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“Um…” I begin.
“Do you know my dad?” he asks, and my heart sinks.
What the fuck is this? Nathaniel has a son? Does he have a wife tucked somewhere after all? Was all of this just a torrid affair?
Fuck. Am I the other woman?
I look at Micah, who’s studying me with big eyes that remind me far too much of his father’s. He seems unsure of me, and I can’t blame him.
I’ve been there.
Seven years old, walking into my dad’s office at his old job, surprising him with the muffins I’d made. I’d opened the door, and the first thing I’d seen was his secretary, Marlene, bent over his desk, my dad standing behind her, thrusting and grunting. Their focus hadn’t been on me, or the door, and I’d left before either of them realized I was there.
My mom had been waiting in the car for me.
I didn’t tell her. Didn’t even know what I’d seen, really, except to know that it was wrong. I’d never looked at my dad the same way again, and, a few years later, Mom had passed. I’ve never forgiven him.
I blink, forcing myself back to the present. This changes everything. I can’t continue our arrangement. I won’t fuck Nathaniel if there’s an innocent child in the mix who could be hurt by what we’re doing together.
A wife. He probably has a wife somewhere. Or a girlfriend. So not only am I being paid to sleep with him, whether he wanted to admit it or not, but I’m also probably a home wrecker.
I hate myself more than a little when the realization hits me.
“Where’s my dad?” Micah asks shyly.
“He’s at work. I’m going to go get dressed, and then I’ll take you to him. Okay?”
Micah nods. “Okay.”
“Are you hungry?” I ask. I don’t know why. It just seems like the sort of thing you should ask a kid. Something normal, other than “Sorry I’m screwing your daddy.”
He shakes his head.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” I head into the bedroom and close the door, then rest my head on it as I try to get myself under control. I want to cry. I want to punch Nathaniel Stone in his stupid perfect face.
Most of all, I want to pretend none of this ever happened.
Chapter Ten
Nathaniel
I stand there, half listening as Vanessa prattles about a show she saw, some resort she went to, and shopping, shopping, shopping. I glance at her, taking in her thick red cascade of hair, her slick red lips and very nicely enhanced curves. But today, it’s doing absolutely nothing for me. And I realize why most of the time I spent with Vanessa was in bed, where the only words she bothered with were, “Yes,” “More,” and “Harder.” I hide a grimace. Today, of course, she’s not here as one of my favorite fuck buddies, but as an artist my gallery is launching this evening. More importantly, perhaps she’s standing here as the wife of one of my best, wealthiest clients.
Why we even started our secret trysts eludes me now. Although, even as I begin to think about it, the answer is coming. Something to do with Danneel… the loneliness of being alone… the need to touch and be touched…
“Hey, boss.” I turn to the doorway leading into the gallery and see Bruce, dressed in his usual gray uniform. A pang of guilt hits me, and I try not to let it show. “Vanessa’s paintings are all in the exhibition room. Do you need me to do anything else with them?”
“No, Bruce. That’s perfect. Thank you.”
He gives me a grin and a small wave, and another, harder pang of guilt hits me. I was fucking his daughter not even an hour ago, and I’ve done absolutely filthy things to her over the last couple of weeks. When I’m between Poppy’s thighs, the last thing I think about is how great and loyal her father is an employee. When I’m sucking her clit and making her scream my name, the thought of the potential, very nasty, very public lawsuit that could come from this doesn’t even enter my mind. Conflict of interest doesn’t even begin to describe it, yet I can’t seem to bring myself to care. Spanking her sweet ass, seeing my handprints on her gorgeous, smooth skin… I don’t think about much at all during those moments, except for how much I want Poppy.
Vanessa keeps talking as if Bruce hadn’t been there at all. She’s very good at ignoring things that she considers beneath her interest. For all of her talent artistically, as well as in the sack, she has a personality that’s distinctly lacking.
And what does it say about me that, until recently, I never even gave that fact a second thought?
“It’s been a while, hot stuff,” Vanessa says in a low, sultry tone. She reaches out and runs her fingertips over the edge of my tie, long red nails gently scraping along my chest. “What’s been keeping you so busy lately?” she asks with a faux pout.
