Chapter 1
Chapter One
THERON
Emmie looks up at me from her place on her knees. It’s where I tend to keep her. Considering I don’t like to hear her talk, this keeps that mouth of hers full. Her lips are swollen and parted, waiting for my dick.
We’ve been fucking for a few months. I’m not tired of her yet, so I know she’s something different. She’s so eager to please me, ready to do and say as I wish. There is something intriguing about that.
I’ve never had a woman fall to her knees for me any minute of any day—any where .
“Open your mouth wider,” I demand.
She does, her body trembling with anticipation, and that’s when I sink down her throat. I bury myself as far as I can, watching as her eyes water when I pause. Reaching out, I wrap my fingers around the front of her throat.
Slowly, I pull almost completely out of her mouth, then sink back inside again, feeling her neck bulge against my fingers. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve experienced in a long time. The way my dick makes her throat move as I fuck her mouth… it’s sexy.
Closing my eyes, I continue to fuck her face. My back tenses and my balls draw up, signaling my imminent orgasm. It’s going to be great, too. Fucking Emmie’s mouth is always great.
Opening my eyes, I look down into hers right before I come down her throat. My cock twitches as I continue to empty inside of her. At the same time, my phone buzzes in my pocket. When I’m finished with my release, I take a step backward, zipping myself up before I reach for the device.
Leaving Emmie on her knees, I slide my thumb across the screen then bring my phone to my ear, keeping my gaze on hers.
“Henderson,” I grunt.
“I’ve got a little whisper of something,” Merrick says.
I don’t understand what exactly he’s referring to. He doesn’t say immediately either, so I’m forced to ask.
“What kind of whisper?” I ask.
He doesn’t speak right away. I can tell he is upset about this, and I don’t blame him. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about, and my stomach drops at the thought. Every time we speak about this part of our lives, it brings back memories that we have buried deep inside the recesses of our brains.
“It isn’t much, but I was at a club setting up equipment today and heard the owner murmuring. He said the name Ravet. You don’t hear that name every day.”
No, you certainly do not hear that name every day. And it’s one that I will never forget, not for a million years. It is seared into my brain. I will remember it and the way that just hearing it makes me feel until the day I die.
“How do we find out more?” I demand.
He stays quiet for a moment, then clears his throat. “I planted a device in the club’s office. I don’t know if we’re going to get anything from it, but I couldn’t just walk away from there.”
“Theron,” Emmie’s voice calls out from behind me.
Merrick chuckles but doesn’t say anything. He knows that Emmie and I have been together for a few months and that if I’m not working, I’m probably fucking her. He also knows that the only way we got the nightclub job was because she suggested it. She knows some of the people who work there.
Turning, I look over my shoulder at her. She’s standing in the hallway, her head inclined slightly, a pouty look on her lips, her eyes round and focused on mine. She doesn’t speak, her gaze searching mine as she waits for me to come to her.
“I’ll be in the office first thing. We’ll get everyone together to discuss this,” I grind out.
“I’ll make the calls.”
Ending the call, I shove my phone back in my pocket. I no longer have the urge to continue the night with Emmie. But after fucking her mouth the way I did, I can’t just walk away from her, either, or she’ll be bitchy about it. And I’m not in the mood to be bitched out in any capacity.
“Was that work?” she asks.
I hum, turning to face her completely. I don’t confirm or deny that it was work. It’s not her business. Being with her doesn’t have anything to do with my job, and it doesn’t need to. This is so far separated from my job it’s not even funny.
The fact that she even was part of the deal with the nightclub was far too fucking close for comfort. I have no desire to mix the two.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
She pokes her bottom lip out, attempting to look disappointed. I’m sure she is to a point, but I also don’t think she gives much of a fuck, either. This is nothing but a manipulation tactic. I think most of her disappointment is about the fact that my attention isn’t on her for the moment.
“Well, come to bed, baby,” she purrs. “You can work later.”
Shoving my hand in my pocket, I grip my phone, then release it and make my way toward her. As much as I want to tell her that I’m leaving, that I’m not in the place to finish the night out, I decide that instead of trying to find an excuse to leave or tell her anything, I’m going to have to see the night through.
I’m going to do what I always do.
I’m going to shove everything down, lock it into a compartment, and then pretend I’m fine.
That is what I do.
Turning toward the hall, I follow behind Emmie, who is stripping off a piece of clothing and throwing it on the floor as she moves into the room. By the time I reach the bedroom, she’s completely naked and in the center of the bed. Her knees sink into the pink bedding beneath her, and all I can see is her smooth back facing me.
Taking my clothes off completely, I close my eyes as I wrap my hand around my cock and gently stroke myself. When I open my eyes, I stare at the curve of her back before closing them again.
But the moment my eyes close, all I can do is imagine another’s back. A different ass. Another woman. I should not be thinking of her . That ship sailed a long time ago.
But I don’t think I will ever forget her, or the way she looked, and especially not the way she felt. It’s been a decade, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get this woman out of my mind.
She’s seared into my brain, or maybe she’s like a parasite that has invaded me and is feeding off of me.
Either way, Lucille Sanders is part of my DNA.
She always will be.
LUCILLE
Emmie Grant.
Twenty-four years old.
She’s younger than me by two years. Bitch .
It didn’t take me long to figure out her name. All I had to do was follow her around for a day and find out where she worked. An art gallery. But now that I have it, I have to search for anything and everything that I can about her.
It’s not a want.
The desired information is a need.
I simply need to know everything I possibly can about her. There is no way I can even sleep without figuring out every minute detail about her. I want to know what she eats, where and how she exercises. I need to know who does her hair, where she gets her nails manicured—everything.
Emmie Grant was born and raised in Nights. She went to the same high school as me, too. Except, I don’t remember her or anyone with that name. She would have been a freshman when I was a junior. How could I have gone to school with her for two years and not remember at least her name?
I always made it my business to be as nosey as possible and know who and what is going on around campus at that age. So, I can’t imagine that I wouldn’t have at least heard this girl’s name in passing. It shouldn’t bother me, but it’s seriously irking me.
Narrowing my eyes, I type her name into my social media search bar and wait for her picture to appear. Because there is no way she doesn’t have some kind of presence online, I’m going to do anything and everything I can to get this woman out of Theron’s life.
She’s not good enough for him.
Just like the last five women who shared his bed on a regular basis, they were not good enough for him, either. Not to stick around anyway. They weren’t worthy of him. I am the only person who understands who Theron is. I know what he needs and the way he needs it.
And I am the only one who can give him what he needs.
Just me.
Nobody else.
My eyes search her profile. It’s not even private. She wants people to see what she’s doing. She wants me to see what she is doing. Where she’s going, what she’s eating, and what she’s feeling. She tells everyone everything about her life, almost as if she’s keeping a diary.
She is just asking for me to look at every aspect of her life and involve myself. That’s fine with me because that’s what I’m going to be doing. And then I’m going to ruin her, completely and totally ruin her. She will be nothing but a ball of squishy flesh when I’m finished with her.
I create a fake profile using a fake name, but one that is close enough to my real name that it makes people second-guess. It sounds familiar, if nothing else. Next, I grab some stock pictures and upload them, along with some object pictures, and then make an announcement on my page that this is my new profile because my old one was hacked.
I start adding local people as friends. Making sure to add people from the four years that I was in high school, people who I know in real life and some I don’t. Then I add a few people from other states, because nobody just knows people locally. We’ve all had acquaintances who have moved away over the years.
Sitting back, I refresh, watching as person after person blindly accepts my friend requests, and when I have over one hundred, I add Emmie. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I stand up from my laptop and walk into the kitchen.
Opening the kitchen cabinet, I reach for a stemless wineglass, then open the bottle of wine on my counter and pour myself a glass. Before I do anything else, I take my phone out of my pocket and snap a picture.
Then I log into my new fake account and post the picture with the caption beneath it:
Dinner of champs.
#alldaywineday #coffecoffeewinewine #dinnertime
Wrapping my fingers around the wineglass, I walk back over to my sofa and take a sip before I set it on the side table and bring my computer back to my lap. Within minutes of my post, I have ten likes and a few comments.
I continue looking for people to add to my list, then I add my real account, and just before I get ready to close my computer down and take a break from stalking, Emmie accepts my request.
Score.