The Bargain With The Mistress's Brother

CHAPTER 008: I Have To Have Her

~~Damon~~

Friday nights are sacred. I’m out with my friends, Adrian and Shantelle, at a club, trying to get the week off my head. Adrian’s nursing his whiskey, swirling it, while Shantelle is already on her third cöcktail. Adrian is the best shot-shooter amongst us, but Shantelle always tries to prove a point. You can tell she’s getting wasted by how loud her voice has become.

“You know,” Shantelle says, “your sister must have had a golden püssy. How long did she even know the man?”

I shrug, taking a slow sip of my bourbon. “I don’t know. Never cared to ask when I saw her at the morgue.”

Adrian nearly chokes on his drink, trying to stifle a laugh, but Shantelle’s face twists in horror and disbelief.

“God, you’re cold,” she says.

“Not as cold as she was.”

Adrian bursts into laughter, while Shantelle glares at me.

“You’re a bästard, Damon,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“Yeah, well, you’ve known that for years.”

I lean back and let my eyes wander. It’s so easy to rile Shantelle up, and it’s one of the reasons I do it. I just have a thing for pissing off beautiful women—the ones I take to my bed at least. And Shantelle’s a beauty, no doubt about it. Her dark hair frames a face that’s all sharp angles and soft curves. She’s the kind of woman who can make a man feel like a king or cut him down to size with a single look. And she knows it.

We all met at Cambridge—Shantelle studying criminal justice, Adrian dreaming of becoming a chef, and me working toward a degree in real estate. Adrian had brought Shantelle to one of our hangouts, saying she’d helped him catch the thief who stole his gaming laptop. She was a firecracker even then, relentless and sharp, and we clicked. We’ve been friends ever since, navigating life’s twists and turns together.

Now, Shantelle’s a badass private investigator, Adrian owns a thriving restaurant, and I’m firmly entrenched in the real estate business world. No matter how thick our schedules get, we’ve always made time for Friday night fun.

I glance at Adrian, who’s grinning like an i***t. “What’s so funny?”

“Just you two,” he says, pointing between us with his glass. “You’re like an old married couple.”

Shantelle scoffs. “Please. If I were married to him, I’d have killed him by now.”

She turns her attention back to her drink, and Adrian leans in, his expression suddenly serious. “So, Damon, why would you want to keep the money? I mean, if I were in your shoes, I’d give it to her.”

“She’s annoying,” I say flatly. “I want her to work for it.”

Adrian shakes his head. “Is that the only reason? Because you’re annoying too, Damon.”

“And I’m working for my money.”

Shantelle has a weird look on her face. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” she asks.

“What?”

“You want to fück her.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “I do not—”

“Oh, come on,” Adrian says. “Give him a break. He met the woman two times. Why would he—”

“Need I remind you that I and Damon had sëx the first night we met?” Shantelle cuts him off.

Adrian looks genuinely scandalized. “That was different.”

“How so?”

“You’re...” Adrian gestures vaguely at her. “You’re hot.”

Shantelle rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t make sense. There’s no justifiable reason why he shouldn’t give her the money.”

“Her husband didn’t want her to have it,” I say.

Shantelle narrows her eyes. “He didn’t want you to have it either. Your sister must have done a spell on him. Some voödoo shït.”

“My sister was pretty,” I admit, “but it doesn’t make sense why he’d go for her with a wife like that.”

“So, she is, in fact, pretty?” Adrian asks.

I don’t answer immediately. My mind goes back to my encounter with Claire Montague—those piercing blue eyes, the way her hair tumbled down when I pulled out her bun, the defiance in her expression, those dimples, her moist lips. Yeah, she’s pretty. Infuriatingly so.

When I glance up, Shantelle is staring at me, her green eyes sharp and assessing.

“What is it?” I ask.

She doesn’t reply. Instead, she leans closer, her movements slow. When she’s close enough that her breath tickles my ear, she whispers, “Why don’t we go over to your place? I’m feeling kind of hörny right now.”

The words should light a fire in me—they usually do—but tonight, something’s different. Instead of Shantelle, I picture blonde hair, soft and cascading, and blue eyes filled with anger. The thought jolts me, and I pull back.

“I’m not feeling up to it today,” I say.

Her face hardens. “Assistant, you say? Why not go straight to the point and say you want to fück her?”

“Who?”

“Forget it,” she says, reaching for her bag and standing up.

Adrian looks up, confused. “Where are you going?”

“To get laid. Someone’s not fun today.”

Adrian and I watch her weave through the crowd, her departure leaving an awkward silence in her wake. He turns to me, eyebrows raised.

“What was that about? You’re dating now?”

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “I, myself, do not understand.”

“I’ve said this a million times: It’s a terrible idea to have constant sëx with someone you’re not in a relationship with. It never ends well.”

“That’s what we both agreed to. Friends with benefits.”

“That shït’s a myth,” Adrian says, draining his glass. “End it or get married. Someone’s going to get hurt soon. I don’t even know how you put up with her. She can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

“That’s how I like them.”

“Bïtches?”

“You should try one. It’s a different sort of pleasure.”

“No, thank you. I’ve never been particularly masöchistic.”

“Well, you’re missing out.” I stand, stretching. “I’m tired anyway. Gotta go.”

“Wait, you’re leaving too?”

“You got the bill covered?”

He shrugs. “It’s my turn anyway.”

“Right. I’m off.”

The night air is crisp as I step outside. My car waits in the lot, a black beast that matches my mood. As I slide into the driver’s seat, I realize I lied to Shantelle. I am, indeed, turned on. More than I’ve been in a long time.

And it’s her fault. Claire Montague, the blonde witch who stormed into Peter Whitmore’s office and called me an asshole. The memory of her fire, her defiance, stirs something primal in me, something I can’t shake.

I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening as I wrestle with the urge to drive to her house. I know the address. It’s in the will. I could go there and... what? Stalk her?

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head as I start the car.

The engine purrs to life, and I head home, the image of Claire’s blue eyes haunting me the entire way.

~~~

Back at the house, I dump my keys on the nightstand and lower myself onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands. My fingers thread through my hair, tugging lightly at the roots as if the sharp sting might reset my thoughts. It doesn’t. Instead, it only makes the ache worse.

The more I try to take my mind off her, the tighter my pants get at the crötch. It’s fücking ridiculous. I’m a grown man, not some hörny teenager fantasizing about his first crush. Yet here I am, unable to think of anything but her. That blonde hair, those electric blue eyes, the way she looks at me like I’m the devil himself.

Shït. I can’t go to bed like this.

I stand and start pacing the room. My mind is racing, but every road leads back to the same damn place: Claire Montague. God, she was alive, every inch of her radiating a kind of raw, unfiltered energy that I haven’t seen in years.

And now? Now she has me nursing an unending hard-on like some lovesick föol.

I groan and rub my face.

I’ve never been able to quench a fire started by another with the fluids of someone else.

I move to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink reflects a version of myself I hardly recognize—tension etched into every line of my face, eyes darker than usual, lips pressed into a thin, impatient line.

With a resigned sigh, I turn on the faucet. I splash water on my face, letting the cold shock my system. It helps, but not enough. My body is still tight, coiled with an intensity I can’t shake.

I lean forward, gripping the edge of the sink, and close my eyes. And there she is again, uninvited but impossible to ignore. Claire, with her perfect posture and piercing gaze, her hair falling loose around her shoulders after I pulled the hairband free.

I didn’t even mean to do it. It was a reflex, an instinct. But the way she looked at me afterward—confused, defiant, vulnerable all at once—it’s burned into my brain.

“Fück,” I say, pushing away from the sink. My hands are shaking, and my heart is racing like I’ve just run a marathon.

My hands move to my belt before I can stop them.

My eyes close, and I let the memory of her take over. Her voice. Her scent. Her hair, golden and soft, spilling over her shoulders in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch it again.

I imagine her here, sitting spread-eagled on the sink, those blue eyes daring me to make a move. She wouldn’t give in easily; that much I know. Claire isn’t the type to submit without a fight, and God help me, that only makes me want her more.

My breathing quickens. My dïck is already in my fist, wet with hand soap. My eyes remain closed as I think about her, that tight skirt and blouse that shows off her tïts. I'm imagining her on her knees in front of me, her mouth wrapped around my dïck.

My hand is moving up and down, squeezing tight, and I can feel myself tightening up, getting ready to blow. I'm grunting and groaning, the soap and my precüm mixing together on my palm. I'm thinking about her ass, how it looked in that skirt, and how I want to grab it, squeeze it, and take her from behind.

I'm so close, I can feel it.

I'm slowing down my strokes, trying to make it last, trying to savor the feeling of my impending orgäsm.

I want to make her scream my name. I imagine her naked, her tïts bouncing up and down as she rides me.

The thought is enough to push me over the edge.

"Fück, fück, fück," I whisper.

My ass clenches. My legs are trembling.

And then, it happens.

My body tenses as a low groan escapes my lips. I feel my cüm shooting out, splattering all over the sink, and I'm groaning as I ride the wave of my orgäsm.

As the high fades, reality crashes back in, heavier than before.

What the hell am I doing?

This isn’t me.

I don’t get hung up on women.

But as much as I hate to admit it, she’s under my skin now. And I’m getting hard again.

With a frustrated groan, I clean up the sink and head to the shower. Maybe the water will wash away whatever spell she’s cast on me.

But deep down, I know the truth.

This fire will never go away.

I have to have her.