The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense (6 page)

“Chet!” She laughs.

I capture her happiness as I torture her mouth with my lust.

I break away, pecking her mouth again.

“You're insatiable.”

I cock my head, studying her.

“Yes, and you'll allow it.”

She searches my face and gives a small sigh. “I can't pretend I don't love it.”

I press the tip of me into her cum-filled center, and she opens farther with a small moan.

“Fuck me again, Kandace.”

Slowly, she grasps her knees and folds them back beside her ears.

Her eyes tell me yes.

I fold my hands over her shoulders and shove inside her. She’s as tight as she was before, now wet with my release, slick with my cum.

My second release is a branding. Kandace might not know it, but I do.

She is mine.

Kiki

I am so fucked.

My breath escapes in a slow slide of inevitable resignation as I stare at Chet sleeping beside me.

A pie slice of early morning light falls like a heated wedge against Chet's back. His fair skin is polished alabaster I touch.

But I don't want to move. I want to own this moment and never have it end.

Every bit of me aches. My pussy feels beat up.

Perfect.

I'm sticky with what Chet's done to me, filled me with.

My heart gives a lurching thud as I try to remember if I took my birth control pill.

Yes.
Thank God.

Hell, I didn't even think
rubber
last night. It's as if I'm instantly stupid when Chet's around.

My mom had me on birth control the minute she could.

I shove the bad away and force my body to relax, piece by piece. When even my toes are loose, I exhale slowly and close my eyes, falling back into a dreamless sleep.

*

My hand touches cool sheets.

My eyelids sweep open, and my head jerks to the right. Chet's gone as though he never was there. I sit up.

I'm nude, and the sheet falls to my waist.

Sunlight streams through the slits in my curtain. A crack in the window allows early winter air to frost the pane and send a shiver of gooseflesh over my skin.

I swing my feet around, aiming for the floor, and groan.

All my parts are sore. I look down and see the remnants of fingerprints on my skin. God, I might have bruises. That should disturb me, having marks from Chet. Instead, a little flutter of excitement breaks free inside me like a broken piece of my heart. I place a palm over where my body shivers at the memory of us together.

I stand and move stiffly to the bathroom.

I step close to the mirror, inspecting every bit of my body.

My shoulder is the first place that indicates I screwed Chet three times. Teeth marks form a crescent on my skin.

My flesh isn't broken, only marred.

My fingertips trail over the marks. The skin is slightly inflamed where he branded me.

God... it's as if he wants every man in the world to know I've been with him.

I scowl.

Like peeing in a corner.

What's wrong with me? Why did I let Chet walk in my door and fuck me... like that?

I cast my eyes away from my reflection.

Because it's what I wanted.

I can't blame him for being so quick at seeing so deeply inside myself I don't have time to hide.

But I can't let it happen again. It hurt so good, but I'm not his on-demand booty call.

And there's The Bitch, Chloe.

I grip the sink, remembering my nails digging into Chet's back. My pussy gives a lustful pulse.

Great.

I turn and walk the two paces to my walk-in shower that consumes half the size of my small bathroom. I give the faucet a vicious twist to the hottest setting.

Maybe I can purge my bullshit.

I step under the spray and adjust the temperature to a non-boiling lobster setting.

I hiss when the water hits my female bits.
Goddamned.

I
can't
be with him again. He's some kind of fucking sadist. Teeth. Vertical fucking. God.

I remember him holding my arms above my head and biting my nipple.

I've never come so hard in my life.

I soap everything, wincing at the sting of where his teeth touched me.

His cock's too big for pleasure, but... he fills me.

Indecision is so foreign inside my head. It’s like a diseased seed that germinates. Why can't I operate and excise it? I lean my head against the glass block, the cold surface warming beneath my fevered flesh.

Then there's him leaving without a word.

Who fucks someone three times and leaves without a word?

Sin,
that's who
.

I step out, the water dripping from the spigot a tapping echo against the tiles. I wrap my hair in a towel and a second around my aching body.

Once I’m in my bedroom, I slide into black yoga pants and kick away the hot pink ones as if they're on fire. They hit my dirty clothes hamper and lie there, mocking me—ruined panties knotted inside the Y of the crotch.

I chuck my body towel on top of it all.

I carefully slip my arms through the straps of my bra, grab a teal T-shirt from the dresser, and tear it over my head, towel and all. There'll be hell to pay if my hair doesn't have some time drying in there. I pad out to the kitchen and start coffee.

It's definitely not a tea day.

I glance around my condo and see my entrance table is an inch out of place. I look at the wall Chet nailed me to and search for proof of his pounding.

I swallow, walking over there slowly.

Drywall flakes dust the floor to the left of the little glass table. His cufflinks glint in the low light from the window.

I trace the dents in the wall and place my hand in a fist-sized divot. It engulfs my hand, and I snatch it back.

I've endangered myself.
Chicken flesh sweeps over my body with the realization.

Chet Sinclair is a six-foot-two-plus, lean, mean, rich sadist.

And I let him fuck me.

Three times.

As though I have no brain. As though I'm just a vagina with a beating heart. He doesn't give a shit about me. I'm just the new flavor of the what? The month? Week?

He should ring every trigger that I have, yet somehow, and this is the sickest thing of all, I felt consumed by Chet.

I'm the flame, and he's the oxygen. I burn brighter with him near.

God help me,
I felt safe.

It's so many degrees of twisted and fucked up.

What am I going to do? I grab my cell, parked in its usual location on the kitchen table.

No messages.

That's not true. I have plenty of messages: Faren, Thorn, Juliette, a fucked up missive from Mom.

Damon Axton—
again
.

Just no messages from Chet.

I glance at the cufflinks and startle when the doorbell sounds.

I set my phone carefully on the table.

The bell chimes again.

I hope it's not
him
.

My heartbeats pile on top of each other like a game of Jenga.

I desperately want it to be Chet.

My feet carry me the short distance, and I open the door, peeking from behind it.

Roses sprout from a deeply cut, heavy looking crystal vase.

Eyes look over the top of the inky petals.

“Miss Kandace King,” a bored sounding dude asks.

I bob my head, clearing my throat. “Yes?”

“Sign for these please.”

He thrusts a paper and pen toward me, and I sign it as he pushes past me.

Dick.

He turns and walks back to the door.

I begin to close it, and he moves through it again.

A second vase of roses appear on the kitchen table.

I feel my eyes bug a little on his third trip.

“How—how many are there?” I ask, feeling oxygen deprived.

He rolls his eyes to me and shrugs. “Just three.”

Just three
.

“Have a nice day,” he calls over his shoulder.

I quietly shut and latch the door. My hands tingle with delayed adrenaline as I turn and face what the delivery guy set on my table.

Three identical vases sit in a loose triangle.

The roses are striking—bold.

All black.

I see as I step closer that there's a cream-colored one centered in each of the three bouquets. It looks like a spot of innocence in all that inky black. A cream flower for each time we had sex. What does all this cloak-and-dagger shit mean?

Who gave me black roses?

I know the answer before I look at the card.

Sin

Just the one word. It says who sent them.

It says what we did.

It tells what we'll do.

Unless I stop it now.

In the center of the vases lies a slim velvet box, also black.

I can't help the sweat that instantly beads on my upper lip.

I finger the top of the box slowly, though I know I'll open it. I tap the crushed velvet once with my finger.

I crack the lid, and the spring hinge pops open with a snap.

A smartphone lies nestled inside like a coiled snake. My brows knit.

What?

A smooth
ding
sounds like a chime inside crystal, and I flinch.

I drag my finger across the screen, and an image of my breast floats to the top.

A set of perfect teeth marks make a ring around the nipple.

He took a photo of my tit while I slept.

I snatch my hand away as my arousal dampens my pants.

My breath hitches in my throat.

I lower myself into the chair and weep.

Chet

I press
send,
and the lovely image of my ownership zings into the ether.

To be viewed by Kandace.

A wide grin stretches my face, and I lean back in my solid chair, the leather so new my office smells like a biker's shop.

I slide my phone inside my breast pocket.

They're matching. I have one phone just for Kandace, and she for me.

Excellent.

I have not sent any words. Well, if I don't count my nickname on the card.

A very romantic gesture by my standards. I have never sent a woman flowers. It is strange, but somehow right.

My cell buzzes, and I feel the coolness of the phone I share with Kiki.

My hand moves to the other. It vibrates in my hand with a text from Mick.

Mick
:
want to ride?

A handful of seconds slide by.

Me:
yes.

Mick:
be there soon.

I don't answer. I don't need to. Mick understands me. He has always understood. He's the bridge between so much of my past and present.

I think of Kandace—possibly my future.

Just the thought of her underneath me, the taste of her flesh deep inside my mouth brings an instant hard-on to painful attention.

Three times weren't enough. I don't know what would be.

I move through my large home to the bedroom to change. A suit will not do.

*

Mick pulls up on his hog, and I smirk. He makes fun of my Jap bike, but mine doesn't leak or spit heat, and it starts like a wet dream every time.

Speed isn't an issue, mine is faster than my needs. Which have always been many.

His red hair, barely more than brown, stands out against the dim gray bowl of the sky.

Mick's outfitted in chaps, a leather jacket, and an inky black bandana that wraps his ears.

We could be twins except for our hair.

He has me by two inches, but my speed... well, we have sparred. What I lack in sheer bulk is made up for in my reflexes and stamina.

As Kandace can attest.

Not that it was an easy dance to put off my release. She's exquisite: tight, wet... a pussy I can never tire of paired with a disposition I crave.