CHAPTER SIXTEEN — THE OTHER MAN
JAMES
Inever cook for myself. I order in, or eat at my club, or let the fridge go empty except for cold brew and the occasional protein bar.
But tonight, I’m dicing sweet potato with the kind of focus I usually reserve for closing arguments, every knife stroke clean and deliberate.
The apartment is silent except for the click of the ceramic blade on the cutting board.
Outside, the city is a neon grid, a living thing, but inside, everything is angles and shadows and the clinical whir of the induction cooktop.
I wonder, for the thousandth time, what the fuck I’m doing.
Am I really boxing out my law partner? The guy whom I met during college, who’s my so-called “best friend”?
Shit. I’m an asshole of the first degree because we have a system, Brent and me—a tag-team, a dynamic.
We learned early that together, we’re irresistible and absolutely unstoppable.
Women love being a part of a threesome with two rough, dominating alpha males who also happen to have huge cocks.
So why am I hosting Marnie, alone, at my place, without telling my bud?
Why am double-crossing a person I’ve trusted for decades?
The answer’s easy, but I don’t like it and force myself not to think of it. After all, I’m not supposed to be doing this. Yet I’m on the warpath, and moving forward at an inexorable speed.
At nine, the security panel blinks. “Ms. Williams for you, Mr. Grant,” hums the doorman.
“Send her up,” I say, and the words taste like something new.
When the elevator doors open, Marnie steps into the foyer, arms crossed against the chill.
She looks tired, like she hasn’t slept, but she’s as beautiful as ever.
The dress is different than the last time—simple, black, a sheath.
Her hair is up, except for a few runaway strands that make her look softer.
She’s not wearing makeup, or if she is, it’s the kind that erases itself.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” I say, and realize as I say it that I mean it. “Thanks for coming.”
She steps out of her heels, leaves them by the door. “I’m early,” she says softly, “but I can kill time downstairs if you need.”
“No, no, come in,” I say, waving her toward the kitchen. “I’m just finishing up.”
Marnie stands at the edge of the kitchen, arms still crossed.
“I didn’t think you were the home-cooked-meal type,” she says, glancing around at the space.
The kitchen is all black lacquer and steel, the cabinets seamless, the counter a single slab of basalt imported from a volcano somewhere I’ll never visit.
“Neither did I,” I say. “But I like it because it lets me focus. Relax, even.”
She laughs, and it’s a small, gentle sound. “Good, I’m glad.”
I pour wine—white, not too sweet—and set the glass on the counter. She hesitates, then takes it, sips, and lets her guard down a millimeter.
The meal is plated until it looks like a piece of art: roast chicken, glazed sweet potato, a wild rice thing with parsley and charred lemon.
We eat at the bar, not the formal table, and for the first ten minutes, it’s quiet.
Marnie eats like she’s a gourmand, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Her lips and tongue are delectable, and I can’t help but to imagine them on my pecs, chest, and then clasped around my dick.
Holy fuck, I’m losing it. Meanwhile, Marnie turns to me with a sweet smile.
“You’re good at cooking,” she says, after a while.
“I’m good at everything I do,” I grin. “Why, do you want me to cook more?”
She giggles. “Yes, but you didn’t invite me here to compliment your cooking, James,” she says. “So why am I here?”
I take a long breath. “You want the truth?”
“Yeah. Try me.”
I reach into the side drawer beneath the island, pull out a manila envelope. It’s worn, the edges soft. I slide it across the counter.
“What’s this?”
“Your dad wrote you a letter,” I say. “Years ago. Stanley gave it to me during the appeals process, asked me to deliver it when you were old enough. But I didn’t, because I thought it would just fuck you up more.”
She stares at the envelope like it might detonate.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But Stanley wasn’t a nice guy. He loved you, yes, but in his own way.”
She’s silent, fingers shaking a little as she traces the edge of the flap. She doesn’t open it. Instead, she says, “Why now?”
“Because you deserve to know,” I say in a rough tone.
“And because I keep seeing you walk around in stress, and I think you should be allowed to have it, but then I get conflicted because maybe you should rest instead. I don’t know, sweetheart.
I’ve been so fucking confused myself that I hardly know what’s going on. ”
The beautiful blonde stands, coming around the island. She’s close enough that I can see the little scar on her chin, the one she got in third grade from a jungle gym. I wonder if she remembers telling me about it when we were in bed late at night … with Brent on the other side.
But the moment passes. Marnie reaches for the letter, but instead of taking it, she puts her hand over mine.
“Did you ever try to help him?” she asks.
I nod, because I can’t lie about this. “I did, and I failed.”
Her hand is small, and impossibly soft. I want to pull her to me for dirty shenanigans, but I know this isn’t the time.
“I believe you,” Marnie whispers, and it’s the most fragile thing I’ve ever heard from her.
I don’t plan to kiss her. But when she tilts her head up, lips parted, I close the gap. Her mouth is warm, a little salty from tears I didn’t know were there, and her hands find the collar of my shirt. I gather her in, arms around her lush form, feeling her heartbeat through the fabric.
We stumble to the couch—a designer piece that looks like it belongs in a museum and is almost never used. She crawls into my lap, dress riding up, and kisses me with a need that’s not about sex at all, but about not being alone in this for even another minute.
Her hands work at my buttons, and I let her.
The room is dark except for the city’s pulse through the glass.
We undress each other, slow and deliberate, and I take the time to memorize every inch: the curve of her waist, the old scar on her thigh, the faint tattoo at her hip.
Those big breasts, swaying gently, with their peaked pink nipples, and I can’t resist. I lean down and lick a taut tip, making Marnie gasp as she throws her head back.
“Ahhh!” she whines. “Mmm James!”
But Marnie doesn’t want gentle tonight. She bites my neck, digs her nails in, hisses my name in my ear. I like it. I like her wild, even if she doesn’t want to be.
When I slide my fat cock into her tight pussy, she grabs the back of my neck and says, “Harder,” and I give it to her, the way she needs.
I hold her waist still, and fuck up into that wet twat, drilling her like an automaton going at full speed.
But she loves it, and we fuck like animals—like the only way to survive the night is to outlast it.
Marnie comes twice before I finish, her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as her pussy shakes on my hard dick.
“Unnnh!” she shrieks, eyes closed with her tits bouncing. “Ooooh!”
“Fuck baby,” I rasp as my own climax hits. “Shit shit shit!”
Afterwards, we lie tangled on the couch, sweat cooling. I brush her hair out of her face and see the tear tracks, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s already drifting, breathing slow.
I lift her up, carry her to the bed—why not, it’s there—and tuck her under the duvet. She’s out before her head hits the pillow, one arm thrown across my broad chest.
For the first time in years, I don’t want to move. I just want to keep Marnie here, safe in my arms.
I lie awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the envelope still on the counter, unopened.
Tomorrow, Marnie may read it, and maybe she’ll hate me, or maybe not.
But for tonight, she’s here.
And that’s enough.