The days after the party pass without conflict. Slowly, Richard's guests begin to leave the island, after stopping in throughout the week for meals, drinks, tennis, beach visits and sailing excursions. Richard is slick with all of them, a monolith of unshakeable wealth, taste, and power.But he's not without cause.Slowly, he incorporates my advice and direction into his conversation with the rich and famous. He's been keeping a finger on the pulse of the markets, cushioning blows to his own stocks while prowling for new investments. He's born for it, with an arsenal of knowledge that leaves me stunned, and a keen instinct that continues to justify his unimaginable wealth.But understanding that caring for the public will help his image, he's gotten loads of his fancy friends to direct funding to areas in need. I think it's all about the good press — but maybe, just maybe, deep down Richard Platton does care about others. It's far too early to tell, but the benefit of his donations do
"Blake, hm?" I prompt, lounging in the parlor with a glass of whiskey.Georgina, having just crept up from the servant's quarters, freezes dead, like a teenager caught sneaking out the window. She wears a modest, floral dress in blue. Her hair is down and flowing freely, and she looks utterly beguiling in the dark.Caught, she surrenders and pads into the parlor, pouring herself a whiskey and topping mine off before sitting near — but not beside — me on the long white sofa. "It was just a date," she says softly."And how did it go?" I ask, recalling our conversation in the water that day, which was only a few weeks ago, but feels like years. "Did you have the chemistry needed?"Georgina blushes deeply but doesn't avert her eyes. She's getting used to my goading, it would seem. "Honestly? Not really."Why don't I believe her? I sip my drink, looking out the windows at the dark swell of the sea. Lightning illuminates a distant bank of thunderheads, drawing slowly, imperiously, nearer. A
His room seems even bigger than it did that drunken night. I hover in the doorway in my dress and cheap heels, trying not to tremble. He paces out of the bathroom, loosening his tie, casting it onto a chaise longue in the corner."Come," he repeats, gesturing for me to go to him.I know I'm insane. I've lost my mind. Out of control — something I know I have never been.But I go to him.He stands before me, unbuttoning his shirt, expression shadowed and controlled, eyes blazing. "Lie on the bed."My heart lurches. "Mr. Platton — ""The bed."Pulse vibrating in every vein, I do as he says, retreating to the expansive bed, set with beautiful cream-colored linen fabrics, and sit."Good." He slides the collared shirt off, revealing that glowing, impossibly flawless body. I bite my cheek hard, but with nothing else to do or say or look at, I can't help but drink him in. Ripped chest, stacked abs, a prominent V curving... "Go on."I look up at his face, startled, as he approaches me. He take
Georgina Felton is a very bad habit.I've slept with dozens of assistants. They do for a week or two, until their needs eclipse the pleasure of the chase and conquering. Then it's all about what are we, really? And what am I to you? And who is she?Georgina never asks any of these questions.Why?I take her to bed night after night, each one better than the last. She learns very quickly. I knew quickly that she was competent in her work, that in PR and philanthropy, she knew control and every rule. But in sex, she is new and demure. Every climax she has feels like a point won, new territory plundered.But she isn't always shy in the sheets. I see the subtle change in her. Soon enough, she is asking for what she wants — yes, there deeper, harder fuck me right here, Mr. Platton — and better, what I want.But still, never once does she ask what we are, or how I feel about her. Why?And why, when I see her walking or chatting with Blake Tanner of all people, am I filled with inexplicable,
He yanks my bikini bottoms to my thighs, thrusting himself inside of me before I can catch my breath.When he takes me like this, I know it's because he can think of nothing else. He'll go mad with it, his want for me. But it's just who Richard Platton is. A conqueror. A man atop an empire.And yet, and yet — the longer I stay with him, working day in and day out, sleeping in his bed, in his arms, the more I learn there is more to him than meets the eye. Not too deep beneath the surface, there's a man of real passion. A man with a soft and wounded heart, conditioned by a life of materialism and reverence. His beauty and power have placed him too far above the world, but some things bring him down.I bring him down, in a way he can't possibly like. With me, in quiet moments, he's vulnerable.He's a man I know, stupidly, I could fall in love with.This man is easier. The man who commands me, who fucks me dizzy, whose objective is to break me with my own pleasure.This I can handle. This
"It's incredible," she whispers, trailing behind me in the moonlit sand. "Like a fairytale."A small, grudging smile stirs my lips. "Always the romance with you. For someone so stubbornly dug in against love, you certainly have an obsession with it."She blushes deeply, rose coloring her cheeks even in the nighttime darkness. She wears shorts and a hoodie, her long hair loose and flowing. What is she thinking, I wonder? Does she know what's coming? Does she know I have no choice but to send her away? My resentment grows every day. The sex, though I crave it, has slowed.Because it's not enough, and the realization terrifies me. I want more than just her body and her pleasure. I want...Her.She turns her face to the water, the ghost of a smile on her lips. I could see her here forever, the mistress of my island, the benevolent, soft-edged queen of my empire.Marriage. A thought that only recently filled me with disgust and loathing, But looking at her, this strange woman who has adapt
His touch is impossibly tender.He enters me as though I'm made of glass, his rhythm easy and slow and deep. I let him pin my arms above my head, moaning as the cold tide rushes over my ankles and his, his body an inferno against mine, a protective flame in the cool night.His free hand braces against my hip, palm burning against my skin as he does as I asked — as he makes love to me. My cries fill the night, my body lit and electric, every nerve awake and alive like they've never been. He presses his mouth to my neck, his breath burning, his tongue branding.When he finally releases my hands, I slide them into his curls, meeting his dark, moonlit eyes as our pleasure begins to mount in tandem. He deepens his thrusts, every inch of him igniting every inch of me.The words leave my lips as the orgasm catches me like a slow, unstoppable riptide. "I love you,"I gasp, the desperate sound of my voice lost to the velvet roar of the Ocean, to the groan of his pleasure as he comes inside of
Lewis's familiar silhouette is framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows. His shoulders are a rigid line, hands buried in the pockets of his nice navy suit. His auburn hair, duller than Georgina's, is slicked back stylishly.Thunder sounds over the ocean, seeming to quake the island, rain lashing in violent strokes against the glass."You must have flown all night," I say, as mildly as I can manage.Lewis turns stiffly, eyes narrowed and black with rage. "You son of a bitch."Damn. I sigh, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "So. You know.""I had one fucking request.""Your sister is a grown woman," I say, any guilt I may feel eclipsed by annoyance. "I did nothing untoward.""Untoward? You're fucking your assistant!""Lewis."We both turn to find Georgina, dressed but still obviously sleep-mussed, framed in the parlor doorway. Her face is pink, full of contrition."Pack your things," Lewisorders her. "You're coming back to San Francisco."Georgina sighs softly, as though disappointed. "Lew