I couldn’t believe it.
I sat staring at my screen for a very long time, the numbers blending together, willing myself to move, but I couldn’t. After a while, when it finally sunk in, I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
It wasn’t the money that made me feel ill. It was what it represented.
I chose Lawrence over Ronan. If I were a normal girl, I would follow my heart and disregard what reason was telling me, but I’m not. Far from it actually. I fell for Ronan as much as I was able to … as much as I could, but Lawrence …
When I’m with him, I feel unburdened by expectations. I don’t feel constricted. I don’t feel like I have to be a better person to deserve him. I don’t feel like my emotions are trying to get the better of me. Emotions aren’t trying to choke the life out of me. No, with Lawrence it’s all about pleasure, raw attraction, and desire—about the fine things in life. And those things aren’t love, generosity, or selflessness.
With Lawrence, I’m allowed to be the real Blaire. I’m allowed to be the selfish girl who likes to put herself first, the girl who would rather have an expensive bag than a love letter.
The study in his Park Avenue townhouse is a lovely room: opulent, masculine, powerful—just like the man himself. I’m wearing a backless, little black dress. The front is tame, but the back is extremely revealing. I cross my legs, feeling my thighs rubbing invitingly. Power and wealth in this magnitude are a huge fucking turn on for me.
I sit in one of the plush wine-colored leather couches across from his desk as I recall the things we did the last time we saw each other. Each memory pushes Ronan out of my head, diminishing the guilt until I can pretend it’s not there. Flushing, I remember the feel of his fingers moving inside me. After Lawrence pours two glasses of scotch, he makes his way back to this side of the room and hands me the drink before he takes a seat.
“Here,” he says.
When I reach for it, our fingers graze and I feel the heat emanating from his body. The electricity. His black magic. Our eyes connecting, he watches me greedily as a faint smile plays on his lips.
I bite my lip. “Thank you.”
He reclines lazily, an arm spread along the back of the couch while his free hand holds the tumbler with scotch, and studies me. “A penny for your thoughts,” Lawrence says in that low and raspy voice of his. He looks relaxed, but I can tell he is anything but. He wants me. I can sense it in the way his muscles tense as he waits for my answer. I can see it in the way his wolfish eyes devour me, stripping me naked.
Before I answer, I take a moment to stare at the magnificent man in front of me, and the longer I do, the desire in his green gaze saturating my every thought, the easier it gets to ignore the Blaire who thought an afternoon spent with Ronan and his family was one of the best days of her life. The Blaire who thought life couldn’t get any better than when she was in Ronan’s arms and pure joy spread through her wildly. Yes, the more I stare at Lawrence, the easier it gets. And the selfish part of me wants to use Lawrence. I want to fuck Lawrence so hard, allowing him to come inside of me until it’s his name and his taste branded on my lips, and not the memory of Ronan’s tender touch.
I see no point in beating around the bush. “Where’s your bedroom, or are we going to fuck here?”
“Blaire, Blaire, Blaire … it doesn’t have to be that way, you understand?”
“Then tell me how it’s supposed to be because I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’m trying to stick to your rules. To do what you expect and want from me.”
“I remember my rules perfectly, but we can still enjoy each other’s company while fucking. It’s just you and me. A man and a woman seeking pleasure in the other. No games, no pretending. Can you do that?”
“No games and no pretending, huh? I thought you wanted my body, not my soul.”
“I want Blaire.”
“You might not like what’s underneath it all, Lawrence,” I warn him.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he says, removing his tie. I follow the movement of his hand as he tugs the silk and loosens the knot. When I lift my eyes, I find him watching me, waiting for my answer.
It’s funny how life works.
People can come into your life—be a part of your life—yet never know the real you; have no fucking clue who you really are. Then one unexpected day you meet that person who, in one glance, has you figured out. There’s no tainted judgment in his eyes, only acceptance. And maybe understanding. The need to be better, or pretend to be better is not there because you know he likes you for who you are—every ugly and broken part of you. That’s how Lawrence makes me feel. And unlike Ronan, who made me want to be a better person for that month we spent together so I could deserve him, I know I don’t have to put on a show with Lawrence.
I place the tumbler on the wooden coffee table in front of me. “Do you pray, Lawrence?”
He takes a sip before answering me, unfazed by the drastic change of subject. “I don’t. You?”
“I used to until I realized God is deaf. Now every time I kneel, it isn’t to pray.”
His quiet laughter fills the room. “If the devil were a woman and had a name, I believe it would be Blaire.”
I give him a cheeky smile. “You see, when I was a little girl I would plead to Him each night to make my parents stop fighting. To give my dad the strength he needed to stop drinking. To make my mom come back to me, or to take me away with her.”
I get on all fours and crawl toward him unhurriedly, each movement deliberate. The Persian rug under my hands and knees is silky soft, tickling the sensitive skin of my palms. When I’m between his legs, I rise to my knees and run a perfectly manicured hand over his cock, digging my nails lightly as the bulge in his pants turns solid beneath my touch.
“Already so hard,” I whisper before I put my head on his chest, and continue to rub him. In this position, I can hear his heartbeat get faster and louder with every decadent stroke of mine. I can feel him throbbing under my palm.
“I would beg him to make my parents notice me … love me. But he never listened because nothing changed. One day I woke up and she was gone. That little girl who cried herself to sleep while holding her dearest stuffed animal died. The urge to cry disappeared. Whether my parents were home, or bothered to look at me, stopped hurting me. I couldn’t give a fuck anymore. I grew up. I shed all my childish fantasies and finally understood how the real world worked. I learned that I could use my looks to get ahead. That values didn’t matter when passion and greed were involved. That money spoke louder than words, and that emotions were pointless.”
I raise my head and look him in the eye. “I’ve done very shameful things to get by, to get me where I am. Today that’s kneeling in front of you, one of the richest men in the world, with your hard cock in my hand. Tomorrow might be someone richer than you, more powerful even, but that’s who I am. I’m a survivor with my own set of rules. And not even your kindness will make me break them. And that, Lawrence, is the real Blaire,” I say, my chest rising with each breath.
“What was its name?”
“Whose name?” I ask, confused.
“Of the stuffed animal?”
I sat staring at my screen for a very long time, the numbers blending together, willing myself to move, but I couldn’t. After a while, when it finally sunk in, I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
It wasn’t the money that made me feel ill. It was what it represented.
I chose Lawrence over Ronan. If I were a normal girl, I would follow my heart and disregard what reason was telling me, but I’m not. Far from it actually. I fell for Ronan as much as I was able to … as much as I could, but Lawrence …
When I’m with him, I feel unburdened by expectations. I don’t feel constricted. I don’t feel like I have to be a better person to deserve him. I don’t feel like my emotions are trying to get the better of me. Emotions aren’t trying to choke the life out of me. No, with Lawrence it’s all about pleasure, raw attraction, and desire—about the fine things in life. And those things aren’t love, generosity, or selflessness.
With Lawrence, I’m allowed to be the real Blaire. I’m allowed to be the selfish girl who likes to put herself first, the girl who would rather have an expensive bag than a love letter.
The study in his Park Avenue townhouse is a lovely room: opulent, masculine, powerful—just like the man himself. I’m wearing a backless, little black dress. The front is tame, but the back is extremely revealing. I cross my legs, feeling my thighs rubbing invitingly. Power and wealth in this magnitude are a huge fucking turn on for me.
I sit in one of the plush wine-colored leather couches across from his desk as I recall the things we did the last time we saw each other. Each memory pushes Ronan out of my head, diminishing the guilt until I can pretend it’s not there. Flushing, I remember the feel of his fingers moving inside me. After Lawrence pours two glasses of scotch, he makes his way back to this side of the room and hands me the drink before he takes a seat.
“Here,” he says.
When I reach for it, our fingers graze and I feel the heat emanating from his body. The electricity. His black magic. Our eyes connecting, he watches me greedily as a faint smile plays on his lips.
I bite my lip. “Thank you.”
He reclines lazily, an arm spread along the back of the couch while his free hand holds the tumbler with scotch, and studies me. “A penny for your thoughts,” Lawrence says in that low and raspy voice of his. He looks relaxed, but I can tell he is anything but. He wants me. I can sense it in the way his muscles tense as he waits for my answer. I can see it in the way his wolfish eyes devour me, stripping me naked.
Before I answer, I take a moment to stare at the magnificent man in front of me, and the longer I do, the desire in his green gaze saturating my every thought, the easier it gets to ignore the Blaire who thought an afternoon spent with Ronan and his family was one of the best days of her life. The Blaire who thought life couldn’t get any better than when she was in Ronan’s arms and pure joy spread through her wildly. Yes, the more I stare at Lawrence, the easier it gets. And the selfish part of me wants to use Lawrence. I want to fuck Lawrence so hard, allowing him to come inside of me until it’s his name and his taste branded on my lips, and not the memory of Ronan’s tender touch.
I see no point in beating around the bush. “Where’s your bedroom, or are we going to fuck here?”
“Blaire, Blaire, Blaire … it doesn’t have to be that way, you understand?”
“Then tell me how it’s supposed to be because I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’m trying to stick to your rules. To do what you expect and want from me.”
“I remember my rules perfectly, but we can still enjoy each other’s company while fucking. It’s just you and me. A man and a woman seeking pleasure in the other. No games, no pretending. Can you do that?”
“No games and no pretending, huh? I thought you wanted my body, not my soul.”
“I want Blaire.”
“You might not like what’s underneath it all, Lawrence,” I warn him.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he says, removing his tie. I follow the movement of his hand as he tugs the silk and loosens the knot. When I lift my eyes, I find him watching me, waiting for my answer.
It’s funny how life works.
People can come into your life—be a part of your life—yet never know the real you; have no fucking clue who you really are. Then one unexpected day you meet that person who, in one glance, has you figured out. There’s no tainted judgment in his eyes, only acceptance. And maybe understanding. The need to be better, or pretend to be better is not there because you know he likes you for who you are—every ugly and broken part of you. That’s how Lawrence makes me feel. And unlike Ronan, who made me want to be a better person for that month we spent together so I could deserve him, I know I don’t have to put on a show with Lawrence.
I place the tumbler on the wooden coffee table in front of me. “Do you pray, Lawrence?”
He takes a sip before answering me, unfazed by the drastic change of subject. “I don’t. You?”
“I used to until I realized God is deaf. Now every time I kneel, it isn’t to pray.”
His quiet laughter fills the room. “If the devil were a woman and had a name, I believe it would be Blaire.”
I give him a cheeky smile. “You see, when I was a little girl I would plead to Him each night to make my parents stop fighting. To give my dad the strength he needed to stop drinking. To make my mom come back to me, or to take me away with her.”
I get on all fours and crawl toward him unhurriedly, each movement deliberate. The Persian rug under my hands and knees is silky soft, tickling the sensitive skin of my palms. When I’m between his legs, I rise to my knees and run a perfectly manicured hand over his cock, digging my nails lightly as the bulge in his pants turns solid beneath my touch.
“Already so hard,” I whisper before I put my head on his chest, and continue to rub him. In this position, I can hear his heartbeat get faster and louder with every decadent stroke of mine. I can feel him throbbing under my palm.
“I would beg him to make my parents notice me … love me. But he never listened because nothing changed. One day I woke up and she was gone. That little girl who cried herself to sleep while holding her dearest stuffed animal died. The urge to cry disappeared. Whether my parents were home, or bothered to look at me, stopped hurting me. I couldn’t give a fuck anymore. I grew up. I shed all my childish fantasies and finally understood how the real world worked. I learned that I could use my looks to get ahead. That values didn’t matter when passion and greed were involved. That money spoke louder than words, and that emotions were pointless.”
I raise my head and look him in the eye. “I’ve done very shameful things to get by, to get me where I am. Today that’s kneeling in front of you, one of the richest men in the world, with your hard cock in my hand. Tomorrow might be someone richer than you, more powerful even, but that’s who I am. I’m a survivor with my own set of rules. And not even your kindness will make me break them. And that, Lawrence, is the real Blaire,” I say, my chest rising with each breath.
“What was its name?”
“Whose name?” I ask, confused.
“Of the stuffed animal?”
