Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (7 page)

“He didn’t discuss this with you first?” Jerricho’s stomach churned as he stood on the doorstep of the Bailey residence and watched the fallout of Killian’s proposal.

“No.” The answer was written all over her face—a mix of shock and anger, warring with her outwardly calm demeanor. “He just … rang and said we would have company.”

In a less fucked-up world, Jerricho might have questioned what he was doing here, hired for another man’s wife.

In a less fucked-up world, he wouldn’t be hell bent on staying.

“For forty days.” More than casual company.

“Yes … he said someone would be staying for forty days.”

The pause stretched uncomfortably.

He should leave, but he didn’t move.

There were things you could do that made it hard to live with yourself; this didn’t come close. Dammit, why did he have to like her?

“Jerricho, I’m still….” She tilted her head. “What exactly does Killian want with you?”

“A better question is what do
you
want from me?”

Her brow winkled then smoothed as her eyes widened in recognition.

The door slammed in his face.

He didn’t move.

He was stubborn at holding onto hope, and she had given him a glimpse of it. There had been the briefest flash of lust after she’d opened the door to him, a breathy inhalation between her parted lips, and the softening of her shoulders. He clung to that fraction of a second of melting.

Slowly, the door re-opened and with it his chest.

Her hand clutched her blouse, pulling it up to her throat. “He hired you?” Even though she’d worked it out, disbelief still colored her voice. “For me? Why?”

She seemed to go back into her head, which was good, because he didn’t have any answers.

Nothing about Killian had screamed cuckold. Jerricho was sure, if he were being hired as a Bull for the man’s wife, it would have been a very clearly stated kink. The arrangement made no sense, but for the money, he was willing to trade-off that requirement.

She looked past him, then back at him, her gaze traveling down. “Do you have any bags? Or does he just expect us to run around naked?” She still clung to her shirt, her white knuckles betraying her glibness.

“The driver said he’d take them to my room.”

“Of course. I’m not—” She swallowed. “I’m not thinking properly.”

Scarlet finally let go of her blouse then smoothed her palms on her thighs, her spine straightening.

His muscles burned, his nerves itching to move, but he didn’t want to spook her. He was looking at the miracle he needed, and miracles were fragile things.

“It’s just, when Killian phoned to tell me we were expecting a guest—”

“You weren’t expecting me.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile.

“No. I wasn’t expecting you.” She gave a short, disbelieving laugh that ended with the threat of tears.

Fragile.

Guilt, the unease of it was so familiar, as it settled thick in the back of his throat.

It was easy to think of Killian as the bastard; he’d had to know how his wife would react, but Jerricho stood on the doorstep not backing down. The fact that it was hard to swallow; he was not the better man.

His eyes were drawn to Scarlet absently wringing her hands. His own tension groaned for release, his muscles begging to move. Slowly he raised his hand and rubbed the tightness at the back of his neck. Being this passive was uncomfortable.

“Scarlet.”

She flinched as if he’d snapped a whip.

“I’ll admit, this is an unusual situation but—”

She looked at him and then laughed.

And laughed.

Eventually, she caught her breath. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Her smile was less convincing than her laugh. So close, but she was not over the line.

“We have to get past the front door, don’t we?” For a moment, she looked as if she didn’t know how to do that.

He nodded. “We do.”

She looked up at him. “You’re in the boathouse. It’s at the end of the property.”

His chest eased another fraction, but the knot in his stomach didn’t let go. She sounded no more accepting than when she’d opened the door.

Complications.

Her. Him.

Everything.

The expansive garden was perfectly manicured. Jerricho had the same impression standing on her doorstep looking into her house. Easy living. Nothing stiff or pretentious, just elegant order.

A façade for a home that seemed to be falling apart.

Despite his inglorious beginning, that fact made him comfortable—broken homes were intimately familiar.

They walked in silence for a moment, and Jerricho pondered his next step.

How was he going to play this? Ethically, logistically, the whole arrangement raised questions—questions he didn’t have the luxury of analyzing.

Nerves churned in his gut as he stole a sideways glance at Scarlet. On the surface, she was back to being composed.

On the surface, he hadn’t allowed himself anything but being composed, but the nerves he felt weren’t just about the money.

Every time he saw her, the sense of connection felt deeper.

Dangerous thoughts.

He pushed them away and looked out at the harbor view, the beautiful calm of it, oblivious to the emotional churn.

The peninsula finger jutted out into the water, seeming to float between Sydney’s North and South shores. Moored boats dotted the blue. An exclusive enclave of society and money—a world away from the world.

“Do you have a boat?” The best way to get through this was to talk about nothing.

“No.” She shook her head. “Killian has no sea legs. He hates boats, but he likes the view, the openness.” She gestured with her hand. “He hates being boxed in.”

What Killian wants …

“And you? Do you hate boats too?”

She shrugged as she looked out at the water. “I don’t know. I’ve always been afraid of drowning.”

“Scared of the deep?”

“No.” She looked back at him. “I’m drawn to it.”

She was so earnest as she looked at him, a sad smile tugging the corner of her mouth. It cracked something open in him, something that was sharp instead of warm and welcoming. He broke the moment and looked away.

“That’s the boathouse.” Scarlet pointed as they neared a rustic-looking wooden shed next to the pier. “We converted it into a guest studio. It’s cozy but perfectly self-contained. Water taxis run right up to the jetty. It’s very—”

“Private. I like it.”

She smiled as she opened the door.

The inside of the boathouse belied its humble appearances. The timber was smooth and pale, almost Nordic. The furnishing expensive and low key, a stylish calm reflecting the flat bay waters outside its windows. It was complete luxury compared to his apartment.

“I’ll just make sure everything’s covered. I’m not sure if the housekeeper has been down here yet.” She opened the small kitchen cabinet and bar fridge. “For snacks really. If you want anything, just come up to the house.”

He spotted his bags sitting on the floor. He’d deal with them later; he was used to living out of bags. He’d left home at eighteen. His father had died later that same year. The connection between the two events had always felt inevitable. If there’d been anything to salvage with his mother, he might’ve stayed on in France after his studies. Instead, he’d landed up blowing about the desert like tumbleweed.

Now, he needed to stay.

Forty days.

One hundred thousand dollars.

Despite giving him this room, she still hadn’t explicitly said yes.

Consent was important. Consent was everything.

Consent could be coerced.
He ignored that little voice inside his head.

Scarlet moved to the bathroom. He watched her skirt stretch and move with the swing of her hips.

He was hyper aware of her, a predator stalking prey. The tension in his body still screamed to be burned off.

The pool they’d passed in the garden looked inviting, cool water for a cool head.

Restless, he undid the buttons on his shirt cuffs and started to roll-up the sleeves.

Scarlet came back out into the room. She seemed back to awkward as her gaze fell on the bed then flicked back to him, narrowing on the slow reveal of his forearm.

He stilled.

This could all still end.

Her mouth wordlessly opened as she looked back up.

Heat.

It rolled toward him. An invisible wave that burned the oxygen out of the room.

His nerves soothed.

Her tongue slid along the curve of her bottom lip as he began to unbutton the rest of his shirt.

He was not going. Not yet.

***

Scarlet’s hand was at her throat; she could feel the racing pulse fluttering against her fingertips. She dragged her eyes off Jerricho. Looking made it hard to think.

Out the window in the distance, the water lapped at the hulls of the boats. Such an innocent motion and all she could think about was the rocking and that constant slap … slap … slapping.

“Scarlet.”

The honeyed sound of his voice buzzed under her skin, causing small vibrations that threatened to shake loose her foundations.

She turned back to face him. He was all planes and shadows, from the angular lines of his face to the hard definition of his body under that opened shirt.

“What happens next is up to you.” He gestured at the bed. “Is this what you want?”

They both knew this was what she wanted, but she stood there conflicted. Anger for Killian simmered in her belly. Heat mingled with the warmth in her core, making it something else…

Her limbs still ached from the memory of Jerricho. A sore lingering that was swallowed as her body swelled and ripened, the capacity for pleasure and pain unfathomable.

The longer they stood there, the quieter her head was.

“I don’t care why you’re here.”

He looked at her as if he could tell she was lying.

“I just want to feel you inside me.”

What Killian had done tore up her voice, even as lust blew smoke into it.

He walked toward her—padded, like some magnificent animal.

“I don’t want sweet. Please don’t give me sweet.” Sweet would break her. “Just fuck me filthy.”

The smile on his lips made her knees buckle.

Then he was in front of her, lifting her and carrying her to the bed before dropping her on it.

Free falling.

Before she’d even stopped bouncing on the mattress, his fingers grabbed tight around her ankle. He yanked her to the edge of the bed, toward him. “Filthy?”

She nodded, her tongue too thick to speak.

Shoving her skirt above her waist, his rough hands yanked down her panties as she squirmed to raise her hips. A sudden desperate urgency consumed her now that he was here. Now that she’d said yes. Now that there was no more denying the desire.

Jerricho loomed over her, staring down at her writhing nakedness while all she did was pant. His gaze glanced over her like a physical touch.

She wanted more.

She wanted his fingers, his tongue, his cock—she wanted everything Jerricho Black would give her. Killian had just made her shameless.

Greedy fingers crept between her thighs, desperate to fill the need.

Jerricho’s iron grip snagged her wrist.

Steel fingers crushed delicate bones.

She yelped as he caught her other hand, bringing them together in that unbreakable hold.

The strength in him made her weak. And God, she was tired of being strong.

Leaning over her body, he pinned her hands above her head. “Maybe the last few times you weren’t paying attention.”

She breathed harder; the heat of his body singed her nose and throat.

“Maybe you’d like me to help you remember.”

She moaned, but it was nothing intelligible. She was captivated by the musk and salt of him.

“Tell me what you want, Scarlet. What you say now goes for forty days.” He nuzzled her neck, her jaw, her cheek, scrambling any thoughts she had left.

“You.” A puff of a word.

“How?” His teeth sank into her neck, jaws holding instead of biting.

Fuck he knew what he was doing. Knew he was stealing her words. Knew she couldn’t think.

Tongue replaced teeth; he flicked it against her skin.

“Rough.” The word as thick as her lust.

He laughed against her throat. “You ask so pretty. I wonder how nicely you beg.”

Her body arched as she felt his smile stretch his lips.

Jerricho moved, grabbing his bag and unzipping it. He pulled out two clamps with vicious teeth. Memories stirred, brushing her skin like a breeze coming off the water, her nipples pulling tight as the rest of her began to tingle.

“What’s the rule about your pussy, Scarlet?”

She wet her lips. “I don’t touch myself without permission.”

Jerricho laughed. “Don’t go all prim on me now, dirty girl.” His hand slid up the inside of her thigh. “Cunt. You don’t touch your cunt unless I say so. No stroking. No rubbing. No greedy little fingers fucking hungry holes.”

Christ, he made dirty things sound sexy.

“No coming without my permission.” He pinched her pussy lips together, snapped the clamp shut.

The snap of the second clamp tore a sound from her throat.

Despite what he just said, she almost came.

Her clit felt too big under the tightly pulled skin.

Pain and pleasure trapped.

She puffed out shaky breaths, trying to reel in the rampant sensations.

“That last rule is very important.” A wicked smile played on his lips. “You don’t come unless I want you to come.” A light stroke of his finger teased her tortured sex, the gentlest touch tracing around the cruel clamp bite.

She shuddered.

“Next time you think of touching yourself, I want you to remember these clamps.” He flicked one clamp, then the other.

Pain flared and she moaned, her pussy clenching in want.

“You like that, the pain.” His smile slipped from wicked into dark. The back of his fingers knocked the clamps again as he slowly dragged his hand over them, making her squirm.

Intense. Rough. Confused nerves screaming for him to stop, screaming for more of the same.