Page 69 of Duplicity

Finally, she raises her eyes to meet mine. ‘I love it,’ she whispers.

‘Do you ever sing for other people?’

‘Just my d—’ She stops abruptly and blinks, her face going instantly red. What the fuck?

‘Your what?’

She stares at me as if she’s choking or something. It’s weird. ‘Just my dog,’ she says finally on a big exhale.

‘Tabby.’

‘Yeah. Exactly.’

‘Lucky dog.’

We’re silent for a moment, taking each other in. I’m no angel, but I’ve never found any woman as arresting as Marlowe. She’s the real deal: gorgeous and smart and wonderful, with more talent in her little finger than most people could dream of possessing.

What’s growing rapidly clear is that she has depths I haven’t begun to plumb.

I let my gaze drop to her mouth. I had plans for us to work through my diary for the rest of the month, but those will have to wait. ‘Can I kiss you?’ I ask her. My voice sounds gruff to my ears.

‘Of course,’ she says. She looks a little surprised that I’ve asked. Or maybe she’s surprised that I’m considering a kissrather than just bending her over my desk. I suppose at work I’m a bit more presumptuous, but it would feel weird to jump on her here in my home without warning, right after we’ve been discussing her musical talent. The rules feel different here.

She isn’t buttoned up and glamorous today. She’s soft and supple and undone with that cascade of long, silky hair and this thin athletic gear and all that gorgeous skin on display. Her arms are bare. Her midriff. Her chest. It’s all good, because I feel undone like this, too. I’m in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot in what is honestly more of a trophy pad than a real home. Right now I’m not the big boss man prowling through his corner office in extortionate tailoring.

I’m just Brendan.

CHAPTER 33

Brendan

She sighs softly as I gather her up in my arms. So often, I act on impulse. I’m all about the destination and, in Marlowe’s case, the orgasm. See her. Fuck her. Make her come. Let myself come. Boom.

And repeat.

She’s a means to an end. A beautiful vessel that pours forth an endless stream of sexual gratification.

This morning, I’m going to bloody well enjoy her.

And I do.

I smooth her hair off her face with one hand and take a moment to absorb her before I dive back in. Her eyes are molten chocolate, her eyelashes fluttering, lips so soft and pink and lush. I can’t not kiss her. I tilt my head and I close my mouth over hers again, testing the seam of her lips lightly with my tongue. They part for me, and I’m flooded withher: her scent, her taste, sensory delights I’ve already grown to crave.

There’s always an element of time pressure in the office. Much as I like living on the edge, I don’t actuallywantanyone to barge in on us. Here, though, there’s a stillness, even as the sounds her voice made hang in the air like beautiful ghosts. I have a sense of presence that even my meds can’t always deliver.

We’re properly making out now, and it’s seriously fucking cool. I twist my body as much as humanly possible as I cup her jaw and stroke her skin and thread my fingers through her hair and entangle my tongue with hers. The more I give myself over to this kiss, the more it gives me. The moreshegives me.

She pushes the short sleeve of my t-shirt up further and wraps her hand around my bicep. Her lips move against mine, her tits press against my pecs, our athletic gear far less of a barrier than our workwear usually is. Her other hand finds my hair and tugs at it. And a thought comes to me unbidden.

Does she really like this? Or is she acting? After all, Marlowe is pretty implacable as far as women go. She’s also the consummate professional. I have no doubt that all the orgasms I’ve doled out have been real—no one isthatgood a performer—but it doesn’t mean she’s into me.

I may not want anything serious here—after all, this pay-for-play relationship suits me down to the ground—but I really, really want to believe that she’s kissing me on a Friday morning on the stool of my grand piano because she’s digging it, not because I’m paying her to.

Only one way to find out. I need us both bare and on a bed. Usually, the client-hooker dynamic really gets me going, but today I just want to take this beautiful blonde upstairs and show her how good it can be when she’s with me.

‘Can I take you to bed?’ I mutter against her lips.

She gives a little hum of approval. ‘Mmm. Yes please.’

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