I fidget with the cuff of my heather gray suit, eyes still planted on the charity proposals splayed across my glass office desk. The paperwork for each appears eerily similar. Each cry for help from these foundations feels more like a whine for pockets to be lined instead of causes to be nurtured. Much like my company, I want the money I give to charity to have meaning. An impact. I want the Wilcox legacy to remain above the sleazy billionaire standards. I want my parents to be proud of the man they unwillingly sacrificed their lives for. I want to feel they would be as often as possible. I want to feel I am meeting the gold standards of excellence my father always delivered. The same excellence they still brag about over brandy on and off the golf course.
“Can you zip me?” Brynley’s voice invades the office.
My eyes dart up to see her gripping the top half of her black dress. She quickly relocates herself in front of me, exposing her smooth back. I take my time to drink in the attire she’s chosen. The sleeves are long yet lacy. The bottom of the dress is solid black and short. The black pumps allow for the tiniest bit of her toes to peep through. Her entire appearance is an encomium to my favorite things about her. No matter where we go or where she’s dragged, she exudes confidence and refuses to conform to anyone’s expectations that aren’t her own. Her untamable spirit is exhilarating. Intoxicating….
I drag my index finger slowly down her spine. “No bra?”
She slowly gazes at me over her shoulder and shakes her head.
My touch travels further south to the bright blue and gray hammerhead tattoo that swims across her lower back. “No panties?”
Brynley’s grin grows devilish. “Problem?”
The look combined with the absence of underwear causes my cock to harden. “Not at all.”
In one swift movement, her palms are pressed against the glass top of my desk, her dress is hiked up, and my dick is ruthlessly piercing her wet pussy. The blistering welcome is rewarded with a low, intense groan.
She whimpers my name like a sacred invocation, “Wes….”
A smirk slithers across my expression at the beautiful sound as I continue to thrust sharply. Her slick muscles clamp down around my cock, mimicking the moaning her mouth is ceaselessly delivering. My hands firmly plant themselves on her bare hips right underneath the skirt of her dress, and yank her into every heave with so much momentum it creates a beautiful bounce. Brynley tucks her bottom lip between her teeth while her body brazenly bucks back into every blow. The sight causes my balls to constrict yet I fight against the request to come too soon. Her pussy retaliates by contracting tight enough to tempt me into reconsidering. I groan through the pleasure and slip my finger around to tease her clit. At the first graze, her motions falter, and her torso threatens to collapse onto my desk.
Her moans increase in urgency. “Wes….”
I continue the light circles, willingly allowing myself to be driven insane by the way she always trembles for me and only me.
The power in that fact has me barely holding onto my impending orgasm. “This is my pussy, baby. Make it come for me.”
My aggressive words receive a breathless capitulation. Brynley breaks, and I press my finger slightly harder against her clit hoping to elicit a scream. She comes at the same time she cries out in a clamoring combination of ecstasy and exhaustion. Her orgasm relentlessly laves my dick until it has no choice but to submit to the blinding bliss. On a feral growl, I let go, blazing bursts filling her to the brim.
Another delicious whimper of praise falls from her parted lips. “Wes.…”
I dig my fingers into her soft flesh and ride the post orgasm shudders with her.
Mere seconds after she melts onto my desk the sound of the front door shutting echoes throughout the penthouse.
“I’m here,” J.T. announces warmly.
“Stay out there!” I immediately command, fingers roaming down the curve of her ass. “We’ll be ready in a sec!”
Brynley wiggles her hips, and I see the hint of a mischievous grin.
Knowing her intentions without having heard them, I shake my head and carefully remove my spent cock. “Not happening. The only person I want hearing your screams is me.”
She playfully pouts as she stands up. “Sharing is caring.”
A grumble of disapproval rumbles through me, and I tug her body to be flush with mine. “I would never fucking share you.” Seeing the mirth in her eyes, I drift my touch back between her thighs, and whisper, “Or this fucking pussy.”
Her moan is soft but submissive. “You never will.”
Our open mouths gravitate together and allow our tongues the briefest connection.
With a crooked smile, she pulls back and questions, “Can you actually zip me up now?”
I lightly chuckle, turn her, and place a kiss on her shoulder before fulfilling the request.
“Five minutes max,” Brynley promises. “Gotta tidy myself back up.”
We exchange a naughty chuckle, and she struts out of the room taking my attention with her.
Once she’s disappeared and my dick is securely back in my suit pants, I make my way to the living room to find J.T. messing around on his phone.
He glances up at me. “Your tie is crooked.”
Adjusting the deep red accessory with a smirk, I inquire, “Did you knock?”
J.T. shakes his head. “Why would you give me a key if you wanted me to knock?”
The counter causes me to nod at his point.
It’s not like he’s unwelcomed here or unwanted. It’s just one of the benefits of being in this penthouse was supposed to be carefree sex without having to worry about someone stumbling upon us.
“Don’t worry,” he says with humor in his tone. “I waited until it sounded like the episode on Animal Planet was over.”
A slight red hue burns into my cheeks.
“Jealous, Puppet Boy?” Brynley’s voice slides into the conversation during her stroll into the room.
“Of his booming sex life? Yes. Of him sleeping with you?” J.T. quickly shakes his head. “Not at all, Aquawoman.”
I clear my throat and slide my hands into my pockets. “Can we get going?”
My fiancée pulls her straightened hair to the side of her face as she teases, “Aw. Look at that. He still gets embarrassed talking about our sex life.”
“It’s not a subject that should be open for discussion,” I promptly scold.
“Which is why we don’t talk about it publicly,” she agrees. “But, come on. It’s just J.T. If you can’t talk about how much fucking fun it is to bend your fiancée over your desk and fuck her brains out with your best friend, then who can you?”
J.T. groans, “Un….Unneeded imagery.”
Brynley proudly smiles. “I get that a lot.”
Holding my hand out for her, I lightly laugh. “Let’s get downstairs. I’m sure Jeffery is impatiently waiting.”
“Thank God, it’s Lurch!” She exclaims folding her engagement ring hand with mine. “He has much better taste in music than FrankenSuck.”
Her references to our security guards grab chuckles from all of us during our exit of the penthouse.
After a short ride on the elevator, the three of us slide into the limo I didn’t want to take.
It’s awful enough I have to attend this gala in person. Showing up in an unnecessary, over the top, luxury vehicle for the sheer sake of being photographed ‘in style’ sickens me. But it wasn’t my decision. Evie makes these edicts without room for rebuttal.
Brynley leans against me, and I instantly wrap my arm around her shoulder. “What is this thing for again?”
Without looking up from the email I was reading, I reply, “It’s a gala for charity.”
“And what the fuck is a gala? Is that like the rich people word for party?”
“Think a fancier, less fun version of that scene from Batman and Robin where Poison Ivy arrives.”
J.T.’s explanation receives a squeal of glee. “Tell me there’s gonna be an auction like that! I will gladly let you purchase a scantily dressed redhead for us to watch dance around in a green corset with a big ass ruby around her neck.”
My conflicting responses trip over themselves forcing out a contorted, “What?”
Brynley wiggles her eyebrows at me while my best friend loudly laughs.
I shake my head and slip away into the joy that staring into her bright blue eyes brings.
“Less fun, Bryn,” J.T. repeats grabbing both of our attention. “Think same stuffy people chugging back champagne except instead of auctioning off beautiful women for dates it’s pieces of artwork and private tours of places like The Bower and Powell Aquatic Institute.”
She instantly glares. “Why the fuck would I wanna bid on work?”
Tightening my grip on her, I inform, “We will bid on something else. All the money goes to supposedly a good cause, so if you see something that interests you, let me know.”
“And what if what I want is like a half a million dollars, Bruce?”
The joke nickname rolls my eyes.
“What if I want a boat?”
“We have one of those.”
“Or a plane?”
“We now have two.”
She tries not to glare. “Or that big ass ruby necklace she wore in the movie?”
J.T. beats me to the response, “That wasn’t real.”
“Missing. The. Point.”
“Oh, we’re missing the point?” I playfully poke receiving a nudge in the ribs. “Baby, we’ll walk around the entire thing together and bid on whatever excites you. Like I said, the money is going to a good cause, so I don’t mind.”
“What’s it going towards?”
“Boosting education in lower income areas,” J.T. answers as the vehicle moves into slow traffic.
Helplessly, I grump, “If that’s actually where the money is going.”
“Don’t do this again,” my best friend sighs. “Don’t start second guessing the foundations we contribute to. Have a little faith in Myra.”
“Who the hell is Myra?” Bryn immediately asks.
“Myra works in public relations. She keeps a close watch over the organizations the Wilcox family has been supporting for decades, such as the institute where you work, but she primarily spends her time, going through charities and causes, filtering out ones that seem sketchy, lack significant evidence of improvement over their time of being established, and ultimately collecting what she thinks will not only make the company look good, but most likely please Wes on a personal level.”
“I thought I was the only one who got to please you on a personal level.”
Her sexual implication invites my cock to the conversation, which causes me to shift my free arm to my lap. “I just wish there was a way to actually see firsthand the thousands of dollars we invest in these organizations was indeed helping do more than line the pockets of those who have mastered the art of profiting from non-profit.”
My fiancée swiftly states, “That’s because you’ve got severe control issues.”
I glower at the comment.
“Is that what all those files on your desk were?” Brynley innocently questions. “Were you looking for a new cause to donate to?”
The question receives a curt nod.
One of the benefits of having my fiancée work where I donate is hearing the testimony to how money is being spent. Like learning the number of rescued animals has increased thanks to the new equipment they were able to purchase with an increase to our annual budget and how the research department has managed to develop a better relocation system for releasing creatures back into the ocean due to several new sizable donations from other Wilcox shareholders. Investing in our future, in the Wilcox legacy, means investing in providing a better tomorrow for my future children. It’s what my father socially stood for. It’s something he made sure I grasped the concept of while growing up. It’s why he took me along to charity runs and made us volunteer together at charitable festivals. He wanted us to see the faces we were potentially helping. It’s my obligation now that I have returned to the public to reestablish such customs.
My mind starts to wander towards the idea of seeing Brynley’s stomach swollen, her wavy brown hair messy, and her foul mouth even fouler from the misery of being uncomfortable against her will.
Hell, I can practically hear her cursing my name for getting her pregnant….
“Wes!” She shouts, snapping me out of the reverie.
“Yes?”
“We’re here,” J.T. announces and tosses his head towards the open door where Jeffrey is waiting to escort us inside.
I briefly shut my eyes, let out a slow, deep exhale, and search for the courage to step out of the vehicle.
While I have begun to reappear at social functions they have been few and far between. I do not enjoy mingling and pretending I don’t notice people staring. Gawking. Cringing. I do not enjoy silently disgusting an entire room with the marks seared into my skin. I do not enjoy being the main attraction like a two-headed circus freak for them to snicker over behind their vintage glasses of Dom Pérignon. However, those are a few of the consequences of my return to the public’s vision. I now have an obligation to clink glasses with those whose money I have doubled in the last decade. Smile charmingly at women whose husbands my father initially made rich, but I’ve made richer. Chuckle with clients at charity events to prove I care about more than dollar amounts. Our family name has a cultivated image and stepping back into the limelight requires I adhere to it.
Brynley’s warm breath hits my ear. “If you don’t get out before me, I will inevitably flash the photographers and recreate a next generation Britney Spears moment.”
I smirk at the reason all of the unwanted attention is bearable.
She’s like having a guardian angel who forgot to read the fine print about swearing and dressing provocatively.
With a small chortle, I slide out of the limo and block Brynley’s less than lady like exit. Once her hand slips into mine, we step to the side together and smile for the cameras. Flashing lights repeatedly swarm us. She leans into me, posing as Evie forced her to practice, making sure to leave her engagement ring in prime photographing opportunity. Our heads lightly touch as we continue our rehearsed expressions for the paparazzi.
Despite my own personal hatred for them, they love the hell out of us. We’re some sick, twisted fairy tale the world loves to watch and take part of whenever given the opportunity. Over the past year I’ve tried to recall my parents being “celebrities” or followed as socialites. I vaguely recall their photographs plastered in places outside of annual functions and political fundraisers. Clark, like the father figure he is more actively stepping into the shoes of, continuously reassures me their presence was known, but this is a different time. We’re being held to a new social standard. He also likes to remind me I can handle it just as my father and grandfather handled their social responsibilities.
Certain we’ve been exposed long enough, I grip Brynley’s hand and nod for Jeffery to lead us to the door. Questions are thrown at us during our departure, yet we proceed to the people waiting for us inside. As soon as we’ve crossed the threshold we’re assaulted by more photographers, but thankfully no reporters. We pause again; same position, same forced expressions, and allow for our posed love to be captured. Unlike outside they lower their cameras the moment they’re convinced they’ve grabbed the right shot and allow us to stroll away unbothered.
At the first sight of champagne from a passing waiter, we each grab a glass and down a portion to soothe our nerves.
Neither of us enjoys events like this. Sometimes I wonder if it reminds Brynley of the serving jobs she had before she started working in her field. Sometimes it makes me curious to the past she has yet to offer up in conversation.
We link hands and veer right towards the area set up for auction purchases. Our stroll along the back wall where the art is displayed is filled with an abundance of laughter. Brynley’s commentary on every piece receives not only chuckles but impromptu kisses to silence her in front of buyers who show genuine interest.
“Should we buy something for the penthouse?” I sweetly suggest, fingers stroking her hip.
Brynley shrugs. “We can? I mean….I don’t know dick about art so that’s all up to you. You’re the one who probably has a secret stash of Vincent van Gogh painting in his basements’ basement.”
With a crooked smile at the comment, I retort, “I don’t know anything about art either. That was more my father’s department. All the art work at the estate are pieces he purchased by himself or with my mother at these things. The stuff at the penthouse was picked out by the decorator.”
“Who I still hate,” she quickly interjects. “I asked for one thing. One thing.”
“We’ve been over this. A zebra print upholstered chaise lounge for our bedroom would not have fit.”
“If we didn’t have a bed big enough for King Kong it might have.”
The two of us suddenly stop in front of a water color painting where only half of the canvas is colored in blue, green, and brown dots.
“Now this is just lazy,” Brynley fusses at it. “Didn’t anyone teach him to finish his homework before turning it in?”
“It’s abstract art, baby. I’m sure in his opinion, assuming this Treme person is a him, that this is finished. A completed masterpiece.”
She looks up at me sarcastically. “For 15k you better at least cover the entire thing.”
Casually, I prepare to take a sip, but reply first, “There are people who have paid more for less.”
“There are also people who have paid to have their dick sucked in public restrooms.”
I instantly choke on my champagne.
“It doesn’t make it any more acceptable.”
During my attempt to regain my composure, we are joined by Evie and what appears to be a slightly shorter clone.
“First of all, you are not permitted to leave this event in an ambulance, so please get it together.” She tilts her face at me sternly then directs her attention to Brynley. “And we’ve talked about this, Brynley. You have to cut your use of that word in at least half when attending public events.”
Brynley gives her a mocking head bobble.
“Posture up, Wes,” Evie continues her directions, hands folding in front of her. “You exude power not passiveness.”
Her new accessory softly speaks, “So much power….”
“He’s not the only one,” Brynley instantly snips at the tiny blonde.
She shrinks back behind Evie who sighs, “Brynley’s bite is much worse than her bark, so I suggest you keep all further flirtatious remarks to yourself since your insurance does not cover violent attacks from fiancées.”
Unable to resist a pleased grin over Bryn’s reaction to someone potentially hitting on me, I slide my free hand around her waist, and whisper in her ear, “You can show me your power on the way home.…”
A wild smirk crosses her lips.
“Jenni, dispose of Wes’ empty champagne glass and bring J.T. here, please. I believe he’s near the bar.”
“Yes ma’am.”
The moment Jenni has made it a safe distance away, Evie sighs, “You have no idea how stressful it is tending to the three of you around the clock. I essentially work in a permanent state of damage control and live off a diet of coffee and Sugar Babies. I needed an assistant, and at the time was desperate. Jenni was the only one who didn’t cringe in disgust at your photo, Wes, or seem interested in sleeping with you, Bryn. In my book, that’s the bottom line for winning.”
We offer her matching smiles of gratitude.
“It helps she’s observant and takes initiative, like sharing a photo of you Brynley, helping feed a shark after someone tweeted about you saying something crass about ‘tree hugging hippies’.”
My eyes cut her guilty expression a glance.
Brynley defends herself with a crooked smile. “I’m sure it was taken out of context.”
I’m not.
“Now speaking of damage control, you two are here to keep our headlines happy, but not informative. Do not answer in depth questions on any specific topic regardless if it is politics or your favorite NBA player. Do not ask questions that would lead anyone here to believe you have an additional agenda such as having them invest in your company or side company or any projects you may have on the back burner. Keep all conversation centered on the charity event and above all else, if you are unsure of what to say, say nothing. Smile politely. Nod. And look lovingly into one another’s eyes.” Her rambled instructions are preceded with her instructing a waiter to continue walking rather than allowing me to have another drink. “Let’s keep the drinks down to a minimum as well. Last thing we need are headlines about either of you being a lush or Brynley drunkenly expressing her growing distaste for contemporary art to the wrong person.”
“That’s barely art,” she argues, offering me her still very full champagne flute.
There isn’t time to question why she doesn’t want to finish it.
“Yes. I am aware of your position as well as your hatred for tonight’s pending entrée of Tuna Tartare.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Brynley groans. “I have to spend the evening having my breath smell like-”
“No.” Evie hushes her with a swift finger. “Language needs to match the atmosphere, remember? You can say things like that when having drinks on someone’s yacht or their beach house extravaganza. Here you say things like ‘having my breath not smell pleasant’.”
My fiancée groans and leans against me. “She’s like having a bitchier blonde version of Mary Poppins around.”
Evie doesn’t bother responding.
The comparison in many ways is accurate. And as much as I loathe anyone dictating how I behave, I understand her purpose. I understand her reasoning. I understand how she functions and why things are commanded rather than requested. She has a very specific job to do and gets it done in even the least ideal conditions.
J.T. joins the gathering, smacking on shrimp cocktail being served in a martini glass.
“Mouth closed while chewing. Photos of you chugging back shrimp like a starving seagull are not wanted.”
Jenni presses her lips together to stop from snickering while Brynley and I laugh freely.
It’s nice to occasionally watch her pecking land on her perfect pupil.
“Everyone, soft smile please,” she states through her own at the same time a camera man strolls by to grab a few snap shots. The instant he’s moved his focus to someone else, she returns to speaking, “I am hoping to land us a photo opportunity with the hosts, preferably when you purchase something for an outrageous price demonstrating while you are free with your money you prefer it fall into the hands of those who need it instead of paying a crew to hand wash and dry your expensive car collection.”
“They were my father’s,” I grumble. “I’m simply trying to keep them maintained as opposed to further neglecting them.”
Evie pulls her silky strands to the side of her slender face. “Honestly, Wes, I don’t care. I don’t care if you paid them to film you having sex in the back of it as an anniversary gift.”
“Can we do that?” Brynley playfully interrupts.
“What I care about are the headlines Global Laundry has an irritating way of creating. You are here in person because they have an incredible track record for undermining your company and your personal life. You here at this event with your loving fiancée on your arm and your best friend at your side, is a definitive counter without having to counter. This is evidence their stories about your future wife’s ‘wandering eye’ and your best friend embezzling from you are just mountains of bullshit.”
“Language,” my fiancée teases, forcing me to give her a harsh squeeze.
Evie glares and points. “Where’s the rest of your dress, Brynley?”
“Hm?” Her faked innocence isn’t missed.
“The one we picked out with the stylist looked exactly like that yet was floor length. What happened?”
“Needed the room to breathe.”
“Yeah, well, now every time you do, you run the risk of sharing your ass with an entire room full of people who often pay to see one that perfect.”
Brynley doesn’t back down from her taunting tactics. “Is it just me or does this conversation feel strangely similar to the opening of a girl on girl porn?”
J.T. begins coughing profusely.
His cheeks rubricate along with mine.
Evie shakes her head in defeat. “For the love of God, could you three please remember to act like you are admired public figures and not college children fresh out the frat house.”
“Wouldn’t it technically be fraternity and sorority house, since Brynley’s a female?” Jenni quietly questions over Evie’s shoulder.
“No,” our publicist replies and jets off, attempting to flag down someone.
Brynley heavily sighs, “How is it possible to hate and love one person this much?”
“I ask myself the same thing about you,” J.T. jokes.
“She’s just doing her job,” I defend instantly.
“Ugh. It’s like having two mothers instead of one.” Brynley’s comment bulges her eyes, and she quickly shifts her remorseful expression to me. “I didn’t mean for that to-”
My lips push against hers to stop the unnecessary apology. Afterward, I state, “Why don’t we go look at purchasing something more fun? Maybe a private tour of something or a weekend getaway?”
With Evie’s instructions lingering in the back of our minds the three of us continue around the auction half of the gala for another half an hour. We make occasional small talk to strangers, exchange joking jabs, and end up bidding on bullshit we can tolerate having, but obviously don’t need.
By the time we are settled at our black and purple decorated table towards the front of the room, close to the dance floor, Brynley is starving and J.T. has been summoned away to kiss the ass of someone Evie deems important.
We’re promptly served the dreaded dish my fiancée hates and a small wedge salad that has a light covering of blue cheese dressing.
Brynley poorly hides her disappointment with a faint smile. “All the money it costs to throw this thing and they couldn’t get a decent caterer?” I chuckle at the same time she pushes me her tuna and pulls over my salad. “Swear, just the word churns my stomach now.”
“Is your stomach having problems again? Is that why you didn’t finish your champagne?”
“Just…wasn’t in the mood to drink it.”
I knock a kiss on her cheek. “Well, enjoy what you can of the salad, baby. We’ll stop for something else on the way home or I can always have Lucky meet us at the penthouse and whip something up.”
The offer receives a genuine smile followed promptly by her leaning over. Our lips lock and my hand effortlessly skirts across her exposed thigh.
Unfortunately, the intimate moment is interrupted. “Now that’s a picture-perfect moment.”
Our attention darts to a familiar face.
“Would’ve been perfect for Playboy had you given us just another minute or two,” Brynley grumbles under her breath as she lifts her fork.
“Evening, Ava,” I greet warmly. “Wasn’t expecting the Highland Herald to be here.”
“It’s not.” The woman sits down in the chair across from us. “I now work for Outside the Lines.”
“Isn’t that a trashy celebrity magazine?”
Brynley beats her to the correction. “Not trashy. That’s Global Laundry. Outside the Lines covers real topics and issues outside of just the normal bullshit of which celebrity is banging who. And unlike most tabloids they do their fact checking.”
“And we also request the stories rather than create them out of thin air,” Ava adds. “I primarily cover their posts on social functions in real time. Instagram photos here. Tweet photos and quotes there. Occasionally, I luck out and am given the chance to do an actual interview, but it isn’t often.”
With a slow nod, I drink in the transformed woman. Gone is the frazzled clothing and speech filled with desperation. Not only is her confidence apparent, it’s relieving. Being the first to conduct a two-minute interview with me gave her the leg up she needed. It’s seeing the result of a small act have real results that drives the bullshit Monica whatever implied about the merger being a failure far from my mind.
The memory of the horrid interview sends my lips moving. “Could you grab a photo of the two of us? Post it with a charming caption? Publicly acknowledge we appear to be a couple very much in love?”
“That doesn’t sound Evie approved,” Brynley mocks.
“It isn’t,” I reassure her with a smirk. “But it is Wes approved, and we both know that’s what matters most.” She begins to glare, which is when I add, “Besides, aren’t you the one who lives to break the rules?”
Excitement leaps into her expression. “Now you’re talking my language.”
Ava giggles, “You two really are adorable.”
“Do this for us, and we’ll arrange it for you to be our first official interview as an engaged couple.”
Mutual shock floods the women’s expressions.
“Y-y-you’re serious?” Ava croaks.
I nod and drop my attention to where Brynley is fiddling with her silver airplane necklace. “We have to do one eventually. Why not do it with the woman who penned my original proclamation about marrying you in the first place?”
A rush of awe and annoyance whirl around her blue eyes. “That was a dick move.”
“It worked.”
She playfully snarls, pushes against me, and is stilled when my mouth descends hers again. The sound of our photo being taken by Ava’s phone is faint. Our lips part, and our tongues collide with haste.
As much as I hate how the public scrutinizes our every move, I do love the fact Brynley treats me with the same affections regardless if we’re behind closed doors or in front of a camera. She loves me openly. Willingly. Passionately. I couldn’t have picked a more incredible woman to venture back into the light with. I just pray being in it doesn’t eventually have us both desperate for the dark.