A Gift of Passion (Lover's Gift Book 1) Read online

  With the constant reporting on our competitive strategy and market fluctuations, coupled with my friends in my ear concerning my husband and everything else, it just felt as though I was ready to pull my freaking hair out. Being a successful businesswoman at the age of thirty-one seemed like a great accomplishment to some, but none of that mattered if you weren’t emotionally satisfied with your home life. I barricaded myself in my work for far too long, and my husband rarely offered any comfort.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Maya, my corporate assistant and cousin. She poked her head into my office without knocking, as usual.

  “How many times have I asked you to knock?” I said to her politely. She knew how stressed I was and tried her best to make my life easier, even going as far as making my lunch and picking up my dry cleaning without me having to ask. Bless her heart. Without her, I’d be lost.

  “Come in, Maya.” She closed the door behind her and placed the company’s financial breakdown on my desk for an upcoming meeting with our CFO and legal team. I was so not in the mood for this right now, but to be successful, I had to push myself. My father told me that when I was a child. In fact, he hammered the phrase into my head for as long as I could remember. I often thought of my mother and father’s relationship and how much they loved each other.

  I wished my marriage were as passionate and loving as theirs. My mother insisted on marrying for love and not riches. I could hear her voice in my head—A woman can make her own fortune, buy her own house, and build her own empire. The only things you should want a man for are his love, support, loyalty, and comfort, she’d said. I took her words to heart. But it seemed as though I’d only gotten one of her wishes correct.

  “Are you ready to begin?” my CFO, Oliver Morehouse, asked me as I stared at the wall, wholly dazed out of reality. I hadn’t realized he’d entered the room I was so out of it.

  “Yes, please. Let’s get this rolling,” I said, trying to stay focused.

  “The IPO should net us millions in new funding for the Asia expansion, Isabella. I understand you still wish to be the majority owner of the company, am I correct?” he asked. Of course I planned to have a majority stake in the company, as I didn’t want some board dictating to me the direction I should take the business I spent my entire life building. I’d be damned if I was forced out of my own company like Steve Jobs was from Macintosh in the eighties while some board who didn’t know the market ran it into the ground.

  “Yes. Eighty percent share in this company.”

  “Eighty percent?” he asked.

  “Yes. When we go public, I will own the majority of preferred stock. I don’t care if I have to buy the shares myself when the IPO opens. I want to structure this so the majority sold are common stock, or Class B shares. I already own seventy percent of the company, as I already paid all our debtors. The majority of the profits went right back into the business or were used to buy out other investors. With the exception of the Bank of New York and Vanguard, I own this company.”

  They all just stared at me. Oliver knew I was no fool, and he knew I was a strict businesswoman. I knew what was best for this company, as I’d watched it grow through all the hardship we’d faced. It was easy to be ruthless, but I found the more subtle and polite approach to work wonders, especially when it came to customers. A woman knew what a woman wanted, and only a woman could understand the wants and needs of other women in the cosmetics and fashion industries. Finally, my dream was coming to fruition.

  Chapter 6

  Dante

  Months passed, and I was still worried, thinking about Isabella and the things she must suffer at the hands of her husband. Madrid was beautiful at this time of year, so I didn’t have any reason to leave. I walked alone and breathed in the atmosphere of the beautiful city. The Temple of Debod and the Puerta de Alcalá were my favorite monuments to visit. Wandering about the city gave me time to think. After weeks of venturing from one pillar to the next, I made it back to the hotel at the Gran Meliá Palacio de los Duques.

  My hotel overlooked the Royal Palace of Madrid. The Baroque architecture made me feel at peace. The sunset gave the mountains in the distance a special kind of beauty, and the way the sky blended with the view of this gorgeous Spanish city helped me to think. It was a somewhat pleasing kind of sadness that I couldn’t quite explain.

  I was hoping Isabella had discovered her husband’s bastardliness by now, but whom was I fooling? I knew she wouldn’t have time to focus on her personal life with her company going public last month. I also heard she planned to expand into the Asian market, which would probably be a godsend to her husband.

  Sitting here enjoying the scenery of Spain while the woman I was infatuated with, in love with, was being wronged in the worst way possible had to end. If not for her own sake, then for mine, because I knew she deserved more, as did I. I must find a way into her life; she must know of my existence—tangibly. It might not have been my place, but something had to be done about her husband. She had to see the truth. It wouldn’t be enough if I merely exposed his nature to her through videos or photographs. I must trap him in a situation that would reveal everything to her. Although, hiding my involvement would be the challenge.

  How could I do this—how? It would mean I needed to get close to him, maybe even befriend him. Thinking about doing such a thing was detestable, but it was something I may have to do. Although if I were to get close to him or even approach him, he might recall who I was. They both might. That was just too risky. I’d promised myself I would not get involved in the affairs of a married couple and would just let the situation play out as it was, but I could wait no longer. What was I to do, sit here and wait for him to give her a disease or end up getting her pregnant? She would be trapped in their marriage, or at least by him, for the rest of her life.

  Certainly not—there was no way in hell I was going to allow that to happen. This needed to stop, and it needed to end now. I needed to get my ass back to the US and put my plan into motion before this went any further. The time for lover’s cowering was over. I had to be more straightforward with my feelings for her. I had to tell her how I felt, but only after their marriage ended.

  Then again, who was I to interfere in their lives? Should I hold my love for her inside until it no longer existed? My mother told me never to meddle in someone’s love life. Nevertheless, what about my heart? What of my chance at happiness? My obsession with Isabella must be satisfied one way or another. There was the off chance that she wouldn’t even find me attractive. Maybe she would think I was too forceful, or see me as only a friend. After all the broken promises and downright shitty relationships I’d been in, my heart was too fragile for that kind of rejection. And the last thing I wanted was to be rejected by her.

  If a man wanted something bad enough, he would be more than willing to risk it all, if only for the slightest bit of success in having it. That was my insane thought process.

  Yet again, I was questioning myself too much about this, and it was getting me nowhere. This moral dilemma inside me was killing my chances of ever being with her. Her husband had no morals, ethics, or humanity as far as I was concerned. Maybe it was time I started to act a little more like him. Perhaps I should put my morals off to the side for the time being and do what I must to have her for my own. I knew my letters started to fill her heart with love for another. That was if she even received them. All I had to do was drive that dagger of love a little deeper, and she would be mine. I needed her in my life just as she needed me, even if she didn’t yet realize it.

  “Enjoying your solitude again?” asked Gaspard, who always seemed to pop up at the strangest of times, usually when I was alone and lost in thought.

  “Nothing, just thinking,” I said.

  “Thinking out loud, you mean. I’ve been sitting in the back room listening to you carry on and on with your self-doubt and fragile sensibilities for the last thirty minutes. What’s the problem?”

  I gazed at him be
fore I took a sip of water from the glass on the table next to me. “The problem is, I am in love with a married woman.” I sighed.

  He chuckled. “I know. I heard you talking about it. You sound like a crazy person out here talking to yourself. I also heard you say something about her husband and bastardliness. Is that even a word?”

  I scrutinized the scenery from the balcony of my hotel suite, reluctant to answer any of his questions. But I knew him. He would not give in until he knew everything there was to know. I had to learn to stop talking to myself.

  “Well?” He pressed.

  “Her husband has cheated on her multiple times, and I’m not sure if she knows. Maybe she knows but doesn’t want to face the truth.”

  “Or doesn’t care?” he muttered. I gave him a wide-eyed glare. “Listen, Dante, if you care for her so much, then why are you here in Spain? Why aren’t you over there telling her this? Regarding the whole cheating bit, I just have to ask—are you insane? What the hell is wrong with you? If you had a lover who was cheating on you, wouldn’t you want someone to tell you about it?”

  I was taken aback by his bluntness. He had a point. “Yes, but it isn’t my place to go barging into their home and breaking up their marriage, regardless of what I’ve seen.”

  Gaspard shook his head and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Look, you love her, right?”

  “Yes . . . I do.”

  “You want to be with her, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And her husband is a cheating piece of shit, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then what’s the problem? Get over your self-loathing and moral dilemma and do what you have to do.”

  “And what is it that I have to do?”

  “Push the cheating fils de pute into a busy highway in the middle of rush hour and whisk her away to Paris where you two will live happily ever after,” he said, laughing. His joke put a smile on my face.

  I knew he was kidding, but he was right. If I were as tough in the affairs of the heart as I was in business, I was sure Isabella and I would be in Paris this very moment. I always doubted myself in the face of love—a nasty habit that I needed to break. This was the first time I’d felt something such as this for a woman.

  It had to have been her innocence and beauty that bewitched me into this state of insecurity. I would take Gaspard’s advice and head back to the US. The only question was, should I whisk Isabella into my arms, or should I expose her husband’s infidelities first? I knew Gaspard would probably say . . . Why not do both? His advice right now was like a shining light in a sea of fog—and I was thankful for it.

  Chapter 7

  Nathan

  It was without morals or dignity that I found myself enriched by such pleasures that would give faintness to the pure-hearted soul of my wife. Engulfed in a lifestyle that covered me covertly in sin, but I needed not the moral code of others who would cast me out for succumbing to basic human desires.

  I loved her, or should I say I loved her for a time, but now that time had passed. Intimacy with my wife had waned, and I should have made it clear to Isabella that monogamy was off the table if we were ever to get married. It was a real shame I was too much of a coward to tell her then. Isabella and I had grown up together, and luckily, for me, I was in the right place at the right time. For years, Isabella only thought of me as a friend. However, as time went on, she began to develop feelings for me, which helped me to weasel my way into her heart while hiding the string of women I’d been with from teenage to adult years.

  Isabella was too concerned with her education and entrepreneurial success to notice anything. By the time she fell in love with me, it was too late. I was a brilliant smooth talker and eased my way in until she said the words, I do. Riding the waves of her success was all I wanted. And that was what I received. Having discontinued my bipolar meds years ago, I saw what I’d been missing, and I realized that I’d rather die than live out my life as a zombie. The only thing that mattered to me now was flesh.

  The sweet young flesh of a new woman was what I craved. I tried to reflect this desire on my wife, but it was no use. I needed new women all the time or else I would grow bored, and nothing was more terrifying for me than being bored with your life. It was equivalent to death in my eyes.

  And death was what would befall me if I had to give up this life, even if it was by my hand. With Isabella toiling away at the office day-in and day-out, I had free rein without being subjected to suspicion. I may have had many flaws, but pleasuring a woman was far from one.

  While my last conquest ended prematurely due to my unflinching excitement of a new woman, I guaranteed that would not happen again. There was no doubt the man from next door had seen my sexual triumphs, and I hoped I had been able to put on a good show for him. I wanted him to see. What was the use of harnessing one’s sexual prowess if not for exploitation? It had been said that no crime could be committed or condemned if the persons involved did it for the sake of pleasure.

  Did Marquis de Sade not make that clear in his book Philosophy in the Bedroom? Was my life not the cultivation of such teachings? I gave pleasure to women, and in return, they gave me comfort. Was that not the righteous; was that not the purpose of man? Must society condemn the actions of one whose sole aim was the pursuit of pleasure regardless of the pain it may cause others? My wife should be satisfied I was able to seek out pleasure without her. She should be grateful—no, better yet, happy for me.

  The celebration of pleasure was much like the celebration of love. It should wash away any pain felt by any other parties involved. This society was ruined and had brainwashed men and women alike that fidelity was natural while non-monogamy was to be condemned and judged. I found this to be utter rubbish. Fidelity—a system of control put in place by the selfish . . . nothing more than emotional slavery.

  These constructs were mere fantasies produced by the emotionally insecure and sexually repressed. My wife shouldn’t fear me taking another person to bed any more than I would her. My only regret was that I didn’t make my intentions known before marriage. I had the foolish belief that I would be able to bring out in her what I had brought out in myself. The truth would come out soon, however.

  Desire was always there, and those who acted out their desires must not be judged. Why become a prisoner in your flesh? Women, whether they wished to admit it or not, always desired the alpha male. Their skin flushed red, sweat flowed through their pores, and the juices streamed amid their wet gash at the very thought of being dominated. The alpha male’s purpose was to taste those juices, that passion. The sweetest part of the taste buds watered just before the tip of the tongue engaged the clitoris. That was the way of man. Those foundations were the ultimate pursuit of pleasure I lived by.

  The doorbell rang, and I knew whom I was expecting. My favorite lover, my beloved Valentina. Hair of gold and skin of shining white porcelain wrapped in a cocoon of silk, pink flowers, and nude suede high heels. My mouth watered at the sight of her. I could see right through the dress that exposed her bright skin in the moonlight. With Isabella out of town, I could have my way with her out in the open.

  The wind blew, forcing her dress to cling to her bosom. Her nipples stood on edge, calling my long, moist tongue to give them a lashing. She knocked on the door even though she could see me standing there, waiting for her to enter. Pretense seemed to have its clutches on her, as she refused to come in until I invited her. She had done this a lot, and each time made my heart thump faster with anticipation.

  She gave me the come-hither through the glass door as the wind blew her hair off to the side, slightly covering the right of her face. She licked her lips and caressed her breast slowly and softly, waiting for me to let her in. I walked up toward the door and opened it wide, begging her to come in and be dominated.

  “Valentina, why do you tease your Master?”

  She smiled and entered the anteroom. I closed the door behind her. “Take off that dress,” I command
ed.

  “Yes—”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Has my little Valentina forgotten her manners? Are you not to address me only as sir or master? Perhaps you need a taste of the hand before we continue?” I hissed.

  Valentina lowered her gaze in submission. I scoffed at her. Perhaps later. For now, I must quench my thirst with the sweat that ran down her inner thigh on this hot summer night. My beautiful plaything knew not to wear panties in my presence, and she obliged me every time we met. I got on my knees and ran my hand up her outer thigh. This hand soon met her soft, cushy backside. I forced her legs open as she gave a small pleasurable moan at what was to come.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, waiting for my tongue to meet her soft skin. I used the center of my tongue when I licked her right inner thigh. Her juices dripped on my forehead, steaming and hot, as she anticipated my wrath. Just as I was about to enter her gushing pleasure chamber, I halted. I did this many times, as I wanted the anticipation to grow to such intensity that when I did lay my tongue on her wanting gash, she would explode in climactic obliteration.

  “Are you ready, Valentina?” I stuck my finger in her ass.

  “Yes, Master!” she screamed. I looked this devilish little angel in her face, her mouth gaping and eyes squinted shut, begging me to lay waste to the suffering of denied pleasure. Without a moment more delay, I engulfed her dripping pussy with my mouth, twirling my tongue over her clit. She screamed in sensual delight, commanding me to keep going. I would not stop . . . not until this beauty had finished in my mouth with juices pouring into my throat like the sap running down a maple tree.