The Pretend Boyfriend novel Chapter 54

No.

She doesn't believe for one second that this man could ever rape another person.

Her oral encouragement spurs him on, and soon, he is humping and pounding her with as much confidence and tenacity as before. His breathing grows labored, and he grunts with each thrust. Through her own moans, she watches his face - his closed eyes, his raptured expression. He is seemingly transported to another place ... and that place is inside her.

Her climax builds despite her attempts to stave it off - so that she can watch him for a while longer. But the friction of his cock against her G-spot becomes erotically unbearable. His kisses become similarly overheated. Her muscles clench and her vagina closes around his organ like a fist. And she comes - explosively, mind-blowingly, satisfyingly - and screams out his name against the roaring of blood within her ears.

He allows himself to come too. His sweat-beaded body rolls off hers. He pants, his glistening chest rising and falling. He reaches down to peel off his cum-filled condom.

They lie in each other's arms that night, thinking their disparate thoughts as their respective troubles returns after the pleasurable but brief respite.

"What's going to happen to us, Brian?" she asks sadly.

He kisses the top of her head. "We'll take it one step at a time."

"So how much do you think I can get for it?" Brian asks.

The realtor - a short middle-aged man in a business suit - scans the lounge of Brian's penthouse, now nicely put back in place. The glass fragments have been cleaned up and thrown away. The lampstand and table have been replaced. The curtain has been neatly hung.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Morton. The market is soft right now. Once folks find out who you are, they're going to try to take advantage of your current situation."

"I know. But I'll have to ultimately sell anyway."

Brian has made an inventory of things that have to go, including his expensive Italian furniture, his modern art and his collections of rare magazines, rare pens, and Jaegar LeCoultre Reverso watches. He figures he might be able to actually get a profit out of them.

Then there's always that pair of diamond earrings he had bought for Sam, tucked away in its little velvet box snugly in his safe.

No. He doesn't want to sell those.

He knows he hasn't been exactly honest with Sam. He didn't exactly have the money to fund her new gym. The amount required is considerable. There is space to rent. Equipment to buy. Lots of fixtures to put in. He would have to liquidate something to generate the cash flow.

The only asset he has is his apartment.

But he would have to downgrade anyway to reflect his current status. The party is over - at least for now.

Sam flops into the chair. She makes a big to do about removing her shoes.

"Oh my God, I love your color," she says to the woman. "What is it?"

The woman looks up. Her eyes are a dark grey, Sam notices. The hues of contact lenses. They contrast sharply with her red hair. Her nose is extremely slim. Almost perfect, like that of a movie star's. And her breasts. Oh yeah, people are bound to notice those protuberant tits.

The woman hesitates, as though she is wary of talking to strangers.

"Oh sorry, don't mind me. I'm Samantha." Sam holds her hand out. "And as you can see, my nails are in severe need of TLC."

After a moment, the woman takes her hand. "I'm Delilah."

"And the color is 'A Good Mandarin is hard to find'," offers the manicurist. He picks up the lacquer bottle from the floor and hands it to Sam. "Want to try it?"

"I should." Sam flashes Delilah a brilliant smile as her plan kicks into gear. She hates doing this, but she has no choice. Brian's innocence is paramount. "So Delilah, do you come here often?"