by Portia Moore
I help Melissa load up her car, jump in the passenger seat, and turn on the radio.
“Do you ever think about doing something else?” I ask, as we head towards the art gallery.
“As in what?” she asks, her brows furrowed.
“I don’t know. Like leaving everything behind and going to Europe?”
“No,” she says, eyeing me. “Why, you’re not planning on doing that are you?” she asks with half a groan.
“Just asking,” I say. A few moments pass before she lets out a small sigh, reaches over, and pats my hand.
“You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”
I can’t help but smile back at her touch. It’s rare that she says things like that to me. She’s more of a tough love, no nonsense kind of sister, and encouragement isn’t exactly her thing. But it means a lot and I close my eyes and sure as hell hope that I do.
When we arrive at the hotel Melissa’s crew, which consists of a guy and two other women, begin to help her unload and prep for the party.
“Are you sure there is nothing that I can help you with?” I ask as they all move around frantically preparing everything.
“Listen, you can help by not distracting me,” she replies almost with a snap.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” I tell her teasingly.
“I love you to death though,” she says as I leave the kitchen.
The party quickly fills up. There’s hundreds of people here all too self-involved to notice that little old me has crashed their gala. Looking around I start to think maybe I should have paid more attention in home economics because Mel must’ve cleaned up on this job. These people are rich—the women dripping in diamonds wrapped in luxurious gowns, the men all in tailored suits, and wearing shoes crafted out of expensive leather. I find a corner to linger in, which is easy since this ballroom is huge, and decide to people watch. It’s fun to look in at a whole world that you’re not a part of and make up stories, bio’s for people. I wander the room eavesdropping on random conversations but it’s all boring, nothing sordid or interesting like the nighttime soaps that lead people to believe what the rich are really like. It’s just talk of trust funds, portfolio investments, a guy who looked sort of like Joe Biden talking about dropping half a million on a boat without even thinking twice.
“Hello?” It’s a slightly balding overweight man wearing a self-satisfied grin. “I haven’t seen you around here before.” He has a hint of an accent…Austrian maybe?
“Oh,” I say. “I don’t come to things like this often.”
“You should,” he says, his gaze landing on my chest. And you’d think rich guys would be more charming, or at least subtle. At the end of the day I guess dicks overrule everything even when they’re attached to rich bodies. “Are you here alone?” I arch my eyebrow.
“No, I’m actually here with my sister. I’m the hired help.”
I didn’t actually think that would work, but sure enough, his face crinkles up like I just told him I have leprosy. “Oh,” he says almost embarrassed. “Oh, look there’s Janelle.”
I guess he thought I was some trust fund baby looking for an equally rich husband, or maybe he was going to try to sell me something. Wait, rich people don’t sell to you, they invite you into an investment opportunity. I guess he’s not interested in being the Prince Charming to my Cinderella story.
He leaves me to myself. I make my way through to the half-empty bar, which is my target for the night. I have to admit the competition (if I was competing, which I’m not) is pretty fierce. There are so many beautiful women here. So I’m surprised that I get approached as often as I do but I guess I’m fresh meat. I’ve turned down four men so far, not all completely unattractive, some mildly interesting, but the last thing I need is another man in my life. Especially the boring, stuffy, Ryan 5.0 kind. I’m sort of over all of this now, my feet are killing me, and I’m glancing at the time every five minutes wondering if I should stick it out until Mel is done or get her keys and call and Uber.
“That’s a striking necklace,” says a voice off to my left, just after I’ve sent an adorable guy away who looked no older than eighteen. The sad thing is he was the most interesting person of the night.
“What kind of stone is that?”
I swivel my head, expecting to find a rich ass boring guy in a stuffy suit to pass five minutes with, but I don’t find that at all.
Instead, I find sex on a stick, Brad Pitt’s long lost cousin.
He’s tall, about 6’3”, with thick dark sandy hair, a strong jaw, dark stubble lining his cheeks, and brown magnetic eyes that make my heart race. They’re the color of honey, of a fine Cognac, and my response causes a delicious grin to set on his face.
He knows I’m interested and damn, I know it too. Whatever cologne he’s wearing makes him smell amazing; it flirts with my senses now that we’re turned towards each other. He’s in a black suit, a navy blue button-up underneath, no tie, and instead of looking perfectly styled and groomed like how most men are here, he looks entirely comfortable in his casual clothing. And there’s something that seems rugged about him. It could be the drinks but my entire body is getting hot just looking at him. Maybe I’ll stay another ten minutes.
“Thank you, I’m not sure what kind of stone it is,” I say, remembering my question and the bored expression I had on when I looked at him.
“Sorry if I had my resting bitch face on, I thought you were…”
“Going to say something to bore you to tears?” he asks and I nod, trying to fight a smile. “Yeah, I saw the kid from earlier,” he says with a beautiful smile.
He’s not a boy, that’s for sure. He’s all man, his face ruggedly perfect. I know he’s not my age, so maybe 30ish? The beard throws me off because sometimes it makes men look more mature than they are.
I laugh, taking a sip of my champagne.
“It’s fine, really. I’m just here for the food and booze.” He grins at this and it’s magnificent.
“You’re someone’s guest then?” he asks, his eyes subtly sweeping over me. I’m glad I chose this dress.
“My sister.”
“She’s in finance?” he asks.
“She’s catering this party.”
“Well,” he said. “You should pass on my compliments. It’s excellent.”
“I will.” I grin and he holds out his hand.
“I’m Jackson,” he drawls, and I detect a hint of a southern accent.
“I’m Madison.” I awkwardly shake his hand. His handshake is firm, and he has a glint in his eye that sends shivers through my body. “It’s nice to meet you. Or rather, anyone who doesn’t want to talk about my legs.”
“Mm,” he answered, taking a sip from his own champagne glass. “I can’t blame them.” He drags his eyes down to them. “They’d be a great topic,” he says before taking his lip in between his teeth, and I want to remove it with my own. Shit, what is wrong with me? I glance at my empty champagne glass and try to remember what number it is, three or four, and how strong the shit is.
“Are you from Chicago?” I ask him and his eyes crinkle at me as if surprised.
“No, why?” he asks curiously.
“Your accent,” I tell him and he looks at me impressed.
“I grew up in Nashville but haven’t lived there in years. Good catch,” he says, and I shrug sheepishly. “My turn for a question?” he asks and I smile and give a nod.
“How’d you get past your boyfriend in that dress?” he asks with a playful smile, but it makes my stomach drop and I feel myself start to get emotional thinking of Ryan. God I’ve drank way too much champagne. I’m not a champagne drinker, I’m more of a Tequila and lemonade type of girl, and it’s hitting me in all the wrong ways.
He catches my eye.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asks apologetically
“No, I just uh…” I pause. I don’t know this man, and I’m not the type to share but I can feel it crawling up my throat about to spill out.
Thankfully it’s words instead of vomit. “My boyfriend...my ex-boyfriend, tried to propose to me. And I ran away. So I’m single, no man to care about what I’m wearing.”
“Oh, I see,” he says warmly. “Must have been a terrible proposal then.” A half a smile dawns his kissable lips.
“It wasn’t, actually.” I feel myself blush. “He didn’t even get to the part where he got down on one knee. I just…found the ring and...bolted.”
“Ah,” he leans against the bar. “I’ve been there.”
“You have?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” he said. “When you know it’s not right, you’ll do anything to get out of it.”
“That’s it!” I squeal. “I just couldn’t...I mean, Ryan was a great guy, he just wasn’t great for me. Men…you guys all kind of suck anyway.”
He lets out a sexy chuckle before revealing an amused smile.
“So, you’re off men for good, huh?”
“Yep,” I say, taking another sip of champagne. “Completely celibate. Forever.” I wink at him.
“Ah, come on.” He meets my eye. “Why not one last hurrah before a final goodbye?”
Our eyes meet and there’s a challenge behind his playful grin.
“With you?” I ask, my tone steady and my face deadpan. He doesn’t flinch but shifts his body ever so slightly towards me.
“If you like.” His voice is low and husky. He locks eyes with me and his gaze is pretty intense, but amused. He then looks around the party. “If you don’t want me, I could find you someone else.” Then he turns back to me with a dazzling smile, resting his weight on one elbow against the bar. I could say it’s the champagne, or the fact that I’m still dealing with some unresolved emotional baggage from leaving Ryan, and I’m vulnerable, but it’s none of those things.
He is sexy as hell and I can’t think of the last time I wanted to have sex just out of pure attraction—not routine or obligation—which is what it turned into with Ryan.
What do I have to lose?
What I need now is exactly that—just sex, no strings attached. And hopefully he’s as good at it as he looks.
“Why not have one last hurrah?” he repeats, still making his case, but he’s already won…and from the glint in his eye, I think he knows it.
“Sure,” I say, and his eyes light up. But he’s not entirely surprised and I wonder how often he does this. Note to self: use condom.
“Your place or mine?” he asks casually as if he just offered to buy me dinner and we’re deciding on the restaurant to have dinner at, but there’s something entirely different on the menu than food.
“Uh, better be yours.” Mel would kill me if she caught a guy I just met sneaking out of my room.
“Let me call my driver,” he says, and gives his attention to his phone. I take the time to text Mel I’d be back later tonight and not to worry, and hope she’s too busy to see it right now so she doesn’t go into full-blown mother mode.
My body is buzzing. The excitement, the thrill of meeting a sexy as hell stranger that I get to do, without feeling guilty, and then dismiss, is dizzying.
I missed this: my freedom, my independence.
Tonight it’ll all be reclaimed. His hand slides across the small of my back and his touch is electric. We make our way through the party to the exit of the hotel. A black Maybach pulls up and a driver gets out, greets us, and he opens the door. “Oh,” I say, impressed. “Your driver. You have an actual driver.”
“What did you think, I was calling a Lyft?” he asks amused.
Yes, that’s exactly what I thought.
When I sit down and the driver closes the door, I can’t believe I’m in a freakin’ Maybach.
“Bill, I’d like you to meet Madison. Madison, Bill,” he introduces us as he smiles politely, and I do the same and say hello.
The leather feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
“This is crazy,” I mutter to myself, taking in the luxury of it all.
“Your first time in a foreign?” he asks, and I flush.
“No but sitting in a Mazda is a little different than being in a Maybach,” I tell him playfully, and a soft grin spreads across his lips. My eyes land on his and I want them on mine. He reads my mind as he leans over and our lips brush. His is soft, almost sweet, as I press into them, and from the moment our bodies touch my heart begins to pound. I let his tongue dance along the inside of my mouth, and our kiss turns more passionate. I’m now straddling him, my dress above my waist as his hands roam my body. For the first time tonight I regret how tight it is because I can barely move in it. He pulls away from me then rests his forehead on mine, our breath intermingling.
“How far are you from here?” I ask.
“Not far at all,” he promises, attempting to pull my dress down. I laugh, just a tad embarrassed, before falling in the seat beside him, I wonder how many times good old Bill has seen this. He grips my waist and pulls me to him and gently removes the hair from my neck. When his lips land there, I fight the whimper trying to escape my mouth.
“You’re good at this,” I compliment him, imagining his kisses elsewhere.
“Wait until I show you what else I’m good at,” he drawls as we pull into another hotel parking lot. In the elevator we can’t keep our hands off each other and when we reach his floor I have to push him away to get him to open the door. Once we’re inside, he stops and his eyes roam my body, and I blush because he looks almost in awe, taking in every inch.
I rub the back of my neck nervously and clear my throat. “Do you mind if I freshen up?”
“Of course,” he says warmly. He shrugs off his jacket and throws it on the island, and I spend a moment taking in the room. It’s not a room, it’s an apartment.
I’ve only seen hotel rooms like this on TV and in movies. It’s gorgeous; perfectly modern, deep chocolate wood floors, earth-toned furniture, an entire kitchen.
“It’s just you staying here?” I ask in awe.
He grins at me. “Yes, of course,” he says with a glint in his eye, as he turns on the lights.
“Good,” I say with a smirk.
“My, my,” he says. “It’s my lucky day.” Butterflies start to go insane in my stomach. I like his smile, his body, his voice, the way his hands touch me, and how good his mouth has been. And I’m hoping I like the sex, but I don’t want to like him. That’s not a part of the deal, but he doesn’t need to know that. If he wants a fantasy of a girl ready to fall in love with him, he can have it for tonight.
I give him a slow kiss before pushing him away and heading into the bathroom. It’s large and opulent just like what I’ve seen of the rest of the room—not room, suite. I pull out my phone and see a missed call and text from Melissa.
Where the hell are you?!
The Trump Hotel. With a guy named Jackson. Sending you deets in case he’s psycho.
I strip out of my dress and admire the light blue bra and panty set I put on earlier. I haven’t had a wax in about a month but I’m good enough to pass. I run my hands through my hair to give it some height. It looks sort of messy sexy, but it’ll get messed up anyway in a few, I hope. I open the door, head out of the bathroom, and see him pouring himself a glass of Cognac. He could be its spokesman—rugged, smooth, and mature. When he looks up at me he almost over-pours his glass. I give him an innocent look and my eyes turn towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, announcing a magnificent view of the city. I walk over to them.
“This view,” I sigh, taken in by it. I feel him behind me and his hands grip the sides of my waist. I’m dizzy with excitement. I turn towards him and place my hands gently on his chest.
“I kind of need to see your ID,” I tell him with a purr in my voice. His gaze is heated and he looks like he wants to eat me…and I’ll let him in just a few.
“What?” he asks amused.
“I know I’m sort of halfway naked and already in your hotel room, but you’re a complete stranger and if I don’t send it to my sister in
the next five minutes we won’t get to have fun tonight because she will call me a million times and put out an APB on me.” His eyes squint at me. He lets out a sigh and smiles before swiftly grabbing his jacket, pulls the card out of his wallet, and hands it to me. My eyes scan it. I arch my brow when I see that he was born in 1974. I try to do the math in my head.
“You’re forty-two?” I ask surprised.
“Forty-five.” A delicious grin dances across his face. I’m shocked…I thought he was older than me but I never would have guessed forty freakin five! That makes him over twenty years older than me and a year younger than my mom.
“You’re surprised?” he asks amused.
“You don’t look forty-five,” I say, shocked.
“Can you please take the picture?” he asks, his voice wrapped in desire and need, and I’m instantly wet. His hands are back on my body, his lips on my neck, and I realize why they’re so expert. He’s a man that’s probably done this more times than I have. I can’t send Mel the picture of him now, I’d never hear the end of it.
“It’s okay. I’ll just turn it off.” I tell him as his lips trail down my stomach. His hands pull off my underwear and soon my leg is hiked over his shoulder. His tongue is doing all kinds of things against me and inside of me, and I’m melting all over him. I can’t breathe, the room is spinning, and I’m tumbling over the edge of an orgasm. I push his head away, but he locks his arms around me, continuing to dominate me with his mouth.
“I can’t…I can’t take anymore,” I whimper but he holds me in place as another orgasm is about to wash over me with my back against the skyline of the city. The second one rocks my entire body so hard I can’t even hold myself up. I crumple to the floor and he takes me in his arms, looking down at me with a satisfied grin. If this is what it’s like with an older man, then what the hell have I been missing? He presses his lips against mine, making me taste myself. I’m still catching my breath when he starts to remove his shirt, revealing a toned, chiseled stomach with fine hair trailing down it.
