Chapter 62
Brett was still shaking on the leather seat when Richard moved again.
He hadn't recovered. He couldn't. His body felt wrung out and foreign and terrifyingly alive, his mind reeling from what had just happened — from the fact that Richard had knelt for him, from the fact that he'd responded, from the fact that for the first time in six weeks without estrogen he hadn't felt like a woman in a costume pretending to be Brielle.
He'd felt like forbidden fruit.
And that shame was worse than anything else.
Brett lay curled on his side in the white silk robe, his push-up bra askew, his garter belt twisted, his white stockings still perfect, his six-inch Louboutins kicked off onto the floor. His face was buried in his hands, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs, the white choker with slutty tramp in cursive still tight around his throat.
Richard didn't give him time.
A strong hand fisted in Brett's mussed blonde hair and pulled — not cruel, just absolute — forcing Brett's face up, forcing his tear-filled eyes to meet Richard's.
"Look at me," Richard ordered.
Brett did, because he had to, because he'd said yes, because twenty-four hours meant twenty-four hours.
Richard's blue eyes were dark, his lips still wet, his expression one of pure, satisfied ownership. He leaned in close, so close Brett could smell the scotch on his breath, could see the flecks of silver in his stubble.
"Open," Richard said softly.
Brett's lips parted on a trembling inhale, a sob caught in his throat.
Richard kissed him.
It wasn't like the first kiss. That had been claiming. This was punishing. Richard's mouth crashed into Brett's, his tongue pushing deep, forcing Brett to taste himself, to taste what Richard had just taken from him, to taste the bitter, intimate proof of his own betrayal.
Brett gagged, his hands flying up to push at Richard's chest, his eyes going wide with horror and humiliation.
Richard didn't let him go. His hand tightened in Brett's hair, holding him still, deepening the kiss, making sure Brett got every drop, every bit of evidence.
When he finally pulled back, Brett was gasping, choking, tears pouring down his ruined face, his chest heaving under the white lace bra.
"Swallow," Richard commanded, his voice low and filthy and absolute. "Swallow it down, bitch."
Brett's throat worked convulsively. He had no choice. He swallowed, his eyes squeezed shut, a broken whimper escaping him as the taste coated his tongue, his throat, his shame.
"Good girl," Richard purred, his thumb stroking over Brett's wet cheek, smearing mascara and tears and lipstick. "That's it. Take it all."
Brett collapsed back against the seat, his hand flying to his stomach, to the flat plane under the silk robe where his dinner should have been, where now there was only this — this humiliation, this proof.
Richard saw the movement and smiled, slow and cruel.
"Feeling it, are you?" he teased, his hand sliding down to rest possessively over Brett's stomach, over the white robe. "Wondering what it's doing in there? Settling in? Making itself at home? Your sperm and mine… perhaps they are dirty dancing in your little tummy?"
Brett whimpered, curling in on himself, trying to get away from the hand, from the words, from the truth of what he'd just done.
"Don't worry, pet," Richard whispered, leaning in to press a mocking kiss to Brett's temple, right over the choker. "It's exactly where it belongs. Inside the pretty little wife my son married. Even if you're starting to remember you're not much of a wife at all anymore, are you?"
The words hit Brett harder than the kiss had. Not much of a wife at all. Because it was true. Without the hormones, his mind was going male, his body was going male, he didn't want Lance that way anymore, he felt self-conscious in the breasts, in the lingerie, in all of it.
And yet here he was, on his knees for Lance's father, swallowing his own shame.
Richard finally sat back, straightening his suit jacket, checking his expensive watch.
He tapped the privacy glass with one knuckle. It slid down an inch.
"Driver," Richard said, his voice back to cool business, like he hadn't just destroyed his daughter-in-law in the back seat. "Take us to my hotel."
"Yes, Mr. Sullivan," the driver answered.
The glass slid back up.
Richard turned back to Brett, who was still curled on the seat, shaking, his white Louboutins on the floor, his wedding lingerie ruined, his choker digging in.
Richard reached out and tapped the face of his watch, right in front of Brett's tear-filled eyes.
"Twenty-three hours," he said softly, almost sweetly. "Twenty-three minutes left, bitch."
Brett closed his eyes and sobbed, one hand still pressed to his stomach, the other clutching at the white silk robe like it could protect him.
The limo turned off the highway toward Whitefish, toward the hotel, toward the next twenty-three hours of hell.
And back in Kalispell, Lance Sullivan rolled over in their empty bed, reached for his wife, found cold sheets, and told himself she was safe with a girlfriend, having fun.
He had no idea his wife was in the back of his father's limo, wearing a collar that called her a slutty tramp, tasting herself on her own tongue having swallowed his fathers cum and his own… counting down the minutes until she could come home.