Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2)(6)
Author: Jen Frederick

“You should go to work. Didn’t you say that your guy isn’t happy with you? What’s his name? Louis?” She trails a hand down the rack of perfectly tailored suits.

“Louis can suck an egg. I pay him a fortune. He should be happy I’m not in the office cracking the whip.” I hired Louis Durand out of B school. I had street smarts and good instincts but needed the expertise of someone who’d had an MBA. Louis was a good fit because he lacked the capital and the instincts. But I was able to glean the necessary information to make sure we didn’t run afoul of the regulatory officials. We’d made a good team, constantly searching for the next acquisition to add to my holding company.

My thirst for widening my monetary reach has been waning since I found Tiny. In some ways, I had been completely impoverished before I met her. These days, I wanted to spend my time with her rather than in an office going over endless analyst reports with Louis.

“He’s acting like a scorned lover, yes, but I don’t really give a damn.”

“I’m going to work, so you might as well,” she declares. “What are you going to wear today?”

“Dress me,” I suggest. She likes looking at my clothes. Anything that makes her happy pleases me.

“Hmmm.” Her fine fingers smooth down a light blue suit coat in a linen and wool blend. “Tell me about your stylist. Will I meet him?”

“Personal shopper,” I correct her. “The word stylist makes me sound like I belong on Broadway. My suits are made by a Saville Row tailor whose family has been in business since the late 1800s. Twice a year, he brings a battered Louis Vuitton trunk to the city and all of us acolytes trek to the Plaza to be measured, try on muslin prototypes, and put in our orders for the next year. I was introduced to Bakers & Henry via Frank.”

“How’d you get to know Frank?”

It’s immensely pleasing she’s curious. I want her to know everyone in my life and vice versa. Our lives should be so intertwined that it would take forever to untangle the threads. “I met Frank while he was grifting, selling everything from stolen wallets to, ah, other things, in an effort to feed and clothe his two younger sisters.”

Looking at Frank now, you’d never guess that he’d walked the Boardwalk in Atlantic City lifting purses and wallets and servicing bored businessmen. He’d taught me how to dress, having an innate fashion sense that he’d been born with. He knew that clothes made all the difference to the people you did business with. Wear a suit to a drug deal and you’d get shot. Wear jeans to a boardroom and they’d laugh you out. Frank taught me that a hand-stitched suit and French cuffs could get me into places that a gun could not.

In some ways Wall Street isn’t much different than the hustles under the boardwalk. The bills are larger and everyone smells better, but that’s about it.

We’d both gotten out of the rat holes, but there was still sand in the crevices of our skin. Frank surmises that the amount of sand we’ve accumulated is directly responsible for all the pearls we’re shitting out—and that I must have taken on more sand than most, since my pearls are more frequent and bigger than everyone else’s.

“Where’s Frank now?”

“He lives in an apartment on Madison Avenue.”

“And his sisters?”

“One’s at NYU and the other just graduated from Columbia. She’s in grad school now, getting her MBA.”

“That’s awesome.”

“It is.”

“This is different.” She’s moved on from the light blue suit to land on a heathered gray with a darker gray check. It’s definitely one of my bolder suits because of the strong contrasting lines.

“Frank sold me on that fabric on the basis that only a man with giant balls could wear it and not be embarrassed. I was peer pressured into buying it,” I joke.

I’m rewarded with a small chuckle. “I like it, and I think your balls are big enough to carry it off.”

“I’m glad. My balls like you, too.”

At her stare, my c**k pulses and fills to a half erect state. She tries to suppress a smile, but the mischievous glint in her eyes reveals how much she enjoys turning me on. It’s a mutual pleasure, though. I enjoy the ache because I know the sweet release that follows will be worth it. Plus, I’d rather see her smiling because she thinks she’s torturing me than sad and grieving. She pulls the dove-gray suit down off the hanger. “Then this one today.”

“What else?” I ask, taking the suit from her and pulling off the pants. “Or should I go commando?”

“I like the idea of commando,” she says perversely, her hand not so inadvertently brushing against my groin.

My groan sounds overly loud in the dressing room. “Keep doing that and I’ll bend you over that bench over there.” I jerk my head toward the padded leather bench situated at the end of the island of drawers.

She quirks her lips and this time places her hand on my chest, tracing a fingertip down the center and stopping just above my belly button. My c**k surges upward under the loosely tied towel and bobs for her attention. Her fingers delve under the fabric and close gently around the tip. With a swift twist of her hand, my knees weaken. I’m forced to place a hand against one of the shelf supports so I don’t fall over.

“Your threats have no power,” she mocks. “You already denied me.”

“Sweet Jesus.” I can’t stop my hips from pumping in her tight grip. “I’m already loving my punishment, if that’s what this is.”

Turning away she lets me go. “Not really, but it is nice to know that you do want me.”

“Is there any doubt?” I bury my face in her hair and pull her ass flush against my thick arousal.

“You turned me down this morning.” There’s a kernel of hurt in her voice which renders me defenseless. If rousing me to the point of pain and sending me out allows her to feel more secure, I’d go out this way every day.

“Oh, bunny, just because I don’t want to hurt you.” I lick the sensitive part of her skin where her neck and shoulder join. I’d love to put a mark there. One that everyone can see, particularly given that she wants to go to Jake’s office where a bunch of former military ass**les will be tromping in and out, no doubt hitting on her every five seconds.

She shakes her head. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide if I’m too sore?”