Tamed (The Elliott Brothers #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Lincoln

I rubbed my temples, feeling like a thousand hammers were pounding against my skull. The day had been a disaster, and it all began with her. She knew exactly what she was doing, showing up in that tight black Lycra, her toned stomach on display—a hint of abs that spoke of her athleticism without being overpowering. The sight of her, that ivory skin I could only imagine tracing with my fingers, ignited something primal in me. The truth was, I wanted her.

I’d noticed her at the gym before, but today was different. Today, she grabbed my attention and wouldn’t let go. Why now? I didn’t have an answer, no matter how hard I tried to find one. The moment I walked in and saw her on my way to the locker room, she hijacked my thoughts, weaving herself into my day, tangling up my routine, and making me painfully aware of the twitch in my pants, despite my expensive Vera Lucci graphite suit.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off her during my workout. I was on the elliptical behind her, my gaze locked on that Lycra-clad ass as I pushed myself harder, faster. My legs moved so quickly that my blue sneakers became a blur beneath me, sweat dripping from my face onto the gray rubber mat. But when I finally looked up, there she was, tying the sneaker of some dumpy guy in a saggy gray sweatsuit. Lucky bastard.

This wasn’t like me. I was always the one in control, the hunter, not the prey. The bedroom was my domain, where I ruled with charm and skill. I had a strict rule—no second rounds, no matter how good the first time was. Women tried, but I always sent them away, some with tears, others with curses spilling from their lips.

I didn’t have time for relationships. My true love was money, and the more I had, the better I felt. Real estate put more cash in my pocket than working for my father’s construction company ever could, which is why I left that mess to Talon, my younger brother.

A cold shower after my workout took care of the immediate issue, though the desire still simmered beneath the surface. I dressed quickly, needing to get to my next appointment. On my way out, I dodged a naked, dripping man with a gut as wide as he was tall, and I grimaced at his lack of shame. I had to get out of that locker room before the steam turned my carefully combed dirty blond hair into a limp mess.

Outside, I flagged down a cab, beating out some guy with a guitar slung over his back. As we crossed from the Upper East Side to Midtown, I tore into an oatmeal and peanut butter protein bar—my first meal of the day. Each bite eased the pounding in my head, and I plotted out the rest of my schedule. I only had one more showing, and it was with the worst client of the bunch. I could only hope the Fifth Avenue property would finally meet her ridiculous standards.

The cab pulled up to the Grayson building, and I tossed a twenty over the seat before sliding out into the mild April air. Sweat misted on my face during the short walk to the cool, white marble lobby. The concierge, a kid with a fresh crewcut who’d seen me more times than I could count, nodded as I jammed my finger on the elevator button.

In the penthouse, I did a quick sweep of the four-bedroom apartment. Nothing turned buyers off more than clutter. Just as the throbbing in my head began to ease, Mrs. Ducane strutted into the room, her tight black dress clinging to a body that, frankly, was better suited to someone half her age. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her perfume—so strong it made my eyes water—hit me like a brick wall. But I pushed through it. I was in sales mode now.

"Mr. Elliot," she said, her voice a low purr as she placed her hand on my arm, her red nails digging in just enough to make me wince. I fought the urge to pull away, but her touch had the same effect every time—an involuntary shudder that I had to suppress.

"Yes, ma’am," I replied, allowing a hint of a smile to play at the corners of my mouth. I knew she hated being called that, had told me so on numerous occasions. But watching her frown deepen, and those inevitable wrinkles carve into her forehead, was a small satisfaction.

She glared at me, her expression hardening. "You know I’ve asked you not to call me that."

"Of course," I said, my voice smooth. "Shall we start the tour?"

She didn’t answer, but her grip on my arm tightened, those crimson claws biting into my skin. I led her from the gray marble foyer into the kitchen, the stainless steel and white marble gleaming under the lights. As soon as we entered, she released me, moving toward the double-door refrigerator.

She yanked it open, peering inside, only to find it completely empty. Not even a bottle of water to suggest life had ever existed here. I tapped my manicured nails on the massive white island, watching as she methodically opened several of the glass-fronted cabinets, her eyes narrowing with each inspection.

"When was this last renovated?" she demanded, her voice sharp as she glanced over her shoulder at me.

"A year ago," I replied, my tone even. "The owners don’t live here full time."

"Does that mean they’re motivated?" she asked, her attention returning to the cabinets, her fingers tracing the edges of the shelves.

I bit my bottom lip, forcing myself to remain calm. "It means they don’t need the money," I said, my voice steady despite the irritation gnawing at me.

She slammed the cabinet door shut, the glass rattling loudly in the silence. Moving to the stove, she wiped her finger across the stainless steel surface, lifting it to inspect for any trace of residue. Her wrinkled finger hovered in the light as she scrutinized it, her lips pressing together in a thin line.

"Show me the patio," she ordered, her voice clipped.

"Certainly," I said, stepping around the counter to lead her to the oversized French doors at the far end of the kitchen. The late afternoon sun hit us as we stepped outside, the brightness making me squint. I resisted the urge to slip on my sunglasses—she’d reprimanded me the last time for wearing them in her presence, questioning my manners. I wasn’t about to give her another reason to criticize.

I watched her as she walked the perimeter of the patio, her black heels clicking against the light travertine tiles. She paused, crouching slightly to inspect a particular tile, then continued her slow circuit. Sweat trickled down my neck, and I silently willed her to hurry up, the heat making the air thick and oppressive.

"This tile is cracked," she said, her voice taking on a grating tone as she straightened up. "When was the patio last renovated?"

"Two years ago," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "The tiles can be replaced."

Her lips pursed tightly as she turned to face me. "By the owners? The price of this place is already steep enough without having to deal with repairs."

"We can negotiate that into the price," I assured her, my voice smooth. "Are there any other concerns?"

She hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I like to sunbathe in the nude," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

I barely managed to keep my expression neutral, the thought of her wrinkled body exposed under the sun nearly turning my stomach. "And?"

"I don’t want to be the center of attention," she continued, her voice hard.

"You won’t be," I replied calmly. "This is the tallest building in the area. No one can see you from here."

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

"Positive," I said, my patience wearing thin. I resisted the urge to suggest she test it out while I watched from the building next door.

She looked around the patio once more, then nodded. "I like this place, but fourteen million is a bit steep."

"There have been several inquiries about this apartment," I said, trying to push her just enough.

"Is that supposed to make me jump?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not at all," I replied smoothly. "I just want you to know where you stand."

She paused, considering. "I’ll need to discuss it with my brother."

"Will he be living here with you?" I asked, more out of formality than genuine interest.

"Of course not!" Mrs. Ducane snapped, narrowing her eyes at me as if I’d insulted her intelligence. "He’s a financial advisor. I don’t plan to purchase anything that won’t appreciate in the future."

"The housing market in Manhattan is solid," I replied, keeping my voice measured.

"But it might not be in six months," she shot back, her tone sharp.

I bit back the urge to ask if her brother had a crystal ball. How could he possibly know what the market would do in six months? "Possibly," I conceded, "but I doubt it will go down anytime soon." I gave her a reassuring smile, hoping to strike a balance between caution and confidence.

She eyed me for a moment, then asked, "Can you show me the upstairs master?"

Before I could respond, her red-tipped nails clamped down on my arm again. I led her up the winding, ornately carved stairway, feeling those claws dig into my skin with every step. Once inside the master bedroom, she released me and made a beeline for the walk-in closet, which was large enough to be a small bedroom on its own. I leaned against the white wall, my gaze drifting out the window to the few clouds dotting the sky. Anywhere but here would have been preferable.

"Mr. Elliot!" Mrs. Ducane’s voice snapped me back to reality.

I turned to find her standing in the closet doorway, watching me with a raised brow. "When do you need to know if I want to buy?" she asked, her tone suddenly businesslike.

I almost smiled but kept my face neutral. "The sooner, the better."

"You’ll have my answer by this evening," she replied curtly. "Now, if you could escort me to the lobby."

I let out a soft sigh. Escorting her meant I’d have to go all the way downstairs and then come back up to lock the doors. It was an inconvenience but getting Mrs. Ducane out of my hair was worth the extra effort. I led her down to the lobby and helped her into the back of her waiting black limo, making sure to flash her my most charming smile as I closed the door. "I’ll be in touch," she said, and I thanked her, watching as the limo pulled away.

As I rode the elevator back upstairs, my mind began to drift away from real estate and back to the woman in Lycra at the gym. This time, I allowed myself to indulge in the memory. The way her ass had bounced with every step on the elliptical—it was more than enough to make me harden like steel.

By the time I reached the penthouse, I was so uncomfortable that I couldn’t focus. I did something I shouldn’t have—I headed to the nearest bathroom, locking the door behind me. Leaning against the cold tiles, I stroked myself, letting the tension from the day and the thoughts of her body take over. It didn’t take long before I reached release, a brief moment of satisfaction in an otherwise frustrating day.

When I was done, I washed up quickly, feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt. I locked up the penthouse, turned off all the lights, and headed home, the image of her Lycra-clad figure still lingering in the back of my mind.

"Christ, Talon, would you drop this girl already?" I asked, exasperation seeping into my voice as I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples.

"I can’t," came his predictable reply, heavy with that same stubbornness I’d heard a thousand times before.

My younger brother had once again called to whine about Storm, the woman he’d been hopelessly in love with for years. The woman who wouldn’t even give him the time of day.

"Why the fuck not?" I pressed. "You’re handsome, rich. I’m sure plenty of women want to date you."

"I’m only interested in her," he said, his voice resolute.

"Play the field," I suggested, trying to keep my frustration in check. "You’ll forget her."

"One day, you’ll understand," he replied, the tone of his voice making it clear he wasn’t budging.

I sighed and reached for my glass. "Have a drink with me."

"I have work to do," Talon responded, the stubbornness back in full force.

"One fucking drink," I insisted, trying to coax him out of his funk.

"I have a company to help Dad run," he said, like it was an excuse.

"It’s after five. Time to knock off for the day."

"You don’t have any clients this evening?" Talon asked, knowing my schedule as well as I did. Sometimes I negotiated contracts back and forth with other agents as late as midnight.

"I’m taking a break," I replied, swirling the ice in my glass. "I have an old bird on the line for at least thirteen million. You know what my commission is on that?"

"A lot," he answered dryly.

"Enough to not have to work for the rest of the year," I said with a grin, taking a sip of scotch.

Talon snorted into the phone. "Like that would happen. You love money too much."

"Damn right. I have two other deals I’m working on," I said, leaning back and savoring the burn of the scotch.

"It’s not all about money," Talon said, his voice taking on that irritatingly wise tone.

"No, you’re right, it’s not," I conceded, though I didn’t really mean it. "But it helps."

"I have to go. Got a call on the other line," he said, cutting our conversation short.

"Have fun, little brother," I said, already moving on from our talk.

We hung up, and I slipped through the slider from my terrace to refill my scotch glass with more ice. I was congratulating myself on a job well done. I expected Mrs. Ducane to call within the next few hours. But no sooner had I placed the scotch bottle back in the cabinet than my phone rang. I smiled as I glanced at the screen.

"Mrs. Ducane, pleasure to hear from you," I said, my voice smooth and professional.

"Darling, I want to put an offer on the Midtown property. Thirteen and a half million," she said, her tone sharp and to the point.

"Are you sure?" I asked, though I already knew her answer.

"Quite, and not a penny more."

"Suppose the owners want to negotiate?" I probed, knowing she wasn’t the type to back down easily.

"I’m not open to negotiation. They can take it or leave it," she snapped.

"Let me call the agent, and I’ll get back to you," I said, keeping my voice calm despite the tension building in my chest.

After hanging up, I took a long slug of scotch, letting the burn soothe my nerves. The property had recently been discounted by two hundred grand. I wasn’t sure the owners would negotiate down another half million, but it was worth a try. I dialed the agent, Erika Bramwell of Farley Associates. The phone rang several times before going to voicemail. I ground my teeth, pissed off. I left a curt message, jammed my finger on the end call button, and took another gulp of my scotch.

The glass left a ring of condensation on the counter, and I ran the pad of my finger around it, smearing the water on the dark granite. My frustrations were mounting, and the headache I thought I’d shaken earlier in the day was back with a vengeance.

It annoyed me to no end when agents didn’t respond immediately to potential offers. I wanted this sale so badly I could taste it. I was already planning a vacation at the end of summer with my earnings. Real estate was usually quiet during the warmer months, but not lately. I was drowning in clients, but Mrs. Ducane was my big fish right now.

I grabbed my scotch and went back out to the terrace, plopping onto a blue chaise and stretching out my legs. Drops of condensation dripped onto my black t-shirt as I sipped from my glass, and I absently blotted at them with my hand.

Things in my life were just the way I wanted them, aside from the current deal I needed to close. I had plenty of money, a fabulous apartment, and a bevy of women to choose from to share my bed. Life was good. All I needed was for Erika to get back to me with a yes.

I placed my glass on my forehead, hoping the cold would help quell the pounding behind my eyes. The headache had settled in, making every sound feel like a hammer striking my skull. Just as I started to feel a bit better, my phone rang. I fumbled with it, managing to answer on the third ring.

“Lincoln Elliott,” I answered, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.

“You called? This is Erika Bramwell.” Her voice was sexy and sultry, but there was an edge to it that immediately rubbed me the wrong way.

“I’m inquiring about the Fifth Avenue property in the Grayson Building,” I said, keeping my tone businesslike.

“You have an offer?” she asked, her voice almost mocking.

I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “Thirteen and a half.” The moment the words left my mouth, I had to pull the phone away from my ear as Erika burst into laughter.

“You’re joking,” she said between giggles.

I frowned, annoyed at how unprofessional she was being. “I’m making an offer, so why would I be joking? My client doesn’t want to negotiate.”

“You are aware that property was just discounted?” she countered, her tone dripping with condescension.

“I am, but I can only make the offer based on what my client wants,” I replied, struggling to keep my irritation in check.

A loud crunching sound suddenly filled the receiver, forcing me to pull the phone away from my ear again. It felt like I was being punked. My headache throbbed harder, the beating in my head intensifying.

“I’ll present the figure,” Erika finally said, her voice taking on a snobbish tone. “But I highly doubt my clients will be interested, especially with no negotiation.”

“Please give me their lowest. Maybe I can talk my client into negotiating,” I suggested, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism. The crunching continued, pushing my patience to the limit. “Do you mind?” I asked, my voice tight with annoyance.

“Mind what?” she responded, feigning innocence.

“Don’t you think it’s unprofessional to eat while we’re discussing a property?” I asked, the frustration evident in my tone.

“Not at all,” she said casually. “I didn’t eat all day, and this is my downtime.”

“An early day?” I forced a smile, though I was anything but amused.

“Hardly. I have a showing at 7,” she replied, dismissively.

“Does that mean I’ll have to wait to present back to my client?” I asked, trying to gauge how long this would drag on.

Erika snorted. “I doubt they’ll even entertain anything for you to get back to your client with. Your offer is a lowball.”

“I agree, but it’s not my money. Are we done here?” I asked, tired of her attitude.

“I’ll call my clients and get back to you,” she said curtly.

“Fine. Thank you,” I replied, ready to end the conversation.

One last colossal crunch echoed through the phone before Erika hung up without so much as a goodbye. What a bitch, I seethed internally, finishing off what was left in my glass before setting it down next to me. The sun was now glaring directly into my eyes, so I closed them, hoping to block out the world for a moment.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, I was startled awake by the ringing of my phone. I snatched it from my lap.

“Elliott,” I answered, my voice gravelly from the nap.

“I thought your name was Lincoln,” came the voice on the other end.

“Who is this?” I asked, confused.

“Erika Bramwell. I presented your offer, and the answer is a flat no.”

I stifled a groan because I knew this would be the case. Mrs. Ducane wasn’t making this easy and the thought of going back to her to ask about negotiation made my balls crawl up into my belly.

“Are they open to negotiation?” I inquired, hoping for some wiggle room.

“They were quite put off by the offer to begin with. Your client is cheap. The place was fully renovated last year and it’s like brand new.”

“Two tiles on the patio were cracked,” I pointed out, grasping at straws.

She snorted. “That’s your client’s problem? Two cracked tiles?” she shot back, incredulous.

“Are we done here?” I asked, my patience completely worn thin.

"You know I'm right," she retorted, her voice sharp and smug.

"I know you're unprofessional," I shot back, my irritation bubbling to the surface.

"Excuse me?!" Erika screeched, her tone rising a few octaves.

I picked up my scotch glass and sucked a nearly melted cube into my mouth, rolling it around so it bumped against my teeth. The chill on my tongue was refreshing, but I was doing it more to give Erika a taste of her own medicine.

"I'm unprofessional? What about you?" she demanded, her voice laced with indignation.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I crunched down on the ice cube, pulverizing it between my back teeth before swallowing the slivers. "Ah, that felt good," I said, savoring the small victory.

"You're an ass," she spat.

"Sorry, does that bother you? Now you know how it feels," I retorted, leaning back in my chair, fully aware that my behavior was juvenile. Erika had a way of getting under my skin, and the thought of my fat commission slipping away wasn’t helping matters.

"Dick," she hissed, her words dripping with venom.

"You better believe it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to call my client." I pressed the end call button before Erika could respond, feeling a surge of satisfaction as the line went dead.

With a deep breath, I prepared myself for the wrath of Mrs. Ducane. This conversation wasn’t going to be pleasant, but it was necessary.

“Mr. Elliott, didn’t we discuss the words no negotiation?”

I massaged my temples. “We did, and they are not willing to accept your offer.”

“What can we do about this?” she arrogantly asked.

“Negotiate.” I gritted my teeth waiting for the old bag to loosen her purse strings. I knew she wanted the place from her eagerness to make an offer. I’d been showing apartments to Mrs. Ducane for over four months and in that time made no other offers. But if she wanted the penthouse, she would have to bend to get it.

“Very well,” she acquiesced. “Thirteen seven.”

“Is that your final offer?” I prompted.

“I hope so.”

“I’ll call the agent and get back to you.”

“Try your best,” she patronized. “I can’t spare the price tag as it is.”

I knew that was bullshit. Lois Ducane was rolling in dough as a result of two marriages and one divorce. I did my homework when it came to my clients and estimated she was worth over a quarter of a billion dollars.

“I will,” I promised with ease. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to call the other agent.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She hung up and I took a deep breath before I called Erika Bramwell.

“Elliot, what now?” she said as she answered.

“I have another offer.”

“I thought your client didn’t negotiate?”

“She doesn’t but I talked her into it.”

“How noble of you.”

On the other end, it sounded like she was slurping at something this time. It had been two days since I had sex, and I was wound up like a top. Listening to how she made noises made me imagine her doing the same to my cock, which caused my arousal to grow and the fabric of my shorts to tighten in the crotch.

I steeled myself. “Don’t you want to hear the offer?”

“I do.”

“Then stop doing whatever you’re doing and listen,” I growled.

Erika paused. “How dare you tell me what to do.”

“What are you eating anyway?”

“An ice cream cone.”

“What flavor?” We were totally getting off subject, but I wanted to know. I was in hunter mode and if Erika’s voice was any indication of what she looked like, I wouldn’t mind having her underneath me.

“None of your business. What’s the offer?”

“Thirteen seven.”

She snorted and slurped at her ice cream cone. “Another shitty offer.”

“Just how long have you been a real estate agent?” I questioned.

“Three years. I know my shit, Elliott. I’ll present and get back to you but I’m sure it will be no.”

“It’s a good–” The dial tone clicked in my ear, and I put my phone on the counter to fill my scotch glass with more ice and water. All of a sudden, I had the urge to take a cold shower or jerk off. Whichever one would stop my arousal the fastest. Erika’s curt attitude had me rock hard. I liked when a woman had some fight in her. It made the hunt so much better.

I waited for almost a half hour before I made the decision to take a cold shower. Of course, the minute I got undressed, my damn phone rang. I hurried from the bathroom and snatched the cell off my dresser.

“Elliott,” I nearly barked.

“Don’t you ever refer to yourself with your first name?”

I ignored her quip. “Miss Bramwell, what’s the verdict?”

“They won’t accept an offer that low. Let me give you a clue, Elliott, tell your client nothing below thirteen nine.”

“My client will never come up that high,” I replied.

“Then it’s their loss. I need to go. I have other agents negotiating for the property.”

A spike of fear went through me, and my adrenaline surged. I was in jeopardy of losing a big commission. I had to do something.

“How many agents?” I pressed.

“Several.”

“How many?” I repeated.

“Come back to me with a proper offer and I’ll tell you.”

“What is this, elementary school?”

“Goodbye, Elliott.”

The phone clicked in my ear, and I looked down to see my dick sticking straight up and kissing my belly. An ice-cold shower was in order.