CHAPTER FIVE – MAKING THE DEAL
Brent
It’s ten minutes to seven and already I’m restless, scotch glass sweating in my hand.
Where the fuck is Marnie? I can’t wait to see the gorgeous young girl, hopefully dressed in some slutty outfit.
After all, I’m not doing this for my health.
I’m here to fuck the teenage blonde until her eyes roll back in her head, so she better get here fast.
James isn’t much better. My law partner is perched on the far end of the sofa, feet bare and shirt unbuttoned to a degree that makes him look more like a billionaire’s pool boy than a managing partner at the third-largest litigation firm in the state.
Outside, the city glows like a circuit board, every window lit, every street boiling with Friday night momentum.
There’s a view, and then there’s this: the river as a black ribbon, the skyline serrated and pulsing, the world reduced to toy scale through a wall of perfect, un-smudged glass.
Where the fuck is she? I don’t like waiting.
Except, if I’m being honest, I do like it a little because the anticipation makes everything sweeter.
I can’t wait until Marnie shows up on our doorstep, innocent and curvy.
We’re going to ravage those curves until she can’t think, speak or move.
She’ll be a brainless puddle of soft womanflesh, squealing and moaning, by the time we’re done fucking her.
James stands and refills his glass at the wet bar, then glances at the time. “Relax,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “She’ll be here soon.”
I frown. “She better.”
A few minutes later, the security phone buzzes. I cross to the console, push a button, and the doorman’s voice crackles. “Mr. Gibson, you have a guest. A Miss Marnie Williams in the lobby.”
“Send her up,” I growl, and the doorman murmurs an assent.
James lounges back onto the sofa and stretches, resembling a massive lion. “Want to bet how long she pauses on the landing before she knocks?”
I shake my head. “Not long. She’s brave, our Marnie.”
Sure enough, a minute later there’s a faint metallic chime and I stride to the massive door, opening it to reveal our blonde goddess, all deliberate grace and sassy voluptuousness.
Marnie’s dressed to the nines, and my dick twitches at the sight.
Her black number is painted on, sleeveless with a neckline deep enough such that the shadowy vee between her giant tits is visible.
The skirt does that magic trick of being both indecently short and classically elegant.
Her legs look a mile long in stilettos, and her hair—usually scraped into some kind of junior-exec bun—is down and loose, falling in golden waves to her shoulder blades.
She’s wearing a necklace: something gold and delicate, resting right at the hollow of her throat.
She’s even done her makeup, which is more than I would have expected.
The lipstick is the color of plush roses, making me itch to kiss it off of her.
James whistles, low. “Damn. Hi, sweetheart. You look good.”
Marnie sashays into the living room like she’s auditioning for a role—knows we’re watching her, wants to be watched, but pretends not to notice. I catch the flicker of nerves under the mask, but it’s gone in a flash.
“Ms. Williams,” I say formally, setting down my glass and moving to greet her.
She gives me a sweet smile that could be either threat or invitation. “Thank you for having me,” she purrs, and she means it: her voice is steady. “I love your place.”
I glance around, surveying the penthouse, from the original art on the walls, the view, the low-slung furniture, the bottle of Dalmore 25 open on the bar, to the tray of crystal glasses.
“Yeah, it’s fine. You get used to it after a while.”
Marnie laughs liltingly, tilting her elegant throat back.
“Oh, I don’t think I could ever get used to this. It’s the epitome of luxury. But can I get a drink, Mr. Gibson? Pretty please.”
With that, she sashays to the couch as I pour her a glass of the Bordeaux, and we settle into the seating area: James to her left, me to her right, a triangle of leather and musk and raw anticipation.
She crosses her legs, careful, and I catch the flash of bare thigh above the hem. There’s nothing accidental about it. She knows how to tease men, and my cock twitches again, urgently this time.
“So,” Marnie smiles playfully, after a beat. “What’s on the agenda for tonight? I assume this isn’t just a social call.”
James picks up the cue. “We wanted to get to know you better, sweetheart. Off the clock. See if your reputation holds up outside the office.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Which reputation? The paralegal who can outwork Jenkins, or the daughter of your most infamous client?”
James shrugs, smiling. “Both.”
The beautiful blonde sips her wine, sets the glass on a coaster, and steeples her fingers like she’s about to cross-examine us. “For the record, I never wanted to trade on my father’s name. I just want to do my job.”
I lean back, arms spread on the back of the sofa. “You’re not here because of your father. You’re here because you’re qualified, between your stellar grades to your previous job at Carter Graywright.”
Marnie shrugs, but doesn’t contradict me.
The conversation is, at first, a chess match.
Every word is precise, every compliment laced with a question.
We talk about trial prep, the circus of the media, the way a bad ruling can make or break a career.
She’s sharper than most new hires, and more careful than any of the last dozen.
She doesn’t fish for gossip, but she knows how to pick apart a story.
When I mention the New York office, she asks about their record on post-conviction relief.
When James tells a story about a disaster deposition, she wants to know how the witness was found.
She’s cataloguing, and supersmart. Even more surprising, I love it.
I have to admit that my bud and I generally don’t pay attention to a woman’s brains, just to her body because female bodies were made to be fucked hard.
But this bodacious blonde is more than a pair of tits and a curvy ass.
She’s sharp, witty, and keeps us on our toes, and I fucking love it.
After a second round of drinks, the city outside is black and shimmering, and we’re a little closer on the sofa than before. My knee touches hers when I shift, and Marnie doesn’t flinch or pull away. James watches her over the rim of his glass, his gaze laser-locked.
She sets her empty wine on the table and leans in, almost conspiratorial. “Okay. My turn. Ask me anything.”
James grins. “Anything, sweetheart? That’s quite the offer.”
“Anything.”
He lets the silence expand. “Why did you really want to work at Gibson Grant?”
She holds his stare. “I thought we went over this. Because you represented my father, and I want to understand what happened to him. Not the news version. The truth.”
I can feel my jaw tighten, but I keep my expression neutral.
She turns to me. “Did you think Stanley was guilty?”
I pause, considering my answer. “I thought he was the best liar I ever met.”
She nods, as if that’s confirmation.
James shifts forward, elbows on knees. “And do you think he was innocent?”
She smiles, a sad one this time. “I think he was my father. And that’s enough. He didn’t deserve to die.”
There’s a pause, and then, almost imperceptibly, something cracks. The room softens. We’re no longer adversaries, but three people locked in a private orbit, waiting to see who moves first.
I move first. I refill Marnie’s glass, but this time, when I pass it to her, my hand brushes hers. She doesn’t pull away.
James slides a little closer, the triangle tightening.
“You know why you’re really here, don’t you?” I say, voice low.
The beautiful blonde’s cornflower eyes are huge in the city lights. “Enlighten me.”
James gives her an assessing look—calm, predatory, all teeth.
“Brent told me how you broke into the archive room. We know what you did.”
Her composure flickers, but she recovers fast. “Well, if you’re going to fire me, at least let me finish the wine.”
I shake my head. “We’re not going to fire you. We want something else. Payback. Retribution.”
She laughs, quick and breathy. “What do you mean?”
James leans in, all charm and menace at the same time.
“Punishment.”
She sits back, stunned, then laughs again, a little too breathy. “Are you insane?”
I let her twist for a beat. Then I lean in, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume—a sweet, flowery musk under the wine and sweat.
“Are you ready to make a deal, sweetheart?” I say in a silky voice.
She goes very still, big breasts trembling.
James’s hand finds her knee, fingers light but deliberate.
“Help us with something,” he says. “And we’ll help you get to the truth.”
She looks from him to me, then back to him. Her pulse is visible at the hollow of her throat.
“What do you want?” she asks, voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.
I could spell it out, but I don’t have to. She already knows.
Instead, I say, “One taboo night. You, us, no limits. Your curves, open and seeping, ready to be used by our cocks. Then we give you everything you want to know. You might not come out alive, but it could be worth it.”
The silence is total.
She closes her eyes, just for a second, then opens them again. “You’re both bastards,” she says, but there’s no real venom in it.
I nod. “That’s the offer. Take it or leave it, sweetheart. The decision is yours.”
James’s hand slides a little higher on her thigh.
Marnie finishes her wine in one gulp, then stands, legs unsteady but sure. She looks at both of us, daring.
“So what’ll it be?” I ask silkily, my blue eyes devouring her curves. “We don’t have all day.”
She inhales deeply, her pink cheeks flushing.
“Deal. But when?”
James’s smile is slow, hungry. I feel my own mouth curl in response.
“We’ll figure it out,” I rasp. “But for now, let’s just enjoy each other.”