The Pretend Boyfriend 3 (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male) Page 2

  They have been doing it bareback for some time. Since when, he can’t be sure – but it’s an unspoken tacit understanding between them that he wasn’t fucking anyone else, and she wasn’t either. The moment he rolls on a condom, she would know he’s fucking someone else.

  He tips his head back, and lets out a guttural groan as she sheathes his cock with the wonderful glove of her pussy.

  “God, you feel so good,” he hisses between clenched teeth.

  For answer, she buries her face in the crook of his neck and starts to move against his hips. Up, down – the familiar sliding sensation of velvety flesh around his most sensitive area.

  They both moan in unison – in his practiced concert they know so well. She varies the tempo of her movements. She knows he likes variation. Sometimes she would do it fast, and sometimes she would slow down – letting him recover with kisses and moans upon her neck and cheeks.

  And all this time, she clenches his hot column with her pussy muscles. He thrusts his hips upwards to meet hers just as she grinds herself downwards upon him. He allows himself to build and build, sensing that he needs quick release.

  His balls twitch.

  “God, I’m really going to come inside you,” he warns.

  “Come,” she says simply. She seems to be very close herself to the threshold.

  He holds back, restraining himself until he hears her gasp. She throws her head back and chokes out a guttural cry. It is then he allows himself to erupt. A long, continuous stream of hot cum gushes out of his tip and froths into her pussy – that wonderful tunnel of mind-bending pleasure he has come to worship.

  He bucks into her. His buttocks squeeze, jettisoning trails of live-giving semen into her. Deep, deep, until he’s practically goring at the orifice of her cervix with the edge of his cock.

  Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!

  She collapses on top of him – all wet limbs and limp hair and cold, clammy flesh. He feels his muscles relax in the aftermath. They hold on to each other, and he nudges her neck with his lips. She does the same to him.

  Like almost love.

  Her cellphone outside the door buzzes. It’s a ringtone he hasn’t heard before. Her head rises from his shoulder. He catches a glimpse of her eyes. They are suddenly shaken . . . concerned.

  She makes to pull herself off him, but he catches her arms.

  “Don’t go. Let it ring.”

  “I have to get this,” she murmurs.

  “Why? What’s so important?”

  “Gym stuff.” She appears to be in a hurry. She doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

  With a twinge of irrational jealousy, he wonders if it’s Thor who is calling her. It’s ‘Gym stuff’ all right.

  Still, he lets go of her. He has no claim on her. He has to keep telling himself that.

  “Call me when you get back,” he says. She didn’t even say she was going out. He just assumes she is.

  “OK.” She gives him a bright, too-quick smile, and exits the door, still very naked.

  He watches her retreating back as she closes the door tightly shut on him, and spends the next ten minutes trying to suppress the dark thoughts that stir within his brain.

  3

  Sam sees the missed call number on her cellphone display. Her heart skips a beat. She quickly dresses without toweling off, and uck! – she’s wet everywhere. Brian’s delicious semen is still leaking from her pussy, staining the insides of her thighs. Pity, but she really, really has to take this.

  Finally!

  After almost two and a half months of trying, this is the first call she has received from Delilah Faulkner. She almost trips in her haste as she rushes through the gym into her office. She shuts the door, her pulse beating wildly.

  She presses ‘dial’.

  Since her ‘chance’ encounter with Delilah at the manicurist’s, the woman has proven largely elusive. Sam engineered another chance encounter at a grocer’s she knew Delilah patronized. After that, they promised to catch up and exchanged numbers. But Delilah backed off at the last minute from something Sam had planned, citing ‘family problems’.

  Sam found herself wondering many times throughout those two months if Delilah had had her followed. After all, two could play at the same game of private detective. And yet, if Delilah knew that Sam was Brian Morton’s lover, why didn’t she blow the whistle? Or is she playing Sam along, waiting for the right moment to strike?

  No, no, no, perish the thought. Delilah Faulkner wouldn’t do anything illegal now that her court case date has been set. She wanted justice, and she would be getting it through legitimate means, even if it meant bringing down an innocent man whose greatest crime was promiscuity, and who was so psychologically traumatized by the whole thing that he didn’t even dare to revisit the possibility that he might have been framed.

  And thus, Sam has to do it for him.

  But now, Delilah is calling, and Sam is returning her call. The thump-thump-thump of her heart against her ribcage vibrates her hand, and therefore her cellphone. Her clothes cling to her sticky skin.

  Come on, come on . . . answer.

  Delilah picks up at the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  “Delilah? It’s Samantha. Samantha Adamston here.” Sam doesn’t quite trust her voice not to squeak. She did not use her real name, but her mother’s. She didn’t want to be that easy to track down. “I saw your missed call on my display.”

  “Yes.” The voice on the other end is tentative, hesitant. “I was wondering . . . if we could go to a movie. There’s this new one with Emma Stone I wanted to see.”

  Sam holds her breath. “Why . . . yes. Sure. I’ve wanted to watch that one too.”

  “OK. Meet me at the AMC North Michigan box office tonight at eight.”

  “Great. Um, do you want to catch dinner first? There’s a Creole restaurant of sorts on the second floor of the cineplex. I’ve always wanted to try that.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got stuff to do before that. I’ll see you at eight. Upstairs.”

  “OK. See you.”

  Sam rings off, the blood thundering in her ears.

  She sees a shadow standing outside the frosted glass of her office door. She hastily puts her cellphone into her back pocket and strides to the door. She opens it.

  Brian stands outside, still naked. He’s toweling his hair, and his body still wears some residual wetness from some areas he has forgotten to wipe off.

  “Problems with the gym?” he says mildly.

  “Nothing important. I’ve got an . . . appointment tonight, so I can’t do dinner.”

  He’s silent for a moment, and then he smiles. She wishes he doesn’t look so eminently fuckable, but he does.

  “Have a good time then,” he says, with a hint of undertones. He doesn’t ask with whom she has an appointment with, but she knows him too well. He suspects she’s hiding something.

  “Thanks.” She kisses him on the lips. “I have to go now. See you tomorrow? Opening day?”

  “You betcha.”

  She gropes his flaccid cock, and in her palm, it becomes semi-turgid once again. Damn, she wishes she can stay, but there’s so much to do and so little time.

  The court case is in a month’s time, and the public has already hung Brian Morton. She has exactly four weeks to prove them – and Brian’s guilty subconscious – wrong.

  4

  Ten blocks away from their gym, Brian drives past Fitness Worx and sees the giant banner strung above their wide door. The place is huge, of course, with three floors of gym equipment and even a pool. He had checked them out before, and found the recruiters greedy and impersonal – too involved in securing your signature on the dotted line and less in finding out your needs and gym goals.

  But the place is impressive, nonetheless.

  ‘50% off recruitment fees,’ the banner proclaims in bold, black letters. The parking lot at Fitness Worx is packed to the brim with cars.

  No wonder Shape is having problems with recruitment. He wonders if they had
made a mistake opening so close to Fitness Worx, and but it was the only place large enough that was available, and besides . . . it was Sam’s dream. He isn’t going to stand in the way of it.

  They’d make it work, dammit.

  He steps on the gas pedal to move the car faster. He hasn’t given up his black Ferrari. He doesn’t think he will get a good resale value on it.

  He drives another ten blocks and valet parks at Crisco’s, a chophouse he sometimes frequents for lunch. He likes the Porterhouse there. He walks in, feeling just a little self-conscious as the waiter eyes him up and down.

  “Would it be a table for one, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  He has to get over this irrational feeling that everyone knows who he is and what he has done. It has gotten worse as the trial date approaches, even though the newspapers have long since dropped the speculations. He’s not enough of a celebrity to keep the gossip mill going.

  The waiter picks up one menu. “This way, please.”

  The chophouse is crowded. The low murmurs of talking patrons at every table fill the atmosphere, which is scented with the tangy aroma of barbecued beef ribs and sizzling steaks. Is it his imagination or is everyone surreptitiously sizing him up?

  He blinks, trying to clear his head.

  The waiter draws up a chair to a table for two in a corner. “Please have a seat, sir. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  That’s when Brian sees her. Right across the room, dining with a silver-haired gentleman who has a stack of documents on the table beside his plate.

  Red hair. Grey eyes. Flawless complexion.

  He freezes.

  She looks up and sees him too. The air in the room suddenly turns frigid.

  Delilah Faulkner’s face contorts, and before Brian can involuntarily back out of his chair, she points to him, opens her mouth like a banshee, and screams.

  He is hurtled backward by the force of her distress. It is as though the air between them has contracted and become a pummeling bag. She is screaming as though he is the Phantom of the Opera, the Antichrist made flesh in this suddenly stunned restaurant of diners.

  The waiters rush to Delilah. Her chair is upturned and her dining companion is equally stunned. He looks towards Brian, and does a double take. The diners around their table fling themselves out of their chairs, leaving their half-eaten meals on their plates. It’s literally pandemonium in here.

  Brian recovers enough of his senses to back out of the restaurant. His face is ashen and his pulse flutters at his throat like a tiny siren. As soon as he hits the exit, he pushes a twenty at the valet, grabs his car keys, and speeds off, his tires screeching.

  If this is the way it’s going, in a month’s time, he will be so screwed.

  He drives around for a while, not taking in where he is, and with his appetite completely gone. After a while, he pulls up at the side of a road. His hands are trembling so badly that he can hardly feel them on the wheel. His mind is an endless churn – of flotsam, of dregs from the past, of vignettes from his uncertain future.

  Oh God, I’m going to prison.

  The reality – a reality he has shelved in the backburner of his brain because it was too painful to think about – slams into him like a screaming train. All this – the vista of gaily decorated stores and people thronging the sidewalks, going about their mostly unriveting lives – is about to be taken away from him. Only a few months ago, he was at the pinnacle of his life. He had a stellar career, a family who cared for him (of sorts), and more women who were willing to throw themselves in his bed that he could count.

  The fall is a long, long way down, and the pavement looks extremely painful.

  Still shaking, he picks up his cellphone and dials a preprogrammed number. If he scrolls down his dialing list, he knows that it would be recorded that he had dialed this number several times, but never had the courage to see the call through. He had rung off several times when the voice on the other end said ‘Hello?’

  It’s something he thought he would never be doing. Someone he thought he would never have to see again . . . after so many years.

  This time, he lets it ring.

  The line connects.

  “Hello?” the voice on the other end says. “Dr. Robertson’s office.”

  Brian’s voice comes out strangled. “H-hello? I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Robertson, please. It’s urgent. I don’t think I’m in very good shape right now. Tell him it’s Brian Morton.” Pause. “Yes, he knows who I am.”

  5

  The movie was so-so, despite Emma Stone’s best efforts to save it. Sam had not heard about the incident at the chophouse, so she assumes all is well with Delilah.

  As this is their first outing together, Sam is on her friendliest behavior – the one she usually puts on when she wants to impress a new client. She’s treading water very carefully. Too friendly, and you’d spook Delilah – the former Adele Jankovic. Too standoffish, and you run the risk of never having her see you again.

  It’s almost like a first date, the way she’s going about it.

  After the movie, they decide to go to an all-night diner for milkshakes. Only they are not really having milkshakes. Sam is on a diet. She has to watch her weight because she now runs a gym, and it wouldn’t do for a gym owner to resemble something out of a Pillsbury carton.

  Delilah is . . . well, slim.

  Sam tries to maintain the semblance of being relaxed, though inside – her pulse is going tappity-tap, tappity-tap, as it does every time she isn’t sure she’s going to land a client’s account. Or in this case, it’s only the rest of Brian’s life.

  Yeah, try not to let the pressure leak through your smiling teeth.

  “So, Samantha, what do you do?” Delilah says.

  It’s a casual question. A get-to-know-you question, but to Sam, it feels like an opening salvo being torpedoed right into her chest.

  “I’m an accounts exec at Sapphire.” Well, she used to be, before she was so unceremoniously retrenched. “What do you do?”

  Funny she should notice it now, but Delilah’s facial skin is as tight as a drum. Definitely surgery.

  “I work for Frontier. It’s a new company specializing in pharmaceuticals.”

  Yes, I know, Sam thinks.

  “Pharmaceuticals? You mean like aspirin and stuff?”

  “No, we’re lot more advanced than that.” For a moment, Delilah seems almost eager, and then she reins herself back in. “Well, we do cardiovascular and diabetic drugs and there are some therapies we are trying out for Parkinson’s.”

  “That’s so cool.” Sam is being truthful. “So, do you live alone or do you have a boyfriend?”

  Yup, she’s definitely aiming for casual.

  “I have no boyfriend,” Delilah says lightly. “Broke up with the last one three years ago, and haven’t been with anyone since.”

  “No kidding. Someone who looks like you?” Delilah really does look great, even if a bit artificial. But what isn’t artificial anymore? Even artificial flowers look greater than real ones . . . sometimes. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like I’m trying to flatter you, but you really do. I mean it.”

  Even she can hear the sincerity in her voice.

  Delilah leans forward. “I don’t really like men all that much.”

  “Really?” Sam frowns. “You mean you’re a lesbian?”

  She’s aware that she too may be giving off lesbianic vibes, the way she’s laying it thick about Delilah’s looks.

  Delilah snorts. “No, I’m not a lesbian, even though I’ve experimented. Who hasn’t, right? After all, you never can tell which side of the fence you fall onto . . . or maybe even both.” Her eyes flash a wicked gleam that makes Sam a tad uncomfortable. “I just mean I’m through with men. Their lying, empty promises. I’ve been hurt too many times to let them make the cuts on my wrist anymore.”

  That is an odd thing to say, Sam thinks.

  She says carefully, “Did anyone . . . hurt you
. . . enough for that to happen?”

  Delilah arrests her gaze for a long time, before murmuring, “Once, maybe, a long time ago . . . but not anymore. Nowadays, if anyone tries to hurt me, I just get even. What is it Ivana Trump once said? ‘Don’t get even, get everything’. Yeah, I can subscribe to that.”

  She laughs softly.

  A mild shudder worms down Sam’s spine. She suppresses it.

  “What about you?” Delilah says. “Any boyfriend?”

  Her eyes are attentive upon Sam’s face, as if she’s watching every twitch, every tic. Heat climbs up Sam’s collar.

  “No,” she replies truthfully. “I used to have one, but we broke up.”

  “Cheating? Lying?”

  Incompatibility.

  To force the camaraderie of shared ground, Sam says, “Yeah, something like that.”

  Delilah smiles, as if she knows more than what Sam is letting on.

  She declares, “The only good thing about men is the sex.”

  “Hear, hear,” Sam says, laughing.

  They raise their ice lemon teas and clink glasses. Sam feels her tensed muscles relaxing. They make more small talk about movies and theatre and stuff they generally like. Then Sam carefully makes the move to apartments.

  “Where do you live?” she asks, even though she knows full well where Delilah lives.

  Delilah smiles mysteriously. “In a secret bat cave with my butler and handsome blond sidekick. Why do you want to know?”

  Sam is taken aback. But she recovers quickly. “Just making talk. I just bought a new apartment myself.” She gives the address, hoping Delilah would not think anything of it.

  Of course, if Delilah were to tail her with a private investigator, just as she had done, it would be easy to note that Brian Morton – the very object of Delilah’s accusation – spends the night there every now and again. But Sam doesn’t think Delilah would tail her. She’s not the object of suspicion. Yet.

  Or maybe I’m getting paranoid.

  Come on, Sammie. You’ve got to be strong for Brian.

  They continue to talk into the night. Sam tries to steer the topic of conversation back to boyfriends. She’s pussyfooting around, dipping her toe into dangerous waters. One false move, and she’d be outed.