Page 28 of Painted Truths

Even in the dimly lit room and after all this time, I'd still know him anywhere. My mind whirls in unparalleled shock as he opens his bright green eyes, pupils blown wide, landing on me, the voyeur in the doorway, before I spin on my heel and run as fast as I can.

CHAPTER NINE

Henry

I'd had the day from hell. My monthly visit to the step monster went swimmingly. Warning her, yet again, she's overspending on her more-than-generous stipend always goes down like a lead balloon.

At least it's over and done with until next month, although I'd be pleased as punch if she could do me a huge favour and die in the meantime.

My ex-nanny turned stepmother is possibly the bane of my existence, with good fucking reason. Her faults are many, not least of all that she'd conned my grieving father into getting her pregnant and marrying her when my mother was barely cold in her grave.

A blind man could see he had loved my mum with his whole heart, so my father's revelation had made a hell of a lot of sense. My parents were each other's soulmates, and the little bits I remember of our life together as a family are the only bright places in my darkened, heavily fortified heart.

A heart that Lauren had been the one to blacken with her poison. I'd avoided seeing the bitch since I'd left before Uni, but since my father had bestowed me the gracious gift of holding her financial purse strings, I now had the unwelcome task of facing my demons monthly.

Lauren had everything she could possibly want; a mansion in the countryside that no one visited other than the entire staff she insisted upon keeping. As many jaunts abroad as she could manage, excessive clothes, cars. Anything. But in true Lauren style, everything is never enough, and the DeMarco name means she can find creditors everywhere willing to feed her need for more.

Doubtless, she's milking my half-brother's inheritance, too, though, with our precarious relationship, it's not as though I've been able to ask him.

There's also the fact she insists on referring to me as Enrico. A fact that wouldn't bother me, seeing as she's always preferred the Italian variation of my name. The difference now is that the crazy bitch is adamant that I am my deceased father.

I'll admit, the resemblance is most assuredly there, and while I've long known her to defy reality in favour of her own gains, at this point, her delusion is nothing more than an enormous pain in the ass.

When she sees me, she sees him and, depending on the day's humour, I'm subjected to the gamut of interactions.

Last month's meeting resulted in an antique vase flying past my head and smashing to pieces on the driveway. Today consisted of her stripping down to her underwear and barring the door closed. You never know what she'll pull, and after two fucking years of it and a quarter of a goddamned century of that bitch in my life, I was done.

I am beyond done. And have been for a long time now.

On top of the shitshow that is visiting that cunt, Alex had fucked an acquisition stateside earlier today, so now, I must be in New York first thing tomorrow morning to fix his cock-up.

After two years now, I feel that we are in a good place. And by that, I mean my brother can just about stand to be in the same room as me without openly scowling anymore. So, I think we are on the right track.

Barely.

And I'll just have to continue to bury all thoughts of his girl down deep, knowing full well she's out of my reach.

I've heard him talk about his nights with Peaches, or Liv as he calls her, often, and though the urge to reach out has always been undeniable, I've restrained myself, knowing that she firmly belongs to my brother.

No one needs to know how I came so close to letting her in that night two years ago. Hell, she was the first and only woman I've kissed since… her.

But the desire to reconcile with my sibling is so strong that even if that means backing off from the first woman to make my long-deceased heart beat since my mother died… well, then, yeah, I'd just have to continue through life as I always have.

So, I was stressed. And needed to blow off some steam.

Badly.

My usual Macallan 64 wasn't cutting it. And I didn't have the time, nor the inclination, if I'm honest, to organise a last-minute blowie at Valentine's. And so, I'd rang down to Andi, the lacklustre Office Manager on the twenty-fifth floor who is always more than willing to make time for me.

Her mouth is like a fucking hoover, and it isn't long before I'm really going at it as I fuck her face harder and harder, her throat gagging around my length repeatedly.

Making her play with her pussy as her mouth takes the punishing pace I'm giving to her sends a ripple of pleasure down my spine, and I'm close. So close.

I groan deep in my chest. Almost there, I see movement in my peripheral vision, which is somewhat distorted with being balls deep in Andi's mouth. My eyes locking with navy blues, I hold her head steady and ram my hips flush with her distended face, coming in thick, hot jets, which she swallows only too eagerly.

Peaches!

It takes a moment for my vision to clear, and as it does, I swear I see a flash of blonde hair swish in the open doorway before I blink heavily, and it's gone.