Chapter 54 Affair
He pulled back slightly, eyes dark with desire. "Tell me to stop."
"Don't," I breathed.
He kissed me again, harder, urgent. His hands slid down my neck, over my shoulders, pushing the robe off with deliberate slowness. The fabric pooled at my waist, cool air kissing my bare skin, pebbling my nipples. He trailed kisses down my throat, open-mouthed, nipping at my pulse point until I gasped, arching into him.
The bed creaked as he eased me back, body covering mine. His sweater came off in one smooth motion, revealing tan skin, the faint scars from fights past, silver lines that caught the lamp's glow. My fingers traced them, feeling the raised texture, the warmth radiating from him. He groaned softly, capturing my mouth again as his hands explored, sliding under my pajama top, palms hot against my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
I tugged his pants open, zipper rasping in the quiet room. He was hard, straining against the fabric. I freed him, velvet steel in my hand, stroking slowly from base to tip, thumb circling the head where pre-cum beaded. He hissed, hips bucking slightly, then stripped my top off, mouth descending on my breast, tongue swirling the peak, sucking gently, then harder, sending jolts straight to my core.
"Alexander..." I moaned, fingers tangling in his hair.
He moved lower, kisses trailing down my stomach, hands hooking into my pants, sliding them off with panties in one go. The air was cool between my thighs, but his breath was hot as he settled there, shoulders forcing my legs wider. His tongue flicked out, a long, languid lick that made me arch off the bed. He took his time, circling my clit with expert precision, sucking softly, fingers parting me to delve deeper.
Pleasure built in layers, slow, intense, waves cresting higher with every stroke. One finger slipped inside, then two, curling, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue. I writhed, the sheets bunching under my fists, gasps filling the room. The bond amplified it all, his pleasure echoing mine, a feedback loop of ecstasy.
"Come for me," he murmured against me, the vibration pushing me over.
The orgasm crashed, shuddering pulses, clenching around his fingers as I cried out, vision blurring. He lapped gently, drawing it out until I was trembling
He rose, lips glistening, eyes black with hunger. I sat up, hands on his hips, pulling him closer. My tongue traced his length, slow, teasing, from base to tip, savoring the salty musk. He groaned, hand fisting my hair gently. I took him in, lips stretching, tongue swirling, sucking with increasing rhythm. His hips twitched, breaths ragged.
"Maddie…fuck…"
I looked up through lashes, meeting his gaze, raw, undone. He pulled me up, kissing me deeply, tasting himself on my tongue.
We shifted, me on top, guiding him inside. The stretch was exquisite, slow sink until he filled me completely. We both moaned, foreheads pressed. I rocked first, slow circles, grinding down, pleasure building anew.
His hands gripped my hips, guiding, thrusting up to meet me. Pace quickened, thrusts deep, deliberate. One hand slid between us, fingers circling my clit. The dual sensation, him inside, fingers teasing, pushed me higher.
The second orgasm built slowly, coiling tight, then shattering in waves. I clenched around him, crying out. He followed, thrusting erratic, burying deep as he came with a groan, pulsing hot inside me.
We collapsed, breathless, tangled. He held me close, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
"Please stay with me," I whispered.
He kissed my forehead. "I'll leave before dawn. Don't worry."
Sleep came fast, sated, his heartbeat lulling me.
Ben Hargrove sat alone at the far end of the polished mahogany bar in Le Château Noir, the city's most exclusive speakeasy tucked beneath an unmarked door in the financial district. The place smelled of aged oak barrels, expensive cigar smoke, and the subtle metallic bite of money being poured into crystal glasses. Dim amber sconces cast pools of golden light across the dark leather booths, and the low hum of jazz drifted from hidden speakers, smooth, sultry, almost mocking the storm brewing inside him.
It had been four days since the investigator bailed, four days of cold fury and restless plotting. The man had vanished after one last payment, too scared of Alexander Blackwood's reach, too cowardly to finish the job. Ben had stared at the final text for hours: Can't continue. The risk is too high. Good luck. Good luck. As if he needed luck. He needed evidence. Tangible, undeniable proof of the affair he knew was happening. The shopping trip. The restaurant. The way Alexander's hand had rested on Maddie's lower back as they left, possessive, intimate, wrong.
Ben swirled the amber liquid in his glass, single malt, eighteen years old, the burn sharp on his tongue as he took a slow sip. The ice clinked softly, the sound swallowed by the murmur of the bar. He was waiting for Grant. Reginald Grant, sixty-eight, board member, old-money conservative, one of the three fossils he'd already swayed toward his nomination. If he could plant the seed tonight, the rest would follow.
The door at the far end opened, admitting a gust of cold night air and the man himself. Grant moved with the deliberate pace of someone who knew his worth, silver hair perfectly combed, charcoal suit immaculate, cane tapping the floor like a metronome. He spotted Ben, nodded once, and crossed the room.
"Ben." Grant slid onto the stool beside him, signaling the bartender with a raised finger. "Whiskey. Neat.
Ben waited until the glass arrived, the amber liquid catching the light like molten gold. He leaned in, voice low. "Thanks for meeting me. I know it's late."
Grant sipped, eyes narrowing. "You said it was urgent."
"It is." Ben exhaled, letting the frustration show, calculated, just enough to sell sincerity. "It's about Alexander. And Maddie."
Grant's brow lifted slightly. "Your wife."
"My wife," Ben repeated, the words tasting like ash. "And my stepfather."
He let the silence stretch, watching Grant's expression shift from curiosity to something darker. Ben leaned closer, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. "I think he's sleeping with her."
Grant's glass paused halfway to his lips. "You're serious."