Unmaking Marchant

15

SURI

As he spirits me across his den and down a long, dark, hardwood hall, my mind spins. Marchant Radcliffe has a drug problem. He doesn’t remember having sex with me. He just offered to make me feel used—then begged me to go. And now he’s carrying me into his room.

The bed is big—king-sized with engraved mahogany posts and crimson bedding. I notice long, dark curtains and a vast bookshelf before he yanks the duvet back and drops me on the satiny sheets.

He grabs the hem of my dress and tugs it toward my head. “I warned you. I told you to go—but you didn’t, did you?”

I hold up my arms and feel the whoosh of the dress over my head. All I’m wearing underneath it is a yellow thong and matching lacy bra. I stare up at him as he sets his mouth in a scowl, his biceps rippling as he pulls off his own t-shirt and tosses it behind him. He leans over me and fingers a strand of my hair.

“You’re here because you want to be fucked.”

I nod, because those eyes of his are liquid brown and hot as fire, and I’m mesmerized.

He rolls me over on my side, making quick work of my bra. My breasts bounce free as he rolls me back onto my back, but he’s already moving lower, licking down my belly as he shoves my thong aside and thrusts a finger into me. He covers my pussy with his mouth and I moan.

“I’m gonna give you what you want,” he pants against my thigh.

His tongue flicks hard against my clit, and my orgasm is almost violent, making me convulse and cry out, “Marchant!”

He takes a step back and drops his plaid pajama pants. His dick springs out. It’s big and hard and standing tall—for me.

I sit up, leaning closer to him. He thinks he’s in charge here, but he’s going to have to learn to share the power. “I made that happen,” I murmur. I never felt this…sexy with Adam, and I feel elated. “Do you want to use me, Marchant?”

I press my breasts together.

“Do you like having sex with sluts?” I ask him in my most sultry voice. “Is that why you’re a mack—because you like the girls?” He’s panting now, and I grin wickedly. “I can be your whore.”

His nostrils flare, his eyes are flooded with lust, and I grin again, tweaking my nipples. “Bring that cock to me.”

He’s on the bed before I draw my next breath, pushing me down on my back and straddling my belly. “Taste it,” he says. “Swallow it.”

My heart is beating hard as he shoves himself into my mouth. He thrusts gently at first, and then a little harder—but never too hard. I swirl my tongue around him, opening wider so I can take in all of him. I’m surprised to find I really love this. I cup my palm around his balls and twirl my tongue around his head and pump my hand near the base of his cock. His hands come down harder on my shoulders.

“Yes, that’s right. Yes.”

And I’m secretly thrilled when he tightens and I can feel him on the verge—until he pulls away.

“What—”

He has me flat on my back in a millisecond. He leans over, producing a condom maybe from a nightstand drawer—but it seems like thin air. He rolls it over his thick length, spreads my legs, and looks into my eyes.

“Are you ready?”

I nod, and he impales me.

I lose the capacity to breathe as pleasure surges through me. My legs are limp. My feet tremble. My stomach quivers. And in between my legs, I’m stretched full, bursting; hot and tight and roaring. Then he starts to move, and I am screaming.

Sex has never felt like this. Like we’re one person—two halves of a whole. I rock my hips, arching off the mattress because I am desperate—aching—for more of him. Above me, leaning on sinewy arms, Marchant’s eyes are wide open. He’s watching me—watching my every groan.

“Tell me you like it,” he purrs.

“I love it.”

“Tell me that you want me deeper.” I lift my hips as he thrusts deeper in.

“I want you deeper,” I cry hoarsely.

And then he angles himself just so, so the base of him slides slickly over my aching, swollen clit, and I roll over the edge with an animal roar.

It’s not until sometime later, when the buzzing in my head is quiet and my body has stopped glowing, that I realize he must have come when I did. He’s lying on his side, the condom gone, his cock still long and mostly hard, his chest within licking range, wearing a Cheshire cat grin. He looks gorgeous enough to stop hearts.

“Oh my God.” I’m panting. I realize suddenly that I’m spread out, totally nude, and grope for a blanket—but the covers are thrown off the mattress, hanging down onto the floor. “Damnit. You’re a Beast in bed. I mean…whoa.”

“Best you’ve ever had?” His smile widens just a little.

“Yes.”

“You were pretty good yourself. Passionate. We fit together well.”

I smile. “I think so.” I’m about to confess that I’ve never done anything like this before when he leans forward, looking into my eyes with his dark ones.

“I enjoyed this so much that I’ve changed my mind. You can stay here—if you want to. You’ll stay until we’ve run this dry and then, if you’re not finished with the job, I’ll go. To one of my other houses. Does that sound like a deal?”

I nod. I don’t see where I can go wrong, and even if I can, after the sex we just had, I’m not sure it’s possible for me to turn him down. “Sounds good to me.”

“There’s only one thing you need to keep in mind, and that is: this is just sex. I’m not in the market for a relationship.” He says the word as if it’s something dangerous. “If you find yourself developing…feelings, or, in fairness, if I do…I can go.”

“Where?” The question just pops out.

“I have a cabin in Wyoming.” Before I can comment, he’s rising up off the bed, slipping into a robe I didn’t even see him grab. “Do you agree to let me know?” he asks. “If you find yourself wanting more than sex?”

I sit up, glancing around the plush rug for my own discarded clothes. “I do.”

“Then lie back down.”

He takes my shoulders gently, easing me down onto my back, and spreads my legs again.

MARCHANT

I’m weak.

So fucking weak.

I should have tossed her out the door, but I had to take her to my room. And fuck her. And find that, just like last time, she fit perfectly around my cock.

I rub my eyes and tell myself I won’t let it get personal; she already knows I don’t want this to get personal. No getting to know her, and definitely no letting her know me. I’ll give her perimeters for the job and let her at it, and when she’s got down time, I’ll fuck her senseless. The sex is as much a part of our deal as the contract she’s signing at Rachelle’s cottage right now for the design job. I remind myself that it, too, is business. A cock and a cunt. Nothing but biology.

Except that as I showed her out the door, I had a vivid memory of her eyes. They were unhappy. So was her mouth, and that’s because she was talking to a nurse in the ER. She was talking on my behalf—talking about needles.

Next I remember watching from across a hotel lobby as she passed her credit card across the desk. Which led me full-circle, since earlier today, my memory of our hotel room encounter returned.

I fucked Suri Dalton—manic as sin; out of my damn mind. I fucked her hard. And then I left her there. I’m not sure what bothers me so much about that. I’ve done the same with other women—just taken off, with no explanations and no apologies—but it does. And it’s triggering as hell to know I fucked her while I was manic. Triggering because it reminds me of Marissa.

So today, I was a little rough with her. Damn right. I wanted to drive her off, and if not—obviously not—I wanted to show her I’m not like her Adam. Not like Carlson, or any other man she might have climbed in bed with. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want her heart and soul, and I damn sure don’t need saving. Not right now, anyway. The only reason she’s still here is I could use a few good fucks to chase away the remnants of my darkness.

Half an hour later, I’m feeling steady again. I’m watching something on the Science channel, still glowing my post-fuck glow, when I get a text from Juniper: ‘Mr. Obar coming this evening. Which cottage?’

A quick call to Rachelle, another call to my grounds manager, and shit! I’m out of cottages.

I put Juniper in the rear room of a cottage Leslie is using, and work on pacing a hole in my floors. Suri Dalton will be back with her bags in a few days, and there’s nowhere for her to stay.

I call Rachelle once more, just to confirm the grim news—but I’m correct. Stacy returned from a brief vacation and is taking clients in a cottage with Alicia, while the third cottage across the yard is closed because of sewerage issues. Which means the only spare room on the whole damn premises is inside my place.

I’m not sure I can stand to be so close to her. If I’m honest with myself, I guess I just find it…fucking weird that she wants anything to do with me. I mean, yeah, I’m in pretty decent shape and I’m not too tough on the eyes. But she pulled me out of a fucking pool.

I guess objectively, that’s not too weird. Not unless you know what I know: that I drowned that night on purpose. Because without Lithium, I do that sort of thing.

I’m wondering if I can keep my shit together, wondering if I can share my space with her and keep my secrets tucked away, when I get a text. I slide the lock key on my phone, wondering for a moment if maybe she’s canceling. But it isn’t her.

The first clue it’s something strange is that it comes from an unknown number.

I open the text, wondering if I gave my number to any of the escorts my bank statement tells me I ordered after getting back from El Paso.

What greets me makes my head feel too light. Like a balloon that just might float away.

“You going to pay me, or should I take down something dearer to you than your precious whore house?”

I lie down on the couch and stare up at my ceiling. Then, instead of calling Suri Dalton, telling her not to come back, I call my financial coordinator.

I give him Hawkins’ bank account number, the one my P.I., David, dug up, and have him deposit the amount I owe, plus twenty-five percent. I’m not sure anymore what’s dear to me, but I’m not taking chances.