by Katie Porter
Not yet though. Not this time.
I run my hands around his tight, trim hips and cup his ass. He thrusts. A strangled sound catches in his throat. He doesn’t like his lack of control. I know that as truth. Every bit of his body belongs to me and he doesn’t like it that way. Well, it’s only fair. Every bit of my body is his to control, if he’d only take it.
I trace my nails down the peach-fuzz covered cleft of his ass. He pushes into the touch. We’re a never-ending game of truth and dare with no trust.
I work the band of his pants. His cock peeks out, with its wide, wet, gleaming mushroom head. The flare. The delicate, fragile line of his frenulum. His shaft is thick and flushed red. The only thing more tantalizing than the inches revealed are the inches concealed.
I lick my lips. My mouth is watering. My snatch is just as hungry. I try to squeeze my legs together, but my knees are on either side of his legs. I have him in my grip. I clamp tighter.
He looks impatient. He’s a man who expects me to take him in hand and shove his big cock into my mouth. Greedy and insatiable. I’m both. And yes, I want that more than I want almost anything. But I also want his capitulation. I want to win even more of him. I need his soul inside mine.
I want to own him before he has a chance to own me.
My hands are still on his ass. I lean back a few inches, so that my mouth is just out of reach. I look up. Christ, my heart is racing. My hearing is tuned so high I can hear the occasional whoosh of a car out on the street, despite the privacy of this massive house.
I let my eyes fill with every dirty thought I’ve ever had about Alec Davies. The way I want to hold him deep in my body. The way I hunger. The way I’ve fallen asleep with my fingers on my body, pretending they were his. The last weeks have been torment and I want him to know all of it.
I trace the tender line where thighs meet ass. No hair grows there and the skin is thinner. I could scrape him with my nails, leave my mark. I leave my hands bound to his thighs but open my mouth. He could see the pink of my tongue and the flash of my teeth.
He hisses in a breath. He knows what I’m offering. “Harlow.”
This time my name isn’t a warning. It isn’t a plea. I like this tone. I shift and nestle a knee between his spread feet. I tip my chin, meeting his gaze without shame or fear. I’m more than a supplicant. I’m penitent.
He is my altar.
He wraps long fingers around his cock in a casual, masculine gesture. Men have their bodies all their lives. What is mystery to me is nothing to him. I shiver with anticipation, my throbbing pussy noticing its emptiness.
Even when he tilts his prick down to my waiting mouth, he doesn’t do anything so straightforward as pushing his dick inside. He wipes his dripping slit across my bottom lip, then across my top. I have an average mouth. Not thin, not lush, but with his pre-come as my lipstick, I could start a new trend. It’s so filthy. But so is everything about us when we’re together.
That isn’t enough for him. He streaks lines from my temples to my mouth. My eyes drift closed, the better to appreciate his satin-soft skin and throbbing hard flesh. This is no polite, gentlemanly kiss on a street corner after a classical performance.
He shifts his stance. One foot is centered under me. “Fuck yourself.”
I jerk. He means it. There’s a hard light in his eye and I want more. I sit down fully, lowering myself and my dignity. I sink deeper so that my pussy presses against the top of his foot. My throbbing clit is centered on his bones. I grind against him. Bone and skin. It’s a degree of pressure I didn’t realize I need. I rock back and forth and moan.
“Good,” he says softly. “How good you are.”
In reward, he feeds me the first inches of his cock.
The taste of salt explodes over my tongue. My lips stretch over his girth. He’s big. I’m being invaded. I hold onto his thighs in defense, but it’s not much. I don’t want to hold him back.
He fucks into my mouth. Thrusts turn from shallow to deep, until he fills me. All five of my senses are overwhelmed by him: the satin touch on my tongue and my lips and my fingers; his salty, stinging taste; the way he looks down on me from high; wet sucking sounds and the sticky friction of my panties; and his scent. Oh, his scent. Expensive cologne but also the earthy smell of a human.
I let my jaw loosen and tuck my lips over my teeth. Let him fuck me however he likes. He pushes his cock deep, flirting with the back of my throat. I tip my pelvis forward, shift my cadence, work my clit against his foot. The jolt of hard-bladed pleasure takes me by surprise. I shudder, shaken from the inside out. I lose my rhythm and gag, but Alec doesn’t pull away.
He forces deeper.
I open my eyes and lean into his thrust. The head of his cock lodges in my throat. He cups my head and keeps thrusting. It’s the gift that I’ve been waiting for. I come apart in orgasm. Fly to the ends of the earth.
I sink my nails sink into his thighs and drag down his skin, down to the soft hollow hidden at the back of his knees. Hot sensation radiates from deep in my pussy. Bundles of nerves light up and zing. My whole body crumbles inward in a self-destructive attempt to join in. I tingle. I flip. It’s all nonsense words.
I am owned, with my nose pressed against his smooth skin.
He gathers my head in his hands and pushes me away. My sense of self-preservation is long gone. His cock is rigidly erect, straining back toward me. I fight to return, even as the last, lingering effects of my orgasm make my movements gawkish.
He wraps a hand around his thick girth, and it only takes one stroke from base to head before he comes too. Spurts of white cream lash across my mouth. Almost too slowly, I open my lips. I want my gift. I yearn for what I’ve fought so hard to earn. His come is slick across my tongue.
Before I have a chance to swallow, he sets his thumb on my chin and tips my face up. “Show me.”
I open my mouth obediently. He touches the puddle at the tip of my tongue, then sucks his fingers into his mouth. His gaze challenges me. So much arrogance. I swallow and shudder on a new wave of arousal.
This man... He’s a prince of dissolution.
And I want him to crown me.
Chapter Nine
Harlow
I TOOK MY CREDIT CARD to Harrod’s and made it weep while choosing a dress for Alec’s party. That weeping was entirely worth it as I come down the steps and watch heads swivel. It’s a minidress with a strapless sweetheart neckline. A row of rhinestone buckles crawl down the left side. Now every time Alec looks at me, he’ll wonder if they can be undone. I can tell.
And I’ll turn away as if I don’t care.
I have a glass of champagne but it’s not the buzz I’m craving. Maxime Brodeur, music journalist, has had lots of champagne, however. It’s likely why he’s wasting time talking with me in a corner of Alec’s living room instead of hunting down the many luminaries present. The party is wall-to-wall bodies and yet the hum of noise is genteel. Calm. We’re all engaged in polite conversation.
Even Dad is behaving himself, ensconced as he is in a surprising position of honor at the head of the room. He’s in his wheelchair but wearing a natty suit. His thin hair is combed. The plaid blanket tucked across his lap almost disguises how gaunt his legs are. He waves his hands as he tells an energetic story. I’m pretty sure it’s the one where he tells a boyband to suck their own cocks if they change a note of his melody.
Of course, the real punchline is that they changed the song after all, then won five Grammys and were certified platinum. Twice.
Dad’s a purist, but not so much that he tells that part of the story.
“Your devotion to your father is admirable,” Maxime says in his soft French accent. Maxime is a slight man, with narrow shoulders and a round stomach. His hair is on the longer side. He seems genuinely comforting, the kind of person from whom I would love a hug.
“Excuse me?”
“To come all the way to England with him on this journey.” He waves a hand between Dad and Ale
c. “Only to broker peace between him and his oldest friend and enemy. People are talking.”
“About what?”
“That it was you who went to Alec Davies and somehow... What is the word? Enticed? Enticed him to meet with your father.”
I study Alec. He’s turned almost entirely away from me. I see the barest sliver of his face, the cut of his jaw and corner of his eye. Fine brown hair skims the tips of his ear. From here I can’t see the rare silver flecks in among the brown. I know they’re there, though.
His suit is exquisite. The dark grey wool is smoothed perfectly over his shoulders. Bespoke, I’m sure. Crafted specifically for him on Saville Row. He has a short glass of clear liquid with a sprig of mint. I wonder what it is.
“I didn’t entice.” I sip from my drink. The lies go down with the bubbles. “I only told him Dad was in London. Their history did the rest.”
“How good that they can overcome that history. At the end, Silas shredded some of Alec’s lyrics and then mailed them back, oui?” Maxime leans closer to me without actually moving. He breathes in air and breathes out intent. “Wasn’t that the story?”
I’d never heard that bit of gossip. The expression “my blood ran cold” had never made sense before, but I’m chilled all the way down to my four-inch heels. How close that must’ve felt to when he watched his mother’s notebooks burn in the family fireplace.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say coldly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a refill.”
I make my way through the crowd toward the open bar set up for tonight’s event, charting my course to intentionally cruise near Alec. I brush against his back. It’s an innocent touch, only my hand against his spine as if I’m warning him not to step back as I pass.
He comes alive under my hand. He knows it’s me. Our cells are attuned.
I cross the room on my triumph. A waiter carries a tray with fluted glasses of champagne. I take one to sip so I don’t have to go all the way to the bar, then turn on my inner lens. How would I draw the guests if given the chance? They barely notice my scrutiny. They’ve all grown jaded by being watched. It’s nothing to these celebrities and society people.
In the corner of the study is a knot of women discussing the upcoming season of programing on the BBC. As in, the shows they are to be producing and acting in—not the ones they want to watch. I make a mental note of a particular show mentioned, a Grecian period drama. It would be perfect for my friend Dalia, who’s been at loose ends since her pilot wrapped up. She should have her agent look into it. Maybe we’ll lie and say someone I meet tonight suggested her for the role.
One woman smiles as I slide by. She knows I’m eavesdropping. She doesn’t seem to mind, thank god. Women have to stick together. I nod at her.
The back of the house opens onto a narrow, terraced garden. The doors are open despite the chill outside. The press of bodies makes the cold breeze fairly welcome. Heaters have been placed throughout the garden hedges, but the space is sparsely populated compared to the room inside.
I lean against a stone balustrade under an umbrella heater. The swirl of mixed temperatures gives me a heady rush while I look up at the muddy London sky. San Francisco isn’t known for its nighttime skies. This isn’t home. I’m far away from my own land.
“I suppose you know that everyone’s discussing you,” says a deep voice. It’s one of the most upper-crust accents I’ve ever heard in real life. The man who stops next to me is tall—even an inch or two taller than Alec, though not quite as slender. He has brown hair and pale smooth skin, with a dark shadow of stubble.
I affect a smile. “Naturally. Why wouldn’t they?”
He looks me over from head to toe, taking his deliberate time. Sex, sucking, and fucking. It’s in his raptorial gaze. I should be uncomfortable with a man who wears a three-piece suit as his eyes make debauched promises when I’ve never met him before. I wonder why I’m not.
“Indeed.” The genteel timbre that makes me unsure if he’s laughing at me or himself. “Not only are you the daughter of the man of the hour, but you’re absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” I reply, because that’s what’s expected of me. But I’m squirming inside. I’m fine looking, and I went all-out for tonight, but there’s something so... bald-faced about his compliment that it’s troublesome.
“Are you enjoying yourself tonight?” he asks.
“Well enough. It’s all just small talk, isn’t it? The same discussions one could have with the cashier at the grocery store.”
His mouth curves in a smile that displays a lot of teeth. He’s a shark. Or maybe a fox. “I suppose you’re right. If one were a decent human being, at least. Many of the people here wouldn’t deign to speak to clerks.” He looks back through the open glass doors. “If they’ve even been to the markets recently.”
“And you? When’s the last time you selected your own tomatoes?”
His smile twists now, carving a line in his cheek. “Tomatoes come from a market? You mean they don’t simply appear on my plate, perfectly crimson and flavorful?”
“In your world, perhaps.”
“Many lovely things happen in my world.” He trails a finger down my forearm.
“Sinjin.” I’m not sure how I put together the pieces. Maybe because his taunting feels more like a test than actual interest. “You’re Sinjin.”
His eyes are predatory. “Alec’s mentioned me, I see. Nice to know that I’m not forgotten.”
“Gone but not forgotten.” I turn back to the garden, wondering if I need to be worried about him.
He’s more urbane than me. Far more charming and sophisticated. I’m barely a self-aware beast lumbering through the forest. Even I can recognize how insecure I am around this man. Is he—is this what Alec wants? I’m not anything near.
A cello’s somber tones move out toward us from the first floor. We both pause, tilting toward the music. It’s beautiful, naturally. Alec would only hire the best.
“Listz,” Sinjin says. He tilts his head. “Liebestraume. Quite transformative to hear it transposed by a cellist.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Of course you would know that.”
“It’s the second song. ‘I had died. I was dead from love's bliss; I lay buried in her arms.’”
“Weird flex, but okay.”
“Weird flex?”
As if I needed another reminder that this is a strange world. The slang doesn’t always translate, generally when I’m already feeling gauche and juvenile. “You’re bragging about the music.”
“Maybe I am. Alec is a better man than he wants to admit. I’m still rather protective of him.” He stares down at me, outright. “How did you maneuver your way into his house?”
I sigh and set my empty glass down on the stone balustrade. I wish I had four more. “There’s no manipulation involved. Our residency is a gift to my dad. Nothing more.”
He watches me for a long, steady moment. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, which makes me shift uncomfortably. I’m saved by a bit of commotion coming from inside. I’m not sure what’s going on, but the tone of conversation changes and people are shifting toward the conservatory.
The hubbub catches Sinjin’s attention as well. He tilts an elbow toward me, offering his arm. “I do hate missing excitement. Shall we?”
I curl my fingers around his warm, solid forearm. I wish I could see the image we make: my classy-slutty black dress with buckles down the side, and his winter-beacon white suit. I slant a look at him as we stroll inside. The lights of the conservatory pick gingery red tones out of his hair, which had been hidden by the shadows outside. His eyes are blue, though they’re clear and bright without any of Alec’s smokiness. Sinjin’s face isn’t lived-in, but he’s seems cynical in a way that Alec managed to avoid.
I hesitate at the threshold to the conservatory. There hadn’t been much furniture to begin with in the stark, modern room, allowing the glass roof and wall to display its view of the terrace gardens. What furnitu
re had been there has been stripped away to leave even more space for conversation. The cellist has a stool and her music stand in the corner, but she’s put down her bow and folded her hands.
Alec and the rest of The Skies are posed at the front of the room. There’s no other word for it. They look ready for someone to snap a photograph for cover art, but I can’t see much by way of artifice. Is this just how they are together? Nicholas is to Alec’s left, Ian to his right. Lee bounces on his toes at the end of the line. His version of dressed up is to wear a sleeveless sweater vest over a long-sleeved T-shirt. He’s combed his hair so that it falls in a soft wave over his forehead. He was never known as the most sartorial of The Skies.
“Please, everyone who’d like to, take a glass of champagne,” Alec says.
Waiters with trays circulate through the room as if they’re magic elves summoned by Alec’s words. Lord of the manor indeed. I take a glass, the flute almost the same chilled temperature as my fingers. Sinjin takes one as well.
A cold slither works down my spine. It’s time for Alec’s announcement. The big one.
I glance around the room but I can’t find Dad. He’d last been near the ground floor bar, chatting with a handful of young musicians. A breath of relief spools out of me when I spot him in his wheelchair, here with everyone in the conservatory. Frank is a couple steps away. God, those nurses are worth their weight in fucking gold. Dad’s lap is still covered with the plaid blanket, and he’s watching The Skies with undisguised resentment.
“This is exciting,” Sinjin says in a tone that’s hard to pin down. Sarcasm? Excitement? “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“None.” Sucking down half my champagne makes the lie go down easier. My kingdom for a flask of vodka. I keep smiling as best I can, because I’m nothing if not good at shoving shitty emotions in a box.
“Does everyone have a glass?” Alec asks at length. General agreement echoes back at him. “Good, good. I’m going to keep this brief so we don’t stand in the spotlight too long.”
