chapter four
Russell’s Penthouse, The Level
Russell
Fury. That’s all I feel at this moment. My bastard brother is downstairs with the woman I want, and jealousy and rage consume every inch of my body. She knew what she was doing when she walked across the room and draped herself over him. It was deliberate, and a direct goad. A statement that she isn’t mine to have.
But if I can’t have her, I’ll make damn sure he can’t either. Our whole lives have been like this, brothers so close but always confrontational. That fact isn’t going to change now.
As I sit in my penthouse, looking over the London rooftops, my mind wanders to what they’re doing only a floor below me. Perhaps now they are sitting down to dinner. A meal my brother has put a lot of effort into, or Mrs. D has. No doubt, Connor will have given her a single rose and taken her by the hand before offering her a chair. He’ll sweet talk her, only the way he can.
Though my brother and I are both ruthless, Connor does a better job of hiding the jagged edges. My faults are stark and undeniable. They burst from me when I least expect it, all the parts of myself I hate. And every poor bastard I meet knows it.
My mind fills with images of him wining and dining with her. They hold hands across the table as they discuss nonsense, both of them pretending tonight isn’t purely a fuck fest, that this is somehow dating like adults. But I know my brother, and I’ve had plenty of girls like Samantha. Neither of those backgrounds merge into meaningful relationships. From the small interaction I saw tonight, it’s obvious there was chemistry. However, incompatible liquids should never mix; they cause explosions, which result in casualties or worse.
Unable to shake the painful images from my mind, I stand abruptly then walk over to the drink cabinet and pour myself another glass of whiskey. I watch the amber liquid splash into the heavy crystal glass, then immediately lift it to my lips, downing it in one swallow. As I go to pour another, I give in to the niggling urge. I place the glass back down on the wooden surface and make my way to my balcony, pushing open the sliding door and stepping out into the cold winter air. The sharpness bites through the thin black t-shirt I am wearing, but I ignore the stabbing reality of my actions.
The ladder between my apartment and my brother’s below are only meant to be used in emergencies, and then only if absolutely necessary. They were installed after the building was constructed outside of standard regulations. But living the life we do, we always ensure we have an escape route. As dangerous as it sounds, ladders at the top of a skyscraper may offer a safer route than being cornered by an enemy.
I stand, grasping the freezing chrome handrail as I look down on the lights of the city, trying to twist the current situation into a conceivable emergency. I can’t. It doesn’t matter which spin I place on it right now, there’s no sane reason for me to descend from the fifty-eighth to the fifty-seventh floor hanging onto the outside of the building, but I won’t rest until I see what is happening. If I see her with him, perhaps the visual reality will curb my growing obsession.
I step up onto the barrier, swing my leg over the rail, and place a foot on the cold metal. When my body is fully on the outside of the balcony, I brave a glance down and my stomach flips. Fuck, this is high up. My mind briefly wanders to what would happen if I let go. How high up am I? I've never thought to check. Thinking back on my knowledge of buildings, I know each floor is around ten to twelve feet tall. As I make the calculation, I slowly start to descend the rungs, pushing the soles of my shoes against the slick grips.
Seven hundred—right now I should be around seven hundred feet in the air. If I were to fall, there would be none of me left. I’d be unrecognizable, merely a disgusting splatter on the pavement below. Plenty of people would celebrate the loss of me, very few would mourn. I know I’m not liked by most.
After what feels like an eternity, my foot hits the top of the handrail of Connor’s apartment. Nervous of being seen, I slide off the ladder quickly and move to stand behind the half-closed curtain covering the glass sliding doors. His living space, like all of the apartments in this building, is open plan, and I have a direct view of the kitchen. My rage, which had subsided slightly as I scaled the skyscraper and calculated the distance between myself and death, reappears with full force.
Samantha is laid out on top of the modern kitchen island, her knees bent and open wide. Long slender legs are hooked over Connor’s shoulders, and ankle-breaking black heels dangle down his back. She looks to be wearing only a minute bra—I can see her plump nipples erect beneath the sheer fabric. Waves of blonde hair I’ve imagined wrapping around my fingers lie across the dark surface. My brother’s face is buried between her legs, his expression hidden by her thigh, but his tense body and firm fingers gripping her ass tell me he’s enjoying himself.
His subject's eyes are closed, but I watch on as she arches her back from the worktop, thrusting her pussy upwards farther into his face. His fingers tighten and plump flesh spills around the edges of his grip, the skin turning a beautiful shade of pink. He pulls her closer and she slides fractionally toward the edge, deeper onto his tongue.
I watch on in awe, disgusted with myself but unable to tear my eyes away. Samantha writhes underneath my brother's touch, completely lost in the moment. Her chin lifts and her eyes open, her stunning body spasming before my eyes. The unmistakable sight of a woman reaching orgasm plays out before me. I can’t hear the moan that escapes her lips, but I don’t need to. I know it is one of pleasure. My brother rises from his position, wiping at his lips with his hand. They smile manically at one another, and Samantha’s focus moves toward where I stand.
Unknowingly, I have moved out into the open. I’m caught standing like a schoolboy with his nose pressed against the glass watching a forbidden scene play out before me.