Thrive (Addicted, #4)(6)

0 years : 01 month

September





LOREN HALE


Lying to everyone we love, it’s not as difficult as it seems. Maybe because we’ve spent more time lying than we have telling the truth. Or because I love her more than anyone else in my life.

I’m tired of having third-party opinions about Lily’s sex life. She’s fucking me. The only opinions that should matter are mine and hers.

And so that’s how it’s going to be.

Fuck everyone who thinks I’m the same self-indulgent kid who begged her to date me without letting go of my booze.

That guy is dead.

I try to ignore the comics that litter my desk in unorganized piles. Connor Cobalt would shit his pants if he sauntered into my office right now. Last week, he spent an entire hour helping me file my work, but it arrives faster than I can manage.

Halway Comics, a small indie publishing company, exploded on the internet with the headline: Loren Hale Starts a New Business Venture. Now I’m flooded with proposals from aspiring artists—and no matter how hard I try, I can never keep up.

Maybe if I gave one-hundred percent of myself to the business it’d be easier. But I’m giving maybe forty percent. I happily give the rest to Lily.

“What kind of buckle is this?” Lily fumbles with my belt, her knees on the carpet in front of my desk. The leather chair squeaks as I roll back and push her hands away.

“You’re out of practice,” I tease.

She gasps. “Am not.” She points to my belt buckle that I slowly undo. “You’re either wearing a chastity belt or you put a spell on it so it won’t open from outside forces…Alohomora.”

I freeze and give her a look. Did she…she did. She just tried to unlock it with a fucking spell. Her cheeks redden.

“I was there when you didn’t receive your Hogwarts letter,” I remind her. She cried on her eleventh birthday, and to make her feel better I got her drunk off my dad’s expensive scotch.

I was a fucking idiot.

“Oh whatever, I know you try out spells when no one’s around.”

I don’t deny it.

I unhook my belt and she points. “Look, it worked,” she says with a smile.

“Ha ha,” I say dryly, but I’m staring at her grin. That happens so rarely now with the press bearing down on us.

She concentrates solely on my pants, making them her mission. She tugs the jeans to my thighs, and her eyes grow big at the sight of my erection, pressing against my dark red boxer-briefs. I watch her inhale more sporadically than before.

Even if this arouses her, she’s learning how to be less compulsive and insatiable. She hasn’t looked at porn, masturbated or gone off the deep end in a while. That’s a fucking success, especially after her rapid decline when her addiction was first publicized.

I relax back against my leather chair, and she licks her lips. My blood heats when she reaches for my cock underneath the fabric. I brush her hair away from her face, bunching her brunette strands in my fist.

Her hand works my cock just right—not too hard, not too soft. I let out a harsh breath when it springs from my boxer-briefs and her tongue barely touches the head. I reach out on my desk with my free hand and turn up the music on my iPod dock, electronic, heavy bass. I think it’s Skrillex, but my mind isn’t focused enough to know for sure.

Her eyes glimmer with nothing but desire, and it takes my entire energy not to fit all of me inside her mouth. She lightly squeezes my shaft, and a groan penetrates my throat, even as I try to stifle the noise. Her lips rise, and she plants a delicate kiss on my dick before slowly taking it in her mouth. Jesus Christ. I grip the chair with one hand, my other still holding back her hair.

She begins skillfully sucking me off. “Right there, Lil,” I encourage.

My nerves light up, and I clutch her hair harder. Before I can drown in this pleasure, my door swings open. No knock. No anything. I keep my hand on her head, alarm clenching my jaw, and she quickly stops giving me a grade-A blow job.

Her mouth is permanently open in panic, and she scuttles further underneath my desk.

I have just enough time to roll my chair closer to the desk, pull up my boxer-briefs, and prepare a verbal onslaught for whatever stupid fuck just barged in here.

“You need a goddamn assistant,” my father tells me, walking straight into my office without pause.

I suddenly question the attack I’d planned. Jonathan Hale would swallow my insults like he does his bourbon. Unflinchingly. Always ready for more.

“I’m sorry, did we have an appointment?” I ask roughly, not able to hold back right now, even if I wanted to.

Lily punches my shin, silently telling me to be nice. But it’s my father’s scowl, the one hardened and cold, that does more damage.

“Don’t be a little shit,” he sneers. “How are you supposed to take meetings if you don’t have a waiting room with an actual living, breathing soul outside these doors?” He scans my office, appraising my bookshelves with scorn. As if they’re not organized correctly.

“Maybe I’m not planning on taking any meetings,” I retort. “Therefore, I don’t need a waiting room.”

“Sometimes I wonder if one of my fucking nannies dropped you on your head when you were a kid,” he says.

My childhood “nannies” that he claims he’s banged. All ten of them. “No,” I say, “I’m just this way because of you, Dad.” I flash a bitter smile that my father matches quickly.