The Truth of Us (The Contracted Hearts #2)

1. Elliot

ELLIOT

What does it mean when a man is no longer interested in sexual acts that used to do it for him? I typed the question into my phone, wondering how the hell I’d ended up here. When had sex started to feel so... meh?

Sighing, I skimmed the search results:

When a man experiences a drop in interest during a sexual act he usually enjoys, it is often described using the following concepts:

Sexual boredom: I scrolled past it. Monotonous, predictable, or lacking excitement...

Rolling my eyes, I kept going.

Spectatoring... Nope.

Performance anxiety? Definitely not it.

Coolidge Effect... What even is that? ... desires new sexual partners. Nope, not applicable.

Stress... burnout? Unlikely. I had my baseline level of executive stress, but that wasn't anything new.

Lack of emotional connection... If the relationship feels transactional or disconnected, the physical act may lose its appeal...

I almost snorted out loud at that one. All my relationships were transactional, and that was strictly by design.

I didn’t do feelings. I didn't do sleepovers or post-sex cuddling.

That shit led women to believe they felt more for me than they actually did, and I had zero interest in encouraging delusions.

Habituation... Huh. What’s that?

The psychological process whereby the brain stops responding to a repeated stimulus. Just as you might stop “hearing” the hum of an air conditioner, the brain can habituate to a specific sensation or routine...

Right on cue, as if she’d read my screen, the woman on her knees let out an exaggerated hum, vibrating my cock in her mouth and giving the base a firm squeeze to recapture my attention.

I locked my phone and set it on the marble bar behind me, looking down.

She was objectively stunning: big brown eyes watering with intense focus, flawless makeup smudging at the outer corners, and thick dark hair that was at least fifty percent extensions, though impressive ones.

She was drop-dead gorgeous, and she was working dangerously hard to cross the finish line.

Fuck, how long has she been down there?

Glancing at my watch, I wondered if I should just tap her on the shoulder, call the whole thing off, and handle business myself in the gym shower later.

My shift in posture only seemed to spur her on.

She hummed and moaned aggressively, bobbing her head up and down as if putting her entire upper body into the effort would magically get me there.

Realizing she’d been at it for a solid thirty minutes, I decided her jaw had suffered enough. I started to pull back, but she let out a desperate little growl, wrapping her arms around my thighs as my dick popped free of her mouth.

“I just want to make you feel good, Mr. Vale,” she whined. “Let me do that.”

I’ve never understood why women think using my last name in bed is hot. I know who I am. Were they reminding themselves, or was it just that Vale was synonymous with extreme wealth and endless opportunity?

Closing my eyes, I conjured the image of the one woman who hadn't given a damn about my last name during a business trip to New York. The only one-night stand I’ve ever been genuinely disappointed to find missing the next morning. The woman who’s been haunting my subconscious ever since.

Now, the second I see ice-blue eyes, my body reacts on instinct.

Taking my silence as a green light, the woman on her knees went back to work, taking me so deep she gagged, but she didn't stop.

With my eyes closed, the memory took over completely.

I pictured the black silk slip dress she’d worn that night.

The way her hair, almost silver in the moonlight, had tangled through my fingers.

I wove my hands into thick hair, driving my hips forward as the long-overdue friction finally clicked into place.

Fuck. There it is.

I held her in place, pistoning forward, completely lost in the phantom of another woman.

I chased the spark building at the base of my spine, hitting the back of her throat as the memory hit full vividness: her looking over her shoulder, the New York skyline illuminating her skin, a confident smirk on her face as she let that black silk drop, revealing matching lace underneath.

I buried myself to the hilt and came hard.

The woman at my feet moaned excessively, the woman on her knees in front of me, not the ghost in my head.

Fuck.

Why couldn't I get her out of my head? I’d tried sleeping with blonde, blue-eyed women since then, but they all felt like cheap imitations. Knockoffs designed to get me across the finish line.

Shit. I needed to acknowledge the woman actually in the room with me.

I wasn’t usually this much of a dick. Forward?

Yes. Direct? Absolutely. But downright inconsiderate?

Never. I made sure every woman knew the ground rules upfront, what to expect and more importantly, what not to expect.

I was the charmer, the face of Northwell.

The golden boy who smiled for the cameras and kept our reputation gleaming.

Fuck, she’s still on the floor.

I opened my eyes, reaching down to lift her up by her arms and gently brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.

“That was great. Thank you...” Fuck, what was her name again?

“Natalia,” she purred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand without breaking eye contact.

Ugh, the purring. Time to wrap this up.

My phone buzzed on the bar with a text from Theo. He was at dinner with his father and Julian, claiming it was so hilarious that some woman was pulling Julian’s attention away from Richard, and I needed to witness the 'Ice King' thawing in real time.

Under normal circumstances, I’d be there in a heartbeat. But I needed to get my head on straight and figure out how to fix this glaring malfunction.

“I’m so sorry, but something urgent came up I need to handle,” I lied smoothly.

Was it a weak excuse? Yes. Did I care? Not even a little.

“Of course, Mr. Vale.” She trailed a blood-red fingernail down the placket of my dress shirt. “I know how important your time is.”

She had that dangerous, clinger glint in her eye. As I escorted her to the private elevator of my penthouse, I made a mental note to block her number the second the doors slid shut.

I let out a heavy exhale the moment the elevator doors sealed, locking her out for good. Turning back into the quiet space of my apartment, a rare wave of uncertainty settled over me.

I was usually completely grounded in who I was and what I wanted. Was I just getting older? Was the proverbial clock ticking? My best friends, the guys I’d survived boarding school with, and I ran an empire together, but lately, something felt hollow.

What was it about that blonde in New York?

Was it the fact that she hadn't cared who I was, but simply enjoyed my company?

Was it the thrill of the chase because she hadn't asked for my number, my money, or a second night? I didn’t even know her last name, or whether she lived in the city or had just been passing through like me.

Heading into my walk-in closet, I stripped off my clothes and tossed on my gym gear. I needed to sweat out the irritation and get my mind right.

Tomorrow, I have a meeting with a new PR team to fix how the public perceives the men of Northwell. And tomorrow, I would officially forget the blonde-haired, blue-eyed mystery girl and get back to being myself.