Filthy Beautiful Lies (Filthy Beautiful Lies 1)

I glance over at the girl, she’s finished her drink, and the way she’s huddled into the leather chair – her knees pulled up to her chest, and her arms wrapped tightly around them –screams of her discomfort. Her eyes are closed as though she’s trying to summon her inner strength for whatever is about to come her way. I can already tell this isn’t going to go well. Fuck.

I’d only outbid that asshole who wanted her because he’d gotten the girl I had picked out. She was closer to my own age – twenty eight, and this was her third time entering into this type of relationship. She was tried and tested and would have made a good drama-free companion. But that prick had been the one to take her home, so when he started bidding on Sophie, outbidding him was my way of giving the asshole a taste of his own medicine. Plus, he just seemed like a dirt-bag and I didn’t want him to have her. The little boy inside me wanted to take his toy and go home. Of course, the terrified, timid girl sitting across from me is now mine to deal with, so maybe I hadn’t exactly thought that plan through.

And a virgin too…would she even be capable of handling me? I hadn’t wanted a project – someone to babysit and go slow with. But shit, I’m the one in control. There’s no real reason to go slow. I can set the pace of this. And I will.

As I continue studying her, my cock perks up in interest. She’s petite, but with all the rounded curves a woman’s body should have. Soft moldable tits and an ass meant for grabbing onto. Or spanking. Her skin is creamy and pale, except for the apples of her cheeks which are flushed pink. Long dark hair hangs loose over one shoulder. My gaze travels north and I realize her blue eyes have lifted to mine. She’s watching me expectantly, obviously wondering what will happen next. Good fucking question.

I have no idea why I told her to call me Drake. Actually, I do. It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out that my employees call me Mr. Drake and hearing her call me Colton would feel too familiar. Too intimate. That isn’t what this connection is about. It’s business. Pure and simple. The business of my dick getting some much overdue attention and having a steady female companion without the hassle of navigating the dating scene. Get your head in the fucking game, Colt.

Sophie

The plane safely touches down after only about thirty minutes or so, and once again, we climb on Drake’s motorcycle, which I learn has been stored in the bulk luggage compartment underneath the plane. Darkness has fallen all around us¸ which fits my slightly buzzed and melancholy mood. I want to hide in the night shadows and pretend that none of this is real.

While I hold on to him for dear life, he expertly navigates us down the highway, the single headlight illuminating our path. I pay close attention to the passing signs. We are near Los Angeles – a place I’ve never been. Soon he takes an exit for Malibu and once we’re on the surface streets, my heart begins pounding. We’re nearing our destination and I have no idea what’s in store for me.

When we pull up to the gated drive, Drake stops the bike to punch some buttons on the key pad, and I peer around his shoulder, eager for a look at what will be my new home for the next six months. It can’t really be described as a home…it’s a full on mansion, complete with a stone drive leading up to a sprawling estate.

Little twinkling lights illuminate our path and provide me with just enough light to make my jaw drop open at what I can see. The house is stucco in the color of warm honey and two huge columns flank the rich mahogany front door. Drake cruises right on past the front of the house and parks beside a six-stall garage before cutting the ignition.

Here we go.

Butterflies take flight in my belly as he leads me toward the house. We navigate a winding stone path lit with landscape lighting toward a side entrance. I suppose it makes sense we aren’t going all the way around to the massive front doors. That entrance is probably only used for guests, yet it’s too strange to think that I live here now, that I’m not just a visiting guest.

I wonder if he’s just going to leave his bike parked outside all night, but then realize he probably has someone on staff to pull it into the garage. I can’t imagine he’d have a home this large and not have people hired to help him take care of it. I doubt he personally dusts the knick-knacks in the one hundred rooms, or however many this monstrosity has.

We enter through the glass-covered side door into what appears to be the world’s finest mud-room. Tall pale wood lockers reach from floor to ceiling, a wire basket of umbrellas, a large tufted bench with a few pillows artfully arranged and a large area rug to cover the marble floors.

He tosses his suit coat and the helmets onto the bench and continues toward the hall. My eyes scan everything as I trail behind him.

"Front entry," he says, pointing to the darkened foyer that’s even more impressive than I imagined. Dual winding staircases meet at the base of the foyer where there’s a round table sporting a huge vase of pink peony blossoms. They smell incredible. Like sunshine and happiness. It seems like a girly touch, but I shrug off the thought. Again, I’m sure it wasn’t chosen by him. Then again, I can’t imagine anything in his world that he doesn’t exercise complete control over.

"Formal living room," he points to the left, not even bothering to turn on a light or enter the room he’s indicated. It looks cavernous and anything but welcoming with stiff, modern furniture. I struggle to take in every detail as he continues moving.

I realize he’s giving me a tour, but it’s rushed and impersonal. For someone who owns such a spectacular mansion, it seems like he’d take a little more pride in showing it off. Something seems off, but I can’t put my finger on what.

He points out several more rooms, a cold dining room with a humongous table, a darkened library filled with books I get the sense he doesn’t care about, and rarely bothers to read. "It’s a beautiful library," I murmur. I want to run my fingertips along the dusty spines and go hunting for a treasure to read.

A look of dark emotion flashes in his eyes before he blinks it away, his carefully composed mask safely returning, before leading me away.

"Where do you spend your time?"

My question stops him in his tracks and he turns to face me, his eyes focused on mine. He studies me for a moment as if trying to decide why I want this information. Call me crazy, but knowing a few details about the man I’m now living with and expected to service might be a teensy bit helpful, and so far this tour and his home have revealed nothing. He tips his head toward a far corridor. "This way."