by Alexis Angel
Such accusations don’t form without evidence. It currently looks like stock prices for both companies have settled, and investors have slowly trickled back in, eagerly anticipating what will happen next for the loving duo. If these allegations are true, the executive board match-making skills have been successful.
Nevertheless, since they broke-up—if that is what they did—the tension between them has been detectable. One would have to be blind not to notice the effect they still have on each other, with constant shade being thrown either way.
Like we’ve seen, it’s become so intense that they’ve exploded on each other in front of the whole world. And they continue to do so in less televised—though still passionate—displays and in public places.
The once fiery duo always had a knack for keeping us on our toes, and we continue to be just as captivated for what’s to come in their love story. But in truth, what could be a lovers’ dispute could also be a fabricated love story.
If it does happen to be honest, do we want them to come together as one—again—and become the Dirty Little Vixens or the Pretty Little Angels? Or should they continue to be separate competing companies?
Vixens and Angels, just like love and hate, are opposite sides of the same coin after all.
Only time will tell for these CEOs.
And as always, Lis Langley will continue to bring you, my dear readers, updates on how the lingerie will fall between these lovers.
Chapter 10
Tanner
What the fuck just happened?
As I turn my back on her, walking in the opposite direction towards my apartment, I immediately regret what I said.
Why did I say that? Maybe, next time… What the fuck?
I almost turn around, change my mind, and let my desire for her take over. But I don’t. I keep going forward and forcing myself to get my shit together.
I need to stop thinking about her, and why I didn’t go in—why I didn’t say yes. I wanted her to ask me. And I wanted to go with her.
Everything in me wanted to fuck her against those familiar walls, her bed, the kitchen counters—like we’d done so many times before in her apartment. And then she did, she asked me. Like I told her to.
I shake my head in disbelief. What I thought would give me pleasure—a vindictive type of pleasure—did the exact opposite. I wanted her to beg for me, because I wanted to see that look on her face—the one filled with want and need.
The look on her face was priceless. Not going to lie, it did feel fucking great to see and hear it. When would it not?
But when she asked, when she finally fucking listened to me—for once—I had to fight everything in me that was screaming yes.
Fuck, why didn’t I?
I had her right where I wanted her. But I’ll admit, it was more than this night that I wanted to say yes to.
I wanted to say yes to more, with her. More than we’ve planned for, and more than this arrangement is supposed to allow. So, I had to fucking say no.
But now, I feel even shittier then I did when the suits forced me into this arrangement. Though, admittedly, I was a little excited when they did.
I breathe in the cool night air, and run a hand through my damp hair, hoping that it’ll calm and still my very hot and bothered self. I honestly thought I would like this game, but it’s so much more frustrating than I would’ve ever imagined.
I laugh, recalling just how irrationally I was thinking earlier tonight, with my hand between her legs, massaging and playing with her. My body shivers, and I stick my hands in my pocket to move my cock in a more comfortable position. It immediately becomes hard, as I playback my touching her in my mind.
I have to slow my stride to accommodate for its stiffness—it’s almost agonizing. It’s not like it’s been a while since I’ve had release with a woman. I’ve had my fair share of sweet cunts since hers, but hers is one of the sweetest.
And definitely not in the pleasant way someone would describe a woman, because she’s the farthest thing from being sweet. Rather, it’s a taste that’s addicting. It’s a sweetness that you’ll always remember, and always crave to have.
Just like any other addiction, you search for anything, something to replace your craving, but, to your dismay, you can’t find anything like it. Nothing can give you that same fix. To have her sweetness again, makes me pulsate in anticipation.
Addiction is real. And I know, I won’t be able to keep myself from taking her next time. It’s too much willpower for one person to take, and I’ll be damned if I make myself exercise it again.
Reaching the lobby of my apartment, the regret continues to eat at me, and it grows with every passing floor that lights up as the elevator arrives at my floor.
I open my door, and the feeling intensifies, almost to the point of nausea. Never in my wildest fucking dreams, would I have thought saying no to that damn woman would make me feel this way. But now, I’m fucking sulking, beating myself up because of it.
I let the door slam behind me, and I head straight to the bar, and pour myself a whiskey neat, wanting to numb this gnawing ache. Swallowing it in one gulp, I pour another. Warmth slides down my throat, and quickly envelopes my body.
I say a silent thank you to the brown liquid as it makes me feel normal again. Somewhat. I’m distracted by the whiskey comfort, when my back pocket vibrates.
I instinctively roll my eyes. The last thing I want to do is talk to someone, or deal with whatever situation is on the other side of my phone.
The past few days have been enough for me. And then leaving Elsa like that tonight, was the fucking cherry on top of the shit show sundae.
Yeah, I know it was my fault, but I can’t regret what I ordered.
I walk into my office, leaving the lights off, and fall against my large leather office chair, rolling it away from my desk.
Shit.
I grab onto the edge of the cherry wood desk, set my whiskey down, and pull myself forward, throwing my phone next to my drink. Refraining from picking it up, I glance at the screen when it lights up. The notifications require that I scroll down to read them all, and I notice two emails from my office and a shit ton of google alerts.
I ignore the most annoying ones—from my office specifically—and read over some of the alerts.
Not surprisingly, most deal with Elsa and I, speculating over the nature of our relationship. So far, it looks like everything is going according to our plan—well, the suits’ plan. And I find myself amused at some of the headlines.
Some fall right into our hands, questioning if we ever did break up: “Were they ever on a break? A timeline of the infamous lingerie CEO’s relationship.”
While others are much more scandalous: “Who needs lingerie? The lingerie CEO’s sure don’t, watch as they explore what’s underneath the silk fabric.”
There are even a few clever ones: “Another publicity stunt? Or a couple’s disagreement? What do these photos tell you?”
And then, there’s the one I was expecting, from The Capitalist Chronicle and Lis Langely. She’s teasing an expose on our relationship, promising to release it tomorrow morning: “Lis Langely’s firsthand account of the on-again feuding Lingerie Lovers. They’re back! But, what does that mean for their respective lingerie lines?”
From the moment we saw her tonight, I knew the clock on this article would begin ticking. The paparazzi definitely gave that away.
I laugh loudly, it’s almost like we wrote the article ourselves. I mean, we basically gave her the story.
So much for good, investigative journalism.
Reading over these headlines, I feel an odd sensation go through me.
I’m not pissed at them, or at the treacherous paparazzi that hounded us and took these photos—even if we planned it—but there is something nagging at me.
After all, we wanted them to speculate, and to have them think that we’re ‘on’ again, or that we never were off in the first place.
So, maybe, it’s seei
ng us in print that pisses me off, or is fucking with my head.
Seeing the name ‘Lingerie Lovers’ back in the headlines, as Langely so eloquently names us, has me thinking about me and Elsa…again.
Though to be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about her.
Memories flash through my mind, recalling the times we had, when we were officially that infamous couple—not just for show.
And how she used that damn mouth for more than just to yell at me.
Feeling her right underneath my hand tonight, begging for my touch, and the pulse of energy surging between us, as our bodies fell into each other in the alley, on the bench, makes my cock twitch.
Frustration builds, and my muscles tense.
I can’t fucking think about anything other than Elsa and her tight body, moving against me. My cock bulges against my pants, aching for a release. I unzip them, and grab my cock, slowly stroking it, imagining her wet, hot cunt greedily clenching around it.
Visions of her rocking into me, her tits bouncing, as our bodies collide against each other, have my nerves raging.
I stroke and tell myself, that I’ll never deny myself of her again.
Moving my hand harder, faster, a drop of precum escapes the head, and I lather it into my skin, lubing the friction.
The wetness makes me think of her tongue, and the way she bites and licks her lip. Tasting and drinking my cum, taking my cock into her warm, inviting mouth.
Next time, I will fucking take what I want…
I imagine my cock hitting the back of her throat like it used to, and my balls begin to squeeze.
Tightening my grip, I play Elsa’s highlight reel on repeat—her tits, cunt, mouth, ass—and me pounding into her.
My body stills with my hips thrusting into my hand, and I come, aggressively harder than I have in while.
Fucking Elsa.
I shake my head and release my hold, falling back into the chair, breathing heavily.
I moan, feeling relieved for the moment, though I know it won’t last long.
Leaning back, I finish my whiskey—a weak compromise for what could’ve been a perfect nightcap—and I promise myself that there will be a next time with Elsa.
I will take what I want—and I want her.
Chapter 11
Elsa
I still can’t believe Tanner left me standing at the door like that. Rejection is really off-brand for me. But when I get to the office, I’m wanted again. Sort of. My unread emails are blinking on my screen, my cell is buzzing with unanswered messages, and my mail has piled up in my inbox.
“You want me bad, don’t you?” I whisper to my work correspondence.
“Oh, you know I can’t get enough, but I think you should see these reports first. They’ve been begging to see you all morning.” Monique, my assistant, has burst through my office door and plopped a big stack of manila folders on my desk.
I lift the first one off the stack and gasp. Underneath, there’s a copy of the Capitalist Chronicle, which Monique has carefully folded so I’d see the words lingerie and romance right in the middle of the headline. Apparently, Lis Langley has taken the bait.
“Monique, I could kiss you!”
“Maybe later.”
“You read this, right? She says our stocks are up!” The weird thing about stock prices is that any sort of press, however speculative it may be, can send stocks soaring or tumbling. It’s human nature to want what’s hot and on the rise—like Tanner in the park yesterday, but I digress.
Monique shakes her head at me. “She also says this whole thing looks like a publicity stunt.”
“Well, that’s exactly what it is.”
“Is it, though?” Monique taps her long glittery nails on my desk, a move I’ve seen her use countless times on the postal delivery guy when he lingers too long in the lobby, hoping to get an eyeful of the models.
“What are you saying?”
“This requires coffee.” Monique disappears into the kitchen. When she returns with two steaming mugs, I offer her the chair in front of my desk, and she sits across from me.
She continues to eyeball me as I grab my cup and take a sip. I stare back. “What?”
“A little handholding, a peck on the lips, a bouquet of flowers—that would’ve been enough to make that reporter’s pen move. But you two went ahead and got dirty like a pair of poodles in a dog park. Why?”
“New Yorkers are jaded. Tanner said—Tanner and I agreed—that we’d need to put on a real show to get their attention.”
“You are lying to me right now like the clients have just showed up at our booth at the Javits Center and you have no idea who they are and what line we’re supposed to be showing them.”
“I…uh…”
“Are you falling for him again?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Because you remember what happened last time, don’t you?”
How could I forget? Tanner stole more than my heart—he stole my idea for a lingerie collection, and now Pretty Little Vixen has made a pretty little mess of my company, my self-esteem, and if I’m not careful, my whole life. He’s already got my best models. What could he be up to next?
“I know the board members are going to shit themselves when they see this article, but they don’t know you like I do. You wouldn’t be getting all PDA with a guy like Tanner unless you really liked him, especially not for some click-bait article. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
In that moment, I’m grateful that my personal assistant is also one of my best friends. Because she’s right. Maybe it’s time to put on my big-girl pants and tell Tanner to take it down a notch before things go too far. But I can’t let her know that. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Ha! You’re too much.” Monique chuckles. “You want to pick out some new models for us then? There are a whole bunch of headshots in that stack of folders I just gave you. The models should be here any minute to try on some lingerie.”
“Yeah, just bring them in when they get here. I’ll be ready.”
Monique leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I swivel in my chair to take in the view of the city, one of the best perks of my job.
My corner office has floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. From the window facing east, I can see everything from the hot dog vendor on the sidewalk below me to the top of the Empire State Building above. From the window facing uptown, I can see all the way to Central Park, i.e. the scene of the crime.
I immediately turn my back to that window. “Stop looking at me, you little minx.”
A steady thumping noise snaps me out of my reverie. It sounds like drums. Is Monique making the models do a full runway show into my office or something? I’m not really in the mood for this.
“We don’t need music, Monique,” I shout as I approach the door. “Just send them in one at a time with their portfolios, and then we can have them try on some clothes.”
I’m not prepared for what’s on the other side of the door. The models are dressed in matching sequin dresses. Their hair is slicked back into very tight buns. They’re wearing pantyhose—the heavy-duty kind—and high-heeled dance shoes. I can’t tell one from the other. How is that a good strategy for a modeling audition?
“What the…?”
I peer behind them and see that the thumping noise I’ve been hearing isn’t coming from speakers but from an actual marching band. When the drum major sees me, he signals to the brass section to start wailing on their horns.
“Who are you?” I yell into the cacophony. “What are you doing here?”
The drum major lowers his baton, picks up the whistle around his neck, and blows. The music has stopped, but my ears are still ringing.
“Presenting…the Radio City Rockettes, accompanied by a new marching band, the Radio City Rackets!”
Monique looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. “I am so sorry, Elsa; I couldn’t stop them.”
My other employees, the t
raitors, burst into applause.
The drum major blows his whistle again, and the drummers begin a low and steady drumroll. The Rockettes march in time, lifting their knees high. Our office isn’t quite big enough for a kick line, I guess.
A moment later, the group of Rockettes splits in two, forming a new line on each wall between my office and the lobby. In one synchronized motion, they gracefully extend their arms to the front door.
“If you could all wait outside for a moment…” Monique says as she opens the door to show them out, but it’s too late.
In walks a stout young woman in a polo shirt and a seriously ugly pair of khaki pants with pleats on the front. Not a model, I’m guessing. She’s holding a basket, though, and when she sets it down, the entire office melts into sighs.
Puppies. An entire litter of beagle pups with floppy ears wiggle their way out of the basket and head toward me, their noses pressed to the carpet. The puppies are wearing blue ribbons around their necks, and when I grab the first little guy to make it to my side of the office, I can see that there’s a note attached.
The note reads: “Take me home.” It’s signed with Tanner’s name.
Of all the emotionally manipulative…
“Elsa.”
I look up from the big brown eyes of the puppy I’m cradling and see Tanner standing in the doorway. He’s holding a big bouquet of balloons and has an even bigger smile on his face. He releases the balloons, letting them fly freely to the top of the vaulted ceiling.
It’s going to be a pain to get those down later.
“What are you doing here, Tanner?”
He waits a beat, his smile plastered to his face. I’m about ready to turn and walk away from him when I see what he’s been waiting for. The paparazzi arrive with their cameras in hand and start snapping pictures of the Rockettes, the band, the dogs, and Tanner and me.
Tanner signals for the band to stop, and they do so on his command.
I raise an eyebrow at him in defiance. “What, no pizza? No chocolate?”
Tanner snaps his fingers, and a man in a chef’s hat appears in the doorway with a pizza box. He ceremoniously lifts the lid. Inside is what appears to be a Max Brenner chocolate creation—a pizza crust topped with ganache, marshmallow brûlée, and ribbons of fudge.
