All The Pretty Little Lies (Second Sons Duet #1)

35. Vesper

VESPER

The sleek black town car, with Alex acting as our driver, glides through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan. I'm hyper aware of every sensation: the cool leather seat beneath me, the faint scent of expensive cologne mingling with the car's new leather smell, and most of all, the scorching trail Zaire's fingers are blazing across my exposed thigh.

My breath catches as his calloused fingertips trace lazy circles on my skin, inching higher with each pass. The slit in my dress, daring even by my standards, leaves little to the imagination. It's a weapon, this dress, as deadly as any gun. A weapon to turn our fictional story into a reality for Natasha. Black silk hugs every curve, the plunging neckline a deliberate distraction. I can feel the weight of their gazes on me: Zaire's touch searing my skin, Oscar's ice-blue eyes carefully assessing, and Talon's warm brown ones filled with barely concealed hunger. It's as if Zaire's lesson unlocked a part of him he'd kept carefully hidden. I wonder if he's replaying that night in his mind too, remembering the way his lips felt against mine, and how far down we’d gone into the scene that we almost stepped over a line I don’t remember drawing.

I bite my lip, and Talon's gaze drops to my mouth. The hunger in his eyes intensifies, and for a moment, I think he might reach out and touch me. But he doesn't. Neither of us has dared to cross that line, to acknowledge the crackling tension that now exists between us. It's maddening and thrilling all at once.

Zaire's fingers continue their torturous path up my thigh, and I have to stifle a gasp. I tear my eyes away from Talon's, only to meet Oscar's cool, assessing gaze. He's been watching the entire exchange, his face an unreadable mask. But I know him well enough now to see the calculating gleam in his eyes. He's piecing together the puzzle, noting every lingering look and hitched breath.

The car takes a sharp turn, and I'm pressed against Zaire's solid form. His arm snakes around my waist, steadying me, but also pulling me into his lap. His hard length digging into my ass. It's dizzying, being surrounded by these three men, each exerting their own gravitational pull.

Zaire's lips brush against my ear, his breath hot and heavy as he whispers, "When we get back, I want you in nothing but those heels, kneeling for me." A shiver runs through my body, desire pooling low in my belly. His words paint a vivid picture in my mind, and I can almost feel the cool floor against my bare knees, the weight of his gaze as I look up at him.

I turn my head slightly, meeting his intense gaze. My breath catches in my throat as I see the raw hunger there, barely contained.

Oscar clears his throat, breaking the moment. "We're almost there," he says, his voice low and controlled. But I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. He's affected too, despite his attempts to hide it. “Drop us off a few blocks away from the entrance, Alex.”

Talon shifts in his seat, and I catch a glimpse of the bulge in his pants. His eyes meet mine, and there's a challenge there, a dare. I feel my cheeks flush, but I don't look away. Instead, I let my tongue dart out to wet my lips, a deliberate tease. His nostrils flare, and I hear his sharp intake of breath.

As Alex pulls the car to a stop, Zaire's grip on my waist tightens for a moment. He turns my face towards his, capturing my lips in a searing kiss that leaves me breathless. His tongue teases mine, a promise of what's to come later. When he pulls away, his eyes are dark with desire.

"Don't forget what I said," he murmurs against my lips before gently shifting me off his lap.

I watch as Zaire gracefully exits the car, his tall frame unfolding into the night. The cool air that rushes in makes me shiver, a stark contrast to the heat that had been building in the confined space.

Oscar steps out next, his movements precise and controlled. He turns back, extending his hand to me. I take it, marveling at how such a simple touch can send sparks racing up my arm. His fingers are cool against my overheated skin as he helps me slide across the seat to take his place next to Talon.

As I settle in, I'm acutely aware of Talon's proximity. The car suddenly feels much smaller, charged with an electric tension that makes my skin prickle. Oscar leans in, his ice-blue eyes meeting mine. There's a softness there that belies his usual stoic demeanor.

"Be careful," he says, his voice low and husky. He presses a gentle kiss to my cheek, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Both of you," he adds, his gaze flickering to Talon.

The door closes with a soft thud, and suddenly it's just Talon and me in the back seat. Alex pulls away smoothly, heading towards the restaurant. The silence between us is heavy, laden with unspoken desires and simmering tension.

I can feel the heat radiating off Talon's body. My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. I chance a glance at him from the corner of my eye.

Talon is staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight. His hands are balled into fists on his thighs, his knuckles white with tension. The streetlights flashing by illuminate his face in intermittent bursts, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the fullness of his lips.

I shift slightly in my seat, the movement causing my dress to ride up even higher. Talon's eyes snap to my exposed thigh, his gaze burning a trail up my body until it meets mine. The hunger I see there makes my breath catch in my throat.

"Vesper," he growls, my name sounding like both a prayer and a curse on his lips.

I don't know who moves first, but suddenly we're crashing together. His lips claim mine in a bruising kiss, all the pent-up desire and frustration pouring out. One of his hands tangles in styled hair.

Talon's lips move against mine with a desperate hunger, his tongue seeking entrance. I part my lips, welcoming him in, tasting the faint hint of whiskey. His hand in my hair tightens, angling my head to deepen the kiss. I moan into his mouth, my fingers clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer.

The world outside the car fades away, narrowing down to just us, the heat of his body pressed against mine, the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with desire, the way his stubble scratches deliciously against my skin. His other hand slides up my thigh, pushing the fabric of my dress higher, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

I arch into him, wanting, no, needing more. My hands roam over his broad shoulders, down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. Talon groans, the sound vibrating through me, igniting sparks of pleasure low in my belly.

His lips leave mine, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, down my neck. I tilt my head back, offering more of myself to him. His teeth graze my pulse point, and I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"Talon," I breathe, his name a plea on my lips.

He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. His breath comes in short pants, matching my own rapid breathing. I open my eyes to find him staring at me, his gaze dark with desire. The intensity I see there makes me shiver.

"God, Vesper," he murmurs, his voice rough with want. "You have no idea what you do to me."

I'm about to respond when I feel the car slow to a stop. The spell breaks as we hear Alex's door open. Reality crashes back in, reminding us of where we are and what we're here to do.

Talon pulls away, his hands gentle as he helps me sit up straight. His fingers brush against my cheek as he wipes away the smeared lipstick from my now swollen lips. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the heated passion of moments before, making my heart clench.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice low and steady, the mask of our act sliding into place.

I nod, taking a deep breath to center myself. Talon exits the car first, his movements fluid and controlled. I watch as he straightens his jacket, running a hand through his hair to tame any evidence of our heated encounter.

He comes around to my side of the car, opening the door with a flourish. As I step out, I feel the cool night air against my flushed skin, a stark reminder of the heat we'd generated inside the car.

Talon reaches into his pocket, retrieving a delicate lace choker. At its center hangs a tiny silver hoop, diamonds glittering in the streetlights.

Talon's fingers brush against my neck as he fastens the choker, sending shivers down my spine. The cool metal of the hoop settles against my skin, a constant reminder of the role I'm about to play. I catch my reflection in a nearby window, the diamonds glitter in the streetlight, a delicate contrast to the daring cut of my dress.

"I did some research," Talon murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "This is expected for someone in your position." His voice catches slightly on the last word, a hint of his true feelings breaking through the mask.

I swallow hard, feeling the slight pressure of the collar against my throat. It's both thrilling and terrifying, a tangible symbol of the dangerous game we're playing. Talon's hands linger on my shoulders, his touch grounding me.

"Remember," he says, his voice low and intense, "no matter what happens up there, I will protect you. We're in this together, Vesper."

I meet his gaze, seeing the fierce determination in his eyes. For a moment, I allow myself to lean into his strength, drawing courage from his unwavering support. Then, with a deep breath, I straighten my spine and nod.

Talon's demeanor shifts subtly as he offers me his arm. The warmth in his eyes cools, replaced by a calculated charm that would fool anyone who didn't know him as well as I do. I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid muscle beneath his tailored jacket.

We ascend the steps to the French restaurant, the click of my heels on marble echoing in the night air. The facade is all gleaming glass and polished brass, exuding an air of old-world elegance. As we approach the entrance, the scent of fresh-baked bread and rich sauces wafts out, making my mouth water despite the nerves twisting my stomach.

Talon pushes open the heavy door, ushering me into a world of soft lighting and hushed conversations. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over tables draped in crisp white linen. The walls are adorned with impressionist paintings, and splashes of color that draw the eye.

We approach the host stand, where an impeccably dressed man greets us with a practiced smile. Talon gives his fake name, his voice smooth and confident. I watch as the host's eyes flicker to the choker at my neck, a fleeting look of understanding passing over his features before his professional mask slips back into place.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Blackwood," the host says, his French accent adding an extra layer of refinement to his words. "The other member of your party is already waiting. If you'll follow me, please."

The host leads us through the main dining room, a labyrinth of white-clothed tables and soft candlelight. The air is thick with the aroma of seared meats, delicate sauces, and freshly baked bread. My stomach clenches with a mix of hunger and nerves as we weave between tables, the weight of curious glances prickling against my skin.

We're guided towards the back of the restaurant, where the lighting grows dimmer and the atmosphere more intimate. The host pushes open a heavy wooden door revealing a private dining room. The space is smaller, cozier, with only one table nestled within its dark wood-paneled walls.

As we step inside, a woman sits alone, her posture perfect, one long leg crossed elegantly over the other. Her red hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, the color vibrant against the muted gray of her tailored pantsuit. As we approach, she lifts a glass of deep red wine to her lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip.

Her eyes, a startling shade of green, lock onto Talon as we near her table. A smile curves her lips, equal parts welcoming and predatory. She stands from the table as we approach. "Charles, darling," she purrs, her Russian accent thick and rich like honey. "How wonderful to see you again."

Talon's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my arm as he returns her smile. "Natasha," he greets her, his voice smooth and controlled. "The pleasure is all mine."

I keep my eyes lowered, as I've been instructed, but I can feel the weight of Natasha's gaze as it shifts to me.

I can feel the weight of her scrutiny, probing for any hint of weakness, any crack in the carefully constructed facade. Her eyes linger on the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts barely contained by the daring neckline of my dress, the expanse of leg exposed by the high slit.

"My, my," Natasha murmurs, her voice a silky purr. "What a lovely collar." Her perfectly manicured fingers reach out, brushing against the choker at my throat. The touch sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

I keep my eyes lowered, my posture submissive, even as I feel a flare of defiance in my chest. Talon's hand on the small of my back steadies me, a silent reminder of our roles in this dangerous game.

Natasha's lips curl into a smirk as she gestures to the single chair across from her. "Please, Charles, take a seat. We have much to discuss." Natasha shifts back to her seat.

Talon moves towards the chair, his movements fluid and controlled. As he sits, he turns to me, his voice pitched low but carrying an unmistakable command. "Kneel."

I sink to my knees beside his chair, the cold marble floor a shock against my bare skin. The position leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable, but I force myself to remain still, to embody the role we've crafted so carefully.

"Well-trained," she comments casually to Talon. “I can see why you wanted to discuss the breeding clause, but before all of that business talk, we should eat.”

Natasha snaps her fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the intimate space. A server materializes at her side almost instantly, his crisp white shirt and black bow tie a stark contrast to the dim lighting of the room. He opens his mouth, eyes darting to me kneeling on the floor, a question about a chair forming on his lips. But one look at Natasha's arched eyebrow silences him immediately. His professional mask slips back into place, though I catch a flicker of discomfort in his eyes before he averts his gaze.

Natasha's voice flows like liquid silk as she orders in flawless French, the words rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. "Nous commencerons avec les hu?tres de Cancale, suivies du foie gras poêlé avec une réduction de vin rouge. Pour le plat principal, le filet de b?uf Wellington, saignant, bien s?r. Et n'oubliez pas une assiette de fromages pour terminer."

Natasha turns to Talon, her lips curving into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "And what about the wine, Charles darling? Do you have a preference?"

Talon doesn't miss a beat. His voice is smooth and confident as he responds, "I believe a 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild would pair wonderfully with your selections, Natasha. If the sommelier has it available, of course."

I can almost see Natasha's ears perk up at the mention of the prestigious and incredibly expensive wine. Her smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth. "Excellent choice," she purrs, a note of genuine approval in her voice. She turns back to the server. "You heard the man. And do be a dear and have it decanted immediately."

The server bows slightly, murmuring, "Bien s?r, madame," before disappearing as silently as he had appeared.

"I must say, Charles, your taste in wine is as impeccable as your taste in other areas." Her gaze flicks briefly to me, still kneeling silently beside Talon's chair.

The soft clink of crystal against the marble tabletop draws my attention, though I keep my eyes lowered. The sommelier's voice is hushed as he presents the wine, his French accent thick with reverence for the vintage he's about to pour. I hear the delicate pop of the cork being freed from the bottle, followed by the gentle gurgle of wine cascading into the decanter.

Suddenly, I feel a spray of tiny droplets raining down on my exposed skin. The cork must have slipped, sending a fine mist of the precious wine into the air. The rich, heady aroma envelops me, notes of blackcurrant, cedar, and a hint of truffle. It's intoxicating, and I have to resist the urge to lick my lips, to taste the droplets that have landed there.

"Oh dear," Natasha's voice drips with false concern. "It seems your pet has been christened with our wine, Charles. How fitting."

Talon's hand comes to rest on my head, his fingers threading through my hair in a possessive gesture. "Indeed," he replies, his tone casual but with an underlying current of steel. "She wears it well, don't you think?"

I can feel Natasha's eyes on me, assessing, calculating. "Quite," she purrs. "Now, tell me, Charles, how are things progressing with your little project? I trust she's proving satisfactory?"

The sommelier finishes pouring the wine, retreating silently as Talon and Natasha begin their dance of words. I listen, my heart pounding, as Talon spins a tale of my training, of my supposed eagerness to please. He speaks of me as if I'm not there, as if I'm nothing more than a prized pet, and I have to remind myself that this is all an act.

"She's coming along nicely," Talon says, his voice a perfect blend of pride and detachment. "Eager to learn, quick to obey. Of course, there's always room for improvement."

Natasha hums appreciatively. “I find that punishment is almost as sweet as submission.”

I feel Talon's fingers tighten slightly in my hair. “It certainly is.”

“Ah, there’s our first course,” Natasha comments. The scent of fresh oysters mingles with the lingering aroma of the wine, making my mouth water.

"Eyes on me," Talon commands softly, and I obey, lifting my gaze to meet his. His expression is impassive, but I can see the warmth in his eyes, a silent reassurance.

He selects an oyster from his plate, bringing it to my lips. "Open," he instructs, his voice low and husky.

I part my lips obediently, my heart racing as Talon tilts the shell. The oyster slides into my mouth, cool and briny. The delicate flesh practically melts on my tongue, a burst of ocean flavor that makes my taste buds sing. I swallow, savoring the lingering taste of the sea.

Talon's thumb brushes across my bottom lip, wiping away a stray droplet of oyster liquor. The touch sends a shiver through me, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. I can feel Natasha's eyes on us, watching our every move with predatory interest.

"Good girl," Talon murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. The praise, though part of our act, sends a thrill through me.

Natasha leans forward, her elbows resting on the table. "She takes direction well," she observes, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "Tell me, Charles, how does she handle more intense situations?"

Talon's hand moves to the back of my neck, his fingers playing with the clasp of the choker. "She's quite resilient," he replies, a hint of pride coloring his voice. "Aren't you, pet?"

I nod, keeping my eyes locked on Talon's face. "Yes, Sir," I murmur, my voice soft and demure.

Natasha's laugh is low and throaty. "Charming," she purrs. "I do hope you'll allow me to evaluate her limits myself, Charles. Her owners were quite clear about allowing someone else to play with their toy, so to speak."

The tension in the room ratchets up a notch, and I feel Talon's fingers tighten slightly on my neck. "Perhaps," he says, his tone noncommittal. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves, Natasha. We have business to discuss first, don't we?"

"Of course, darling. Business before pleasure, as they say." I steal a glance as she raises her wine glass in a mock toast. "To fruitful negotiations."

Talon raises his glass, the deep ruby liquid catching the candlelight as he mirrors Natasha's toast. "To fruitful negotiations," he echoes, his voice smooth as velvet. The crystal glasses clink together, the sound ringing out in the intimate space of the private dining room.

"Now then," Talon begins, setting down the decanter with a soft clink. His fingers absently stroke the back of my neck as he speaks, a gesture that could be seen as possessive or comforting, depending on the observer. "I believe we have some matters to discuss regarding your clients' interests."

"Ah yes, the breeding clause. I must say, Charles, your interest has certainly piqued their curiosity." Her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They're quite intrigued by your enthusiasm for this particular asset."

I feel Talon's fingers tighten slightly on my neck, a barely perceptible tension that only I can detect. His voice, however, remains perfectly controlled. "And have they considered my offer?"

I hear Natasha takes another sip of wine, drawing out the moment. The silence stretches between them, filled only by the muted strains of classical music filtering in from the main restaurant.

"They are open to negotiation," she finally says, her words carefully measured. "However, they do have one small stipulation before we can discuss numbers."

Talon's hand stills on my neck, fidgeting with the lace collar around my neck. "Oh?" he prompts, his tone neutral but with an underlying current of interest.

Natasha sets down her wine glass, her manicured nails tapping a soft rhythm against the stem. "They wish to harvest her eggs again," she states. "Upon successful creation of viable embryos, their insurance policy, so to speak, they would be willing to enter into more concrete negotiations."

Talon brings his wine glass to his lips, taking a measured sip before responding. His face remains impassive, but I can feel the tension coiled in his body, like a spring ready to unwind.

"I see," he says, his voice smooth as polished marble. "And what exactly would this procedure entail?"

"Nothing too invasive, I assure you," she purrs, her Russian accent thickening slightly. "We have a discreet clinic that we've used for similar procedures in the past. State-of-the-art facilities, top-notch medical staff."

I steal another glance as she pauses, reaching for an oyster. With practiced elegance, she brings it to her lips, tipping the shell and letting the briny morsel slide into her mouth. I watch as she savors it, her eyes closing briefly in pleasure.

"Of course," she continues after swallowing, "we understand the value of privacy in these matters. We have a doctor on staff who would be more than willing to make house calls for the necessary hormone injections."

Talon's hand moves from my neck to my hair, his fingers threading through the strands. "Hormone injections?" he prompts, his tone casual but probing.

"Yes, to stimulate egg production," she explains, swirling the ruby liquid gently. "It's a standard part of the process. The injections would be administered over a period of about two weeks, followed by the retrieval procedure itself."

I feel Talon's fingers tighten slightly in my hair. His voice, however, remains perfectly controlled. "And the retrieval? What does that involve?"

"It's a minor outpatient procedure," Natasha assures him, her tone almost bored, as if discussing something as mundane as a dental cleaning. "Performed under light sedation. The eggs are harvested transvaginally using an ultrasound-guided needle. The whole process takes less than an hour." The thought of being put under again sets my fear and anxiety on edge.

I’m safe. Talon would never allow her to take me. I remind myself of that over and over again until my mind finally relaxes. Talon must notice as his fingers loosen their grip in my hair.

She takes another sip of wine, her green eyes never leaving Talon's face. "Of course, there would need to be a period of abstinence before and after the procedure. We wouldn't want to compromise the quality of the harvest, after all."

I can almost feel Talon's mind working, processing this information and calculating our next move. His thumb traces small circles on my scalp, a soothing gesture that grounds me amidst the clinical discussion of my body.

"And this abstinence period," Talon inquires, his tone casual, "how long are we talking about?"

"Typically, we recommend abstaining for at least a week before the egg retrieval and two weeks after," she replies. "We understand the inconvenience this might pose. Rest assured, the price would reflect that.

The server appears silently at their side, replacing the empty oyster platter with the next course. The rich, heady aroma of seared foie gras fills the air, mingling with the lingering scent of the sea and the complex bouquet of the wine.

Talon's fingers trail down to the nape of my neck, his touch sending a shiver down my spine.

"We could begin the hormone treatments within the week," she says. "The entire process, from start to finish, would take approximately three to four weeks."

Talon's hand moves to my shoulder, his touch both possessive and reassuring. "I see," he murmurs, his tone thoughtful. "And what guarantees do we have regarding her safety and well-being throughout this process?"

A flash of something, surprise, perhaps, or respect, flickers across Natasha's face before her mask of cool professionalism slips back into place. "We take the utmost care with all our assets, Charles.”

I notice a slight tremor in his hand, barely perceptible to anyone who didn't know him as well as I do. His foot begins to bounce slowly beneath the table, the vibration traveling through the floor to where I kneel.

My heart races as I realize Talon is losing his grip on his carefully constructed facade. The tension in the room is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. I desperately want to reach out, to offer some form of comfort or reassurance, but I'm trapped in my role as the submissive pet. Helplessness washes over me as I struggle to think of a way to steady him without breaking character.

“What do you say, Mr. Blackwood?”

His hand slides from my shoulder to cup my face, drawing me forward slightly. The movement is gentle but firm, a clear statement of possession. I can feel the tremor in his fingers, the barely contained rage simmering just beneath the surface.

"You see," Talon continues, “Vesper isn't just an asset. She's not a commodity to be traded or harvested. She's mine."

As he speaks, I notice a flash of white moving behind Natasha. At first, I think it's just another server, their crisp uniform blending into the elegant decor of the restaurant. But there's something familiar about the way this figure moves, a fluid grace that sets my nerves on edge.

"You forget yourself, Charles," she hisses. "This isn't a negotiation. It's a courtesy. The eggs will be harvested, with or without your cooperation."

Talon's laugh is cold and sharp, like shattered glass. "Oh, Natasha," he says, shaking his head. "The last thing I would ever do is hand Vesper over to you or your clients."

My eyes snap towards her. Rage contorts Natasha's features, transforming her face into a mask of fury. She opens her mouth, no doubt to unleash a torrent of threats, but before she can utter a word, the white-clad figure behind her moves with lightning speed.

A hand darts out, gripping Natasha's shoulder with bruising force. In the same fluid motion, a syringe plunges into the crook of her neck. Natasha's eyes widen in shock and fear, her mouth working silently as the drug takes effect.

"Nighty night, cunt," Talon seethes, his voice dripping with satisfaction as Natasha slumps forward in her chair, her forehead hitting the table with a dull thud.

My heart racing, I peer up at our unexpected savior. To my shock, I see Alex, dressed impeccably in a server's uniform. His usually stoic face is alive with grim satisfaction as he smoothly pockets the now-empty syringe.

"Excellent timing, as always, Alex," Talon says, rising from his chair. He reaches down, offering me his hand. “We need to move. We’ll take the Red Russian bitch to go.”