Billionaire Novelist 4 : Every Romance is a Revenge Fantasy(10)

Smith closed his eyes and quickened his hands until he found release. The need dissipated, but the fantasy remained all through the evening.

He was lonely, on his own at the cabin, nothing but nature outside. The sun was setting, the sky pink. He walked out to the veranda with a glass of ice, a full bottle of scotch, and the cordless phone. When he was no longer in control of himself, he phoned Brynn.

She was surprisingly receptive. She was so friendly and warm, in fact, he wondered if he hadn't gotten a wrong number.

Brynn was living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in an area she assured Smith was "up and coming."

They hadn't seen each other in fourteen years, and the moment she opened the door of her brownstone, he wondered if he'd come to the wrong house. The tight red curls he remembered were now bleached out to a strawberry blond, and straightened-as if Brynn were trying out for a Nicole Kidman look-alike position.

"Davey! You grew into your face." She stood blocking the doorway, legs spread apart like a superhero. She wore cutoff jeans with tattered edges, with platform espadrilles, and those pale legs seemed to go on forever. The day was hot, and the place seemed to lack air conditioning, as she wore a plaid men's shirt tied under her br**sts, and her smooth abdomen glistened with sweat.

"Are you going to invite me in?"

"I shouldn't. The place is a disaster, and my husband isn't home."




 

 

"Do you two still have that arrangement?"

She crossed her arms. "Is that all you're interested in? Can't you get that closer to home, without coming over to Brooklyn?"

He looked down to make sure his feet were still on the ground. Brynn always did make him feel like there was a localized earthquake, wherever he was standing. The woman was a force of nature. Those legs. He was already hardening for her, and she likely knew it.

"Let me take you out for dinner," he said, gesturing toward the town car, parked up the street with his new driver, Claude, at the wheel.

"Fancy car. With a driver?" She made a low whistle, as sarcastic as a whistle could be.

"He's a charming French Canadian fellow. Come with me, we'll go anywhere you like, as long as there's air conditioning." He peeked around the side of her, into the townhouse. He saw tasteful sofas and rugs, but no children's toys. "Unless you can't leave the house …  for some reason?"

"You mean kids?" Her face took on a stormy expression. "What do you think?"

He took a step back, stumbling to regain his footing as he found nothing but air, then the lower step. "Forget it," he said, backing down another step. "I can see that coming here was a mistake."

She flipped her strawberry hair back, and for an instant, he saw the beautiful riding instructor he'd fallen in love with, bouncing on the back of a feisty horse.

"Oh, David," she said, smiling with the sweetness of a Disney villain. "Have you gotten that old? Do you give up so easily now?"

With that, he strode up the steps and grabbed her ass in his hands as he sought her lips with his. She leaned into his body and parted her lips, thrusting her tongue into his mouth ferociously. He ground against her hips, hardening for her, the erection dulling his thoughts.

She hopped up on him as easily as she'd hopped on a cantering horse, wrapping her bare legs around his waist. He walked into the house with her and kicked the door shut behind them.

He tore at her clothes as she tore at his, and he set her on the first thing he found suitable-the ample padded back of a sofa. He licked and sucked at her salty skin as she urged him to take her.

"Fuck me already," she panted, spreading her legs.

He hesitated long enough to kick off his shoes, then he plunged into her, the sweet warmth of her cunt enveloping him the way he'd hoped it would. She dug her fingernails into his back as he tried to bury himself in her.

When she cried out in pleasure, he felt his own reaction begin. He quickly pulled out and pressed the tip of his c**k against her ass. The head slid in easily, and as she gasped in surprise and tightened around him, he came so suddenly he thought he might go blind. 

They snuck around for a few months, both in denial there was anything going on, until finally Brynn asked her husband, Marcus, for a divorce.

She moved in with Smith, in a new apartment, and slept by his side every night he was in town. She looked like an angel in her sleep, but in the mornings, she liked to wake him up by climbing on top and smothering him with her br**sts.

Her favorite aphrodisiac was shopping, and he loved giving it to her. How he found time to revise his novel and send it to his literary agent was practically a miracle. It seemed like every day they were buying things for the penthouse, or to fill her closet. The first time he took her to Chanel, she thanked him by blowing him in the back of the car on the way home. With her beautiful head in his lap, great music on the stereo, and sun streaming in the tinted windows, he came in her mouth, and he felt like a god.