Chapter 5 The Brown Sugar
THE brOWN SUGAR
QUINTON
The study reeks of Cuban cigars and sherry as I step inside. Reminds me of my childhood. Some things never change. My father leans back into the lounger, smoke slipping past his lips as he hands William the cigar. Their heads snap toward me, and my father arches a brow.
"Where have you been all day?” he asks, motioning for me to join them. “It’s been utter chaos in here. The decorator is a complete moron. Remind me to never use them again.”
The weight of the Nuit du Péché invitational keys sit heavy in my pocket. I’m fully aware that Emery doesn’t like surprises, but every fiber of my being tells me she’ll love this. That she’ll be open to the idea. That she’ll thrive there. She’ll be a fucking star.
“Christmas gifts,” I say casually, pouring myself a scotch. I glance at my brother and smirk. “Unfortunately, there seems to be a universal shortage of humility. Perhaps next year, Will.”
William snorts, adjusting the diamond cufflinks on his tailor-made suit. "Simply because I choose not to hide my wealth doesn’t mean I’m not humble.”
“Your wealth?” I take a sip of my scotch. "And what is it that you do for a living again, dear brother?” I cock my head. “Last time I checked, living off your inheritance is hardly a career.”
William rolls his eyes. “Try and shame me all you want, Q, but I enjoy my life. I can’t fathom the idea of waking up at dawn every day and putting on a monkey suit.”
My father scoffs. “In order to have the honor of wearing a monkey suit, you mustn’t have a monkey brain.” William dramatically grasps his chest. “You should not be proud of your ineptitude, William. It is very unbecoming.”
William lets out an animated sigh. “Yes, yes, I’m aware that I’m a disappointment, Father. Unfortunately, not everyone was born to be a doctor or a lawyer. Some of us were born to spend money, not earn it.”
Father snorts, clicking his tongue. “I suppose that’s a skill in itself, isn’t it? Plus,” he flashes me a sly grin, “if William wasn’t a complete freeloader, who’d we ridicule during the holidays?”
William chuckles. “As long as the cash keeps flowing, I will gladly be your punching bag, Father.” He opens his arms, bashing his fist against his chest. “Go on now, hit me with your best shot!”
Father playfully winds up his arm, ready to bop William in the stomach when my phone vibrates. Reaching into my breast pocket, my eyes widen at the news notification on the screen.
It can’t be. With a flick of my thumb, I open the article titled: “Prominent Hedge Fund Manager Found Dead in East River.”
New York City—Wall Street was rocked today as the body of Vincent Wentz, a prominent NYC hedge fund manager, was discovered in the East River. The circumstances surrounding his death have left many baffled as investigators work tirelessly to uncover what led to his untimely demise.
Wentz, forty-two, was widely known for his shrewd investments, with his firm, Wentz Management, managing billions of dollars in assets across various industries.
However, in recent years, his name is more commonly tied to the controversy surrounding his involvement with the dramatic price increase of the diabetes drug, Diazenix.
Two years ago, Wentz's firm secured, then resold for a major profit, the manufacturing license for Diazenix, the patent originally owned by NovaTech Pharmaceuticals. The staggering sale was met with widespread criticism—
I put my phone away, nausea creeping up my esophagus.
“What is it, Quinton?” my father asks, frowning. “What happened?”
I swallow. “Vincent Wentz’s body was found in the East River today.”
William perks a brow. “Isn’t that the guy who…?”
“Yes,” I confirm solemnly. “It is.”
“Good,” William chirps with a shrug. “Bastard got what he deserved.” I stay silent, wishing I could turn back time and stop it from happening. “Hey…” William tilts his head, gaze emphatic. “Stop that, Q. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know he’d—”
“William is correct,” Father says, standing up. He rounds the lounger, approaching me. He places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t go back there, Quinton. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Before I can sink into a place of deep regret, the melodic voice of my sister, followed by the melting scent of Emery’s perfume, floats into the study.
“Oh, Daddy!” Sophie sings. “Where art thou?”
“In here!” Father hollers as Soph and Emery appear at the threshold. Soph grins at my father, wiggling a tiny bag in the air. He purses his lips. “I don’t want whatever is in there.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “It’s a tie, Daddy. A red one. I figured it would suit the theme quite nicely. Here.” As Sophie attempts to convince my father to wear something other than black, I slip away toward Emery.
“So?” I ask, scanning Emery’s unreadable expression. “How was it?” I glance down at the half dozen shopping bags in her hand. “That’s all?”
“There are a few garment bags upstairs,” she mutters. “I bought a dress for tomorrow.” Her weary gaze flicks up at me. “It’s silver.”
“I’m sure it’s stunning,” I say, glancing over at my sister. What did she say to her? “Are you hungry?” Emery shakes her head, deflated. “Thirsty?” Another shake. I sigh. “What’s wrong, darling?”
“Nothing,” she breathes out. “Just a little tired.” She glances down the hall. “I think I’m going to take a bath and turn in early tonight.”
I frown. “Won’t you join us for dinner?”
Emery winces. “My social battery is drained.” She musters up a weak smile. “I should probably reset for tomorrow. Sophie said the guest list is rather extensive.”
I take a step closer to her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her exhaustion is evident. But whether it’s physical or emotional, I can’t tell. The latter concerns me. It makes me weak.
“Let’s go then,” I say softly, my fingers grazing her cheek. “I’ll draw you a bath.”
Her eyes flicker with contemplative hesitation. “I can draw my own bath, Quin.”
“I know you can,” I whisper, offering her my arm. “But do you want to?”
She swallows, the muscles in her hand contracting as she battles whatever thoughts are keeping her hostage. After a beat, she tacitly slips her arm through mine. The entire villa smells like roses as we float through the halls into her suite.
“Wait here,” I say, unbuttoning my cuffs and rolling up my sleeves. “There are robes in the wardrobe. I’ll call you in when it’s ready.”
Emery nods, and I disappear into the en suite. My mind races as I scramble to create a safe haven for her, a place where, even if it’s for a moment, her demons are silenced, suffocated by a glimpse of the solace I can offer.
When the last candle is lit, I open the door and beckon her inside. “It’s ready, darling.”
Flicking flames dance across the marble surfaces of the bathroom as Emery steps into the en suite. She looks around the room, taking in the dozens of candles strategically placed on every available surface. Lavender and brown sugar mingles in the air, so fucking sweet. Just like her.
Emery swallows, her breathing shallow as she stands before me. “This is—”
“This is nothing,” I whisper, gliding my finger along the collar of her plum silk robe. Her skin shivers under my touch, goosebumps manifesting on her arms, on her chest. Her taut nipples harden, creating tempting peaks that leave my throat dry, so bloody thirsty.
“Quin…” My name is laced with arousal, with guilt, with a moral dilemma I’d love nothing more than to fuck right out of her. Forever.
"May I?" I ask, dragging my hand down her robe to the tiny little knot that has the potential to unravel me completely. Emery’s chest rises, lips parted, eyes glossy with pain as she nods slowly.
My fingers tingle with anticipation as I reach for the fabric, my touch gentle and deliberate as I undo her robe. She shimmies her shoulders, the silk sliding onto the floor, bunching at her feet, revealing her supple skin.
She stands before me, so bare yet so fucking guarded.
Her curves mesmerize me, and I want to spend decades exploring every ridge, every crevice, every goddamn dip.
I take her hand and guide her to the edge of the clawfoot tub.
Her fingers graze my chest as she steadies herself, a small tremor of excitement passing between us.
With a tender touch, I run my fingers down her arm, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Her pulse beats rapidly under my fingertips, and I know that beneath the layers of her stoic exterior, there’s a woman inside her who’s screaming to be known.
I reach for the faucet and adjust the water to the perfect temperature, letting the bathtub fill as I simply stare at her.
Her gaze remains fixed on mine, her green eyes resisting the urge to reveal the truth to me. We’re not just friends. She knows this. As the water rises, I reach for a bottle of bath foam infused with essential oils and pour a few drops into the tub.
"Step in," I murmur, my voice a husky whisper. She’s hesitant, her breath catching as she sinks into the warm water. “Good girl, darling. Now relax.”
I kneel beside the tub, my fingers trailing along the surface of the water, stirring the oil, creating ripples that dance across her skin.
She lets out a soft sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as she leans back against the edge of the tub. I reach for a soft sponge, soaking it in the fragrant water before gently resting it on her shoulder. She gasps.
“May I?” My question is so quiet that her sharp breaths are all I hear. She swallows, chest rising and falling as she nods slowly. I smile, tracing delicate patterns across her skin. “Don’t worry, little Emery. I will be so very gentle.”
I move the sponge in slow, deliberate circles, gliding over her neck, her chest, her round, beautiful breasts. She squirms under the tender pressure as I trail lower and lower and lower.
As I reach her inner thighs, I move the sponge higher, tracing the curve of her hip. Her eyes open and our gazes lock, a current of terrified longing passing between us.
We need no words. The silence says it all. Like a feather on snow, I continue to explore her body, my touch awakening every nerve, sending shivers of anticipation down her spine. She can’t hide from me.
I see her.
I set the sponge aside and reach for her hand, guiding her fingers to my lips. I press a soft kiss on each knuckle. Her eyes darken with confusion, not in regard to my actions, but something deeper, something she has yet to accept.
Emery’s chest rises and falls with each breath, and I dip her hand into the warm water, guiding it between her parted thighs.
I see her. And I know what she wants.
“Play with yourself, darling,” I rasp, my cock stirring in my trousers as she lets out a tiny gasp. “Go on now, little Emery.” I arch down, whispering in her ear. “Show me how good you can make yourself feel.”