What They Don't Know (Won't Hurt Them Trilogy #1) Read online

  (WON’T HURT THEM) SERIES

  BY O.Y. FLEMMING

  What They Don’t Know (Won’t Hurt Them) Series

  Book One

  Copyright © 2016 by O.Y. Flemming

  What They Don’t Know is the work of O.Y. Flemming. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  What They Don’t Know is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or events, and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editor: Peggy Hurst, Hot Tree Editing

  Final Edits: Mandy Pederick, Hot Tree Editing

  Cover photograph by Underexposed Photography

  Cover Designer: Bobbie Bohn

  Formatter: Jesse Gordon

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Happiness is an attitude. We either make ourselves miserable, or happy and strong. The amount of work is the same.

  -Francesca Reigler

  For my children-

  Even though neither of you will be able to read this until your twenty-one, all I do is for the two of you. My happiness, thrives on your happiness. No matter what, my love for the both of you is endless.

  For my family-

  Even though, I never want to damage the perfect image you all have of me. I can’t stop you from from finding out, what I’ve been up to for a year and a half. I’ve always lived a double life. I know guys will support whatever I do. I love you all.

  For Mrs Benoit and Mrs Leverenz

  Thank you.

  PROLOGUE

  Ms. Bria Watts

  If anyone ever told me I would be a successful businesswoman back in college, I’d tell them to get a life and buy a clue. All I wanted to do was live a mundane life, simple and plain. If anyone ever told me my life would turn worlds upside down, I’d laugh… I’d laugh hysterically.

  Unfortunately, mundane isn’t my life. I might say I don’t do complicated things; but in reality, everything about me is complicated. Everything… What? I said I try to live a mundane life. I try like the heavens to, but it just isn’t plain and simple.

  I do have a small circle of friends, but they are a part of my not-so-mundane life. Most of them are men, very discreet, distinguished men. Ones I’ve known since we were kids. Some I encountered through… Well, let’s just say I didn’t just meet them. I chose them.

  I do protect the ones in my circle of chaos, because if I don’t I’m liable, and I don’t need that. I like making people happy, and that is what I do. It’s my side profession. I make fantasies come true. I would say it’s a two-for, but it’s more like a three-for. Fulfilled fantasies, temporary companionship, and sometimes sexual healing. When life gets too complicated, call me. Bria Watts, aka Miss B because Queen B was taken. Of course, as time has passed, I’ve been called other things I won’t mention, but it’s okay. Being seen as a bitch suits me too.

  Being a successful businesswoman is fun, but the success didn’t come from years of hard work. It was inherited; only I didn’t know it. The success happened overnight, and then shit hit the fan. If you are standing close enough, you’ll be splattered. That’s why I never allow anyone to get too close. If you do, you’ll be shit on.

  As I said, I don’t do complicated things. Complicated things do me. They find me and attach themselves to me, like the plague. No matter how happy I am. No matter whom I affect with my happiness, the complicated things rear their ugly faces and simply smile… Fuck you, complications… Fuck you!

  CHAPTER 1

  The cold will be the death of me, I swear. Minneapolis weather has a way of wrapping itself around you and manifesting as a dormant state right down to the bone. I can’t stand cold weather; my goal is south… like Texas south. Yes, huge hats. Thick accents and big bucks. I could so get stuck in the gutter with size analogies. I’ll leave that for the imagination.

  Mid-September in Minnesota is where my body is taking an intense chafing as I walk from the parking lot to the gym, which has currently taken a forty-dollar a month liking to my bank account. All for what? Just as I walk in, I’m reminded why? Tattoos, muscles, and stench. Yes, a slight stench of BO is in the air. You’d think with as much money as this health club has and the size of it, they could invest in some stronger air freshener. Seriously, one that sprays every ten minutes or so, one that deodorizes and lasts.

  Anyhow, I approach the front desk and hand one of the club workers my key fob to scan; she eyes me a bit. I attend this club at least four days a week; and…okay, I attend this club two days a week and she is staring at me as if she’s never seen me before.

  I smile and say, “Hello.” She smiles and hands me back my keys and says, “You’re very pretty. I like your haircut.”

  Riiiight, I recently cut my luscious brown asymmetric bob into a shorter pixie cut, just tapered in the back. Throw in some honey brown highlights and call me Mandy Moore. With my bronze complexion, I’m glad I don’t have to sun bake or go to any of those tanning salons. You know, I read somewhere that tanning under ultraviolet lights could increase the chance of developing melanoma up to eleven percent. And that’s if a person tans only four times a year. In Olmstead County, there were quite a few cases from 1970 – 2009. I’m just saying, surely it has increased by now. Thankfully, my part Seminole Indian roots give me just enough tan skin tone that I don’t need any of that shit. So I beat the odds. Eff you, cancer!

  Scouting for an available stepper, I am sideswiped by a lady who is pushing a stroller, which nearly swipes my toe. I jump back as she scowls at me and mumbles something in Spanish under her breath. “Excuse you, too!” I state with attitude. Finding a stepper isn’t easy. The gym has several types, but the ones with the incline do the most damage. Those particular ones face the pool where my eyes seek a treat, while my thighs feel the burn. As I start to wipe down the machine handrail with a Sani-wipe, I notice a guy comes up for air in the pool. He covers his face with both hands and clears away the excess water. When he opens his eyes, he looks up and they appear almost cat like. From where I stand, I’ll call them hazel. He focuses for a second, and I notice I’m doing the same thing, with my head cocked to the side, squinting like a ninety-year-old without her bifocals. He shakes his head a few times; the first two times seem like an “unbelievable, she’s going to stand there and stare” type. Then it turns into “let me shake the water out of my hair; I’m too sexy for this pool.” Hey, a lady can look.

  After my ninety-minute stepping workout, I decide to… Who am I kidding? After my thirty-minute stepping, I decide to get some abs exercises in. I don’t need them. I do them to stay toned. Nothing major. Except afterwards, my stomach begins to convulse as if I’m about to dry heave. I disregarded a trainer’s suggestion he threw at me as he walked by. I should have lessened the weight and sat in the sauna at least tw
enty minutes after. Yeah, Wonder Woman over here decided to drink, pee, and leave. The dry heaving starts in the car. Which is why I only go the health club two days a week. Ahem… one day a week.

  * * *

  My workout isn't a complete disaster, I revel in the knowledge I don't need to work out as much. I'm not fat; I’m curvy where I need to be. Bryant scoffs every time I mention I need to lose a few pounds. Ah, Bryant, my sexual healer. I laugh to myself at the thought. He's no Mark Wahlberg; however, he is a Jordan Schafer. The Jordan Schafer who gained muscle over his career. “Hmmmm, Bryant.” I open my laptop and sit for a second before I start my informational journey. I notice my phone has a message; that friggin light is annoying when you try to ignore it. Your mind plays tricks on you. Your brain tries to ignore the obvious, but your subconscious pulls at you not to. Ugh, who is this? A text from Bryant. Ahhh, Bryant makes me smile.

  (Bryant) Hey, you.

  (Me) Hiyee!

  (Bryant) Someone's excited

  (Me) No just haven't heard from you in about 3 ir 4 days.

  (Me) *or

  (Bryant) It's been 2 and are you trying to keep tabs on me?

  (Me) Nope.

  (Me) What's up?

  (Bryant) Uhmmm, that's an understatement.

  (Bryant) What are you doing tonight?

  There it is.

  (Me) Nothing, surfing the net, catching up on some reading.

  (Bryant) It's Friday!!!

  (Me) Ooookay???

  (Bryant) I need to show you something, come over.

  I wait a few minutes, because I need what he's asking for, but desperate isn't my forte. Although I spoke to him two days ago, it's been seventeen days since he had me on his breakfast island, right next to the wine bottles. I was forcefully trying to pop the cork. Bryant felt the need to pop my bra and my tight little virgin ass. It was the most pleasurable pain I've ever experienced. He was gentle at first and then got a bit cocky. Not a figure of speech at all, he lifted me off my feet with his cock. The force of his quick pelvic thrusts and the hardness of his dick had me airborne. He must have noticed my feet were no longer on the floor as he took me from behind. With his arm around me, holding my throat, Bryant spun me around and pushed me onto my back. I knew I would never be able to eat on that island again.

  On my back, Bryant raised my hips then placed my legs over his shoulders. He had no mercy. His dick rocked in and out of my ass like a pendulum, forceful with each thrust. My head spun out of control; I saw spots before my eyes. My ass tensed and an orgasm shot through me. And the man didn't touch a single part of my body. I mean, well… he was in me, but he fucked me with no hands. I guess my orgasm caught Bryant off guard. In the next instant, he let out a cursed grunt, pulled out, and shot his release onto my stomach. He winced and gave me an apologetic look. “I'll get you a towel,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom.

  That was a first for both the anal adventure and unprotected sex. We'd always used a condom, no way around it. Neither of us wanted the responsibilities of children who would complicate this.

  The light flashing on my phone broke my daze.

  (Bryant) Uuhhh HELLLOOOOO??

  Shit, I damn near forgot.

  (Me) What time?

  (Bryant) NOW!!! >:{

  (Me) Sheesh ok

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m at Bryant's newly renovated two-bedroom condo.

  “Seriously, this is a house, Bryant,” I say, looking around at the spacious area. “It’s just built on top of other houses. This view of Shoreline Drive is very nice and romantic if you’re into that sort of thing…” I bat my eyelashes.

  “You’re incorrigible, Bree,” he says, shaking his head as he hands me water. “Romance is only for those who want the idea of courting and the thrill of the chase.” I scrunch my face at his comment. “I'm not saying I don't want that. I just haven't found her yet. Shit, I'm not looking.”

  I stare at him because I know him; he's lonely. He's been this way since Cass. The lonely make statements like that. Cass Owens, the bitch, cheated on Bryant with some doctor and blamed it on his career. Typical. One out of three women who cheat blames it on her spouse’s career. Sad but true.

  “Bryant, you don't put yourself out there enough; you have to work your assets. Shake whatcha momma gave ya.” He rolls his eyes and nudges me toward the sitting room.

  “Come on, I want to show you this before I forget why I asked you over.”

  I eye him curiously. “I thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” Bryant interrupts. “You perv.”

  “I am not a perv. Usually, when you ask, ‘What am I doing?’ It means sex-sessions time, does it not?”

  “Yeah, Bree, but not tonight. Tonight, I need your undivided attention.”

  Huh? Did he just say not tonight?

  Did he just turn me down? Fuck, he didn't; somebody's coming tonight!

  I mean squirting’, sweatin’, hard coming. Somebody's getting fucked.

  * * *

  On the contrary, Bryant puts up a wall. We drink wine and he shows me the business plan he will be presenting to the bank for a small business loan. Bryant is very successful; he purchases and then sells small businesses. His main targets are those that are struggling in the market. He cleans them up and sells them to corporations made up of smaller companies in their field. It's been working for him. He wants my accounting input on how to present to the bank. See, Bryant isn't exactly broke. He has the money to fund his own business endeavors. He chooses to use bank loans with low interest rates and 75 percent profit return. And that’s where I come in. Normally, he gets my point of view before he presents to the bank. The man is smart.

  The clock on the nightstand sitting in Bryant's spare room says 4:25 a.m. and I’m restless. He cracks the door open and I lift my head. “Hey, you awake? I can’t sleep. I’m having flashbacks from two weeks ago.”

  “Bryant, it’s been two weeks and three days.”

  “Really, I could have sworn it was—”

  I cut him off short. “Seventeen days.” The look in his eyes tells me he’s sorry, and he knows exactly how long it's been.

  “It’s fine, Bryant. I know you have things going on. The presentation, which is brilliant by the way, your company, I get it. Wait. Did you say you were having flashbacks from two weeks ago?”

  As he moves across the room to the huge-ass bed I’m lying on, he kneels at the foot of the bed, grabs the duvet, and slowly pulls it down. He crawls, well more like prowls up the bed. Eyes lust filled, he gives me the ‘sorry, but I want you now’ look. When he reaches my body, my breath is labored; it takes everything in me not to touch him. I know the one thing that will drive Bryant crazy; he wants to be touched, but loves the anticipation of when it will happen more. He nudges his nose under my chin and kisses my collarbone. He whispers, “Bree, I'm”—he kisses my lower neck—“sorry”—he kisses my chest. “Things have been”—he’s kissing and licking my cleavage—“crazy.” I am on fire. I want him to find the spot and put it out.

  He lowers his mouth to my nipple and flicks it with his tongue. I take a deep breath as he sucks my bud into his mouth, and sensually slurps as if he’s sucking on a peach. The way he works my nipple is purely erotic. The room is so damn quiet that my panting is louder than the house noises I usually hear. He circles my other bud with his index finger until it’s hard. Bryant moves over and licks it until it’s plumped like a cherry. The sensation shoots straight to my core, to my lady garden. I squeeze my thighs, arch my back, and let Bryant take me to my orgasmic place. His hands massage my breasts as he runs minty kisses over both of them. The cool trail he leaves, makes my skin tingle. He moves his hands to my navel and gently circles around it. What the hell is up with these circles? Is he stalling?

  His hands move down the inside of my thighs and... THERE IT IS! He knows my body. More importantly, he knows how to satisfy what lies between my thighs. He circles my wet clit with his middle and ring fingers, and it feels
so damn good. “God, Bryant, please.”

  “Since when do you pray before sex, Bree?”

  “I...I—” Bryant interrupts whatever I’m trying to get out as he dives right for my clit. He gives it one forceful lick, and then trails kisses up my stomach and back down, grazing my skin with his teeth.

  “Hmmmmm. Bry, I can't take you teasing, my body doesn’t like it.”

  He looks up from my body with an inquisitive look.

  I look down at my lady garden, and back up at him.

  “Ahhh,” he chuckles and bites the inside of my thigh.

  “Owww, Bryant” The way I arch my back should cripple me for life. He licks my pelvic bone, which completely wakes up my sensitive spots.

  “I'm so wet, Bryant; please stop teasing.”

  “Bree, baby, your begging makes my dick swell. You know what I like after my dicks swells, right? Now, shush. Let me take you there.”

  The sensation is unbearable and I need to get there. He curves his index finger inside my opening and puts pressure on my clit. He's fucking blowing my mind as he moves his finger in and out. He leans in to me, and whispers, “Come for me, Bree. Fuckin’ soak my hand so I can taste you on my fingers.”

  I start to lose senses from my body. I can't see, hear, all I can manage is- “FUCK!” I can’t breathe, and I'm flailing my arms around as if they are numb. The orgasm shoots through my body so hard that my legs begin shaking. “OH! OH, GAWD!”

  “Like that, huh?” Bryant asks.

  I can’t manage to speak.

  “Speechless, Bria. Wow. Should I take note, so I know what to do when your inner geek kicks in?”

  I wind up a middle finger gesture, now that I can feel my hands. He laughs, “Don't mind if I do.” He reaches over his back and peels his tank off, kicks out of his boxers, and then jumps from the bed. He heads toward the cabinets built into the wall. I still can't believe he helped design this place. Bryant doesn’t turn around right away. Instantly, I have an unsettling feeling, as if I know what is coming; but I don’t want to accept it even though our actions two weeks ago could have resulted in an unplanned pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases. Yeah, it was one night of carelessness; still, my feelings don’t change. Bryant turns, and now I can see what I suspected. Yep, he's put on a condom. I should be relieved. I really should, but I don’t. I feel shitty, really shitty. I’m not sure why I feel that way. I wonder if he’s had unprotected sex with another woman? Either way, this shitty feeling is here to stay. He closes the distance to me and the bed, stroking himself to make sure the condom is snug. He doesn't make eye contact with me.