The Brit

Chapter 2

ROSE

* * *

He grunts and pants, his stomach slapping against my ass as he clumsily pounds into me. “Yes, Perry. Oh God, Perry. Oh, please, Perry. Harder. Yes, harder, Perry.” I can hear myself. I sound convincing, and I must look like I’m in ecstasy. But I feel nothing. I don’t even feel filthy anymore. I close my eyes and wish myself away from the luxury of this hotel room and away from this moment. A moment I have no control of, being a woman I hate. But then, in my darkness, I find myself in the only other place I belong. With him. The conflict within twists my mind daily, because if I’m not being a pawn—albeit being lavished with gifts, living in luxury, being treated like a goddess—I’m a prisoner. A puppet. A punching bag. A slave to anything he so desires. Whether in hell or sent to some delusion of heaven, it’s all out of my control, and that makes me hate each cruel element of my life. Except those stolen moments. The moments I’m not being used as a weapon and he’s distracted with business. The moments I can hide away and immerse myself in the luxury of alone time. When I can binge-watch any old thing on Netflix and pretend I’m not me and I’m not trapped in this godforsaken world. When I can soak in the tub, laze around in my robe, eat junk food. When I can let my barrier down and switch off my brain. When I can be the me I like, if only temporarily. Those moments are rare and precious. They are what I live for, along with the memories I keep locked deeply away, safe from the twisted part of my mind. Safe from contamination. But even those tranquil moments snatched in time are tarnished by the knowledge that they are fleeting. Respite. Nothing more than a tease of what could be if I wasn’t me. But I am me. Twisted, damaged, and trapped. Beyond hope and help.

I stare blankly at the headboard, the rhythmic pounds of him against my ass zoning me out.

I know the moment he comes. He sounds like a cat being strangled, and I take it as my cue to join him, finding my voice and screaming. And then his body splatters across my back, flattening me to the mattress. “You’re a goddess,” he whispers in my ear, nuzzling into my neck like a child seeking comfort. I mask my shudder as I laugh lightly, squirming to get him off me.

“I need the ladies’,” I tell him, and he rolls off and flops onto the bed, still puffing, panting, and sweating.

I get up and wander to the attached bathroom in the hotel room, pushing the door closed behind me and flipping the shower on. I don’t look at my naked form in the mirror, unable to face the woman I am.

“I feel de-stressed already,” he calls, following his declaration with a small chuckle. How easily pleased he is. “You’re doing wonders for my drive.”

I’m giving him what his prim, perfect, wholesome wife can’t. Or won’t.

“I was meant to find you in that bar, Rose.”

Yes, he was meant to find me. But fate played no part. “And I’m so happy you did.” I step under the spray and reach forward, pressing my finger to the glass and dragging it across the slippery surface, breaking the solid film of mist, cutting up the perfection of it. Now it’s just like me. Ruined.

“I hope you know how special you are to me, Rose.” The sound of his muffled voice from the bedroom brings an ironic smile to my face.

I’m special to him. He wants me to feel special too. So I’ll keep fucking him. But I’m not here to feel special. I’m here as bait. I’m here to seduce him while his wife is off around the world doing charity work to strengthen her husband’s campaign to become the mayor of Miami. She’s clean-cut. Two-piece suits. Wholesome. A smile that never wavers.

She is everything.

I am nothing.

I clean myself and grab a towel to dry off, hearing Perry Adams talking in the suite. A phone call? I creep toward the door, peeking out, and listen.

“I need to get him that marina or I’m a dead man, and my campaign is nothing without his blood money rolling it. I hate to say it, but I’m broke. I need him.” His ass drops to the bed, his hand wiping over his sweaty forehead. By the look of him, I’m guessing he’s not feeling de-stressed anymore. “Being in The Brit’s pocket isn’t ideal, but if he says you’re doing business with him, you’re doing business with him. That’s how it is. I have another six days to get him Byron’s Reach Marina or give him back fifteen million. The money’s been spent. I don’t care what it takes, get the Jepsons on a plane back to the States so they can sign the contracts.” He hangs up, and I quietly push the door closed, biting my bottom lip. The Brit? The marina? Perry’s campaign is being bankrolled by Danny Black? I’ve never seen the man. Wouldn’t want to either. He’s notorious. Deadly. Kills for sport. The son of Carlo Black is, apparently, heading the mafia family while his father recovers from an unknown illness. Nothing much surprises me these days, but Perry Adams, the respected, likable lawyer, in bed with a man like Danny Black?