Read Online In His Wake: His #6 (A Billionaire Domination Serial) by Erika Masten - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Erika Masten
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oversized desk to gaze out at the moody April skyline. My Italian-label dress, all white poplin and pintucks for the bodice, feathery soft gray cashmere for the sleeves and fitted skirt, couldn’t keep me nearly warm enough as I stared at the bruised sky and hard-angled buildings. The scurry of tiny figures in their dark overcoats trailing along the barren sidewalks stirred a deep sense of anxiety and isolation. I couldn’t help focusing on the lack of clear blue sky, the loss of pale yellow sand, the wistful memory of samba music thrumming along the length of my spine. The unwieldy knot of my upswept brown hair, a questionable attempt at a prim style that seemed so unnatural now, made my head ache and my scalp bristle as I fussed with the coils and counted all the ways this city was not—could never be—the pristine Brazilian island of Ilha de Flor. Adrian’s tropical haven, with the long, low villa that had been our private retreat.
Below me…
What was I thinking? There was nothing below me. I was a little tenement rat at the core. The daughter of a low-rent Casanova and the kind of woman they wrote self-help books to rescue from herself and her dangerously codependent addiction to reckless love, consequences be damned. The humiliated conquest of the Ellison heir apparent, his indiscretions chronicled in vivid color photos on a half dozen high society gossip blogs. The foolishly willing sexual submissive to enigmatic, dark horse billionaire Adrian Knight with his devil-may-care British accent.
Make that Adrian Alexander, youngest son of Alistair Alexander, widely believed to be the most ruthless and cut-throat businessman in Europe. Adrian had turned out every bit his father’s match, in the bedroom as much as the boardroom, whatever surname he used. Knight was a man without compunction, without conscience, perfectly capable and even eager to seduce and subvert me to settle an old score with my ex-boyfriend, Penn Ellison.
My teeth gouged the inside of my cheeks. Just now, the environmental law degree on my wall felt as contrived and desperate as the designer clothes and the poised posture that helped me mingle with the rich and powerful. I was my father’s castoff, in my mother’s mold...after all, despite it all, regardless of education and career and careful observation of East Coast etiquette and culture.
My forehead was pounding as I let the emotional bile that had characterized the four weeks since my departure from Ilha de Flor—without warning in the middle of the night—bubble up along the back of my throat. Sour regrets left a stinging, ashy aftertaste along my tongue. It tightened my jaw, the muscles in my face.
Time, Chloe. Give yourself time. It was a mantra I repeated to myself often over the course of a day. I had to take it on faith that the practice would eventually make a difference. So far, no luck.
The case files that had accumulated in my absence, over the two weeks I had been off on my South American cruise to escape Penn’s relentless attempts to win me back and the two additional weeks I’d spent on Ilha de Flor serving every visceral desire Adrian Knight could muster, sat piled on my desk along with everything new that had come into my office over the last month. I glanced hesitantly over my shoulder as though to check that they were still there, then shook my head at myself. The backlog of work, the mitigation plans that needed reviewing, the litigation requiring response, never lessened. I should have been grateful. Idle hands made for the devil’s work, as the saying went. Idle thoughts too often led back to Ilha de Flor, to the sensation of his long fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my head, his tongue filling my mouth, his collar around my neck and his belt laid across the curve of my bare, upturned ass.
There was no leaving Adrian Knight, but I told myself I could at least take a coffee break from the angst. I stuffed my arms into my heavy black wool overcoat as I
Below me…
What was I thinking? There was nothing below me. I was a little tenement rat at the core. The daughter of a low-rent Casanova and the kind of woman they wrote self-help books to rescue from herself and her dangerously codependent addiction to reckless love, consequences be damned. The humiliated conquest of the Ellison heir apparent, his indiscretions chronicled in vivid color photos on a half dozen high society gossip blogs. The foolishly willing sexual submissive to enigmatic, dark horse billionaire Adrian Knight with his devil-may-care British accent.
Make that Adrian Alexander, youngest son of Alistair Alexander, widely believed to be the most ruthless and cut-throat businessman in Europe. Adrian had turned out every bit his father’s match, in the bedroom as much as the boardroom, whatever surname he used. Knight was a man without compunction, without conscience, perfectly capable and even eager to seduce and subvert me to settle an old score with my ex-boyfriend, Penn Ellison.
My teeth gouged the inside of my cheeks. Just now, the environmental law degree on my wall felt as contrived and desperate as the designer clothes and the poised posture that helped me mingle with the rich and powerful. I was my father’s castoff, in my mother’s mold...after all, despite it all, regardless of education and career and careful observation of East Coast etiquette and culture.
My forehead was pounding as I let the emotional bile that had characterized the four weeks since my departure from Ilha de Flor—without warning in the middle of the night—bubble up along the back of my throat. Sour regrets left a stinging, ashy aftertaste along my tongue. It tightened my jaw, the muscles in my face.
Time, Chloe. Give yourself time. It was a mantra I repeated to myself often over the course of a day. I had to take it on faith that the practice would eventually make a difference. So far, no luck.
The case files that had accumulated in my absence, over the two weeks I had been off on my South American cruise to escape Penn’s relentless attempts to win me back and the two additional weeks I’d spent on Ilha de Flor serving every visceral desire Adrian Knight could muster, sat piled on my desk along with everything new that had come into my office over the last month. I glanced hesitantly over my shoulder as though to check that they were still there, then shook my head at myself. The backlog of work, the mitigation plans that needed reviewing, the litigation requiring response, never lessened. I should have been grateful. Idle hands made for the devil’s work, as the saying went. Idle thoughts too often led back to Ilha de Flor, to the sensation of his long fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my head, his tongue filling my mouth, his collar around my neck and his belt laid across the curve of my bare, upturned ass.
There was no leaving Adrian Knight, but I told myself I could at least take a coffee break from the angst. I stuffed my arms into my heavy black wool overcoat as I
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