Page 21 of The Sham
I park my car, take a quick shower, and then sit at my desk, reviewing the photos of the other candidates I met today. But it only frustrates me more. Brooklyn’s the only one I want.
Realizing how stressed I am, I roll my shoulders to release some tension. This damn image cleanup campaign my family tossed me into has completely messed up my lifestyle. I’m out of my element. No drinking. No one-nighters. Acting like a respectable executive and ambassador for the company. I might owe it to my family, but I don’t have to like it.
Holding bogus auditions for a wife was a dick move, admittedly, but what the hell was I supposed to do? I need a decent, respectable woman to be my wife and prove that I’ve changed—but I don’t know any respectable women. Thumbing through my list of contacts—hundreds of them—only left me empty-handed. Not one of those girls was wife material. And then Brooklyn walked in and she almost had me on my knees.
How the hell am I supposed to consider any other woman for my bride after seeing her again?
I want her for this fake marriage.
I want her. Period.
She didn’t seem to remember me, though. Which is probably for the best, considering what I did to her all those years ago. But it only took a few minutes into our interview before I texted the receptionist to clear all the other candidates from the waiting room. I’d already decided that no matter what, Brooklyn Moss was going to agree to be my wife.
I stretch again, but the tightness in my shoulders only gets worse. I’m in comfy sweatpants, leaned back in my desk chair, but I still feel wound up. Shirtless and barefoot, I carry my laptop into the den, settle onto the couch, and flip it open again. I haven’t been able to get Brooklyn’s image out of my mind, and the memory of our night together three years ago plays on repeat, heating my blood.
No wonder I’m so damn tense. I haven’t fucked in days, and the one woman I’ve never forgotten is back. Those wicked dimples, those high, firm breasts. My mouth waters just remembering the taste of her sweet pussy as I spread her open on my kitchen table.
I haven’t used that damn table since.
Sinking back into the couch cushions, I open my web browser and pull up a bookmark of Brooklyn’s Insta account. Her perfect images pop up and I scroll through them absently, one by one. Her life in California looks amazing. The photos are aesthetically pleasing and perfectly arranged. They don’t seem staged or fake like so many do, though. There’s a real, visceral aspect to her photography, as if she’s purposely trying to put you right there in the photo so you can be in the moment, too.
I have to admit, it burns me that she didn’t remember me. Just how many men have come and gone in her life that I was so easily forgotten? My nostrils flare as I think of her parade of men. But I shut it down. I’ve done the same with women. It’s no secret that I fuck as often as I can. I’m suddenly aggravated and edgy and I know it’s from thinking of her with other men.
Like this guy that she’s always with. I scroll through a few more photos. I see him again and again, in pic after pic, from social events to trips to the beach. But he’s always slightly turned away, just stepping out of frame, or wearing sunglasses, so I never get a clear look at his face. I’m sure he’s tagged somewhere, but I’m not going to dig. I’ve visited her social media pages enough in the last three years to know that whoever he is, he’s important to her somehow—but if they were a couple, I’m sure she never would have talked to me about marriage.
At least, I don’t think she would have.
Fuck.
I want her and it’s driving me mad. I close her social media and pull up my cloud account, then the unlabeled file I have buried there. Brooklyn’s image from that fashion show three years ago pops up, her lithe body wrapped in that strappy black designer dress, her heels tall and making her legs look killer. I’d nearly ripped the hem of that dress when I’d yanked it over her hips to devour her willing pussy.
My cock stirs at the memory.
I’ve kept these images all this time, burying them as if I could forget her and the fuck-hot sex we’d had. There’d been so much I’d wanted to do to her that night. My hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing gently while I fucked her. Her wrists, tied to my bed, her legs spread far apart, ankles bound so she had no choice but to lay there and take my cock. But once I was inside her, all my plans went out the window. All I could focus on was how good she felt, all my energy going into holding back the orgasm that threatened from the moment I slid into her.
She’d been so willing, so ready, so visibly turned on by my every touch. I know she would have done anything I’d asked.
My hand slides over my abdomen, my fingers working below the waist of my sweatpants. I’m so hard that it’s mildly painful. I need to fuck—I’ve never gone this many days without it before. Looking at Brooklyn’s photos is sending me over the edge.
Christ.
I grip my cock with urgency and give a few long strokes. It’s like something in me snaps, and I just need to come as hard and fast as I can. I need the pressure and the tension gone, and fuck, I need Brooklyn to do it. Quickly, I pull down my sweatpants. Precum lubes the head of my dick as I stroke, swirling the fluid around until my cock is slick and hot in my hand. Eyes riveted to her photo on the screen, the glistening sheen of her open mouth, I stroke my shaft and squeeze around the head. Her lips should be here, sucking me off and taking me deep in her throat.
God, yes. Her dark eyes looking up at me while she takes my entire cock in her mouth. She’d opened so wide to take me in, so hungry for me, scraping me lightly with her teeth.
I pump faster, working more slick precum where I need it the most. I’d push her over the kitchen table and pull that perfect ass back against me, spread her thighs to bury myself deep inside her. I imagine taking a handful of her hair and pulling her head back while I fuck her. Driving into her, over and over while she cries out, her pussy clenching tight around me.
Fuck. My balls get tight, my shaft swelling. I hold her image in my mind. I remember the sounds she made while I feasted on her, how her wetness burst into my mouth.
With a groan, I spill hot and wet over my hand. I give a few short jerks until every drop is out of me. I stay just as I am until my vision clears and my breathing slows, and I have to close the laptop to stop looking at her. This isn’t the first time I’ve jerked off to her image like some helpless, horny teenager. And now that she’s back in Chicago, probably right down the Magnificent Mile, I have the sense my need for her is only going to get worse.
I lean back and let out a long breath, letting the memories fade until I’m completely relaxed. The tension is gone, but I know it won’t last long. I need to follow up that hard orgasm with another hot shower. Reluctantly, I get up and pull on my pants, then wander slowly through the house toward my master bath.
The doorbell rings when I’ve almost reached my room, which means someone is waiting in the elevator that opens directly into my home. Normally the attendant downstairs buzzes to let me know someone is on their way up. I turn on the security camera that allows me to look into the elevator when it reaches my floor.
Speak of the devil.
I immediately tap a code into the keypad next to the elevator doors. They whoosh open and Brooklyn Moss strides out like she owns the place.
