Filthy Rich Alpha - Virna DePaul Page 0,75
know something else. I went upstairs after you did and Branden followed. You two didn’t hear me. Guess what? There’s more photos of your private party.
“So where are they? That could be a bluff,” Branden muttered. “Nothing attached, I see.”
“No. Here’s the next one,” Cara said.
His dark gaze rapidly scanned the opened email.
But you both kept your clothes on. HotnSaucey delivered the goods. Branden Duke loves blondes. Always has. The one in the sex tape got him all excited. But I couldn’t see her face. Was that you, Cara?
“I want these traced.” Branden’s voice was rough with anger. “If I find this fucker, he’ll be happy to go to jail.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’d prefer jail to what I’d do to him.”
“How do you know it’s a him? Could be a man or a woman. The emails aren’t signed.” As she spoke the words, she realized how dumb they sounded. Creep etiquette didn’t require real names.
Branden gave a slight shake of his head, unconvinced. “Sounds like a guy to me.”
“You’re probably right.” She took a deep breath. “There’s one more email. And this one did have an attachment.”
“Show me.”
She clicked on the email and video link. Then, biting her lip, she saw herself on the screen. With Branden. She was undulating against him, her blond hair tangled, her skin slick with sweat. He slid a hand into her hair and pulled her head back, making her cry out with a wild lust until he released her. She arched against him, her back to his chest, offering herself to the strong hands that cupped her breasts. His circling fingers tugged at her nipples until they were red and hard.
She twisted and turned, rubbed against him, moving to a throbbing beat that came faintly from the speakers.
It was a spliced and CGI-enhanced video that had been manufactured from the night they’d gone dancing. The movements were theirs, and it was her face, but somehow Cara’s clothes had disappeared so that she was completely naked.
Start to finish, it was only a few minutes long, but it seemed as if it would never end. She had to tell herself over and over that she was looking at computer-generated imagery, created with obvious expertise.
Branden was actually himself, heart-stoppingly handsome with a lot of character. Her body double was an invention.
Her erotic response to her lover was all too real.
His strong hands roamed avidly over “her” body, stroking “her” skin. Just watching was almost unbearable. Her mind refused to acknowledge her intense physical delight in seeing Branden pleasuring a naked woman who was and was not her, his lovemaking skill very much in evidence.
His hands moved lower. Her body double arched against him. The rest was a mystery—like the modeling tape, it stopped short of the ultimate satisfaction. There was no sex, per se. Just a scorching prelude to it meant to stimulate and excite.
It worked on both counts.
It was a true feat of technological genius.
It wasn’t real, but yet it was.
It wasn’t as if Branden was blameless, but he could live this down—he was too powerful and too wealthy for a minor indiscretion in his past to mean much. Hell, he’d probably be touted “the Man” and receive back slaps for weeks.
For her, though? Sexy dancing in public was one thing. She’d been a little concerned about cameras the night at the club, but had agreed with Branden—photos of them together that night wouldn’t have done much to harm either of their reputations. People already knew they were dating. No shame in a little sexy dancing.
But a sex tape?
That was a big deal. That could break her.
He remained silent, and she could feel the vibrations of emotion coming from him. She hadn’t looked at him once since the video started, and now a horrifying thought made her body jerk.
What if he’d already seen it? The video could have been sent to every computer in the office, awaiting the first employee to arrive that very day. And sent to online media, who would post it immediately, complete with an adult content warning or strategically placed black bars. She shuddered when she thought of the headlines. Someone was bound to identify her by name sooner or later.
Greg Johnson might, if he was still pissed off at her. She wondered fleetingly if he had made the video. The answer was on a spectrum from unlikely to impossible. His sense of humor was juvenile, going no further than the occasional frat-boy-style prank directed at a male coworker. The whoopee cushion