An Improper Deal(7)

The unmistakable sound of flesh slapping against flesh comes over my phone speaker. Elliot’s hips and ass flex as he drives in and out of the brunette. It’s obviously an amateur production since the camera doesn’t focus on the actual penetration, but it’s obvious what the three are doing.

My mouth dries, and I shift my weight as heat pulses through me. I wonder how much of what the brunette is doing on the screen is fake and how much is real. If she’s having half as good a time as she seems to be having, I wouldn’t mind trying it with Elliot, just once, just to see.

The realization slaps me hard, and I gasp, turning my phone off. Good god. What’s wrong with me? Fantasizing about a stranger—and a rude stranger, at that?

Besides, Elliot is the polar opposite of what I’m looking for in a man to have a relationship with. I want somebody stable, honest and ethical. What Mr. Grayson wants is immaterial. I’m not marrying a guy who’s only interested in partying and screwing around.

If he’s so hot to get married, why doesn’t Elliot grab one of the women he went to those parties with? Or one of the ones in the sex tape? I don’t get it. There’s no reason for him to find a fiancée at a strip club. By society’s standards, he’s a great catch. A lot of women would love to be his missus.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if he has some kind of deviant personality that requires intervention. Aren’t geniuses supposed to be a little bit crazy? Who knows what the guy is really like in private?

And what does that make me, watching him screw on tape and getting all hot and bothered? That’s so not me.

Maybe his problem is that he makes people around him feel abnormal needs. No matter how much I may think I want it, I know it’s going to be far less satisfying than my lowest expectations. I have yet to have sex with a guy who was better than a vibrator.

Forget Elliot.

Go do the cake job and get paid.





Chapter Four



Elliot

The lunch venue Elizabeth picks out is Éternité. I went there once when it first opened. It’s owned by Mark Pryce, Elizabeth’s cousin, and he chose the name to symbolize his undying love for his new wife.

Kind of sappy, but the décor and food are great. Contemporary sensibilities merge with the old world, the interior is airy and open with stunning silk hangings that ripple like waves in the breeze created by the ceiling fans. And the food critics rave about the menu, the praise well deserved because the food tastes even better than its mouthwatering smell.

Elizabeth is my half-sister from our dad’s first marriage. I’m the product of his second. Unlike my mother, hers is from old money and an impeccable pedigree. Mom often said you could cut Geraldine Pryce and she’d bleed blue. As a condition of the divorce, Geraldine made sure her children’s last name was changed to Pryce-Reed, since Pryce is the better and more socially significant name. She blew a gasket when Ryder decided to make his stage name Ryder Reed. I doubt she’s watched a single film of his, just out of spite.

I’m just a Reed—no hyphen—since my mother didn’t feel the need to leave her mark when she divorced to marry Dad’s half-brother. I also have a half-sister slash cousin from that marriage, but I don’t know her that well. She’s a shy little thing, and was always too busy with her figure skating career to hang out with the rest of us.

Most people can’t believe how fucked up my family tree is. They think I’m making shit up.

I wish I was.

Elizabeth’s golden hair is perfectly curled and shiny. Light makeup brings out her bright brown eyes and prominent cheekbones. People think that only the men in her family have the Pryce profile—that clean, patrician look. But Elizabeth has it too, just expressed through a feminine filter.

The dark magenta dress looks good on her, and she’s wearing a pair of fuck-me heels, which I somewhat disapprove of. She’s high profile, gorgeous and rich, thanks to the trust fund from her maternal grandmother. Exactly the type a fortune hunter will target. If I had it my way, I’d put her in a nun’s habit…although that can have its own attraction for some guys.

Some days you just can’t win.

I sit down across from her, smoothing down my shirt as I do so. “Thanks for the lunch, sis.”

“Well, it is your birthday, after all.” She smiles. “And we’re in the same town.”

I smile back. “So we are.”

We order. Since I’m in a decent mood, I settle for a glass of white, leaving the choice up to the sommelier. Elizabeth does the same.

When our server’s gone, she leans in conspiratorially and says, “Heard anything from Ryder?”