Enter The Black Oak: A Dark Billionaire Romantic Suspense

MONDAY MORNING.

Two days have passed since the gala and I’m waiting for our plumber Joseph to come and fix the leak coming from somewhere under our kitchen sink. I can never get enough of Joseph. Maybe it’s the earthy Irish charm or the kind, gorgeously weathered face or his ability to make every sentence he utters sound hilarious.

I wouldn’t mind a laugh, that’s for sure. I barely slept again last night and exhaustion is weighing heavily on my limbs.

Tom, the concierge, calls to let us know our plumber is on the way up and I open the door to let him in when I hear the elevator chime at our floor. My eyes widen in surprise as a stranger approaches.

“Hi. I’m here to fix the leak.” The man extends his arm out and offers a warm, open smile.

There’s just one thing: the man standing opposite me is most definitely not Joseph. He’s about thirty years younger for one and a good four inches taller with a strong Brooklyn accent and no trace of Joseph’s Irish lilt—not to mention the long, disheveled dirty-blond hair and tattoos covering both arms.

“Hi, um, I was expecting Joseph,” I stammer.

“Yeah. He’s my dad. He’s not feeling well so I’m taking over today. I hope that’s okay?”

As he finishes the sentence, Jack appears from the study a few feet away and eyes this unexpected arrival suspiciously. “Do you have any ID?” Jack asks coldly, taking an assertive step towards the stranger and gently easing me behind him.

I shoot him a glare of disapproval at his rude welcome as the man gets his wallet out and shows Jack his ID before handing him a business card from the plumbing company.

“Call the office if you like… or should I just leave?” the plumber asks good-naturedly, not looking in the least intimidated by Jack’s lack of manners or his tall, muscular physique. In fact, he almost seems amused.

“Come in,” Jack says coolly upon scrutinizing the ID and business card. “Jackson Wilder. You can call me Jack. I had to check. I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure,” he replies, the ghost of a wry smile on his lips.

“This is my wife, Jessynia.”

“Sean,” says the plumber warmly.

“Jess,” I reply. “Nice to meet you, Sean,”

His eyes are a piercing green with wisps of yellow around the pupil. He looks one part unimpressed and two parts amused by the icy Upper West Side welcome as he pushes the greasy hair out of his handsome face. We lead him into the kitchen and Jack shows him the leak and points out the rotten baseboard and pipes that need replacing as Sean ducks his head into the cupboard under the sink to inspect the damage.

“How long is it going to take?” Jack still sounds irritated by the unexpected presence of this hot young man in his house.

Sean pulls his head out from under the sink. “I’m gonna have to replace all these baseboards, change the pipes, apply sealant, caulking. I can replace the boards with—”

“I don’t need the details. When can you get the materials?” asks Jack.

The plumber gets to his feet. “I have what I need to stop the leak, tear up the old boards. I can start now, probably get quite a bit done this morning and bring the rest of the stuff tomorrow.”

Jack rubs his hand against his strong jaw as if contemplating the news. Although Sean is a couple of inches shorter than Jack and certainly less muscular, they almost look like they’re squaring up to each other, mainly due to the dominant male energy that clings to Jack like the ghost of some Viking warrior. It’s always amazed me how with women, rivalry can be insidious and fester like poison in a wound for years, whereas when men get a bad vibe from each other, the energy is visceral and physical, like two pit bulls forced into a dog fight, instantly ready to rip each other’s throats out. I’m tempted to ask Jack if he can crank the testosterone down a notch…

“Fine. You can start. Jess?” Jack beckons me to follow him and we head to the front door. “I’ve got a meeting with McCarthy in an hour. I have to go,” he whispers as he dons his sleek Armani suit jacket. “You gonna be okay?”

“Of course.”

“Listen, we’re going to talk some more tonight, okay? In the meantime, if you have any problems with”—he tips his head towards the kitchen—“call me. I’m going to ask Tom to call up here every half hour to check on you.”

“What? No! That’s ridiculous. I’ve dealt with tradesmen before. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not yourself right now, are you?”

“Jack, don’t. It’s embarrassing. I don’t need help coping with everyday life.”

He exhales in irritation. “Listen, Jessynia, you’re my wife and you’re going to do as I say. You understand that?” He jolts my chin up and forces me to look at him, holding my face firmly with one hand. “You belong to me and I decide how to protect you. You’d better answer that phone.”

“Fine. You’d better go.”

On hearing the clang of metal tools in the kitchen, Jack pulls me towards him so that I’m pressed right up against his hard body. I feel the hint of an erection push into my abdomen as he presses his lips tenderly against mine before pulling my hair off my neck and kissing it smoothly, breathing in the freshly washed scent, brushing his lips up and down the soft curves. He smells of expensive cologne swirled with that irresistible male odor he always has.

“Jack,” I protest quietly, not wanting the plumber to surprise us. Plus, I’m still uncomfortable being kissed so intimately by the man who has cheated on me so many times.

He pulls away from me, breathing heavily. “I’m going to be thinking about your soft pink mouth all day,” he whispers into my lips. “I want you thinking about mine. Thinking about what my tongue is going to do to your tight little body. Thinking about the pleasure it can give you…”

Jack has been trying to recreate some level of intimacy between us for a few days, and despite the fact that I’m still turned on by this steaming-hot man, the hurt I feel makes it impossible to let him close to me.

“I know we still have a lot to talk about,” he continues, “but in the meantime, I want you thinking about my body all day. My hard body.” He takes my hand and rubs it briefly against the hard bulge between his legs. “Because I’m going to be thinking about yours… and about all the different ways I intend to make you come.”

He parts his lips and licks mine with the full surface of his tongue, leaving me panting. His fingertips draw circles over my temples as he dips his tongue into the warm wetness of my mouth again and again, brushing against the inner rim of my lip, meeting my timid tongue. His erection pushes against me ambitiously under his suit and he holds me tightly against him while I resist the instinct to faint from the threat of his hard body against mine. I whimper slightly as he rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, his gaze indecent as if picturing what he wants to do to my mouth.

“I want you remembering what I can do to your body. Is that clear?” he asks, licking my lips again.

I nod, knowing full well that I’m not ready to do that.

“Good. I love you, angel,” he whispers before leaving the apartment. He turns back to look at me as I close the door behind him.

The loving look of concern on his face hits me hard and as the door closes, a hard lump forms in my throat and a single hot tear spills onto my cheek. I grab a tissue from the side table and dab my eyes to try to stop an onslaught of unwanted tears. I can’t stand this new sensitive, weepy version of myself with only a wafer-thin sheet of protection around me. I dab my tear away and try to compose myself, hoping my nose isn’t flushed pink.

The sound of the plumber clearing his throat leaves me spinning around, startled.

“Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump,” he says with a smile.

“Oh, no problem.”

“I just need to know where the electrical panel is. I’m going to have to cut off power to the kitchen for an hour or so.”

“Sure. This way.”

I lead him to the laundry room and show him the panel above the washing machine. He shuts off the electricity to the kitchen which we return to.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask, pulling a bottle of home-made kombucha out of the fridge. He raises an eyebrow and I wonder if I’ve asked a loaded question. “I mean water or juice or tea or something.”

“What, no beer?” A subtle smile creeps up to his eyes.

I’m usually able to banter with the best of them, but in my tired, weakened state, I’m not a hundred percent sure whether he’s joking or not. “Um, I don’t think so.”

“Hey, uh, just joking.”

“Okay, phew.” I skim my forehead with my fingers in relief. “I was worried I was going to be dealing with a drunken plumber for a second there. Being sober seems like a good idea where water and electricity are concerned.”

“Water’s good.”

“Still or sparkling?” I ask.

“No chance we’re still talking about the beer here?” He looks amused by my nervous frown. “Just regular water is fine.”

I pour him a glass of spring water, relieved that I’m not dealing with a plumber with a penchant for morning booze. “Do you need any help or anything?” I ask.

“You know much about plumbing?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, that depends on whether it’s anything more complicated than changing that washer my dad showed me how to do when I was ten.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “I’ll call you when we get to the washer.’

“Okay. Well, if you need anything, just let me know. Oh, and help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”

I grab the bottle of kombucha, head to the living room and crawl up on the black sofa, soaking in the cloudy city through our balcony doors. I pick up the reading material that I’d left there the day before about the treatment of dairy cows for an article I’m supposed to be writing for an online environmental magazine. As I flick through the pages, I quickly realize that I’m staring blankly, unable to absorb anything I’m attempting to read. I feel empty, like a discarded bottle languishing in some forgotten shed somewhere. The same vicious images that kept me from sleeping last night are still plaguing me today. I see Jack’s tongue in Lydia’s mouth, her soft legs around his. I can picture him dominating her as clearly as if they were fucking in this room in front of me. I know what Jack’s like in bed. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do to a woman, and he doesn’t stop until you’re a quivering mess, willing to be his slave, to give up your body without reserve, to devote yourself to giving him pleasure, to exist only for him.

Enough!

As I implore my mind to give me a moment of respite, my breathing becomes shallow and my lids heavy as my sleep-deprived body gives way to exhaustion of every kind.

Paralyzed and forceless, I close my eyes, dissolving into the sofa and welcome oblivion.

“Jess? Mrs Wilder?”

I awake from a twilight state, barely able to move. A voice that I don’t recognize cuts through me.

“Can you hear me?”

My eyelids lift a tad and a face comes into hazy view.

“Are you okay?” the man asks.

I blink a few times and smooth cheekbones, pale skin and green eyes on a handsome face come into focus, blurry at first and then sharp. I try to catch my breath as my heart beats out of my chest, startled out of much-needed R.E.M. sleep.

“Are you okay?”

I realize that the man staring into my eyes looking for signs of coherence is the plumber and kick myself for not remembering his name.

“Sorry, I must have nodded off,” I stammer.

He puts his fingers to my neck and looks down at his watch. “You seemed like you were comatose for a while there. Can you breathe properly?”

“I’m fine,” I nod.

“Your phone’s been ringing for the last five minutes. I answered after about the tenth ring. I think your husband wants to talk to you, and the bouncer’s on his way up.”

“Bouncer?” I ask weakly, my mouth as dry as Nevada air on a July afternoon. “Oh, the concierge.”

As if on cue, the landline rings and the plumber passes me the phone.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Jack’s voice shocks me back to reality, waking me up with a jolt.

“Nothing,” I pant. “I fell asleep. I’m fine. Damn, the door’s ringing—just a minute…” I stand up to answer the door, but as I get to my feet, the blood drains from my head and I fall backwards onto the couch. The plumber stops me from falling and tells me to sit before going to open the front door.

A few heartbeats later, Tom appears, scanning the plumber and me suspiciously with darting eyes. “Hey, Mrs. Wilder. Is everything okay?”

He’s always refused to call me Jess despite my insistence, and no matter how many times I told him that I’d kept my maiden name and added Jack’s, the old-school Tom could never bring himself to say Avery-Wilder.

“Everything’s great. I just fell asleep.”

“You sure?”

“Sorry, Tom, just a sec.” I pick up the phone as he hovers over me. “Jack?”

“What the fuck’s going on?” Jack barks. “Do you have any idea how worried I was when the fucking plumber answers the phone in my own house?”

“Well, everything’s fine.”

“Has he finished?”

“Not yet. Look, I have to deal with this. I’ll call you back.”

“Jess—”

I hang up.

“You need me to stay around, Mrs. Wilder?” asks Tom, his deep-set hazel eyes shifting from me to the plumber.

“No, no, Tom. Honestly, I’m fine. I obviously need to catch up on some sleep. Don’t worry.”

“Fine,” he concedes reluctantly, swiping back a stray strand of his otherwise perfectly coiffed graying hair. “If you need anything, give me a call. I’ll be calling again in half an hour, just so as you know.”

As Tom leaves, I take a few seconds to catch my breath after the rude awakening, gulping down the rest of the kombucha just as the plumber comes back into the room.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

I shake my head in embarrassment and groan. “I’m fine. Sorry about all the… commotion. I’ve barely slept in days.”

“Not a problem! Does, um, does your husband always call in the National Guard whenever you don’t pick up the phone?” He looks almost as amused as he does perplexed.

“No, not usually,” I sigh. “I, uh, I don’t know why he— Sorry, just… best ignore me. I’m clearly struggling to form coherent sentences right now. I’ll need a minute to locate my brain.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you apologize a lot?”

“Yeah, sorr—” I bite my lip. “It’s a habit I thought I’d grown out of. Clearly not. I think I need to stop talking before I make even more of an ass of myself.”

“Hey, I come from a long line of Irish drunkards. I’ve seen far worse, believe me.”

I shoot him a smile of gratitude for his kind attempt to make me feel better.

“Well, I’ll be in the kitchen finishing up,” he says as he turns to walk out.

I slap the sides of my cheeks, still not feeling fully awake as I continue to slouch on the sofa like a deflated balloon. I’ve had sleep inertia problems for many years, evidenced by the number of times I’ve woken up to find Jack already naked and on top of me, getting ready to enter my body. Not that I minded in the past; seeing this indecently virile man unable to control himself when in bed with me used to be the hottest thing imaginable. I think back to just a few weeks ago when I woke up to find him on top of me getting ready to slide his bulky sex gently into mine as he kissed my mouth and licked my neck tenderly. I’ve always found myself wet and relaxed whenever I’ve woken up with Jack like that, and have always wondered how much time he’s spent getting my body ready while I was still asleep.

I slowly get myself onto my feet and make my way into the kitchen.

“Feeling okay?” the plumber asks as he pulls his head out from under the sink.

“Yeah, thanks.” I fill a glass with water and down it. “Did you check my pulse when I was waking up?”

“I just wanted to check your vitals.”

“My vitals?”

“I’m a paramedic. I mean, technically. I trained as one. I’ve been working for dad’s business the last few months just until he’s totally better.”

“It’s nothing serious, I hope?”

“He caught pneumonia a few months back. It was quite a bad case of it.”

“Oh, God. He didn’t say anything when I spoke to him!”

“Yeah, he’s a tough old boot. Not the type to complain. He finally got out of hospital last month. He’s doing much better, but he was pretty tired yesterday so I told him to stay home. He wants to be here tomorrow, though. He loves his chats with you.”

“Well, the feeling’s mutual, though tell him there’s no rush, okay?”

“Will do.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a paramedic fix my sink before.”

“Well, don’t worry, my dad taught me everything he knows.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you have a lot of… skills.”

“Well, so I’ve been told…” He tucks strands of loose blond hair behind his ear and a smile brightens his eyes, as though he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be. “There’s not much more I can do today,” he continues, dropping some equipment into a large tool case. “I’m gonna go get some supplies. My dad should be better tomorrow, so he’ll probably insist on coming to finish the job so he can see his favorite client. I’ve fixed the leak and pulled out the rotten wood. Tomorrow he’ll replace the old pipe and the backboards. Make sure you don’t use the sink till then. It’s just a temporary fix on the leak, so if you run the water, it may flood again.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I accompany him to the front door where he puts on his gray denim jacket. “I’m sorry, I’m normally really good with names—”

“Sean.”

“Jessynia.”

“I know. Nice to meet you, Jessynia.”

As he turns to leave, I stop him. “Sean, there are some herbs and supplements I think could really help your dad. Can you give me your number? I’ll text you a list.”

“Sure. That’s really nice of you.”

Later that evening my stomach churns as I wait for Jack to get home. I pour myself a rare glass of whiskey to calm my nerves as I look out onto Central Park and spot glimpses of the tops of multi-million dollar properties on the Upper East Side across the park. It’s a view so perfect that it usually leaves me giddy. A warm late-June breeze floats in and caresses my face as I curl up on the sofa and wrap a plush olive-green blanket around me.

I’m so tired I should probably head upstairs to bed, but not only can I not face sleeping next to Jack, I feel weird about even going upstairs. Even when he’s not home, I find myself trying to get in and out of our bedroom as quickly as possible, as though the whole upstairs floor is tainted and some malignant energy has taken over that former sanctuary, leaving me afraid that it will enter my dreams as I sleep.

As the whiskey burns my stomach, my eyelids start to feel heavy and I allow them to close…