His eyes are rapt as they move down my body. I stand there as he slowly approaches and then slides his hands along the length of my sides until he finds himself on his knees in front of me. He runs his hands up my legs through the opening of the slit in my dress, and as soon as his fingers hit my panties, I turn it off.
The steel cage wraps around my heart and before my stomach can turn, I shut down.
Numb.
Vacant.
He drags my panties down my legs and I step out of them before I feel the warmth of his tongue when he slides it along the seam of my pu**y, but I am able to keep myself from entertaining the slightest impulse of intimacy. I’ve been sleeping with my husband for years, but I refuse to allow the pleasure I lead him to believe I’m experiencing.
Why?
I’ll tell you why.
Because I hate him.
He thinks, in this moment, that we’re making love. His c**k fills me slowly as I lie beneath him. Arms laced around his neck. Legs spread open wide, inviting him in deeper as he makes a meal out of my tits. He believes everything I want him to. He always has. But this is merely a game for me. A game he foolishly has fallen into. He never questions my love for him, and now my body writhes underneath his and moans in mock pleasure as he comes hard, jerking his hips into me, telling me how much he loves me, and I give his words right back.
“God, Bennett, I love you so much,” I pant.
His head is nestled in the yoke of my neck as he tries to calm his breathing, and when he lifts up, I run my fingers through his hair and over his damp scalp as he looks into my eyes.
“You’re so stunning like this.”
“Like what?” I question softly.
“Sated.”
Idiot.
Chapter two
ROLLING OVER IN bed, I find myself alone. Nothing new. Bennett’s aftershave still lingers in the air, and when I freshen up and walk out into the open-concept living room, I see him sitting at the bar in the kitchen. He reads a file while drinking his coffee. Tying the sash of my silk robe around my waist, I approach him from behind, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, giving him a kiss.
“Good morning,” he says with a grin, happy to see me.
“You’re up early,” I respond as I note his three-piece suit.
Setting the file down, he turns to pull me in between his legs. “I’m leaving for Dubai. Did you forget?”
“Of course not. But you don’t leave for another few hours,” I tell him and then drop my head, adding in mock sadness, “I wish you would stay.”
Kissing my lips, he draws away and strokes his fingers through my long hair, combing it back. “It’s only for a few days. Plus, you’ll be busy.”
“Busy?”
“I need you to start getting everything lined up for the party. It’s just over a month away and announcements need to go out soon. Richard isn’t going with me, so he’ll be around this week if you need anything.”
Richard is Jacqueline’s husband and Bennett’s business partner. He has always rubbed me the wrong way, but I feign my liking for him merely for Bennett.
He wears an ascot for Chrissakes.
“Okay. Well, I’ll do some work from here today and then call the hotel to set up a meeting.”
As I walk over to fix a cup of hot tea, Bennett gets back to his work before he has to catch his flight. After a while, Baldwin takes his luggage down to the car while we say our goodbyes.
“I’m gonna miss you,” I murmur, to which he responds, “Honey, you always say that.”
Rubbing up against him, I cover his mouth with mine. “Because I always do.”
He smiles.
I smile.
“Call me as soon as you land so that I know you’re okay.”
“I love you.”
I follow him to the elevator and give him one last kiss before he leaves and then make my way to the study to work on the laptop. Getting myself comfortable, I open the lid and type Declan McKinnon into the search engine. Link after link floods the screen. I click on one and read:
Declan Alexander McKinnon
Born in Edinburgh, Scotland
Age: 31
Son of Calum McKinnon and the late Lillian McKinnon
MBA studies at The University of St. Andrews in Scotland
I continue to read about his various academic and business accomplishments and recognitions. I’ve met his father on several occasions and know that the family name is a well-respected one, so I can imagine the pressure on him to keep it as such.
Clicking over to the image search, hundreds of pictures of him grace the screen with a variety of women attached to his arm. Clearly he enjoys his bachelor status, but it seems he is new to the Chicago area.
Without pondering on him too much, I close the internet down and open Bennett’s address book to begin working. Because of his notoriety, our extravagant annual event calls to the cravings of egos. For that alone, security and privacy are a necessity.
In lieu of my usual distaste for my husband, I must give him credit for being a self-made man. For building this multi-billion dollar company from the ground up and making the Vanderwal name something to be admired. A name that adorns me when my former was tarnished.
Once I have a rough guest list, I email it to Bennett for his lookover. Walking out of the study, Clara catches my eye. She’s busy unloading groceries in the kitchen when I say, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Mrs. Vanderwal, hi,” she says sweetly. “Your husband insisted that I come in today since he’s going away on business. Is he still here?”