by Cynthia Sax
BLAINE IS WAITING for me as I pad over the uneven ground cover, my flip-flops releasing the fresh scent of herbs with each step. He sits on a lounge chair, wearing the same outfit he had worn to my office. His face is fully illuminated and he holds a lit cigar in his tanned fingers.
He is fierce and powerful and undeniably male. Arousal rushes over me, tightening my nipples and moistening my pussy. I clutch the white cotton robe closer around my naked body, struggling to control my need.
“Did you touch yourself?” Blaine asks, his voice deep.
“No.” I tremble, yearning for that release. “Blaine—”
“Take off your clothes, Anna.” He taps his cigar against the terra-cotta ashtray and ashes fall. There’s a small black velvet bag on the wooden table, beside the ashtray.
“I have to ask you this first because . . .” It is all I can think about. “Because you might not wish to watch me after I ask it.” I express my fear. I don’t want to risk him, this, whatever we have, but the thought eats at me.
“I’ll always watch you.” Blaine puffs on his awful cigar, his cheeks indenting. “Ask your question.” He gazes at me with a pussy-clenching intensity.
I take a deep breath, count to ten and exhale. This doesn’t ease my tension so I do it again. Nothing. I close my eyes. The darkness helps. “Will you show me how to expunge my father’s record?”
Silence falls. My heart pounds. Blaine says nothing.
I open my eyes. He continues to gaze at me, his green eyes glittering.
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. It’s simply that I know you did it for your records and I thought you might have pointers.” I’m blathering. I know this but I can’t stop. “Because I don’t know where to start. I didn’t even know it could be done before today, before someone mentioned it to me, and I thought—”
“There’s no need.” Blaine breaks into my stream of words. “I’ve erased your father completely.”
“Completely?” I sway on my feet. Is that possible?
“Completely.” Blaine nods, the lights gleaming off his black hair. “Your father is no longer in any government or private databases.”
Because Blaine hacked those databases. I sit down on the chair facing his, my chair, the rattan creaking under my ass. “Why would you do that?” Erased isn’t the same thing as expunged. Erased is illegal. “If someone finds out, you could go back to prison.” Why would he risk that?
Blaine smokes, appearing aggravatingly calm, and my fingers twitch. I want to grab his cigar and throw it into the pool behind me.
“Would it bother you if I went back to prison?” he finally asks.
The question is so stupid, it takes me ten seconds to fully comprehend it.
“Bother me?” I jump to my feet. “My father died in prison.” Blaine can’t die. I can’t face that pain again. I pace across the grass. Blaine risking his life for me is unacceptable. “Of course, it bothers me. I—” My voice breaks. My eyes burn with unshed tears.
“Anna, sit down.”
I ignore him, pacing faster, searching for a solution. There has to be a solution. “If you did it, you must be able to undo it and then no one will know.”
“Sit down,” Blaine barks, his tone not allowing for insubordination.
I sit down, clasping my cold fingers between my knees. “Blaine.”
“Look at me,” he demands. I obey. His face is dark and his eyes are hard. “I won’t go to prison and I won’t die.”
“Everyone dies,” I mutter.
“I won’t die until you’re an old woman.” Blaine’s lips curve upward. “And even then, on my deathbed, I’ll want to watch you.”
“I’ll have wrinkles.” I cross my arms over my chest. “All over. You won’t want to watch me then.”
“I will.” His lips twitch. “I want to watch you now.”
We gaze at each other. Blaine is calm and still and his unshakable confidence bolsters mine. My worries fade, melting away, leaving only the acute desire, my need for him.
“Take off your clothes,” Blaine instructs.
I untie my robe and shrug out of the soft cotton. All I’m wearing are the flip-flops on my feet and the gold key with the black ribbon around my neck.
I hook my knees over the armrests, opening myself to him, this man, who without asking presented me with the greatest gift anyone has given me—freedom from my past.
Blaine leans closer and inhales, his nostrils flaring. “Delicious.” He blows lightly over my pussy lips and I quiver, my body primed from a long day of denial, the need inside me building to painful levels.
“Touch yourself for me, Anna.”
I rub my fingers over my pussy, swirl my fingertips over my clit, circling, circling this bundle of nerve endings, teasing myself mercilessly. I’m so tight, so wound up. I grit my teeth, struggling to hold back my release, my efforts futile.
“I can’t last,” I admit, ashamed. Blaine thinks I’m strong but I’m not. My legs shake and I can’t control them, can’t control the orgasm rushing toward me. “Blaine?”
“Come for me.” He gives his permission, and a wave of passion sweeps over me.
The tides pull me under and I scream, terrified, euphoric. I can’t breathe. The weight on my chest is too heavy, the pleasure is too great, too acute. I gulp air, thrashing my arms, my legs pinned in place. “Blaine.” I reach for him.
His breath wafts over my inner thighs, all he can do, all I’ve allowed him to do. I can’t form the words to ask him to touch me, and I suspect if I could, my honorable billionaire won’t answer my desire-drunken call. He knows me too well. He knows my fears, my reasons to hesitate.
I gradually level, returning to earth, shuddering. Tears roll down my cheeks, leaving salty tracks on my skin. I brush them away with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful.” Blaine smiles.
I must look like a mess. I’ve never been a pretty crier. Yet he gazes at me as though I am the most gorgeous creature on the planet.
“Too soon,” I murmur. The next step is a quick shower, application of that miracle conditioner I should ask him about, and then I leave, allowing Blaine the privacy to take care of the massive erection straining the fabric of his black dress pants.
I wish he’d show me his cock. I nibble on my bottom lip.
Blaine plays with the drawstring of the black velvet bag. My billionaire businessman appears nervous, an emotion I’ve never seen him express, and this stirs my curiosity.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask.
“I saw this and thought of you.” He hands me the velvet satchel.
I tense. He’s already given me so much. “Blaine.”
“Open it.” Color streaks across his cheeks. He’s blushing. Gabriel Blaine is blushing.
I have to open his present now. I reach into the bag, wrap my fingers around cool stone, and extract a long thin gleaming white dildo.
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. The dildo is beautiful, a work of art, but it is also a sex toy. Why would he give me a sex toy?
I glance at Blaine. His gaze slides to the left, avoiding mine, and I know in my woman’s heart what he wants. I laugh. I can’t help it. I want this too. “Yes.”
“Anna.” His gaze meets mine, his eyes so very green.
“Yes, you can touch me with the dildo.” I want to jump into his arms, his solution to my fears and his need brilliant. A sex toy will lessen the barrier between us but not completely eliminate it.
“You’re certain?” Blaine asks. I nod, my wonderfully straight hair sliding over my spine. “If you want to stop, tell me and I will.”
“I know you will.” I hold out the dildo. Blaine places his fingers farther from its base, inches away from mine, the distance reassuring me, the message clear. He won’t touch me with anything other than the white marble.
Blaine caresses the dildo, sliding his hand up and down its length, and I watch him, my arousal building once more. Is this how he touches himself, with these hard,
firm strokes? My fingers curl as he shows me how to please him.
“I’m warming the stone,” he rumbles.
“You’re warming me.” I cup my breasts, squeezing and releasing my curves to the rhythm of his hand. “Test the temperature on my nipples.”
Blaine’s eyes darken. He shuffles forward on the chair, his pant legs brushing my knees, and he slides the smooth tip of the dildo over my nipples. The contrast of hard cool stone and soft warm skin is exquisite. I moan softly.
“So beautiful.” Blaine explores the gentle valley between my breasts, tapping the key with the tip, playing with the black ribbon. “The light in my darkness.” He circles my curves, caresses my collarbone. “It perfectly matches your skin—the whitest, most decadent marble.”
“Expensive.” I arch my spine, thrusting my small breasts toward him.
“Priceless.” Blaine glides the dildo over my stomach and I tremble. “Strong but it can be broken.” He combs the tip over my private curls. “I’ll be careful with you, Anna.” He skims over my pussy lips, dipping into my wetness. “I’ll cherish you.” He pushes deeper, meeting resistance.
I spread my legs wider and tilt my hips toward him. The dildo slides into me. There’s a twinge of pain, followed by an uncomfortable fullness, and I smother a grimace, knowing if I show discomfort he’ll stop, and I don’t want him to stop, ever.
“You’re very tight.” A tic pulses in Blaine’s cheek and beads of perspiration form on his forehead. “You’re gripping me.”
I’d like to grip him. My pussy clenches down on the dildo and I moan, the friction delightful, warming me. The sensual slide stops before his fingers reach my wet folds.
“I’m full.” I swish my ass from left to right as my body adjusts to the invasion, loosening around the marble.
“You took all of me.” Wonder softens Blaine’s voice.
I glance at his pants-covered erection. “You’re bigger.”
“I’m wider.” He pulls on the dildo, the slide even more arousing in reverse, my body protesting the emptiness, clinging to the stone. “We’ll work our way up to that size.”
We have a future. This comforts me, allows me to focus on the passion, our passion. I’m no longer alone. Blaine pumps me slowly, the veins in his neck lifting, his eyes as dark as night, shining brighter than any star.
I rock, silently asking him to thrust harder, and he answers, driving into me with increased vigor. He angles the dildo to rub against my clit, escalating my desires. I pant, the key smacking my breasts, the dildo filling my pussy.
Blaine doesn’t touch me with anything other than the marble, and I hunger for his touch, for skin against skin contact. The dildo heats, slicked by my juices, but it isn’t as warm as his hands, as coarse as his palms.
“Fuck me harder, Blaine.” The dirty words escape my lips and Blaine growls, the dildo jerking inside me. “I need you, all of you.”
“You have me.” He works me hard with the artificial cock. “Squeeze down on me. Tighten that sweet little pussy of yours.”
I constrict my inner walls around the dildo, the sensation curling my toes. Blaine ravishes me with long, deep strokes. Wetness speckles his fingers, yellowing the crisp white cuffs of his dress shirt.
I want to mark him permanently, brand him as mine. I grab my ankles to keep from grabbing him, digging my short, blunt nails into my flesh, the pain heightening my pleasure.
Blaine huffs between my legs, the muscles in his shoulders and back rippling, his suit jacket pulling tight. His wayward lock of black hair curls over his forehead, giving him a devilishly look, my bad boy businessman, my ex-con hacker.
My climax approaches, my second of the night, and I writhe. I’ve never come twice in a row. I’ve never had something so far into me. I’ve never met a man like Gabriel Blaine. “Blaine.”
“Scream my name, Anna.” He moves with me, rocking into me as I rock into him. “Tell the world who’s inside you.”
If I had his cock inside me—
I can’t finish this thought, my orgasm ripping through me. “Blaine!” I scream, squeezing down on the dildo, clenching it, holding it, my connection to him, to sanity. Lights flicker, flash, dim. I fall into the blackness.
I OPEN MY eyes. Light hugs the far horizon. Birds chirp. A garden spout whizzes. “It’s morning.” I sit up and my robe falls from my shoulders.
Blaine sits up also. The rebellious lock of hair has escaped its confines, curling over his forehead. “It is morning.” He blinks his outrageously long eyelashes. Why have I never noticed those eyelashes before now? His face is softer also, almost boyish, and my heart does that crazy little flip it only does around him.
“You didn’t wake me.” I scramble to my feet and wrap the robe around my body, poking my arms through the sleeves. My pussy is sore in a nice kind of way. “I don’t have time for a shower.” I glance at the waterfall with its wonderful conditioner and I frown, irritated with myself, bad hair being my punishment . “And I made you late for . . .” I don’t know what I made him late for. I don’t know how a billionaire businessman spends his day.
“The flight to New York.” Blaine stands also, his big body making me feel safe. “But watching you sleep was worth the delay.”
He watched me sleep. I swipe my hand over my mouth, ensuring I didn’t drool. Then my brain deciphers the rest of his words.
“You’re going to New York?” He’s leaving me? Had he meant to tell me or had he planned to leave without uttering a word?
“I have a meeting I must take in person.” Blaine smiles. “I’ll return tomorrow night.” He walks with me toward the gate.
“You’ll only be away for one night?” I ask. He nods, his hair wonderfully mussed, as though we’ve truly spent the night together, sleeping in each other’s arms. “Will you watch me?” I open the gate.
“I always watch you.” Blaine’s green eyes glint. “You have my number. Use it if you need anything.”
Does he want me to use it? Or is he being polite? “Be safe, Blaine.” I lower my gaze to his lips, suppressing the wild impulse to kiss him. I suspect this would be an experience to remember. I’ve only kissed two boys in my life and Blaine is no boy.
He smiles. “Be a good girl, Anna.” Blaine turns and walks back to the pool. Will he swim naked, touch himself while submersed in the water, think of me?
A car horn honks and I straighten, returning to reality. I’m dressed in a robe in the backyard of a home I’m house-sitting and I’m late for work. I rush into the house, avoiding the Leighs’ hideous outdoor modern art display and saving my erotic thoughts of Blaine for tonight, when I’m alone.
Chapter Five
AS I WON’T see Blaine, and the store has a no-return-on-undergarments policy, I wear the padded bra under my work outfit. I don’t shower. I don’t have time. As a result, my hair looks great and the scent of pussy and cigar smoke clings to me, a sensual reminder of my night with Blaine.
It was my first sleepover with a man. I grin at the bus driver as I pay my fare. He grins back. The pregnant lady I sit beside shows me ultrasound photos of her unborn baby. A Spanish-speaking lady tries to sell me a knitted scarf. The driver idles the bus mid-route to grab a coffee, lengthening the ride. As I’m already late, I try not to let it bother me.
The receptionist gives me a cheery good morning, calling me by my first name. I didn’t know she knew my first name. I strike gold with the donor list. Every name has given a donation within the last year.
I pass the Boss man’s office, expecting to be called in and yelled at for my tardiness. He simply waves at me, a phone pressed to his right ear.
As I arrive, some of the women in the pit abruptly stop talking. I stiffen, dreading what they’ve uncovered about me. Blaine erased my father, whatever that means, but they could have found out about him some other way. The truth always follows me, no matter where I go.
A new big breasted blonde sits in the front row, examining the ends of her perfect hair, her pink bottom li
p curled into an adorable pout. I suspect she’ll land a meet and greet with her first call. Tomorrow she’ll no longer sit in the pit and some other blonde will take her place.
Is someone taking my place? Is some other woman stripping for Blaine? I sit down, setting my tote at my feet.
“Someone had a good night.” Goth girl laughs. “Tell me you nailed Gabriel Blaine and I’ll be your faithful minion forever.”
My face heats and I pretend to focus on unwinding the cord to my new headset.
“You did!” she crows, clapping her black-lace-covered hands. Heads turn. Coworkers scowl. Goth girl ignores them. “Everyone watches the butterfly. No one suspects the moth.”
I suppose I’m the moth. I don’t want to talk about Blaine. He must be in the air by now, being pandered to by generously endowed flight attendants. I turn on the headset and dial.
Voice mail. Voice mail. I’m sorry, miss. She’s not a home. Voice mail. I can’t connect with any of the donors. That’s how it is with rich people. They have big fancy houses yet spend all of their time jaunting around Europe or flying to New York.
I refuse to think of Blaine.
I eat my lunch at my desk. Many of my coworkers go out to eat every day. I don’t know how they can afford it on salaries equivalent to mine.
Goth girl keeps me company, eating a spicy yellow curry others complain loudly about. I think it smells delicious and I’m tempted to ask her for bite except I have nothing to give her in return, only a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich made with week-old bread and a sample packet of peanut butter I found in the Leighs’ mailbox.
I listen to more voice-mail messages and wonder if the world outside of the pit continues to exist. A meteor could have destroyed the rest of L.A. and we wouldn’t know it. Would Blaine miss me if I died? Would anyone miss me?
It is a quarter to five, almost quitting time, and the blonde hasn’t made a single call. She tells the desperate-looking brunette beside her she doesn’t work on Fridays. The brunette emits a high-pitched hurting sound and dials faster.
“Hey kiddo.” Michael Cooke swaggers in my direction. I glance behind me. I’m in the back row. There’s no one behind me.
