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

  “Bryant,” I whisper.

  “Bree, don't.” I try to get up from the bed, but he grabs my thigh hard.

  “Oww, whoa, wait, Bryant—”

  “Listen, Bree, it's not even like that, okay?”

  “It's not like what, Bry? Huh, it's not like what?”

  “I know you, Bree. I know what you are thinking; it's not that at all.” He looks at me and then quickly out the over-sized window. I have to get the dimensions to that thing, it’s effin huge. Shit! I’m so unfocused right now.

  His hands dropping to his sides pull me from my distraction.

  He sighs, “I don't trust me with you.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He goes silent.

  “Bry-ant?”

  “Bre-yah? He mimics me. “Have you noticed anything about this? Our friendship? Sex-sessions?”

  “Bryant, what are you talking about?”

  “Us, Bria. Us.” He fingers back and forth to him, then me. But he seems troubled.

  And I certainly can't focus with his seven-inch cock touching his belly button. His nice, toned abs, shit! I really need to focus. He's serious right now; and me, not so much. But Bryant's body makes me perform Kegels, whenever his skin is showing. No tattoos, no tanning. Just one scar on his chest that he encountered at a frat party when we were in college. I still don't know the entire story because I was in a drunken stupor with Halle purging in my lap... crazy chick...

  His face looks pained as he looks back to me, “Bria.”

  He's saying my name way too much. He never calls me by my name. “Bryant, what's going on with you?” I whisper. He grabs his shorts and pulls them back on; that doesn't stop the obvious standing at attention.

  “Bria, we've been doing this for a while. We've over-stepped our friendship boundaries ten times over. Have you ever wondered what would have become of us, this, if you hadn’t gotten hurt rock climbing, and I hadn’t massaged that cramp out of your leg...” he trails off.

  “No,” I answer, cutting him short.

  “We... this… us, it's unhealthy.”

  “Whaa,” I say. What’s he talking about?

  “Bria, sex with you is great, but it's not healthy. Neither of us wants to become emotionally attached.”

  “Fuck. That's it. I’m going home.” He's talking and I'm dressing. I'm not even sure where my clothes are. I'm speaking under my breath. “Where's the fucking T-shirt I had on?” His T-shirt. “Where did it even get thrown to?” I’m still whispering.

  “Listen Bria, we don't even kiss. We’ve never kissed. Out of the one hundred sixteen times we've fucked, and I'm sure I've made love to you five or six of those times—”

  “What the hell! Bryant! Okay, I get it. You don't want to do this anymore. I get it. Fine. JUST. STOP. TALKING!” I can’t believe he kept count of our sexual encounters. This is too much for me to accept.

  “Bria, YOU DON'T GET IT!” I wince a little at his tone. “When we fucked without protection, it fucking blew my mind. I didn't understand why. Then... You know afterward; it was as if my world became your world. I felt something, but you left that night.” He seems a bit perturbed by me leaving that night. He says it with his teeth showing. “We usually do breakfast and hang like nothing happened the night before. You left... that night.”

  There go his teeth again.

  “And it hit me, this routine with us. Unemotional and unhealthy, we had sex, Bree, without a condom and we never even kissed, not once.” I see the hurt in his eyes, and the heart-protected bitch in me wants to shrug her shoulders and say, “So.” But I don't. I don't quite understand the pain he's experiencing. Why does this hurt him? He's sitting with his back to me and his head in his hands. He shakes his head and gets up from the bed.

  “Bria, I'm your best friend.”

  “Bry, don't. Just don't.” I jump from the left side of the bed and try to put distance between us.

  “Bree, please.” He grabs my elbow and spins me around to him. With my hand on his chest, I try to push him away. He pushes my hand down and twists it behind my back.

  “Stop, Bree, Stop!” He grabs my chin and lifts it so I'm staring into his eyes. He pulls me to him, and I close my eyes.

  “Look at me, Bria, please.”

  “Bry, I can't. I just can't.” He tightens the hold on my arm. He leans in closer, and I can feel his warm breath on my lips. I turn away; and he pauses then pulls back, looking down at me. “Bryant, I'm sorry. I can't.”

  He pushes me away with disgust. “Like I said, unhealthy,” he states. He grabs his shirt and leaves the room. The room is so quiet; and yet, all I can think about is his cock was still hard, and I should know because I felt it against my navel.

  CHAPTER 2

  It's early Monday morning, but not nearly early enough when I pry my face from my bed. My pillows seem to have found their way to the floor. I guess my restless sleep forced them off the bed and tangled the sheets around my aching thighs. “This is fucking great. My best friend pulled a dick strike, so the sexcapade weekend was an epic fail. If that's not pathetic enough, I'm talking to myself and late for work.”

  I'm showered and dressed in fifteen minutes. This day has to get better. I grab my sunglasses from the visor for the drive. There's no use being a total bitch to everyone because I'm late. I might as well get my cup of wake up, I say to myself. I love this café because it's not one of those big chains that ask you to become a member to earn points you can't use. Coffee is still expensive. Cocoa beans, heat dried, and fully fermented fatty bean of Theobroma cacao. No wonder they preserve and package this shit. It's the crack of all beans and has me jonesin' right now.

  Great! Found a parking spot right in front. As I get out and power walk toward the café, the door swings out and I jump because the weight of the door catches me off guard. I stumble back a bit; but nothing to knock me off my feet, until I catch a glimpse of the force behind the swinging door. Six-two, casually dressed, strong chin and jawline, nice complexion, swimmer’s body, hazel cat-like eyes.

  “Whoa, are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah...Yes, I'm fine. I should have been paying attention. I apol—”

  “True, but I always make sure the lady is okay, first.”

  “Well, like I said, I apologize,” I say, slightly irritated. “Chivalry is dead, I guess,” I mumble walking away.

  “It is if you don't know what to do with it,” he says in his low and husky voice.

  He did not just… ugh, this day’s going to get better. Yep, better.

  I order a special blend of Swiss almond with two shots of vanilla and I'm good to go. The wind is blowing into my light pea coat and sending a chill down my spine. I let out a little yelp and try to shake the slight frost off when I notice the idiot who strong-armed the door as I came in standing against a high table outside the café staring at me. I think to myself, who in the hell stands in 45-50 degree weather and drinks coffee?

  He laughs and places his coffee on the table and his expression turns serious quickly.

  “What does that shake look like when you're hot?”

  I don’t respond verbally. I shake my head as I get in my car, whip out of the space in front of the café, and make a U-turn in the middle of Broadway. I can't believe that pervert. If I weren’t late, he would have gotten a tongue-lashing. Knowing him, he probably would have liked it. What the heck? I don't know what this guy likes. Bree, get it together. You’re late and still talking to yourself. Yeah, but I have a great cup of joe.

  * * *

  Sitting at my desk, I find I can't focus today. Usually, I'm more thorough with tasks. But today, that ass of a man has my mind rattled. Why? My boss taps my desk and gets my attention.

  “Good morning, sunshine, can you schedule a dinner date for me and the missus?”

  “Oooh, special occasion, boss?”

  “No. Well, yeah, keeping my ass out of the doghouse.”

  “Whatcha do?” I sigh.

  “The usual. Brunch with a
beautiful client that turned into an early dinner. That may or may not have turned into breakfast… I'm just saying.” He squints and ducks his head.

  “Boss!” He doesn't let me call him boss often. Only when he asks me to perform unethical tasks. No, nothing like that. We have a respectable employer/employee relationship. I submit all of his financial records to Corporate, run errands, and set up meetings from time to time, and he pays me well. I mean, it's paying the bills and for the sweet Infiniti that's parked in the underground parking.

  Mr. Wilke is also known as Mr. Jeff; if he weren’t my boss, I'd do him in a Hot Minneapolis second. Mr. Wilke is the sole owner of Wilke and Foster Financial. Mr. Foster, who was his wife's father, passed away three years ago and left all company assets to Jeff. Mr. Wilke never removed Mr. Foster’s name, said it was to pay homage to the Foster name. Whatever, I have a job. THANK YOU, MR. FOSTER! My boss asks me to pick up certain things for his not-so-secret secret meetings in hotels. I set the suites up according to the items on his list. Sometimes, I can't look at him the next day. Not because he's married, but because the toys he has me staging for him would make Milton Bradley blush in his grave. My boss is a freak, a kinky one at that.

  I was told he had an affair with his previous assistant, and it ended badly. Bryant was my informant and the person to thank for this job. Bryant’s father, my dad, and Mr. Wilke are college friends. If I wanted to know anything about the company, Bryant was the guy. Mr. Wilke’s wife didn't mind the infidelity; but having flaunted in her face was a different story. Bryant said the wife came here like a hurricane and ripped the poor woman to shreds. A lawsuit was also rumored, but it was quickly deadened with the talk of a pay-off. Mrs. Wilke is an attractive woman. Nice set of legs and rack, all natural, except for her tan. Her hair is bright red like her lips. Shit, if I rolled that way, I'd do her. The two of them are like cover models, early-forties and healthy. I don’t understand why their marriage is the way it is. It's crazy, but it works for them.

  Instead of decorating the suite after work, I decide to pick up the items for Mr. Wilke's kink night and head over to the hotel on my lunch break. I’m pretty much done for the day, and so I can take my time to set up what he wants.

  “Wow, I knew Mrs. Wilke was feisty; but damn, this is kind of intimidating,” I say as I hold up the swing contraption.

  How in the hell am I going to get this up there? I’m so relieved this hotel receives large donations from the Wilkes. Mr. Wilke and I make sure things are kept very discreet. Since I usually show up at the hotel with my collar turned up and big sunglasses, the hotel concierge never asks questions or sees my face. They know who I am. The curious people checking in and out of the hotel are the ones who wonder.

  As I leave the hotel, a small part of me wants to know what goes on in the rooms I set up for my boss. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to ask him about his activities. I've been working for Jeff for four years and have been setting things up for him for two. I think our employer/employee relationship has really over-stepped that level. I wouldn't want to know the activities with the missus, but I'd love to be a fly on the wall with the others. Oh, and there are others.

  I like this part of my job; it gives me a sense of freedom and accomplishment. My boss raves about the way I stage his playthings in the suites. He gives me a quick synopsis of how he wants things done, and I place them accordingly. It's like a game of minds with us; I have to set up an obstacle course based on his kink. Ha! Obstacle course, that's some funny shit there.

  * * *

  Backing out of the parking space, I glance both ways to make sure the lane is clear. As I am shifting gears, I notice an Infiniti G37 Sport convertible. I eye it, and it’s nice. Nicer than my coupe. Because I absolutely love cars, I have to get a closer look. It's not as if I've never seen it before, but this particular vehicle has some customized accessories on it. First, the paint is platinum, not your usual silver. This paint, which is branded to Infiniti and Nissan alone, has a special effect that crystallizes when the sunlight hits it.

  I pull up slowly behind, admiring the car from the rear and notice the wheels are customized too. “Shit, Zanetti’s,” I whisper. The damn platinum door handles look as if they have LED lights in them. “That is really nice,” I say aloud. I let my window down, and the crisp breeze hits my face as I inhale the fresh air. I tilt my sunglasses down so I’m looking over them. I eye the ground effects on the vehicle.

  “Yeah, definitely a man's car.” I'm so into the detail of the car that I don't notice the owner is still inside. I catch movement and begin to put my window back up. I also notice his sandy brown hair as he opens the door.

  “Like what you’re stalking? Or stalking what you like?”

  FUUUCK ME HARD! “This ass?” I mumble. “Ugh, I was admiring the customization on the car, that’s all.”

  “And here I thought you wanted to give me a preview of your cold to hot shake?”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Really, honey,” he says arrogantly, as if he changed my name.

  We just stare at each other for a few seconds, and my memory traces back to where I saw him last.

  “Whatever.” I push my sunglasses back up my nose and hit the button to raise my window as I drive away. I roll my eyes. “Arrogant bastard,” I scoff. I glance back his way, and I can see he's tilted his head to the side and winks. He has the most devious smirk on his lips as he shakes his head and smiles. I instantly feel a rush of heat under my collar, down my back to the pit of my stomach, and straight between my thighs. What the fuck just happened?

  * * *

  On my way back to work, I flash back to that warming smile.

  Wait. Warming? Whaaa... Woman, you can't be this hard up. No, I need a hard one. “Dammit, Bryant!” I yell as I smack my steering wheel. Oh, the need for an orgasm is frantically awaiting.

  By the time I make it back to the office, I have time to finish a few things and send off an email to my boss regarding details of his arrangements. I notice an envelope under my keyboard with a Post-it stuck to it.

  You deserve employee of the decade. Hope this is sufficient.

  My freakin' brain can't even comprehend what's in the envelope. A check? Yes. For ten thousand dollars from Mr. Wilke. I can't accept this. In the memo area, ‘Bonus’ is written. Holy crap, I could get used to this.

  No! No! No! I can't. I just can't.

  My mother always taught me never to look a gift horse in the... How does that saying go? Mouth? Eye?

  Whatever, I have a good thing going, no use in jeopardizing it. He'll think I'm money hungry if I accept it. However, he's given me incentives like this before; what's the difference?

  Shit, 10K is the difference. I'm so torn. I put my face in my hands and sigh. Usually, it's five hundred to a grand. Ohhh, that's it. He wrote one too many zeros. I'm still holding the envelope and it feels like there’s a piece of paper in it. I impatiently remove the folded slip.

  Written on his fancy stationery.

  Yes, I added an extra zero; please accept it.

  You deserve compensation for my indiscretions.

  Missus made me

  -Boss

  Yeah, it's official; he's the boss all right.

  I pack up my things and make one last trip to the ladies’ room. I pass my boss's office on the way out and can see the lamp is still lit. He usually doesn't leave it on. I try the door handle, only to find it locked. I reach in my laptop case; and before I can get the key in the lock, the lamp that was once on the desk has been knocked to the floor. I maneuver to look through the window, which has a sheer curtain. I can't quite see in the office, but I can hear.

  “Mii-SER!” an exuberant female voice yells.

  “Mii-SER Wilke.” She sounds French. “Oh, Oui! Oui! Oui! Fuuk Me Herrrd!!! Votre bite se sent vraiment très bon!” Definitely French...

  Time to go. I turn on my heel and hotfoot it out of the office. I can’t get to the elevator quick enough. Well, I won’t be argu
ing with myself about my compensation package. “Bonus it is.”

  * * *

  On my ride from the office, I'm relaxing my mind from the events with Bryant. I'm still torn that I may have lost my best friend. Sex-sessions were good; but if I could change anything, I'd eliminate the sex just to have my friend back.

  On another note, my boss is a sex fiend. He's rockin’ some Frenchie in his office; and in a couple hours, he'll be doin’ his wife. My God, my boss is a man-whore. Mr. Wilke is gorgeous, and I can see how he attracts women. I never thought he’d do two in one day. I'm not judging; but if I were, he’d get a 9.5 on the nasty dick scale.

  Cruising down Broadway listening to an acoustic version of Maroon 5, I turn up the volume and sing like I have the voice for it. Hahaha, I don't.

  I’ve been a slacker for two days, Bria get your ass to the gym. Pulling up, I spot a parking space close to the entrance, and I whip my coupe in it like a NASCAR racer. Lucky me. I continue to sing.

  The wind chills me as I get out of the car and remove my workout bag from the trunk. I show up at the gym, and I have an eerie feeling in my gut. Something is strange. I hand the receptionist my membership key card, and she smiles at me. I look around to see if a stepper is free, and it's not looking good. I change quickly and head back to the equipment. I decide to start with some light rowing, get twenty minutes in just to loosen me up until a stepper is free. I want a rower facing the steppers. As soon as one is available, I’ll haul ass to get to it. Nothing will stand in my way; nothing, I tell myself.