The Rake, page 10
“The conservatory is dusty,” I drawled.
“Is it, now?” She licked her finger before flipping a page on the document in front of her. “Well, I must tell the cleaners to pay extra attention to the room tomorrow.”
“Are you having financial issues?”
She was still frowning at the number splayed on the paper. “Oh, Devvie. Must we talk about finances? It’s so very common. You just got here. I want us to brunch and to catch up properly. Maybe catch a horse race.”
“We’ll do all of that, Mummy. But I need to know that you’re taken care of.”
“We’ll survive.” She looked up, offering me a wobbly smile.
“When’s the reading of the will exactly? Tomorrow or the next day?”
“Actually…” she finished writing a sentence on a document, setting her pen down “…the reading of the will, will be severely delayed, I’m afraid.”
“Severely?” I arched an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Mr. Tindall is currently abroad.”
Harry Tindall was my late father’s trusted solicitor.
“And you failed to mention that before I boarded a plane?”
She smiled thoughtfully, staring at my hair like she wanted to swipe her motherly fingers across it lovingly. “I guess you could say the opportunity to see you presented itself, and the human that I was, I yielded to temptation. I’m sorry.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Terribly so.”
That soothed my anger. “Shush, Mum. I’m here for you.”
I reached across the desk and grabbed her hand. She was frail under my touch.
“I’ll wire you money to tide you over until the reading of the will,” I heard myself say.
“No, darling, we couldn’t possibly …”
“Of course you could. You’re my mother. It’s the least I can do for you.”
For a moment, all we did was stare at each other, drinking every new line and wrinkle we’d accumulated in the last year.
“I hear Drew leaves much to be desired in the making Cecilia happy department.” I sprawled in my seat, crossing my ankles over the desk.
My mother picked up her pen again and scribbled on the edges of the file, gnawing on her lower lip, as she did whenever my father was up to no good and she knew she was about to clean up his mess. “Quite.”
“What can I do to help?”
“There’s nothing you can do, really. That is for your sister to handle.”
“Cece is not used to taking care of such things.” Understatement of the fucking century. When we were kids, I got into hot water on a daily basis to save my sister’s arse.
Mum tugged at her lower lip, mulling this over. “All the same, it is time for her to start learning how to hold her own. The only thing you can do for me now is refrain from providing us with any scandalous headlines. We certainly don’t need those.”
In that moment, my mother looked so broken, so tired, so weathered by the tragedies life had thrown at her, I couldn’t crush her completely. Not when there was so little hope left for her.
Which was why I couldn’t tell her I was planning to impregnate a ditzy burlesque club owner out of wedlock, who, by the way, was sprawled on billboards all over the East Coast positively naked.
But Belle wasn’t even pregnant. What was the point of telling my mother about this? This situation could be revisited in three, four, or five months, when the dust on my father’s grave had settled.
No need to give my mother more bad news.
“No scandalous headlines …” I grinned back at her. “Promise.”
Devon: still ovulating?
Belle: six days later? Do I look like an African driver ant?
I had to Google the reference to learn that the average African driver ant produced three to four million eggs each month and was considered to be the most fertile animal on planet Earth.
Devon: not from this angle. Get on your knees with your bum up and hold a crumb of bread just so I can be sure.
Belle: why are you asking anyway?
Devon: trying to conceive tonight couldn’t hurt our chances, correct?
Belle: technically not, but said chances would be slim.
Devon: slim, but in existence.
Belle: are you waiting for an invitation?
Devon: from your ill-mannered arse? No. I’m already on my way.
Belle: this is going to stop as soon as I’m pregnant.
Devon: absolutely.
Belle: I mean it. I already feel personally attacked by your presence in my life.
Devon: no point asking why you hate men so much, I suppose?
Belle: none, if you want a straight, honest answer.
Devon: understood. Consider yourself rid of me as soon as you’re with child.
Belle: WITH CHILD.
Belle: you embarrass my soul.
Belle: I’m waiting at Madame Mayhem.
Devon: I’m pulling over. Do not wear knickers.
I didn’t even bother getting into the shower after landing at Boston Logan International Airport.
I cabbed it straight to Madame Mayhem, relying on my good friends, mint gum and deodorant.
The entire journey from England to America, all I could think about was burying myself inside the voluptuous, hotheaded woman. I was not completely sure where my fascination with Emmabelle stemmed from, but if I were to take a wild guess, I’d say it was because she was genuinely independent. She did not rely on a wealthy man—unlike her sister and friends—and seemed completely unfazed to be the only single person in the room, other than myself, even when things got awkward.
She was outspoken, fierce, and confident.
She was also a stunner.
In the cab on my way to Belle, I wired my mother a handsome amount of money. Just as I was about to tuck the device back to my pocket, a message popped on the screen:
Unknown Number: are you still home? Lou. x
Louisa and I had exchanged phone numbers before she left Whitehall Court Castle after my father’s funeral. Since I didn’t want to repeat my ghosting mistake twice, I added her to my contacts and answered her.
Devon: back in Boston, but I’ll be headed to Britain for the reading of the will. Lunch?
Louisa: and drinks.
Devon: I never say no to those.
Louisa: good. Then I’ll make sure to crack open that Remy Martin cognac.
When I got to Madame Mayhem, I cut the four-hundred-yard line, slapped a few Benjamins on one of the bouncer’s chest and sauntered in, leaving a trail of disgruntled people behind me.
I found Belle manning the bar again, serving beers and flinging her blond hair behind her shoulder. She was clad in a top that looked like crème, ripped bodice, and cherry-red leather pants I was soon going to destroy with my teeth.
Goodbye to my promise of no scandals. It was good while it lasted … a couple days and some change.
Zeroing in on her, I made my way across the club, shouldering past people dancing and drunkenly laughing into each other’s ears.
Belle was so wrapped up in serving her customers, she didn’t even glance my way when she asked. “What can I get for you, honey?”
Honey.
The woman was a national embarrassment. What on earth propelled me to put a baby in her?
“Bend over, on all fours, while wearing nothing but a sultry expression, while begging me to fuck you.”
Her head twisted as shock flashed across her beautiful face. Her glare melted into an amused smile.
“I have twenty more minutes here.” Her hands moved quickly behind the bar. She seemed in no hurry to cater to me, the exact opposite of Louisa.
“No, you don’t. You’ll be waiting for me in your office in no more than ten minutes, buck naked and in the position I want you in.”
“Or?” She snorted, angling the soda gun in my direction threateningly.
“Or…” I grabbed the soda gun from across the bar and shoved it into her cleavage, right between her tits, lowering my voice an octave, my lips hovering over the shell of her ear “…I will see to it that you spend the night with your good friend, Magic Wand.”
“At least the magic wand doesn’t make idle promises,” she whispered back.
I pushed the button and sprayed cold diet coke between her breasts. Bubbles spilled over from her push-up bra. She let out a squeak, pushing me away.
“What do you think you’re doing, asshole?”
“Standing up to you, unlike all the other poor sods you pick as your lovers,” I said dryly.
“Withholding sex from me as punishment is your idea of standing up to me?” She let out a wild laugh, leaning down to grab a cloth and patting her chest dry. “Dude, you’re high. I can get it anytime I want it, anywhere I want it.”
“No arguments there. But it’s not sex you are after, Sweven. It is a child, and I know I’m the only one who’ll do.” I took a step back, glancing at my watch. “I have a conference call with Tokyo. I’ll see you in ten.”
“You’re going to pay for that little stunt,” she warned, slapping the cloth against the bar.
She threw more threats into the air, but I was already gone, accepting the call Joanne connected me to.
The call did not take more than four minutes. While Emmabelle wrapped things up, I wrote an email to my late father’s solicitor, Mr. Tindall, to see when the reading of the will would happen. Worry gnawed at my gut. Mum and Cece were in trouble.
I was careful to let Emmabelle wait an extra eight minutes before I pushed open the door to her office. She was waiting for me on her desk, which was littered with paperwork, envelopes, and a laptop, exactly as I requested. Naked and on all fours. She faced the wall, not the door, her yellow hair spilling in sheets across her back.
At the sound of the door clicking open, she whipped her head around.
I tsked. “Arse up and eyes on the wall.”
“I’ve heard better dirty talk from decorative houseplants, but I’m having too much fun to kick you out.” She turned back toward the wall.
I locked the door and strode into the room unhurriedly. Her pert arse was high in the air, the center of her pink and already glistening. She was ready for me, and I was going to take my sweet time enjoying her.
I stopped in front of her, silently admiring every perfect curve of her. Emmabelle Penrose was exquisite to a point she needn’t work a day in her life if she wished to. She could marry into fortune. Yet, she hadn’t.
“You still there?” she groaned. Secretly, her deliberately bad grammar amused me, even though the same trait grated on my nerves on anyone else.
“Patience.” I rolled my knuckles over the side of her arse, the touch so brief, so fleeting, her entire body flushed and her back arched as if I’d stuffed my cock into her.
“You’re such a tease,” she moaned. “Knock me up already.”
“With pleasure.” I bit the side of her bum softly, my teeth sinking into her derriere like it was a juicy peach.
I pried the lips of her pussy open with my thumbs from behind, and licked her slit, using the tip of my tongue to drive her mad.
“Arghhhhhhhh,” she drowsed, letting her head drop as her arms began to shake.
Plastering a hand over the small of her back to lower her upper body, I pushed her open even wider, licking in long, deep strokes. I drank her sweetness, watching as she thrashed her head, stifling her little grunts of pleasure just to spite me. Her knees were shaking. She was liquid fire, every inch of her body scorching with arousal.
“Oh. Oh. Shit. Shit. Fuck,” she murmured. The future mother of my child, ladies and gentlemen.
“My lady,” I drawled sarcastically, my fingers wrapping around the flesh of her arse tighter, licking her more fervently. She came so violently she fell flat on her stomach across the desk.
“Damn.” She plastered her sweaty forehead to the desk. “That’s never happened to me before. That was fast.”
“Better you than me.” I gave her rear a patronizing little pat.
“Holy crap, dude. Did you use some kind of trick? That was intense.”
Rather than answer her observation, I flipped her on her back and grabbed the back of her knees, dragging her across the desk until her bum was perched on its edge, wrapping her bare legs around my waist.
She unbuckled me. The glee in which her hands moved told me she was more than glad I was back on American soil.
“Are you ever going to be fully naked when we have sex?” she teased, her tongue circling patterns along my neck.
“You’re the one who wants to keep it detached.” My bored tone did not match the monstrous erection the woman in front of me had just freed out of my trousers. Or the rush of erotic excitement coursing through me.
“Fair point,” she laughed.
I tormented her a few minutes before pressing home.
She ohhhhhed.
Being with her again felt better than the last time, and all the times before it. That was the issue with Emmabelle Penrose. She tasted like the greatest sin, and I was a well-known transgressor whenever temptation came knocking on my door.
She came again before I spilled my seed inside her. I collapsed on top of her, spent, the jet lag catching up with me all at once.
“Bro,” Belle said after a few seconds of my panting atop of her. “Heavy much? Get off of me.”
I peeled away and took a seat on the chair in front of her desk, this time refusing to evacuate myself like a common prostitute. I had to establish some sort of authority with this wild child.
I made a show of propping my legs on her messy desk and lighting myself a rollie, sinking idly in my seat.
“Aren’t you going to ask how my England trip went?” I sent a plume of smoke skyward, watching as it ribboned around itself.
She hopped off the table and got dressed under the lamp, unbothered by the stark, unflattering light. “No. I don’t give two shits what or who you do when I’m not around.”
“My father died.” I ignored her sheer vulgarity.
That made her stop. She made a show of pressing a fist against her lips, as if stuffing her words back inside. “That was a foot-in-mouth moment for me. I’m really sorry, Dev.”
“I’m not,” I said flatly. “But thank you.”
“How’re you … er, handling things?” She shoved a leg into her leather pants.
“Quite well, considering I loathed him with every atom in my body.”
“I’m surprised Cillian and Sam didn’t say anything.” Belle watched me carefully for a reaction. Smart lass. We both knew I hadn’t shared anything about my personal life with my mates. She must’ve wondered what business I had confiding in her of all people. I happened to wonder the same bloody thing. As far as sympathetic audiences went, she was a tad cooler than Antarctica.
“I keep my private life private.” I exhaled rings of smoke, sending arrows into them.
“Still…” Belle flipped her hair out of the back of her top and swaggered over to me, slinging herself against the desk “…losing a parent is always hard. Even if—and sometimes especially—you don’t get along with them. It reminds you of your own mortality. Living is a messy business.”
“So is your desk,” I commented, ready to change the topic. “Why does it look like an Office Depot branch exploded all over it?”
She let out a laugh. “I’m a messy person, Devon. Welcome to my life.”
“That’s not true.” I swung forward, removing my loafers from her desk and sifting through the wrinkled and stained envelopes on it. “You are highly calculated and driven. You have a fourteen-foot-high billboard of yourself bathing in a massive champagne glass and a business you could sell tomorrow and live comfortably. Yet there are piles upon piles of unopened letters here. Walk me through your logic.”
To reinforce my statement, I lifted a batch of a dozen or so envelopes in the air. They all looked handwritten and addressed to her personally. Sweven snatched them from my hand and dropped them into the bin beneath us. A witchy smile marred her face. I knew I’d hit a nerve.
“Why should I? They’re not bills; unlike some fax-using dinosaurs, I pay mine online. And they’re not from friends, because they would pick up the phone and call me. Ninety-nine percent of these letters are written by ultra-conservative lunatics who want to inform me that I’m going to burn in hell for running a burlesque club. Now why would I put myself through that?”
“Is that all these letters are?” I pressed. “Hate mail?”
“Every single one of them.” She picked up another batch, sliding one of the papers from an envelope. She cleared her throat theatrically and began reading:
“Dear Ms. Penrose,
My name is Howard Garrett, and I’m a sixty-two-year-old mechanic from Telegraph Hill. I am writing to you today in hopes you would change your ways and see the light, as I find you solely responsible for the corruption and veenality—he spelled venality wrong—of our youth.
My granddaughter visited your establishment the other day after seeing an ad with naked women about it in a local magazine. Three days later, she arrived at my house to inform me that she was now gay. A coincidence? I don’t think so. Queerness is, in case you are unaware, an act of war against God … should I continue…” she perched her chin on her knuckles, a faux-angelic look on her face “…or did your brain short-circuit?”
“He sounds like he’s from the Stone Age.”
“Maybe you’re neighbors,” she smirked.
“There are dozens of letters here. Are all of them from religious old sods complaining about sex?” I pressed.
Belle was a basket full of complications. Her job, her personality, her attitude. And yet I couldn’t find it in me to back out of our arrangement.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Belle scowled, plucking the cigarette from between my fingers and giving it a puff and returning it back to me. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“Being taken care of is not a sin.”
“I know.” She grinned devilishly at me with a wink. “If it was, I would be all over it.”
