Filthy Beautiful Lies(#1#2)

Sophie

As my feet pound the pavement, my breath pushes past my parted lips and my underarms and lower back grow damp with perspiration. I’ve been here a week and it feels nice to be back in the familiar routine of jogging. I lose myself in the rhythm of my feet thumping dully against the pavement. Despite the heat, it feels good to use my body. My lungs scream at me, my muscles pushed to the limit and yet, I make a silent promise to myself. One more mile.

As I jog, my mind wanders to Colton as it so often does. My brain recalls and catalogs a million little facts about him. How warm he is curled around me at night, the heavy thud of his heartbeat against my back as he drifts off to sleep, the curious way he watches me move about his home like he enjoys seeing someone – me – in his space. There’s something I like about it too. I feel free from the constant worry over Becca. Of course I still think of her constantly, wondering about her treatment and pray that she’s going to be okay, but part of me likes not having to face it every day.

Despite his silence and relative disregard for me, there are lots of little things about my new master I’m growing fond of. The deep rasp of his sleep-laced voice in the morning, the way he always sets out a cup and saucer for my morning coffee before he leaves for work, the slow curl on his mouth when he treats me to a rare smile.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

He’s not an over-eager, fumbling man in anything he does. He’s sure, calculated and strong. Which to me is incredibly sexy. Remembering the soft brush of his mouth against mine the few times he’d kissed me, and the confident way he’d handled his large cock, placing it on my tongue and silently groaning out his release… all the muscles below my belly button clench and I fight to maintain my balance.

Even though I know I shouldn’t let my mind go there, I know he wouldn’t be anything like the teenage boys I dated in the past – with pizza breath and fumbling hands. He’d be confident and sure when he touched me. He is magnetic, charismatic and charming. It’s an irresistible combination and one that I’d be defenseless against – if it ever happened.

Even if I don’t understand this man, or his reasons for bringing me here, I appreciate his unexpected tenderness toward me. My living situation could be a lot worse and I’m grateful for him and for the money that means my sister has a fighting chance at life.

A slow smile uncurls on my lips as I realize I’ve passed the mile marker. With thoughts of Colton to distract me, running is a breeze.

As I circle back toward the house, I see Marta’s little red sportscar pulling away and she gives me a wave before zooming off down the driveway. I hadn’t known she was stopping over today. She usually comes in the mornings, checks on the work of the house staff and then leaves to do whatever it is she does for Colton.

When I reach the house, I stumble inside, grateful to feel the cool air conditioning against my overheated skin. I slump to the floor in the mudroom, sucking in deep breaths, and tug off both shoes. Colton’s suit coat is laying on the bench. He’s home? Maybe that explains Marta’s late afternoon visit. I know I should straighten my disheveled appearance – fix my ponytail that is half out already, but as I sit there trying to calm my ragged breathing, I get the sense of being watched.

“Hey there, sweetness,” Colton’s rich voice rasps over my flushed skin and my eyes jerk up to his. He’s leaning casually against the door frame, one ankle crossed over the other. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar and he looks both happy and relaxed. My eyes are unfortunately drawn to the front of his dress pants, which refuse to lay flat over the impressive bulge he sports. Heat flares up my spine as I wonder what he and Marta were up to. He’s never been home this early before, and I can’t help but think her being here isn’t just some random coincidence. “Have a nice run?” he asks, his dimple peeking at me from one cheek.

“Uh huh.” I nod, still utterly out of breath.

He enters the room, stepping closer and frowns down at the running shoes I’ve kicked off. I had my mom send me a package with a few things I missed from home. Mainly these shoes and my iPod for running. He toes one of the shoes, flipping it over, with a frown on his full lips. “These are what you wear to run?”

He checks for my reaction and I nod again. “They’re comfy.” I know they’re old but they do the trick. They’re worn in all the right places.

“There’s no tread left on them. No support. You need a new pair every few hundred miles. How long have you been running in these?”

I’m guessing “since high school” is the wrong answer. My parents bought me these when I joined the cross country team my senior year. “A while.”

“I’ll give you my credit card, you can order a new pair and have them delivered.” His tone is direct and there’s something I dislike about being told what to do. I’m here on my own accord, making my own choices. Running is one of them. “If I want a new pair of shoes, I’ll get them. I don’t need you buying me anything.”

His brows squeeze together like this is a foreign concept to him. Geez. Just because he has money, doesn’t mean I’m okay with using him or taking advantage of his hospitality. What kind of women did he date in the past?

“If I’m offering the help, why refuse it?” he asks.

“Because I like taking care of myself.” I silently add that I don’t need a man to provide all of my needs. Despite selling my body into this jacked up arrangement, I am a strong, smart, independent woman. I wouldn’t compromise on that.

He raises his hands in front of him in a silent peace offering. “Okay. I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to twist your ankle. These have no support left in them.”

His concern softens me. He offers me a hand, and I accept, letting him propel me off the floor and to my feet. Now that we’re standing face to face, I’m self-conscious about my sweaty skin – the droplets of perspiration that still clung to my upper lip and between my breasts. I want to ask him why he’s home early, but he distracts me, lifting a damp lock of hair from my neck and tucking it carefully behind my ear. The brush of his fingertips against my neck sends a chill zipping down my spine. His touch lingers there, stroking the column of my throat and my collarbone as if to test my reaction. His finger runs from my neck down to the tops of my breasts which heave with each ragged breath I draw into my overworked lungs.

“You need to understand you’re mine to look after,” he says, his voice rough and full of need.

That had never been explicitly part of our arrangement and we both know it. But somehow, along the way, his concern for me has grown. I’m not about to complain, I just stand here, transfixed by these new and developing feelings growing between us.

The rush of his fingertips against my hot skin force my eyelids to drift closed. Most of my life, everyone’s focus and attention had been on Becca – as it should be, but here, in his presence, I’m the one that matters. His attention feels nice.

But just as quickly as he began touching me, his hand drops away and he takes a step back.

“I’m going to shower,” I exhale.

He nods, still looking down at me like there’s more he wants to say.

I exit the mudroom and head for the stairs.