Chapter 6
GRANT
The first thing I think to do after my wife finds out I’ve been fucking another woman is call public relations.
I know how that sounds. I also know there are hundreds of people on the other side of my office door, half of them holding phones, and Laurel just walked straight through the middle of them wearing the face she puts on when she’d rather bleed from the eyes than let a stranger know she’s hurting.
This town can turn a woman blinking too hard into a blind item before she makes it to the parking garage. I’m not handing them one.
“Get Tessa,” I tell my assistant the second she answers.
Across the office, Sloane stares at me. Her eyes are still red, though the crying stopped the minute Laurel left, which is useful because I’m fresh out of sympathy and not stupid enough to split what little I have between the two women I just detonated.
“Grant,” she says.
I hold up one finger. “Now, Erin.”
My assistant starts to ask something. I hang up.
Sloane laughs, the sound dry as paper. “Your wife just found out you’ve been sleeping with me, and you’re calling your publicist.”
“My wife is a former recording artist who walked out of my office during your launch event after you sang a song she wrote. What do you think would happen if they got footage of her face?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll ask why she looks like someone shot her dog.”
I stare at her, at a loss for words.
Is she really this dense? I almost ask myself what I saw in her, but my eyes fall to her tits, and the instant my cock hardens, I get my answer.
I stroke myself through my pants, my eyes fixed on the movement of her tongue over the seam of her lips now that she’s caught me staring at her.
I’ll need to fuck her again before I leave here. As soon as I sort out the mess Laurel is about to create, I’m bending her over this desk.
My phone rings, slicing through the haze of my arousal.
I answer on the first vibration. “Tess, kill any footage from the wings. Keep Laurel out of the final-song clips, and scrub anything of her leaving. I don’t want questions about why she skipped the interviews. If something’s already out there, you tell them she got a migraine.”
Sloane’s mouth falls open, and my mind flashes to the memory of it from just hours ago, sucking the life out of me. Shit. I can’t concentrate with her here.
“Is Laurel all right?”
I drag myself back to the matter at hand. “Uh, yes. I just told you she has a migraine.”
“You just said—”
“That’s what we’re going with.”
Tessa has worked with me for six years. She knows when a question has outlived its welcome.
“Fine. What about Sloane?”
I turn to the person in question and find Sloane sitting there in the red lingerie I nearly tore off her this afternoon, her clothes scattered around her.
The sight hits me hard. Her body carries faint reminders of my hands, her skin flushed, her mouth parted as she looks at me with that same hungry expression that got me into this mess in the first place.
She rises and walks toward me slowly, every step stripping away the last of my concentration.
My eyes flick to the door. Locked. The blinds are drawn too.
A smile pulls at my mouth as she stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her.
“What about her?”
“Press line in twelve minutes.”
Sloane bites down on her lower lip and palms my cock in a way that has my head falling back. I grab her ass with one hand, hauling her flush against my body.
“She’ll be there.”
I end the call.
“Fuck me, please. My pussy is wet and aching for you,” she moans into my ear.
I do the mental math on how much time we’ve got. A beat later, I’m cursing under my breath and reaching for my belt. “Bend over.”
All I need is five minutes.
She does as I say, bending over my desk, her thong sliding down her legs as she wiggles her ass in the air, practically begging me to give her what she wants. She fingers her clit while she waits, her moans driving me even crazier.
“Fuck me. Please!”
I lick my lips and pull my hard cock from my pants. By the time she shoves two fingers into her gaping hole, I’ve already pulled a condom from my drawer, ripped the foil open, and covered my dick.
I move toward her, my attention fixed on the way her naked body writhes against my desk.
She spreads her legs a little wider when she hears me coming, and the sight of her pink pussy nearly makes me lose what little restraint I have left.
I step in close, one hand bracing against the desk beside her as I line myself up.
The tip of my dick glides through her juices to her entrance. I groan at the heat waiting for me. She pushes her hips back, impatient, and I sink inside her with one brutal thrust.
Fuck!
My hips start moving immediately, setting a furious pace as they slap against her. She’s so wet and tight, and the sensation hits hard enough that I almost come on the first thrust.
“You’re such a greedy little slut, aren’t you?” I heave, gripping her ass. “Always begging for more. Now take every fucking inch.”
“Yes, fuck me, Grant, yes!” she whimpers, gripping the edge of the desk to keep her balance.
I thrust deeper into her, punctuating each movement. Her ass jiggles with every thrust, and her pussy pulses around me so hard I see stars.
I lean down, lacing a hand around her throat to bring her up, my breath hot against her ear.
“You feel so fucking good. I need you to come for me. Come all over my cock.”
She moans louder, and the sound sends another rush of heat through me, setting my blood on fire.
Sex with Laurel is great. It has been great for more than a decade. But after a while, even the things you love can lose their shine. It’s like a kid getting a new toy and becoming obsessed with it for three weeks, then tossing it aside the second something newer and shinier comes along.
That’s what Sloane feels like.
New. Untouched territory. A door I didn’t know I wanted to open until I fucking did.
It’s like I’ve stumbled through a gate into some fantasy I’ve been too uncomfortable to imagine, and I have no intention of closing it anytime soon.
I slap her ass when she doesn’t respond, and she yelps. “You come when I say so.”
“Yes!” she cries. “Yes, sir. I’ll come on your cock!”
I groan, thrusting into her as my balls draw tight, the pressure building with every stroke.
“That’s it. Come for me. Like the good fucking slut you are.”
Electricity shoots down my spine, my cock throbbing with every beat of my pulse. A broken scream tears from her, her entire body going taut as the sensation crashes through her, and I feel the condom tighten with the force of my release.
I press a kiss to her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat, then step back.
“Now go do your job,” I mutter, settling into my chair and disposing of the condom.
She shakes her head, chest heaving, sweat glistening over her sexy body. “I’m not doing press.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You just did.”
Her green eyes harden, but she wisely swallows back whatever she has to spit at me.
“Put your fucking clothes back on, fix your face, and go downstairs. You wanted the career. This is the career.”
She stares at me like she has discovered something about my character that sleeping with a married man failed to reveal.
“And Laurel?” she asks, a note in her tone I try not to dwell on. “What are you going to do about Laurel?”
I look at the closed door, grimacing as all the tension comes rushing back now that I’m off the high.
If not for Sloane’s inability to use her brain and shut her mouth, coming in when she knew my wife was there, all of this would’ve carried on for as long as I wanted it to.
Now I’m forced to deal with Laurel, and the thought of that headache already has my jaw tightening.
I’ve known my wife for fourteen years. I know the speed of her anger, the shape of her pride, how long she can go silent before the silence starts hurting her more than whoever she means to punish.
She retreats, thinks, writes twelve pages in one of those goddamn notebooks, and comes back when she can argue without crying.
Her anger is fierce, but it’s never lasted forever. She’ll be fine.
Laurel loves me. More than that, she knows me.
She knows who I am when the cameras are gone, when the awards are back in their cases, when there’s nothing left to impress anyone with.
She can scream at me, hate me, sleep in another room, refuse to look at me for a month. None of that changes what we are.
She’ll forgive me.
I know she will.
I just need to make her see that people make mistakes. That this was one mistake, one fucking disaster, not the end of fourteen years. I need to remind her what we have, what I’ve given her, what she’s given me, and why there isn’t anyone else in the world who could ever take my place.
“I’ll handle my wife.”