Show & Sell: A Dark MFMM Romance

by Abby Angel

  “No reason for even mild modesty, missy. Y’all have something special here, and I know something good when I see it.”

  Weird, it’s like Hawk is doing my pitch for me…oh, wait, he’s talking about Lydia.

  My anxiousness to get this frigging deal done is making me slow on the uptake. Fortunately, I’ve got Hawk’s number, and he’s not exactly Marilyn vos Savant. Oh, Lydia, you’re helping me in more ways than you could imagine.

  “Shall we pick up where we left off last time?”

  I watch Hawk’s face, waiting for his realization. It takes a second or two longer than it should, but I see it register. Yep, Lydia’s room.

  Hawk’s wide grin makes a comeback. I hope he doesn’t have trouble walking there. I gesture for Hawk to follow me inside and immediately start leading him to what I hope is his destiny.

  “You know, missy, I think you’re the brains of the operation.” Hawk is trying to talk as he walks. I can hear him struggling with the pace. I put on the breaks gently, slowly turning around to respond as we move towards the marble stairwell.

  “Around here, we see you as the brains,” I tell him. “And I do mean everybody—the promotional people, the tech people—your legend is well-known. Everyone’s excited for this new partnership.”

  Hawk’s face looks like he just bit into a slightly rotten strawberry.

  “That’s a big staff. There’s more to it than I usually think about.” We’re going slow, but Hawk slows down to a near stop. Fucking hell, dude. Don’t get intimidated now.

  “It’s nothing compared to the giant productions you’re known for, and we make more than enough to pay everyone very well. On the other hand, we’re still a growing business, and we think you’re the person to best help us reach our potential.”

  “Yeah, a growin’ business with a mansion.” Hawk doesn’t go back to smiling, but he stops grimacing. His walking speed picks up a little. I think he’s trying to compliment me, or the company.

  “A mansion with Lydia’s room,” I remind him. “Ready to go check it out again?”

  Hawk can’t hide his smile anymore. I need to stop straying from his kryptonite.

  I let Hawk think, or fantasize, silently on the way to Lydia’s workspace. I wonder if it will be a bit weird hanging out with him, or anyone, in Lydia’s room after my experience last night. I wouldn’t mind revisiting it with Darcy/Mr. Big, though.

  However, I feel more than fine as I finally step into Lydia’s divinely white workspace. I tread lightly across the vacuumed plush carpeting—Catherine always makes sure the cam spaces are thoroughly cleaned—and Hawk follows me in with zeal.

  “Look familiar?” I ask. Of course, Hawk is no stranger to this room, thanks to taking in endless hours of Lydia-centric shows.

  “That’s the chair!” Hawk’s pointing at Lydia’s seat from the show last night. “Lydia’s chair!”

  Not Lydia and Jane’s chair, but Lydia’s chair. Even with four other scorching-hot women in that show, Hawk’s focus doesn’t waver.

  “That is her chair. Lydia’s been out of town the last couple of times, but this is her home. I’m sure that, as a fan, you’d like to meet Lydia again, and I know she’d love to see you again and pick your brains about business and the industry. Lydia is also massively popular, so as the owner, you’d need to work with her closely. I mean, you’re not technically the owner yet, but…”

  “S-stop. Sorry, just hold on.” The Hawk apologizing must mean something, I’d say something good in this case. “I’m not the owner, yet, but I need to take this opportunity more seriously. I want you all to know that. Relay that message to everyone, to Lydia and…everyone else.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “I never say this out loud, but you’ve got the upper hand, here. That’s the last damn thing I should ever say, but I am not letting this slip through my fingers. Let it be known...is it Alice? My apologies.”

  “It’s Lizzie.”

  “Let it be known, Lizzie, that I’m bidding again, and it’s going to be a doozy. This partnership is happening.”

  Suddenly, a classic mobile ringtone tolls out from Hawk’s front jeans pocket. He reaches to get it, but stops suddenly. Hawk presses a button on the device, still in his pocket, to silence it.

  “Let it also be known that I’m getting a better phone. Don’t worry about showing me out, now. I’ll take care of that.”

  Without giving me a chance to respond, Hawk does a quick one-eighty and flies out the door into the hallway. I sneak across Lydia’s carpet and peek out the door at the Hawk trotting down the hall. I want to see what the phone call was all about.

  Hawk already has his phone to his ear as I watch him disappear down the hall.

  “Yeah, thanks for callin’ when I asked.” I can clearly hear Hawk’s voice echoing throughout the corridor. “I’m finished now. I don’t want to wait in the driveway, so hurry up. You can gas up later, not on my time.”

  Hawk is talking to his chauffer. He probably thinks it makes him look important to get phone calls, and asks people to call him during meetings.

  Well, I suppose he is important now, though: he’s the new owner of Bennet Babes.

  Darcy

  Chuck doesn’t look happy. Normally, he isn’t one to contain his excitement after we close a big deal. In fact, he’s usually ecstatic to go out to drinks and celebrate and hit on any girls in the area who will listen.

  This time, however, he simply walks into my office and sits down. No commotion. No livelihood.

  “You were outbid,” he says simply.

  I sit there in stunned silence. While it’s rare for me to lose out on a bid, this one hurts more than usual. Ordinarily, I’d take the loss and move onto the next venture. But this one holds more weight.

  I wanted the secure the Bennet Babes to be closer to Lizzie. Now that’s in jeopardy.

  I lean back in my chair. While I want to pound my fist on the desk, I retain my composure. Another rule in the business rule is to never let the person sitting across from you see any emotion.

  “Hawk?” I say. Chuck nods.

  “I don’t think you’re going to like this next part,” he says.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Apparently, your bid was initially higher than Hawk’s. However, after he spent some time with Lizzie,” he pauses for a second, taking a moment to examine my face for signs of distress, but I don’t show anything, “he decided to increase the bid and won.”

  I stand from my chair to look out my window. I know from a business perspective I should be looking toward my next acquisition, but right now, I have a million thoughts running through my head—and most of them are about Lizzie.

  How much time have Lizzie and Hawk spent together? Did he take her out to dinner the same way I did?

  Maybe Chuck was right. She could have been playing me the entire time to get the most money out of the deal. Obviously, she got it. By seducing both Hawk and me, she increased the size of both bids, guaranteeing she and her friends end up with more money.

  At the same time, it doesn’t feel right. Lizzie and I may not have known each other for very long, but I sensed she truly wanted to be with me over any other guy. The way we fucked in the limousine that one night…it didn’t feel like any other fuck I’ve ever had.

  When I’m with an escort, fucking is purely physical. I’m just trying to cum, and she’s basically the tool to accomplish that. Whether it takes one minute or 20 to cum, I just use the escort and send her on her way.

  But fucking Lizzie was different. It was like I never wanted it to end. I wanted to be inside her all night long while she rode my cock.

  It was passionate, and I don’t believe she could have faked something like that with Hawk or anyone else.

  “Do you want me to look into other acquisitions? There are a few prospects on the table,” Chuck says. I realize I don’t know how long I’ve been staring out the window. It could have been 30 seconds or 30 minutes.

  “Give me
some time to think this over. This acquisition isn’t done yet.”

  “There’s plenty of pussy in the sea,” Chuck says. It takes every ounce of my being not to punch Chuck in the face right now. But I remain professional.

  I go back to my seat.

  “Why don’t you go to a bar, Chuck? There’s bound to be some bored housewives there drowning their sorrows in the middle of the day.”

  Failing to catch my sarcasm, Chuck jumps out of his seat and says, “Oh, damn! You’re right. I’ll talk to you later, Darcy. And I’ll send over those other prospective deals.” Chuck leaves the room.

  Part of my mind is telling me to call up an escort to get a good revenge fuck in. I can’t help but feel as though Lizzie betrayed my trust by spending time with Hawk without informing me. I pick up the phone, ready to call my usual service.

  But something holds my hand back. There’s another number I want to call.

  I dial Lizzie’s number.

  One ring sounds off. Then two. Pick up, Lizzie, just please pick up.

  That’s when I hear her answer.

  “Hello?” she says.

  “I understand Hawk won over Catherine.”

  “I wouldn’t say won her over. He bid more money, but honestly, I think Catherine likes you a little more.”

  “From what I hear, you played a pretty big role in the acquisition. Apparently, you met with Hawk to talk about the deal, and that’s why he bid more.”

  There’s a silence on the other end of the line. I suspect Lizzie realizes she’s been caught in a situation she did not want to be caught in.

  “All the girls met with him. It’s pretty typical with these kinds of deals,” she responds. “I know what your next question is going to be, and let me assure you that I didn’t fuck him. I didn’t give him a blowjob. Nothing like that happened. He simply bid more money.”

  Her statement is direct and to the point. Being direct is something I admire about Lizzie, but in this instance, it simply makes it harder to read her.

  I can’t help but feel as though she’s trying to pull one over on me. I need more information. And there’s only way one to get it.

  “Why don’t you come over to my penthouse tonight for dinner? It’ll give us a chance to talk.”

  “Your penthouse? That seems like a big step,” she replies.

  She’s not wrong. I never bring women to the penthouse. Most of the time, I save most of my activities with women to the office or the backseat of a car.

  But I need information out of Lizzie, and I feel most confident I can get it if we’re on my home turf.

  “So what do you say?” I ask.

  “I’ll be there,” she says.

  “I’ll text you the address,” and then I hang up the phone. Tonight, I’ll finally have all the answers I’m looking for. I’ll get them one way or the other.

  Lizzie

  At this point, you probably don’t need me to tell you that the Bennet Mansion is nice. I mean, it’s a fucking mansion. It’s big, it’s opulent, it has a shit-ton of rooms and a lot of it is retrofitted with cool, interesting and modern touches.

  It’s also from a time when people with money didn’t like to cook, so the kitchen’s a bit lacking. Darcy’s ultramodern, lavish, futuristic spaceship of a kitchen is like the polar opposite.

  Speaking of people with money cooking, that smell coming from Darcy’s stovetop is about to drive me mad with the ravenous desire to eat some goddamn food.

  What is that smell? Well, actually, I should give it the proper respect and call it an aroma. But what in the shitting fuck cunt is that aroma?

  I’m mystified. I know he’s using extra virgin olive oil from a giant tin, and lovingly crushed cloves of garlic, and some sort of fancy dried Italian mushrooms that he had to soak in water and whatever those diced onion things are that he’s tossing into the skillet now.

  “What kind of onions are those?”

  Darcy can be hard to read sometimes, but when he laughs, there is no doubt that he means it. This time, he lets out a booming laugh and it feels like an enchanting little earthquake.

  “These are shallots.”

  Darcy’s back is to me, and I’m watching his broad shoulders work from across the kitchen island. My current view of Darcy is framed by upmarket cooking gear hanging from storage hooks: saucepans, skillets, stockpots, woks, griddles, spatulas, whisks, tongs, strainers—did he really handpick all of these things himself?

  So, yes, this is a far cry from the mansion kitchen, which has no windows and has a sad little gas range. In Darcy’s kitchen there’s an enormous French-door refrigerator built into the wall. Covered in the same wood paneling as the wall, it looks like a closet from the outside. Above the range where Darcy’s cooking, there’s an LCD screen displaying the current temperature and humidity of the refrigerator, freezer, walk-in freezer, wine cellar, wine cooler and pantry.

  “What’s so funny about shallots?”

  I’m still watching Darcy’s shoulders, moving just the right amount as he sautés. I follow the shape of his bespoke shirt from the wonderful span of his shoulders, tapering down at the perfect angle on both sides.

  Hints of his Adonis-toned muscles peek through the pricy silk in different spots as he moves. Mythological beauty. For real.

  Then in a flash, Darcy’s facing me directly. He must be trained in dance or something.

  “There is nothing funny about shallots. Nothing.” There’s a twinkle in Darcy’s eyes that’s new to me. It’s like he’s holding in a laugh.

  I feel like I’m about to faint for the first time ever, or maybe just melt into a puddle on the kitchen tiles. Whatever happens, I cannot laugh myself, and I better have a good comeback as well.

  “You’re a shallot.” Nice one, Lizzie. Omg, babe, are you rolling your eyes as hard as I am that I just said that? But wait, the twinkle is still there, and now those electrifying, effervescent eyes are locked right onto mine.

  “Have you ever known me to be anything but deathly serious?” Darcy’s eyes stay fixed on mine, and it’s a staring contest—whoever breaks first loses. He’s sure as shit not going to laugh, so I stay deadpan.

  “Doesn’t mean there’s nothing funny about you, just because you think you’re serious. You don’t get to choose what I laugh at.”

  Darcy points his index finger right at me. He doesn’t say a word, just points and shakes that finger a couple times. The look on his face is outright hilarious: furrowed brow, just a whiff of a scowl. It’s a parody of a Very Serious Fellow.

  He keeps that stare just a split-second too long and goddammit, Lizzie, don’t laugh, just do not laugh. I literally bite my freaking tongue and blink hard. There we go, I don’t even start to smile.

  Darcy gets back to cooking. As much as I want to stare at his back for a while more, I start making my way towards him around the left side of the island. I step slowly, dragging each foot across the stone tile floor. I’m wearing a bored, over-the-top frown. Darcy’s gaze is focused on the pan, but he can see me.

  He’s doing a really good job pretending to ignore me, though. Now I’m tottering straight to Darcy. I don’t know what’ll happen when I reach him, but he has to react soon.

  “Ah, almost time.” Darcy is talking to himself like I’m not even there. He leans over to the small wine fridge next to the range, opens the door and pulls out an old-looking bottle—it has a yellowing white label. Darcy pivots towards me on his feet and holds the bottle out like I’m supposed to take it.

  “So, you’re a lush! I knew it. Don’t try to drag me in to your sordid, drunk, rich guy world.”

  “Dream on, Lizzie. You can’t figure me out for a second. I just need you to open this so I can start the reduction.”

  “A reduction of what, your sobriety?”

  I take the cold wine bottle from Darcy’s hands. I look at the label, it’s a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. I don’t recognize the brand.

  “I’ll explain this once, Lizzie. That pan, where t
he wine is headed, is really hot. It’s so hot that the alcohol evaporates. I’ll tell you this now so you’re not disappointed: you won’t get drunk from this meal. Nobody’s getting drunk tonight. Unless you want to.”

  Do I want to? I feel plenty intoxicated just talking in the kitchen, but I keep that little thought to myself.

  “You’re cooking with this wine? How much was this bottle? Wait, what’s the vintage? It’s worn off, I think.”

  Darcy puts a lid on the skillet and turns down the heat. He also switches off the fan over the range, and it becomes insanely quiet.

  I hear him sigh. Is he serious with that sigh? It may actually break my heart if he is.

  “Corkscrew’s in the drawer, to your right.” Darcy’s staring at the oil, garlic, mushrooms and shallots simmer slowly.

  “You don’t have cooking wine to use?”

  Darcy turns to me, slowly. That mirth is back in his eyes. Thank goodness.

  “Do you use cooking wine? I cook with wine that I would drink. I don’t need to, but I take the option.”

  Uh oh. “I don’t cook with wine. I don’t cook…”

  “In the kitchen?” The perfect interruption from Darcy.

  I place the bottle as gently as I can on the island. “Oh, on camera, sure. In the boudoir, hell yeah. But food’s not usually involved.”

  “I see, you sustain yourself by taking advantage of rich suckers like me.” Darcy is somehow a few inches closer to me now, and I’m barely surprised; his moves are often stealthy. I have to look up a little to see his face now.

  I feel his fingers and palm brushing against the top of my right hand, just slightly.

  “N-no, I just order restaurant delivery online. Pizza, pad Thai, stuff like that. You know, saag paneer with garlic naan from the Indian place.”

  As I talk, Darcy’s draws his face closer to mine at a graceful, steady pace. By the time he responds, his lips are nearly touching mine.

  “So much salt. No wonder you like cooking wine so much.” Darcy’s whispers carry hints of anise and mint. I reach my hand over, just around Darcy’s waist, to turn off the burner.