Page 46 of One More Night
I stand, pulling the towel from beneath me and wipe the last of the cum from my stomach. My dick is still semi-hard as I head for the door, butt naked.
Who am I to give a fuck? It’s my house. He’s a friend, albeit an old one. We’re both men comfortable with our sexuality.
Fuck—we’ve seen each other naked in the change rooms before.
“Bit late for a visit, isn’t it?” I stand with the edge of the door covering my softening dick.
“Do you need a moment to take care of yourself?” He lifts an eyebrow at my state of undress, folder clutched to his side.
“Just did. But thanks anyway.”
He sighs, shaking his head as he pushes inside.
“Come on in,” I jest, closing the door behind him.
He wanders through to the living room while I head for at least a pair of boxers. I’ll sort the towel in my office later.
“Something you wanted to add to what you said earlier?” I call out.
“Yeah.”
I tug the cotton over my legs, and adjust myself before heading back to the living room. “I’m all ears.”
“I told her everything.” He holds my gaze, daring me to challenge him.
“Good,” I state indifferently. “Saves me doing it.”
He drops the file on the coffee table with a loud whack.
“How did she take it?” I cave. I need to know.
“Surprisingly well.”
Good girl.
“Didn’t even put up an argument when I told her to stay the fuck away from you from now on.”
Goddamn it. Why did he have to go and do that? “Is that so?”
“That, right there.” He points to the folder on the table. “You might want to take a look at it. If you think you can blackmail me with our history, you better check again.” Asshole makes a line for the door. “Stay the fuck away from my sister, Jordan. Don’t test how serious I am about this, because if you thought it was a goddamn miracle that I pulled to save your ass, then you better buckle up when I show you how I can ruin you.”
The front door slams behind him, much the same as my fist slams into the lamp on the side table. The ceramic base shatters when it hits the floor, the remnants left strewn for my cleaner to sort out in a couple of days while I settle into the armchair with the folder he left behind.
My hands shake as I turn the pages, but not with fear or worry.
With rage.
Every goddamn dollar I’ve paid to keep him quiet all these years has been promptly redirected to no less than ten charities. The file comes complete with statements showing my total donations for each tax year, all the necessary paperwork to write this off. He’s made it look as though he was the go-between for my philanthropic endeavors.
Fucking sneaky devil.
I should have looked a little deeper when he seemed to roll over too easily. I should have questioned why, after all this time, he didn’t drive a better car, or spoil his wife with a larger house.
I figured it was purely because showmanship was only for the field, when it came to Chase. But maybe I had him pegged wrong all these years? Damn it. He’s a lawyer. I should have known nothing would be as it seemed at face value with him.
He’s played me, and goddamn won.
I spent a decade setting up my own downfall. How beautifully tragic is that?