Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“And what would you have said to me, if I had confronted you?”
I wince. “Okay, so maybe it was good that you didn’t. I mean, not that I would have lied to you but—”
“You would have lied to me.”
“I—I wouldn't have lost you over it. It would have just forced the issue to the forefront sooner.”
"I didn't bring it up because I didn’t want to lose you." He reaches up and gently brushes a bit of hair away from my cheek. His brow furrows as he pulls me down to his chest, and his need is hard against me. "I was worried," he whispers, "that you might—"
"Never be worried.”
He surges up, crushing his lips against mine as he grips my waist. My hips move underneath his urging, rocking me back and forth against the stiff ridge of his cock. My panties stick to me, and the extra friction is both maddening and delicious, all at once.
I break from his kiss long enough to speak. "You have me forever. You always have."
He rolls us over and pushes his hand roughly between our bodies. He works my panties to the side, and I claw at the top of his underwear. Gasping, I grip him and press the head of him against my core, and he thrusts his hips and pushes inside me. Oh my God. It’s a first, Brant giving me himself bare. Even though I've had it with Lee, it's different. Everything has always been different between them. How they kiss, the places they touch, the way they fuck. Brant shoves deeper inside and I open my legs and cry out his name as he thrusts his possession in with strokes that reprint his name on my soul.
Without the lies, without the secrets ... it’s better than it’s ever been. I break beneath his body and sign away the last bit of my heart to this man. This complicated, layered, brilliant man. The owner of my soul. Forever.
Chapter 78
On Wednesday Dr. Terra flew in from Dallas. We had spoken to the Dissociate Identity Disorder specialist yesterday and stressed the need for an immediate meeting. Our urgency had been understood, along with the awareness of who Brant was and how deep our pockets were. The man cleared his schedule for the entire week and, if I had to guess, DID billionaires are few and far between.
At the sight of the BSX jet touching down on the private airstrip, Brant rises to his feet and approaches the large window of the lobby. He’s been anxious all morning—we both have been—and I feel a wave of relief at the sight of the Citation jet, slowly rolling down the tarmac. Brant’s fingers are drilling against the side of his slacks and I approach him slowly, watching as he stares out the window, his attention fixed on the plane.
“They made good time.” I loop my arm around his and hug it, hoping to ground him a little. “Got here before the storm.”
“I expected them to. The trajectory of the storm is south-southwest.” He points to the dark cloud that is blackening the horizon. “And that’s why they landed this direction, so they’d be facing into the wind. Last night I read the FAA’s pilot’s handbook of aeronautical knowledge. I’ve been thinking about getting my pilot’s license. What do you think?” He turns to face me, his face intent as he waited for my opinion.
Last night, I saw the light on in the library, but assumed he was reading some of the psychology journals and textbooks there. They were all ones I’d already read, ones I'd purchased in the last couple of years. There weren’t any clear answers in there, but I had still expected that he would dive into them. Instead, he’d been reading about aerodynamic theory and thinking about flying planes. I smile at the absurdity of it. “I think you’d make a great pilot.”
“You do?” He seems unsure and he's different off the medication. I’m still learning his cues, his reactions to things. He talks more and smiles easily—even on a week like this one when there’s not much to smile about.
I loop my hand through his and we wait by the concierge desk, watching as a short Nigerian man descends from the plane and strides down the path toward the FBO. He spots us as soon as he steps through the revolving glass door and onto the polished white marble of the lobby. I smooth down the front of my plum-colored silk blouse as he approaches.
"Good afternoon." He beams, and his teeth are impossibly white and straight. "Brant Sharp, I presume?"
"Yes. This is my fiancée, Layana Fairmont."
His palm is cool and small, his grip firm. I smile and meet his eyes. "Pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He nods quickly, rubbing his hands together and watching as our pilot appears with his leather duffel. "Of course, of course. I’m anxious to get to know you both."