Conspire Read online

  Table of Contents

  title

  copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  BONUS MATERIAL

  TRANSLUCENT

  Pretty Instinct

  ©2014 Erin Noelle and S.E. Hall

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means. Electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/publisher, except by a reviewer that may quote brief passages for review purposes only. This book is licenses for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each participant.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, is entirely coincidental.

  All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

  Cover Design by Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative

  Interior Design by Kassi Cooper of Kassi’s Kandids Formatting

  “MORE,” SHE BEGS, HER COLOSSAL brown eyes dilated in ecstasy and pleading with mine.

  She’s always mesmerizing, but spread before me, bronze-skinned body thrashing amongst the rumpled white sheets in restless desire, she seems celestial, an apparition of unearthly measure.

  “You don’t need more,” I provoke her with a cocky grin. Looming over her on my knees, sliding only one finger in and out of her silken warmth in deliberate leisure, I wait for her to surrender—come to me—passion uncontrollable.

  And come she will.

  Already impossibly wet, she now flows splendidly, her body thriving on my torment despite her stubborn battle. Pulse quickening in her strained neck, ample, natural breasts bouncing with each deep, desperate breath she takes, I bite back my smirk…almost there.

  “Bryce.” Her rasp of what she believes is my name boosts my rapid heartbeat, but what I wouldn’t give for her to moan out…

  No, not yet. She knows me as Bryce, and what she craves is me—my body, mouth, tongue, and cock…my mind, humor, conversation, and soul. Everything of importance, she has or wants of me, true and genuine. All I’m able to give her, I have, and it’s been sincere. One small detail won’t break us in the end.

  I keep telling myself that, determined to believe it.

  I can’t expect of her faith I don’t return.

  “What is it, J? You need more?” I push a second finger into her slick sweetness and close my eyes, letting her sweet sounds fill my senses.

  “Bry, don’t…you, ugh,” she blathers in exasperation, grinding down harder on my fingers. I don’t stifle my chuckle fast enough, earning myself a flippant scowl, but it couldn’t be helped. When she gets frustrated and starts speaking in gibberish, it’s sexy as hell. It’s so irresistible, in fact, I antagonize her even further.

  “My brilliant girl, reduced to one syllable at a time?” I challenge, brow arched. “Where’s boss lady, huh? She’d have already shown me what she wants, what she needs.”

  Oh, hell yes! I forced her to the brink; now we’re talking and here she comes...up on her knees in a flash, the savage intensity of a huntress glowing in her eyes. “She’s right the fuck here,” she hisses against my mouth as she commands it with her own, a debilitating sequence of nips, licks, and sucks as she takes both sides of my shirt and rips it apart, buttons flying across the room, followed immediately by my belt being unbuckled and ripped through the pant loops for me.

  I love this Jocelyn—confident as she is curvaceous, witty as she is wanton—a lioness. Devouring every inch of my chest with a hot, rigid tongue, she mumbles another command, which again, I can’t quite decipher. The part I did catch was ‘pants,’ so I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess the rest was something along the lines of ‘off.’

  “English, babe.” I taste my request upon the most succulent lips in existence, clinging to contact as I maneuver out of my pants and boxer briefs as directed.

  Now naked as she, I’m pushed onto my back as her beautiful body coyly shifts over me, knees creeping up the outskirts of my hips. “You understand me perfectly,” a provocative quirk twists at the corner of her mouth, “don’t you?”

  I nod—universal language—and her expression darkens, every forbidden intention and wish amply clear.

  “Then what’re you waiting for?” she tempts.

  “You.” Her head tilts and eyes squint in an adorable mix of curiosity and confusion at my response. “Been waiting my whole life…for you, and here you are, bare and ripe for my taking, oblivious to all the power you hold.”

  She’s yet to fully comprehend exactly how much she means to me, and the lengths to which I’d go for her.

  Everything.

  Anywhere.

  I crook my finger, beckoning her closer, and she lowers, laying every inch of her exposed, fevered flesh on mine. Her breasts slide against my chest, a slippery sheen of sweat glistening on us both, my hard length between us. It’s like I finally found the spot for that last piece of the puzzle. Not an easy one, a corner—no, that one damn piece you put back to the side every time you pick it up, waiting until all else falls into place, the hole left at the end telling you where it belongs by default.

  Jocelyn defies that strategy. She is my ‘what’s always been missing.’ Everything else gets built around her.

  “I see you, Jocelyn—hear you, feel you. My girl wants some control,” I lean up and kiss her chastely, “now take it.” The intense consideration in her mocha eyes confirms she hears me too. I’m talking about so much more than this moment and she knows it.

  Here and now hers to control, she rises only to descend, excruciatingly slow, taking all of me inside her. A tender, endless gasp escapes her, in tune with my own vehement groan. “Fucking perfect.” My voice catches as she internally tortures me, clenching around my girth with no mercy, releasing those tense muscles a moment then squeezing around my dick again, repetitively, blowing my mind and stealing all but my last shred of stamina.

  This is right where I belong, the lapse in time and space where the world ceases to be and only she and I remain. She rides me, head thrown back, long, caramel curls brushing along my thighs, where her hands grip tight. I watch her graceful movements, my fingers forging deeper in
to the grooves of her hips. She thrives on top of me like a wave in the ocean, rocking forward with greedy force and building to her crest, then sighs as she denies herself, rolling her pelvis back just as a swell fades to a ripple. And right when I come up for air, catching my breath, along comes another wave of her body, over and again, prolonging the glorious denial. Sweet torment.

  “Bry, Br…sweethe, I—”

  “J,” I grunt, “English, baby.”

  “I’m gonna…so close, Bryce!” she screams, her pitch deepening to a low, constant hum rumbling from her chest as she starts to quiver, coming on me…for me.

  “Got you, babe.” I firm my hold on her hips and thrust manically, up into the snug clutch of her heat like a man crazed. My eyes roll back in my head as I join her in an explosive, harmonious release.

  Adrift in peace that only she provides—sated, sweaty, and…happy—I hold her to me with relentless force, never wanting to let go. Her mouth puckers and blows out tiny puffs of air on my skin as she sleeps, but I battle against the same, wanting to bask in this afterglow of true contentment as long as possible.

  She rustles, opening drowsy eyes that smile when they find mine. “I need to get up.”

  “Why?” I squeeze her tighter.

  She giggles and kisses my lips softly. “I live here, so I’m not escaping, frowny-face. I need to use the bathroom.” She wrestles out from underneath my hold, stretching her arm to the chair beside the bed. Sitting up on the edge, she slips on a satin robe before standing.

  “Why are you covering up that body, babe? I was already hard waiting to watch you go,” I tease…except not at all teasing.

  “What?” She glances over her shoulder with a sassy grin. “You don’t like it?” She looks at her silky attire and runs her hands over the robe enticingly. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been told pink is my color.” Her mouth turns down subtly the second the words escape; a faraway sadness ghosting across her eyes for a fleeting second before she quickly dismisses the thought away and fakes a smile.

  A surge of nausea consumes me, a shiver elicited with the chill that creeps up my spine, the unfair devil of irony dousing me in frigid shame and guilt.

  It’s her—my Jocelyn—was Devon’s…fascination, his ‘I hope she feels the same.’

  I just made love to the woman my little brother never even got a chance to ask on a date.

  Present

  HARRISON MEN ARE STRONG, capable, and fearless—no puzzle too complicated, no goal unattainable. We don’t give up and run from a problem or challenge, and we certainly don’t snuff out lives, especially our own. The men born and raised of the Harrison creed are those to be counted on—providers, protectors—not weaklings who take the easy way out. Leaving family and loved ones behind; shocked, hurting, and confused, with no regard for how they’ll struggle to try and somehow cope in the wake of selfish cowardice?

  No, not our style at all.

  As confident of these facts as I am that tomorrow, the sun will rise, it’s always raining somewhere, and stars will never cease to fall—I’d bet my own life on what didn’t happen to my little brother’s.

  With my parents blinded by sorrow—basic functionality all they can manage right now—and the police having already padlocked up their ill-perceived ‘open-and-shut case’ of suicide, figuring out what actually happened to Devon falls directly on my shoulders.

  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Recruited straight out of my second year at MIT—a prodigy, they claimed—I’ve spent the last four years at NSA becoming a highly-trained intelligence technical analyst; finding the truth is like a second skin for me.

  “Hey man, you okay?” Abram Weaver, a buddy from high school, asks as he takes a seat beside me.

  I don’t remember him being a complete moron, so I assume the question is rhetorical and don’t answer.

  “Yeah, guess not,” he cuts the silence—although I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be silent at a funeral. “I’m really sorry, Graham. Devon was a great kid, never woulda thought—”

  “Then don’t,” I snap, “cause he didn’t.”

  Abram doesn’t deserve the brunt of my anger, but my own flesh and blood, lying before me now in a casket, will not be sent to his final resting place thought a coward, too selfish to even write a quick letter of solace and explanation to our mother. His memory and honor will be kept intact, by me…merely a matter of time. And our mom, she’ll be given back her pride, and at least a shred of peace.

  My job may have kept me from spending as much physical time with my family as I would’ve liked, but I’d never gone very long without telecommunication, so I know my baby bro was in the prime of his life. He loved Temple University, where he was a sophomore, was thriving at and enjoying his internship with one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the country, and was devout to his volunteer work at a drug trial clinic.

  Not to mention, thanks to a few slipups here and there during our phone calls, it was apparent some special lady had snared my brother’s attention. Always being a bit shy and close-lipped, the specifics were scarce, consisting of: “she” was a beautiful female with whom he worked.

  That is, until his last text…too excited to keep his vault from cracking open a smidgen. Perhaps tacky at a funeral, but hell, this whole thing’s a farce anyway, I pull out my phone—albeit discreetly, out of respect for our mother—and read that last text I received from Devon, again. According to the coroner’s report, it was sent less than twenty-four hours before he died.

  Devon: She wore a pink sweater today. About a week ago I told her I thought it was “her color.” She also just so happened to be right behind me in line at the coffee shop this morning. Maybe I’m reaching, but her smile seemed to have a lil something extra to it. With all that and the holiday weekend coming up, you think I should ask if she has any plans?

  Me: Absolutely! You won’t know until you know. Go for it, stud!

  He never replied back, but even without it, I have all the proof I didn’t really even need. Anxious? Nervous? Yes.

  But clearly not suicidal.

  This was a young man planning his future, his next move, not his own death. Things don’t add up, and there’s only one right answer to two plus two. I’m sure the coroner accurately gauged the approximate time of death, the least of my concerns or answers I seek; now I’m impatiently awaiting the official autopsy report.

  Let not my patience be mistaken for ignorance, however.

  It’s as the phone is being stowed back in my pocket that the first tears fall, which I swipe away immediately. I loved him, I miss him, and nothing could leave a gaping hole in me even half as big as the loss of my brother does—my shadow, my partner in crime. But my tears won’t do shit for him. He needs my vigilant anger more, and he certainly has it.

  “You need anything, lemme know,” Abram stands, the service coming to a close while I was adrift, and pats my shoulder with a look of pity.

  Again, I don’t respond. Haven’t seen him in years, and one more empty, obligatory offer today—I might lose my shit. But he means well, so I manage a tight-lipped, half smile and nod.

  “Graham, how are you holding up, son?” Pastor Curney, shockingly still alive, gives me the classic empathetic, concerned frown from my youth.

  Devon and I were born and raised in Boston, the same house my parents live in to this day—currently filled with mourners and casseroles—and every seventh day sat third row for the kind man’s sermon.

  “Fine, sir, thank you. And thank you for the service today.”

  “No thanks needed. You boys grew up in that church. Where else,” he dips his head to conceal getting choked up, the end of his nose a bit red and eyes glassy when he looks back up at me. “It was my honor to serve our Devon’s remembrance. Why,” he scratches his head, “I don’t think either of you lads ever missed a Sunday, did you?”

  An actual chuckle amidst this day, bursts forth. Our mother would stand at the front door and clap her in
famous and thoroughly understood ‘hurry up’ rhythm at 8:45 am sharp every Sunday, tapping her foot with an impatient and stern look, always the hint of a loving smile hiding underneath. Her three men would grumble, press the wrinkles out of their shirts, and trudge past her to load up in the car, heading to First United—where we just finished saying a final goodbye to my brother.

  “No, sir, never missed. And no other church would’ve done for today.” His face beams with pride and I have to smile myself. “I really appreciate you switching the service around.”

  “You’re not the only one with some pull,” he laughs, “and the congregation came to serve. Today, we served one of our own as well as the Lord.”

  His words, succinct and meaningful as always, a reminder of why it wasn’t hard to sit still for his sermons my whole life.

  “Graham, remember,” he holds my eyes and now speaks in solemn condolence. ”I know this all happened fast, which everyone strove for, your mother needing, well—” he leaves it and we exchange a nod of understanding, “but the good Lord will never give you more than you can manage.”

  “Yes, sir,” I nod.

  “Alright then. Well, let me go see to the others.”

  I definitely have this managed, I think with adamant determination as I watch him amble away.

  The moment I heard the news, a barely decipherable, hysterical call from my mother, I told my boss in no uncertain terms that I was leaving immediately, and I’d return when I returned. But I’m not heading back to Maryland, home of NSA Headquarters, anytime soon.

  No, now that I’ve consoled my mother the best I can, delivering her to my father’s arms, and disbursed appreciative handshakes and hugs to everyone who came to express their support, I’m loaded in my truck—next stop: Philadelphia. It’s a five hour drive, far too long to be alone with only the road and my memories, yet not nearly enough time to reexamine every facet of my intricately laid plans.

  “Dust in the Wind” is probably not the best song choice right now, but it’s eerily what started playing when I turned the radio on, and it is calming. The soft, gentle cadence gives background noise without overbearing one’s thoughts.