She hopped up on him as easily as she'd hopped on a cantering horse, wrapping her bare legs around his waist. He walked into the house with her and kicked the door shut behind them.
He tore at her clothes as she tore at his, and he set her on the first thing he found suitable—the ample padded back of a sofa. He licked and sucked at her salty skin as she urged him to take her.
“Fuck me already,” she panted, spreading her legs.
He hesitated long enough to kick off his shoes, then he plunged into her, the sweet warmth of her cunt enveloping him the way he'd hoped it would. She dug her fingernails into his back as he tried to bury himself in her.
When she cried out in pleasure, he felt his own reaction begin. He quickly pulled out and pressed the tip of his c**k against her ass. The head slid in easily, and as she gasped in surprise and tightened around him, he came so suddenly he thought he might go blind.
They snuck around for a few months, both in denial there was anything going on, until finally Brynn asked her husband, Marcus, for a divorce.
She moved in with Smith, in a new apartment, and slept by his side every night he was in town. She looked like an angel in her sleep, but in the mornings, she liked to wake him up by climbing on top and smothering him with her br**sts.
Her favorite aphrodisiac was shopping, and he loved giving it to her. How he found time to revise his novel and send it to his literary agent was practically a miracle. It seemed like every day they were buying things for the penthouse, or to fill her closet. The first time he took her to Chanel, she thanked him by blowing him in the back of the car on the way home. With her beautiful head in his lap, great music on the stereo, and sun streaming in the tinted windows, he came in her mouth, and he felt like a god.
A year and a half later, in the fall, his first novel was released. Though he had not commanded a large advance, the publisher had confidence in the series, and paid the co-op money to ensure stacks of the hardcover were featured on the front tables of all the book chains. He had been touted as the Next Big Thing before the first copy had been bought by a consumer.
The backstory for the media: An insanely wealthy man turns away from his family business to write the detective novel that's been inside him, begging to come out. The articles practically wrote themselves.
It took surprisingly little money to find out which book stores were reporting sales figures to the New York Times, and to have a paid network of people buy out all the copies at those locations, and a few others, for good measure. He made The List, and he was certain Number One was a lock within a week.
Brynn hired an independent brand consultant, and without his book publicist's knowledge, Smith showed up for a major book signing with a black eye, courtesy of a highly skilled makeup artist.
The press and the fans ate up the story that he'd been in a bar fight the night before. With that appearance, Smith became the Bad Boy of Publishing.
Back at the apartment that night, Brynn lovingly removed the eye makeup in the bright master bathroom, where she had priceless jewelry scattered about like a child's toys.
“Remember the black eye was my idea,” she said. “Don't forget who made you who you are.”
“As soon as I hit Number One, let's get married.”
She pulled away, her expression unreadable by Smith. “Are you proposing to me?”
“I suppose I am. What do you say, Brynn? Wanna get married?”
“What if you don't hit Number One?”
He took her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don't be silly. You're my good luck charm. Everything's just going to get better and better.”
“Put a baby in me, Smith.”
“I thought you didn't want kids?”
She was already unfastening his belt. “I stopped taking my pills last month.”
“Shouldn't we talk about this?”
“Marry me and put a baby in me, like regular people do.” She wrapped her cool hand around his dick, and he shuddered at her touch.
“Brynn. I'm tired. It's been a long day.”
She squeezed him and cupped his balls with her other cool hand.
He never could say no to her.
The first Smith Dunham novel peaked at Number Four and drifted down. While the story had been optioned for movie rights, interest faded when he didn't hit Number One. The hot director who'd been talking to Smith about notes for the screenplay adaptation abruptly disappeared.
“I'm over,” Smith said to Brynn one night as they were getting ready to bed.
She looked at her watch. “Right on time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mood disorder. The darkness starts up around nine o'clock and lasts until eleven. It's ten-thirty now. Just wait until tomorrow morning, and everything will be great again.”
He put down his toothbrush and crossed his arms. “Brynn, you're the crazy one, not me. Don't put something like that in my head.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you think I'm the crazy one in this relationship, you have a lot to learn about yourself.”
“Stop playing games. I mean, are you trying to make me get cold feet about marrying you?” Their spur-of-the-moment wedding was in two days, and as the date approached, things had been getting tense between them. She'd been seeing her ex-husband Marcus “just for lunch” as often as twice a week, and Smith wondered if the man was poisoning his name.
Brynn was looking at the diamond ring on her finger, and he thought of a dozen nasty things to call her, but he bit his tongue.
With a resigned sigh, he said, “I think you may be right about the mood thing. I have so much more hope when the sun is out.”
“We all do,” she said, and she kissed him with her minty-fresh mouth.
Brynn had all the high society people at the wedding, and Smith was amazed that she was better at being a billionaire than he was. The photography alone took an entire day, the day before the wedding. He was so exhausted from all the activities, he had no time left for doubts.
Then it was time to lift the veil and kiss his bride. She'd never looked so beautiful or fake, like the wax museum version of herself.
That night, she denied taking coke, but she'd clearly been into something of a pharmaceutical nature. He thought they could get some rest before the early-morning flight for their honeymoon, but she rode him like a succubus, taking every last drop he had to give.
As he drifted off to sleep, he smiled, because at last he had gotten enough of her.
They made love every day of the honeymoon, but when they returned home, everything cooled. She was busy now, tearing out two guest rooms to create a nursery and playroom. She went through three interior decorators before she even started on the nanny's quarters.