Big Dick

by Selena Kitt

  “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

  His hands steadied her waist and she rode him, her pussy still deliciously sensitive and tender from their first fuck. But this one was slower—she wanted to leave an impression on him.

  She spread her hands on his chest and alternated long smooth strokes, taking him whole, with short squeezing ones, tormenting the head of his cock.

  Ric thrashed beneath her, his rising sweat making a sculpture of every muscle in the glow of the night table lamp. She felt him twitching and jerking inside and his back arched.

  Tightness coiled inside her and she laid face down on him, letting him wrap his arms round her and pump to the finish. He buried his pleasure in her hair—muffling her own pleasure cry into his shoulder.

  This orgasm left her far shakier than the first, and she drifted off to sleep on his chest even before the muscles in her thighs stopped aching.

  Chapter 7

  “Hey you.”

  Ric’s voice roused her gently out of sleep and she opened her eyes, finding the light too bright. There was a dreamy, dark place right beside her that smelled of pure masculinity so she snuggled down there, wanting to stay warm and sleepy as long as possible next to him.

  “C’mon, I know you’re awake.”

  “Ish,” she mumbled. “Awake-ish.”

  “You can’t hide in my shoulder forever.” He chuckled. “I’m gonna need that arm to shave.”

  “What time is it?” She blinked and pulled back, shocked now that she’d registered the daylight.

  “Time to go back to your room, I’m afraid.” He planted a kiss at her temple. “You’re going to need a cover story for your mysterious disappearance last night.”

  “What’s yours?” She sat, pushing hair out of her face.

  “Dunno yet.” He shrugged. “Maybe... uhhh... you burst into tears about something and I went after you?”

  “No. Thanks, but no.” She gave him a quelling look. “I’m not going to be your wussy-alibi.”

  “Okay.” He rolled out of bed, grinning. “You figure something out and let me know.”

  She borrowed a towel from the bathroom to cover up with as she gathered her clothes, considering her options for an alibi.

  A loud hammering at the door made her jump.

  “Hey, Ryker!” Arensen, yelling from the hallway. “What kind of light weight are you?”

  “A tired one!” Ric yelled back.

  “You gonna let me in?”

  “No!” Ric snorted in protest. “You’re not scheduled to start being an asshole ’til I’ve come down for breakfast. Gimme ten. Gotta clean up.”

  Annalesa didn’t hesitate—now dressed, she sprinted for the balcony door and fought with the lock. Suddenly, Ric’s hand was over hers, easing her fingers away and quietly lifting the stiff bolt that kept the door from sliding.

  Is your balcony door open? he mouthed.

  She nodded, mouthing back, yes.

  He exhaled with relief and gave her a brilliant smile that melted her kneecaps, his lips forming words that thrilled her—you’re so smart. I love it.

  “Tell me this, Ryker—how many girls you got in there? Remember that rule about sharing? Ask them if they want a real man instead of a rookie.”

  “Rookies have stamina, Anders,” Ric called back over his shoulder at the locked door. “Get your ass out of here. I’ll be down when I’m ready.”

  “Fine. Let’s see how you do in the kill house after that much food, wine and too many women.”

  “That man can be such a wanker,” she mumbled. As Arensen’s footsteps faded, Annalesa felt queasy. “Has he ever slept with a woman he hasn’t paid?”

  “Easy, tiger.”

  She wanted to say a lot more about Arensen being lucky enough to get one girl in his bed, let alone several, but kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to spoil her night with Ric by arguing about his mentor. It was clearly important to Ric that they get along—at least on some civil level.

  “You’ve got your hands full with him.” She sighed and went up on tiptoes to give him a quick kiss.

  “I’m the handful.” He chuckled. “See you in a little while.”

  She ducked down along the wall alongside the balcony, hoping she wasn’t being watched. Slipping into her room, she ignored the siren call of her own bed and decided to shower right away.

  Arensen’s smutty joke about sharing Ric’s women had made her feel decidedly dirty.

  Brad was the only one in the dining room when Annalesa came in. He sat finishing his salmon and scrambled eggs, and he looked genuinely pleased to see her appear in the doorway.

  “You okay, baby girl?” He smiled as she approached the table. “You went to bed a little early last night.”

  “It’s been a crazy couple days. I think it all just caught up with me.”

  She hated lying to him, so she busied herself putting food on her plate. One thing she loved about staying with the family in Maine was the massive breakfast spread. She might go home a few pounds heavier, but Ham’s food was worth it.

  Trying to show a little discipline for once, she stuck to oatmeal and black coffee.

  “I made you a list,” Brad announced, pushing a legal pad across the table to her.

  Annalesa blinked in surprise. “A list of...?”

  “Things you could do with your money.” He ran a square, well-manicured fingernail down a list that spanned two columns. “Some of these investments you gotta act on in the next few days or you’ll miss the price hike in the shares.”

  “Oh. Well... thank you.” She managed a smile. The man got an A for effort, she supposed, but it wasn’t difficult to see where Ric got his commanding character from.

  “Why don’t you ditch your return flight and come back with me and Ric?” Brad suggested. “We can drop you off wherever you like.”

  She thought about it, but she knew the agony of spending hours next to Ric, trying to act ‘normal’ with Brad around, would be too much to bear.

  “No thanks. I’ve already spent money on the ticket and everything—”

  “You’ve got to start thinking like a millionaire, hon.” Brad rolled his eyes. “I know you don’t want to be part of the family business. I get that. But it would be great if you started showing a little... ambition? Ric mentioned something about a gallery?”

  Great. Thanks, Ric.

  Annalesa sipped her coffee and prepared to dig her heels in.

  “It’s a great idea, sometime in the future. I know the Paris art scene, but I can’t just dive in there with an open checkbook. You need to work on making your name known as someone who understands the artists’ background and respects the hanging space.”

  “So what’re you gonna do?”

  “Well...” She stirred raisins and cinnamon into her oatmeal—so much for an austere breakfast. He really seemed to want an answer, so she gave him one. “I actually thought I’d buy some property around the university and rent it out to international students.”

  “I’m not so sure you’re tough enough to be a landlady...” Brad grimaced, cleaning the last little bit of egg off his plate with a slice of toast. “Do you really want to chase tenants for rent money?”

  “I’m investing, Brad. I thought you’d approve.”

  “Pull it off, and I will approve.” He smiled. “And if it funds your gallery—”

  “My Monet research.”

  “You’re going back to academia?” He grimaced again but leaned back with palms up as she gave him another of her ‘sweet smiles’—one that involved gritted teeth. “Okay, okay. Just... keep me posted, all right, honey? Let me know if you get in over your head? And definitely hire some guy to oversee your properties for you. Don’t make things hard on yourself just because you’re too proud and stubborn.”

  She snorted. “That’s a family trait.”

  “Annalesa,” he warned with a paternal shake of his head. “I mean it.”

  “Okay, okay, I got it.” She kept on smiling un
til he’d left the room and then spent a few cathartic moments shaking her forehead against the breakfast table.

  She knew he meant well, but—just once—she’d really appreciate it if someone could give her the benefit of the doubt.

  Annalesa sprinted from her car down La Rue de Toqueville and turned a hasty corner at Rue Cardinet, already out of breath. Too many croissants and not enough jogging, she thought, trying not to pant as she talked into her cell phone.

  “David, hold the agent! I’ll be right there.”

  She heard muttering on David’s end of the line, hung up and dashed the remaining quarter mile to her morning appointment at the dilapidated home she’d seen on the Rue Dulong.

  Claude Monet’s studio was tucked away on one of the roads around here. When she had some time to herself, she wanted to take in a little culture and see the space that had inspired so many impressionist masterpieces.

  As she approached the slim but towering house, she slowed to a jog, wiping sweaty palms on her jeans. David was keeping Monsieur Desalles occupied with idle chat and she gave them her most apologetic smile as she approached.

  “I am so sorry! I left early, but the Arc de Triomphe traffic was insane. I’m so sorry I kept you waiting.”

  “It hasn’t been so very long.” Monsieur Desalles spoke English with a thick French accent, giving her a slight bow and a smile before putting his hand out to shake hers. “You would like to see inside my building?”

  Annalesa answered to the affirmative in French, which made Desalles’ smile widen. David grinned at her as the agent led the way up the narrow stairs, talking to them over his shoulder in French now.

  “Good work,” David murmured. “I’ve been trying to butter him up for twenty minutes, and you did it in twenty seconds.”

  “I’m just that charming.” She winked at David and he chuckled.

  She did a lot of nodding and smiling as Desalles showed her around the house, which she assessed could easily be split into four two-room apartments. There were a few moist patches, but nothing that suggested serious leaking. The majority of the internal fixes looked cosmetic.

  David followed, making notes, not at all fazed as the conversation switched between English and French. He’d done the third year of his MBA in Marseilles, and had lived in a flat two doors down from her in Bristol in the final year of her degree. He cooked a mind-blowing spaghetti Bolognese and was as gay as a diamond-studded rainbow.

  “So?” Desalles stopped at the front door and gestured around with a hopeful, inviting palm. “You will make an offer?”

  “I will.” She gave him her most charming smile. “At fifteen percent below your asking price.”

  The Parisian’s jaw dropped. “You are having some kind of joke with me?”

  “No,” she assured him with a casual shrug of one shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ll need the extra to cover the cost of an inspection for water damage.”

  She pointed to the stained ceiling.

  The man frowned disapprovingly, as if judging Annalesa’s bad manners for pointing it out.

  “And there’s the re-plastering that has to be done on the top two floors.”

  “Humph.” Desalles’ frown deepened at her daring to mention additional problems with the property.

  “I can pay cash.” Annalesa dangled this last after a moment’s hesitation, squinting at the ceiling all the while.

  Desalles gave her a long stare, then finally, he put his hand out. “My client will not be happy at your price, but the cash will serve to move the deal along. Merci, Mme LaFevre.”

  She was still grinning when she pulled over outside the little garret apartment she’d rented on La Rue Baron. If she’d been at home when she’d received David’s call, it would’ve taken her just five minutes to get to the property instead of nearly an hour.

  She waved David off as he made his way back to his own apartment and trotted upstairs. In a burst of multi-tasking, she had her laptop and coffee machine on and the dishwasher unloaded, all within moments.

  Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and she smiled as she opened the text message. It was from Ric, as succinct as ever.

  7/21—7/25. Keep long weekend free?

  She kissed her phone. She liked this new, non-presumptive Ric who actually asked if she was free, instead of just sending her plane tickets and emailing a list of instructions.

  Then she remembered Elsa’s “fiftieth” birthday party and groaned.

  I’d love to have you for the whole month but it’s Mum’s bday on 24th. Age-defying party in London, remember?

  The little undulating grey dots on her messaging screen told her that Ric was typing a response.

  I know. She cornered me into planning her party. Good for my social skills (??!!) like I don’t have a company division to run. Want you thurs-sat, then we’ll fly in to London together on sun.

  She sighed, suddenly missing him terribly. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard at a speed that made her do as much deleting as typing.

  What do you have in mind?

  check your email in ten ;) how’s your workout going?

  In truth, she’d found it more than a little daunting. She’d asked for his input, but his expectations of her fitness seemed pretty high.

  Excellent. I’ll look like a US Marine in no time. But... I’ll be honest, if you could put something a tad gentler together, I’d be really grateful!

  He didn’t reply to that and she found herself checking her phone and email every few minutes for the next half hour while she made herself a chicken and bacon salad and opened a box of Bordeaux red.

  When she heard her inbox ping, she sprinted to her monitor. Another ping—both emails from Ric. She opened the first, which was simply titled, ‘My bad.’ It turned out he’d sent her the workout for Henrik’s operations team. The correct one was attached. She laughed. The second email was titled, ‘open attachments first’.

  She couldn’t believe her eyes as the Amsterdam Hotel de l’Europe expanded across her screen. She’d enjoyed many hours at lunch on het Nieuwe Doelenstraat, gazing up at the cream awnings dipping over most of the windows, loving the way it glorified its lack of exterior modernization.

  The hotel was one big triangle, one corner poking into the bend of the Amstel, the canal flowing past the suites and the restaurant on the ground floor. She’d always loved the idea of spending one night in there on an unlimited budget.

  It seemed that Ric was all about making her wish come true.

  The other attachments were various booking details for the Gulfstream flight from Paris Le Bourget to Schipol, and the identity of the driver who’d be picking her up from the airport.

  She printed out all the necessaries as she read his very concise email.

  Hope you got the properties you were looking at. Ryker business fine. Just having to stand my ground in refusing to deal with certain military factions I have no sympathy for. BTW—who’s David?

  Annalesa smiled, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She’d wondered how he’d take the appearance of a guy standing with her outside the house on Rue DuLong.

  David’s a Bristol Uni buddy. Son of a property magnate so plenty of experience already. You’ll like him.

  She didn’t mention that David had a boyfriend.

  I’d like him better if he didn’t look like that kid from Breaking Bad—you know, the meth head? ;)

  She chuckled and dug into her dinner with a voracious appetite brought on by her laborious, and apparently erroneous, workout.

  The flight and drive couldn’t have gone much smoother. Annalesa’s only complaint was that it probably wasn’t necessary for the driver to escort her all the way up to the reception desk at Hotel l’Europe.

  She rubbed the back of her neck as she waited to be seen, caught between the delicious anticipation of seeing Ric again for the first time in weeks and the need to lie down and go to sleep for a few hours.

  She’d traveled light, as instructed, only bringing a backpack with ba
sic necessities and a small selection of clothing. The air on the Gulfstream had chilled her through her tight white t-shirt, jeans and navy blazer.

  “Kan ik u helpen, Mevrouw?”

  Annalesa realized that the irritable Brit at the head of the line had moved away and she stepped up to the desk. “Goedemiddag, ik ben Annalesa LaFevre. Kunt u zien als mijn broer, Meneer Ryker, is aangekomen?”

  “Natuurlijk, Mevrouw.” The receptionist gave her a friendly little smile for attempting the Dutch, and tapped her fingernails on the marbled desk while she checked the computer. When she spoke again, it was in flawless English. “He’s in a meeting, but he left instructions. He wants you shown straight up to his room when you arrive. One moment...”

  Annalesa startled when a porter swept her bag off the floor and steered her towards the elevator. Only when she was inside the gilded enclosure did the driver give her a wave and head out of the foyer, back to the car.

  Why hadn’t the receptionist given her a keycard? Too dazed to ask, the elevator doors opened at the top floor to another ornately decorated foyer.

  She had to step back as a group of four disgruntled, suited men walked into the elevator, muttering in what sounded like North African French. She tipped the porter with a twenty-euro note and he gave her a nod as the elevator doors closed. There was only one door and she tried it, finding it open. She let herself in, looking around for Ric.

  The room wasn’t really a room—it was a full suite with a kitchenette, lounge area, and three doors, which suggested two bedrooms and a bathroom. From her viewpoint, she could see into one of the rooms. It had a bed so big it had to be a size above King—whatever that was. Supreme Ruler of the Universe, perhaps? The bedding was a beautiful azure with white throws arranged over the back of a pine or oak split headboard.

  “There you are.” Ric’s smooth voice made her jump.