Chapter 59
The limo hadn't even left the airport road.
Richard let Brett catch his breath for exactly ten seconds after the kiss — ten seconds of Brett sobbing quietly into his own hands, his cherry lipstick smeared across his cheek, his white choker with slutty tramp in cursive rising and falling with each ragged inhale — and then his hand was back in Brett's hair, fisting the soft Hollywood waves they'd spent an hour curling on the plane.
"Enough crying," Richard said, his voice still that terrible, calm business tone, like he was ordering lunch. "You're ruining the makeup my team just did. Sit up."
Brett forced himself upright on the leather seat, the white silk robe falling open over the push-up bra, the garter straps stark against his spray-tanned thighs. His six-inch white Louboutins wobbled on the limo floor. He couldn't look at Richard. He stared at his own white-painted toenails instead.
Richard leaned back, spreading his legs, taking up space the way powerful men do, and slowly, deliberately, unbuckled his belt.
The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was the loudest thing Brett had ever heard.
"Now, bitch," Richard said, looking straight into Brett's ruined, made-up eyes, his blue eyes so like Lance's and yet so empty of anything like love. "Meet BJ."
Brett's stomach dropped straight through the floor of the limo.
He understood instantly. He wasn't stupid. He'd been Lance's wife, he'd played every fantasy, he'd worn the schoolgirl outfit and the superhero costume and the wedding lingerie — but he'd never, not once, felt like this. Like a thing. Like a pet being told to perform a trick.
His whole body went cold, then hot, then cold again under the spray tan.
"No," Brett whispered, without meaning to, the word slipping out past his trembling lips. "Please, I can't—"
"You can," Richard cut him off, his hand tightening in Brett's hair until Brett's scalp stung, until tears sprang fresh. "And you will. You said yes, Sir. You said you'd submit to my every desire. This is my desire."
Brett's hands flew up, clutching at Richard's wrist, at the white silk robe, at anything. "I'm... I'm not... I haven't... with the hormones gone, I don't even feel like—"
"I don't care what you feel like," Richard snapped, and for the first time his perfect control cracked, showing the ugly contempt underneath. "I don't care if you feel like a man, a woman, or a goddamn circus animal. You put on the lingerie. You put on the lipstick. You took my money. Now you earn it."
The words took my money hit Brett harder than the hand in his hair. He hadn't taken it yet. The check was still on the plane. But he would. For Lance. For the hormones. For the life they'd lost.
Brett almost left again. His body screamed to open the door and throw himself out of the moving limo onto the Montana highway in his white stockings and Louboutins.
He almost screamed again. The sound built in his throat, raw and desperate.
He almost vomited again. The bile burned.
Instead, with tears pouring down his face in black rivers, ruining the glam makeup they'd so carefully applied, Brett slid off the leather seat and onto his knees on the floor of the stretch limo.
The white silk robe pooled around him. The garter belt dug into his thighs. The choker with slutty tramp dug into his throat as he bowed his head.
Richard didn't help him. He just watched, his blue eyes glittering with victory, his hand still fisted in Brett's hair, guiding him down, down, down.
"Good pet," Richard murmured as Brett knelt between his spread knees in his wedding lingerie, his spray-tanned body shaking, his wedding ring gone from his finger. "Now show me what my son paid so much money to train."
Brett closed his eyes. He couldn't see Lance's face anymore in his mind — the hormones leaving his system had taken that sweet, magnetic pull with them, leaving only a flat, distant ache — but he could hear Lance's voice from that morning: Love you more. Have fun baby.
A sob tore out of Brett's chest, muffled against Richard's thigh, his shoulders shaking in the push-up bra that felt foreign and wrong on his shrinking chest.
"Look at me," Richard ordered.
Brett forced his eyes open, looking up through wet lashes at the man who held his entire future in his hands.
Richard smiled, slow and cruel.
"That's it," he whispered. "Eyes on me the whole time, bitch."
The limo turned onto the dark highway toward Whitefish, the tinted windows hiding everything inside, and Brett Sullivan — in white Louboutins, in a collar that called him a slutty tramp, in the lingerie he'd worn for his husband — lowered his head opened his smeared lipstick mouth and let Richard rub his cock in a circular motion around his mouth .
Richard was large and thick and tasted different than Lance. Almost a sweet that overpowered the salty … he tastes better than Lance Brett though in horror as he licked Richard from his throbbing tip to his larger than expected ball sack… then in and deep an Brett preformed on Richard like it this service alone was worth 5 million dollars …
Brett did exactly as he was told but he was still in control right… no not really but he would give thd best damn bj anyone ever had … he tried to reason as he felt Richards hips buck and the unmistakable spray of ropes flooded his mouth his tongue and down the back of his throat…
And somewhere back in Kalispell, Lance Sullivan was washing concrete dust off his hands, checking his phone, and smiling at the text that said his wife was safe with a girlfriend, having fun.
He had no idea that at that exact moment, his wife was on her knees for his father, earning back the money that would save them both….