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RYLEE
T he road is dark; the only lights besides my headlights come from the bright moon above. Music is playing through my speakers as I rev my engine harder. The loud roar is followed by a smooth purr. I fucking love this car.
It’s an Aston Martin One-77. Only seventy-seven were made, and I have one. This town is full of money and greed; people have offered me millions for it, but I will never part with her. I used some of my inheritance from my mom to get it. My mom is—was—worth more than this car and all the money in the world could ever mean to me, but having this is like having a tiny piece of her with me. It’s invaluable, so no amount of money or persuasion could ever make me part with her.
I remember when I first saw the Aston, it was on some television show I was watching with her before she passed. I was five. It wasn’t this model, but she said, ‘ Now that’s a car.’ It stayed with me for years as a comfort memory. One would pass in the streets or be parked in the lot at the grocery store, and I would hear her voice whispering to me, Now that’s a car.
One day I heard they were making the One-77, a rarity I had to have because Mom was a rarity to me, like a pink diamond.
It wasn’t until my inheritance kicked in that I could even imagine affording one, but to have one would allow me to keep her memory close to me. I know it’s materialistic, but grief and healing are different for all, and this is my way to deal with them.
I would periodically scroll the internet for any sign of one on sale, to the point I almost lost hope. Then, an estate sale overseas had their catalog online for browsing. There she was, my pink diamond. I bid relentlessly until I got it. I nearly cried from the stress, but the relief of winning took over. It was immediately shipped over to Bozeman, and I am never letting her go. That all happened after the last Hell Fire, five years ago.
I’m not sure why that is significant, but five years later something is shifting; I feel it in my gut. The odds of all the events leading up to now, driving to Nathaniel Sinclair’s, aren’t a fluke. And like my pink diamond, I will be on the right side of history, again.
Turning onto Sinclair’s secluded and private road, an iron gate awaits me. Standing out front are multiple security men, which isn’t unusual for a man of his stature, but with his psychotic son back, I’m surprised he needs this many still. Coming to a stop, the engine still purrs as I roll down my window. One man walks up, wearing all black paired with a black mask covering the bottom part of his face. Knowing me, my face is loudly expressing how absurd I think it is.
“Name,” he says abruptly, with zero people skills.
Batting my lashes, I play the part as many others from The Ranch have in the days and years past. “Rylee Vandenberg, Greta sent me,” I tell him, smiling.
Bringing his wrist to his mouth, the man in black radios someone above his pay grade, repeating my name. Another man takes a scanner and walks around my car, holding it close, as a third man does the same but to the underneath. If I wanted to sneak anything in with my car, that is out of the question now.
Moments pass, and I begin to get bored and frankly debate closing my eyes for a quick nap. Before I can act on it, the large gate slowly starts to open, and my new friend gives me a nod, allowing me to enter the estate. Rolling my window up, I take a deep breath and proceed forward. A couple streetlights line the area, and large trees allow for privacy, restricting my ability to properly take in the area. And all Greta told me about this evening was that Nathaniel's house is on the left.
Looking to my right, chills tingle down my spine, and goosebumps cover my bare arms as Elijah’s house comes into view. I am not scared or intimidated by him, but his unpredictability and lack of remorse does put me slightly on edge.
My eyes trail up and down his property. Black-domed cameras surround the place. If his place is that secure, fuck knows Nathaniel’s must be too. Glancing to my left, lights illuminate the driveway that I slowly turn onto. The two-story home is incredible; the exterior is a mix of wood and stone and two front entrances with a large garage off to the side and fencing to the other, and more trees and shrubbery decorate the area. Looking up at one of the posts, immediately I notice more cameras.
If they have this many cameras, they must have sensors too. Security here is like nothing I have seen before, with the exception of the King, who is the leader of The Exiled.
No one is getting into the estate unless invited. It’s a fortress.
Pulling up to the first door, I stop, parking my car.
This is it.
Swiping my small handbag from the passenger seat, I open the car door. Swinging my black stiletto-clad feet out, I stand, pulling down my black strapless bandage dress, which barely covers my ass, and close the door behind me. Looking up, I am startled by an older gentleman who is now standing before me in a black suit and black clipboard in hand.
“Before you enter, you will need to read and sign this document. Once signed, it also grants me permission to search your handbag and complete a handheld metal detector scan of your body,” he explains, holding the clipboard out.
The driveway is lit with plenty of light. As I take the board, my eyes skim the document, and it’s then I realize it’s an NDA. We make clients sign them at The Ranch, so it’s only right he has one for his home. Standard fucking procedure in the corrupt town of Bozeman.
I flip to the last page and hold my free hand out without looking up. A black pen is placed into it, and I sign my life away. Giving his clipboard and pen back, he grabs the detector from under his arm. “Legs apart and arms up.”
“Charming. Does all this foreplay usually get the others wet?” Sarcasm drips from my words.
His face doesn’t budge as he scans my body for weapons of mass destruction. Once completed, he nods to my bag, which I open so he can rummage through it. His fingers wrap around my phone, taking it out. “Mine until you leave.”
Blowing out a sigh of frustration, I don’t argue.
“You may enter. Master Sinclair will be waiting for you in his study,” are his last words to me as he turns on his heel and walks away.
But that doesn’t stop me from shouting, “Because I know where that is.”
Walking up to the large wooden door, my hand grips the iron handle and pushes it open. Taking a step inside, I am welcomed with the smell of warm vanilla. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in. It’s my favorite scent.
A deep voice interrupts my moment of peace. “Down here.”
Nathaniel.
Opening my eyes, I bring myself inside, closing the door gently behind me.
And with the click of the latch, it occurs to me that if I am going to kill him, getting anything in here to do so will be nearly impossible.
Well played, Sinclair, but I can play better and smarter.
Smirking to myself, I make my way down to him. The front entrance is large; you can see the back of the house from here. Large windows allow the moonlight through; the silhouette of the mountainscape can faintly be seen beyond the lush tree line. Stairs are on the right to me, and as I peer up, a balcony going left shows itself. Dim lights line the walls, adding to the ambience already set by the vanilla scent. My heels click against the flooring, echoing, making my arrival to his office door known.
His deep voice greets me. “Come in.”
Stepping through the threshold, I catch myself, biting the inside of my lip, but I stop myself before he sees and takes it for a weakness, even if it’s not. Men like him will take the smallest thing and manipulate it against you.
Confidently with my shoulders back and chest out, I add a hint of swing to my hips while my eyes move up, taking in the very masculine space. Dark leathers and wood fill the room; a bar is off to the side with a bookshelf lining the wall behind my host. A large, dark desk sits before me as I continue moving toward him. My eyes find his crystal glass of whisky, which has a lit cigar sitting in the ashtray next to it.
Tattooed hands meet the glass, his fingers wrap around it, and my eyes follow it up as he moves it to his lips. Watching, he takes a sip, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows. His jawline is shaded with a mixture of salt-and-pepper facial hair that is perfectly manicured. Wandering upward, my eyes find his, and I curse internally. Why do men always have the best lashes?
Deep lines surround his eyes, showing endless days and nights of stress. And then his dark brown orbs, which are hidden behind a thick pair of black glasses, penetrate mine in return. I don’t allow mine to linger there long; they move up to his full head of thick, graying hair. It’s untamed, as if he has just thrown his fingers through it moments before I entered.
What’s on your mind, old man?
“Like what you see?” His words come out slow and seductive. Smooth like the aged whisky he is indulging in.
“Hardly. Rude to not offer your guest a refreshment,” I throw back.
Placing his glass on the desk, Nathaniel rises, and my breath hitches. My eyes move back down his face and thick neck to his strong, defined shoulders. This motherfucker knows my weakness as I take him in further. Ink decorates his chest and abdomen that reveals a six-pack underneath. Then, I see the Adonis lines leading to his cock that has the seven pieces of silver through it. But it is currently covered by a pair of gray sweatpants that are hugging him in all the right places.
Faintly I hear a chuckle, but don’t let it bother me. “Just seeing what I have to work with,” I coyly retort. But it doesn’t stop there. Walking around his desk, his feet are bare and equally as covered in black inked designs. I give my head a slight shake to bring my mind back into focus, and as I do, Nathaniel has made it to his bar, where his strong arms flex while picking up the whisky bottle. He pours me two fingers, then walks over in front of me, holding it out. My fingers grip the crystal at the bottom so as not to touch his. Bringing it to my red lips, I take a swig of my own.
The flavors are tantalizing, full-bodied, and rich. Pairs incredibly well with the vanilla scent he has filled the home with. A hint of clove and honey can be tasted once swallowed, leaving a warm feeling in my mouth. Looking up at my host, I ask, “Thirty years?”
The corner of his mouth smirks. “Precisely, Ms. Vandenberg.”
Deeply inhaling through my nose, there is an added layer, his musky sandalwood aroma invading my senses.
He knows exactly what he is doing. A bachelor. Sure, he was married once, but that ended in divorce, and I hear he wasn’t faithful anyhow.
“I saw you that night, at Hell Fire, coming out of the orgy room. Wearing nothing but your shiny latex mask, hair slicked back in a pony like now, and pasties covering your hard nipples.” Nathaniel takes another step toward me, the tip of his toes brushing against mine. “Was your pussy as wet then as it is now?”
A tiny giggle passes my lips. “You must be mistaken, Mr. Sinclair. My pussy is dry as a bone.”
Reaching his hand up, he takes the glass out of mine. “If I were to check, it would tell me you are lying,” he taunts before taking the last swig of my whisky for himself.
He isn’t wrong, but I won’t allow him to call me out on my bluff.
“What am I doing here, Mr. Sinclair? Surely, you have heard my tastes are well above the standard cravings,” I question, genuinely curious about his answer.
Stepping back, he breaks the invisible hold this moment has on both of us. His backside leans against his desk, and the empty glass is placed next to him. He crosses his feet at the ankles and grips the edge firmly. “Your mouth around my cock. And this time leave some of that pretty red on him,” he responds with a wink.
Looking around, I realize I could break a multitude of bottles and stab him relentlessly mid-blowjob, ending his life embarrassingly. So many precautions to enter, but very little in place once I have entered.
Tossing my bag onto the brown leather couch, I step forward, my body pressing against his. My teeth tug on his lobe before whispering, “As you wish, Mr. Sinclair.”
He remains still, acting unaffected, but I can feel his heart racing against my chest.
Taking my sharp nails, I bring them to his chest, where a thin patch of white hair allows for them to get tangled. They scratch both his erect nipples as they move down. Gently, I keep scraping them against his skin and the ridges of his abs as I reach the path to his cock that is nicely defined by his muscles. My fingers linger along his waistline, toying and teasing him.
I feel his cock rising, getting harder the more I play. My mouth waters at the thought of having him in my mouth again.
Slowly lowering myself, my eyes look up, watching him as he watches me.
Wasting no time, my fingers wrap under his waistband and pull the sweatpants down to his ankles. Nathaniel’s cock springs out, light catches it, and the silver jewelry glints in the dim room. My hands grip him tightly, appearing small in comparison, so I use both to fully wrap around his thick shaft. I let a string of spit slide from my mouth, down my lips and chin, then onto his head. He hisses from the sensitivity of it.
“Make it filthy, Ms. Vandenberg,” he instructs, even though I had every intention of doing so.
Working his hard cock with my hands, I move up and down his smooth shaft. The ridges of his piercings give me an idea. I tug on a few, gripping my hands tighter as I move over them. Looking up, Nathaniel’s eyes are hooded as he watches, and a deep growl comes from his throat.
Placing my lips over his shaft, my tongue teases his slit, and precum is already leaking from him.
Measured and deliberately, I allow my teeth to scrape down his length. As I bring them back forward to his tip, my canines get caught on the barbells and tug him harder than my hands did.
One hand rapidly comes forward and takes a hold of my pony, right at the base. It’s a warning, but I have always played on the dangerous side.
Saliva builds inside my mouth. I am not swallowing it, instead letting it drip all over his cock and down my chin and onto my breasts. Then, in one swift movement, he pushes my head forward, forcing his cock down my throat. Unprepared, I gag as more drool streams from me.
“Choke on me,” he demands, still ramming himself farther down.
The gagging doesn’t stop; my eyes are watering, and my lips have reached his pelvis.
“You really are filthy, aren’t you, Ms. Vandenberg?” he praises.
He has no fucking idea.
The mixture of his precum and saliva dance along my tongue. I hate how good he tastes and feels. The cool metal is now warm against the inside of my mouth and throat. Taking the tip of my tongue, I tickle the underside of his shaft before he finally releases my hair. Placing my hands on the ground next to me, I allow my mouth to continue doing all the work.
My eyes notice his stomach contracting, and it makes my pussy tingle in gratification. My focus stays on him, while Nathaniel’s eyes barely remain open as we keep eye contact.
Relaxing my throat, I pull back, gradually allowing his cock to release back into my mouth. With puckered lips, I hollow my cheeks and suck his head, hard. Another hiss leaves him. I glance at his hands and they are squeezing the wooden edge of the desk so tightly that his veins are showing. Another wave of satisfaction washes over me and goes right to my clit, aching to be played with while I play with him. The taste of his cock is as rich as the whisky that graced my palate only moments ago. Combined, the two flavors have turned me into a fiend.
Gradually moving up his shaft once more, his head passes down the back of my throat, and I suck him harder, making my throat contract. At the same time, I can feel my pussy leaking, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
Tears trickle down my cheeks from the lack of oxygen, and my lungs are desperate, but I don’t care; I will not stop until he coats me in his release.
Nathaniel’s voice is husky as he taunts me, “I fucking knew it. You like my cock in your mouth. Desperate for it, my precious puppet. Suck it, baby.”
Puppet has me furious, then the baby speaks to my pussy and I can’t help it. Raising my hands, I work his shaft vigorously. His abs contract further; he is nearly there.
My legs begin to tremble, hopefully unnoticed.
“Take it all. No spitting,” he demands as his warm cum coats my throat. He tastes so fucking good, the salty release mixed with the metallic taste of the metal and his soft skin.
I’m becoming an addict.
My pussy is begging to grind on anything. I squeeze my pelvic floor, kegeling, in an effort to give it what it needs.
Saliva still overwhelms my mouth even though I am swallowing every last drop he is giving me, yet some still is dripping down my body and onto my chest.
“Your tits are fucking covered, Puppet. I want to slide my cock through them next.”
Cum is still shooting out as I move his head to my mouth, my lips wrapped tightly around him as my tongue plays. My ovaries are tingling as my pussy pulsates.
On trembling legs, my own release washes over me, but I don’t stop pleasuring him. I squeeze my thighs together, putting more pressure on my swollen pussy lips. It feels so fucking good.
The last bit of release from him coats my mouth as I remove him completely. A string of cum is still connected from his head to my lips, and I don’t want to break it.
His hand comes to my face as I watch his softening cock bob.
Nathaniel’s thumb circles the one side of my cheek, smudging the tears and streaks of mascara.
“Such a good fucking girl, Puppet,” he praises. “I see you liked that too,” he adds with a wink.
My top teeth bite my lip, the cum string breaks, and my senses start coming back to me. I am absolutely pissed for allowing myself to get caught up in him, again.
I saw him that night at Hell Fire, but I will never confirm that to him. I need him to feel like he was just another man, nothing worth remembering.
I am lost in my rush of thoughts when the silence is broken by the sound of his phone vibrating endlessly on his desk.
He doesn’t move to reach for it, keeping his gaze on me. I don’t react either, instead allowing the words laced with venom to murmur from between my swollen lips. “I hate you,” I seethe. He needs to know none of this is from lust. I used him as much as he used me.
And I am no one’s fucking puppet.
Rising to my feet, I brush the underside of my bottom lip with my thumb, removing any remaining cum or saliva before turning to leave.
He catches me off guard, his tone casual and arrogant. “You hate the institution, and me by default. Don’t confuse the two. And it’s Duke to you, Ms. Vandenberg. I’ll be seeing you again.”