by Bec Linder
I thought she might refuse, and say it was too risky, but instead she unbuttoned her shorts and shoved them to the floor, and I saw that she wasn’t wearing any underpants. Christ.
Everything she did drove me insane. I had never understood, before, why men did idiotic things because of women—the cheating, the promises, the acrimonious divorces. But now it made sense. Sasha was sexual catnip, and I was powerless to resist her. I didn’t want to.
As I watched, she slid one hand between her thighs, her fingers dipping inside, and I realized she was checking to see if she was wet enough.
I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath, forcing myself not to lose control. Then I went for my wallet, and the condom I had tucked inside.
“Ooh, Mr. Turner,” she said, when I tossed the foil packet on the bed. “Have I been a bad girl?”
“Be quiet,” I said sharply. I wasn’t one of her idiot clients, and I hated it when she played the cooing bimbo. I took a step toward her and seized her wrist, drawing her hand from between her legs and replacing it with my own. She was swollen and slick already, and the little gasp she made when my fingers bumped over her clit made my cock throb in my trousers.
I wouldn’t wait any longer. I walked her backward, forcing her to stumble toward the bed, and when her knees hit the edge of the mattress, she went down, falling onto her back with another gasp. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and smirked at me, naked from the waist down, legs splayed to show me her pink slit, and I had never wanted a woman as much as I wanted her in that moment.
I unfastened my trousers and shoved them and my boxer-briefs down to mid-thigh. Sasha’s gaze veered downward as I took myself in hand and stroked firmly. My fingers felt good, but not as good as I knew she would feel around me.
The condom had fallen close to the edge of the bed. I seized it and tore open the foil, and rolled the latex sheath onto my dick. I hated condoms, but they were a necessary evil. Someday I would fuck Sasha bare and make a mess out of her wet little cunt.
For now, this would do.
I hooked my hands around her thighs and tugged her until her ass rested at the edge of the bed. She looked up at me, face flushed, hair sticking to her forehead, as I pressed one knee almost to her shoulder, opening her to my gaze. She was slutty and sexy and gloriously debauched, lying there blushing like a virgin, waiting for my cock.
“Hurry up,” she said, and squirmed, and I slid home in one smooth thrust.
She was so tight and hot that I had to close my eyes for a moment and take a few deep breaths to avoid embarrassing myself. Then I rolled my hips against her, a slow, aching glide.
She arched her back and groaned, long and low, and reached up to pinch her nipples through the thin fabric of her t-shirt.
Christ. What a siren. I was Odysseus, bound to the mast of my ship, yearning toward her with every fiber of my being.
It was too soon to say if I would find safe passage or be dashed to pieces against the rocky shore.
I bent forward and spoke again her ear. “Sassy, I want you to touch that sweet little pussy of yours and get yourself off. I want you to come on my dick while I fuck you. You’re going to do that for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
She whimpered, teeth set in her lower lip, face turned away from me, and I felt her arm move and slide between us, and the way she obeyed my orders without question was too much for me to fucking handle.
I straightened up and started working her over hard and fast, slamming my hips against hers, delighting in the way she clenched around me. Her fingers moved between her thighs in tight circles, stroking herself toward oblivion. Her eyes had fallen shut, and her mouth had fallen open. She breathed in quick, shallow pants. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
“Would you like it,” I said, “if Will and Yolanda walked through the door right now? Do you want them to see you moaning and hungry for it?”
She shook her head, eyes still closed, but I felt her flutter around me and knew the thought aroused her.
My little Sasha was an exhibitionist. Who knew?
“We’ll do that sometime,” I said. “I’ll take you to my office and fuck you against the window, and if anyone on the street looks up, they’ll be able to see you there, stripped naked and begging like the slut you are…”
All of her muscles shook as she climaxed, her mouth open in a silent scream.
And that was what I wanted, what I had been waiting for, and I slammed against her once more and let go.
12
We separated after we had both caught our breath. Sasha sat up and ran one hand through her hair, smoothing the messy strands back into place.
“That was a dumb idea,” she said.
“Hardly,” I said. “It would only have been dumb if we got caught.” I still had my suit jacket on. The entire encounter had taken less than five minutes.
I felt fucking incredible.
“Oh God, they’ll be back any second,” she said, and hopped off the bed to tug her shorts back on.
I smirked, and took myself off to the bathroom to toss the condom and clean up.
By the time I emerged, Will and Yolanda had returned and were unloading their groceries in the kitchen. Sasha was with them, still suspiciously pink in the cheeks, but I didn’t imagine the others would think anything of it.
I crossed the room and leaned beside Sasha at the end of the counter. “I hope you’re not letting Will cook,” I said to her.
Will turned at the sound of my voice and grinned at me. “It’s the old ball and chain!” he said. “Thought you’d find me passed out in an alleyway?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” I said. “What are we having for dinner? Stale bread and water?”
“Only for you,” he said. “I’m cooking steak for the ladies.”
“Hey now, I don’t eat anything less expensive than fois gras,” Yolanda said, and bumped Will with her hip as she closed the refrigerator.
“Only the best for the fair lady,” he agreed. She smiled at him, and Will seized one of her hands and bent to kiss her knuckles, gallant as a Golden Age movie star.
I glanced at Sasha and raised one of my eyebrows. She looked at me and shrugged.
“Everyone out of my kitchen,” Will announced. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”
“I can help chop,” Yolanda said.
“Absolutely not,” Will said. “You’ve been at work all day. Go sit down. Would you like something to drink? I’ll make limeade.”
“Limeade doesn’t go with steak,” I said.
“You’re not getting any,” Will said.
“Right,” I said. “Stale bread and water.” I rolled my eyes and tugged Sasha away from the counter. “Let’s give the man some room to work.”
Will had clearly made himself at home: he took a knife from a drawer, a cutting board from a cabinet, and had a steak sizzling in a cast iron pan within about five minutes. My mouth watered as the scent of roasting meat filled the apartment. I was hungrier than I had realized.
Yolanda spent a few moments sorting mail at the dining table, but then she joined Sasha and me in the living area. She took a seat in the armchair and smiled at me. “He made us an incredible dinner last night,” she said.
“I’m glad he’s making himself useful,” I said. “Yolanda, I can’t thank you enough for taking him in. It isn’t every day that you meet a woman who’s willing to adopt a perfect stranger.”
“Oh, well,” she said, a little flustered. “It’s really no trouble. He’s a nice guy.”
Sasha made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough, and raised the magazine she was reading until it concealed her face.
“Is there a problem?” I asked her.
“No, nothing,” she said.
“Sasha thinks it’s funny that Will and I are getting along,” Yolanda said.
“I don’t see why,” I said. “He’s very congenial.”
“I know you’re talking about me,” Will called
from the kitchen. “Tell her I have a huge dick.”
Yolanda cracked up, one hand over her eyes, and I sighed, refusing to be amused. At least Yolanda didn’t seem offended.
That seemed to set the tone for dinner. Will was in an exuberant mood, talkative and charismatic as he was at his best—which worried me, because the highs were so often followed by lows. He and Yolanda chatted like they had known each other for years, and their conversation veered from the local food movement to the recent Supreme Court decision to a juicy bit of gossip that Yolanda had picked up at work. I was content to eat in silence—the food, as it always was when Will cooked, was delicious—but when they started talking about health care reform, Sasha put her fork down and said, “The two of you have just exceeded the amount of time you’re allowed to spend talking about politics at the dinner table.”
“Aw, but we were just starting to get worked up about it,” Will said.
“House rules,” Sasha said.
“She says it gives her insomnia,” Yolanda said to Will. “All those big ideas rattling around in her tiny brain—”
“That’s not the reason!” Sasha said, laughing, and reached across the table to slap playfully at Yolanda’s arm. “I just don’t like worrying about things I can’t control.”
“Ah, but you can control it,” Will said, holding up one finger. He leaned toward Sasha, and she and Yolanda both leaned toward him, attentive. He drew out the moment dramatically, letting them hang, and then said, “By voting.”
Yolanda laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.
“Will, you’re getting ridiculous,” I said.
“And you sound just like our mother,” he said. “Lighten up.”
“No, I agree with Alex,” Sasha said. “Voting isn’t funny. It’s very serious, a civic duty—”
“I’m pretty sure that counts as talking about politics,” Yolanda said. “Leave the dinner table at once!”
I watched Sasha as their cheerful bickering continued. It was strange to see her in this context, happy and relaxed, and squabbling with someone she clearly knew well and trusted. I was being given a glimpse of a different side of her personality. She wasn’t Sassy here; there was no trace of the sleepy-eyed showgirl, the femme fatale. There was no elaborately coiffed wig. She wasn’t wearing any makeup that I could see. Even her body language was different. This was the real Sasha, the woman underneath the facade, and I was taken aback to realize that I wanted to spend more time with her. With the real her, the blood-and-guts, breathing, cursing, obstinate creature that she was.
After dinner, Will went back into the kitchen and returned balancing four dishes of sorbet. Sasha made a derogatory comment about “rich people ice cream,” but I noticed she cleaned her bowl anyway.
“Rich on your palate,” Will said smugly.
Sasha turned to me with a pleading look on her face. “Take him back,” she said.
“Not until tomorrow,” I said. I wiped my lips with my napkin and pushed my chair back. “On that note, I need to get going. Will, thanks for dinner. Sasha, thank you for inviting me. Yolanda, thank you for being the least obnoxious person in this apartment.”
“Hey!” Will protested.
To my surprise, Sasha followed me out of the apartment when I left.
“You don’t need to walk me downstairs,” I told her. “I won’t get lost.”
“I know,” she said. She closed the door behind her, and then, one hand still on the doorknob, pushed up on her tiptoes to kiss me.
It was a brief, sweet, light kiss, and then she pulled back and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and disappeared back into the apartment.
It took me several seconds to remember that I was supposed to be walking down the stairs.
* * *
The buyout went exactly as planned.
The contingent from Bywater showed up fifteen minutes late, postured the expected amount, made a few empty threats about reneging on the deal, and then finally signed the fucking papers. Reginald Martin glowered from the corner the entire time, arms folded over his massive chest, but he didn’t block the sale as I had feared.
And then it was done: the first major transaction I had planned and executed from start to finish, and a major coup for the Turner Group. This acquisition would allow us to expand into new international markets and solidify our domestic holdings.
It was, in short, a fantastic day.
After some celebratory champagne in the conference room, I took a cab to the West Village. Even traffic couldn’t ruin my good mood. Will would be out of Sasha and Yolanda’s hair and safely under the watchful eyes of my parents; my workload was about to return to normal levels of stress, instead of exploding radioactive volcanic ulcer-inducing stress; and I would be able to take the weekend off, and spend most of it in bed with Sasha. I couldn’t imagine a better reward for the hard work I’d put in over the last several months.
When I arrived at Sasha’s apartment, Will was sitting on the front stoop, his duffel bag at his feet.
I got out of the cab as he stood up and jogged down the steps. “Looks like they finally kicked you out.”
He laughed. “Nah. I haven’t been out here long. Yolanda’s still at work, and Sasha wanted to go to her yoga class, and there’s no way for me to lock up without a key.” He slid into the back seat, holding his bag on his lap.
I climbed in after him and gave the driver our parents’ address. “I was hoping to speak to Sasha.”
“I didn’t cause any trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. He looked over at me, eyebrows drawn together. “How do you know her, anyway? She isn’t like the rest of your friends.”
“She’s not a friend,” I said, making my voice flat and cold. I had absolutely no desire to talk about her with Will, and I hoped he would take a fucking hint and drop it.
But Will had never taken a hint in his life. “I find that hard to believe,” he said. “You don’t volunteer someone for babysitting duty if they’re just a random acquaintance. Are you fucking her?”
“That’s none of your business,” I said sharply.
He grinned. “So you are. Fascinating.” He tapped one finger against his chin, an obnoxious habit he had picked up from watching too many old movies. “And yet Yolanda had never met you. Regular booty call? But that still wouldn’t qualify Sasha as a friend, necessarily.”
For Christ’s sake. “She works at the Silver Cross,” I grated out. “She’s one of the dancers. Now drop it.”
Will whistled low. “Damn. Fucking the talent? I take it Mom doesn’t know about this.”
“And if you know what’s good for you, she never will,” I said.
“You’re really not as intimidating as you pretend to be,” he said. “Sorry, man. I’m the one person in the world you’ll never be able to impress with your Ice Cold Financier act. I saw you crying when Whiskers died, remember? The macho stuff has no effect on me.”
“Whiskers was a gentleman and a scholar,” I said. “The best cat who ever was and ever will be. Just keep your fucking mouth shut about Sasha and I won’t tell Mom that I think you have a lot of deep and painful emotions that you need to cry about a lot while she asks you probing questions.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“Gladly,” I said. “Sasha’s none of your business.”
He looked at me more closely. “You have feelings for her, don’t you? Wow. This is getting better and better.”
“We’re fucking,” I said. “It’s casual and uncomplicated. I mean it, Will. Mind your own business.”
The cab driver was watching us in the rearview mirror, his eyes darting back and forth. “You mind your own business, too,” I said to him, intensely aggravated, and he snapped his eyes forward and center.
Everyone in my life was determined to torment me.
My good mood thoroughly ruined, I spent the rest of the cab ride glaring out the window. Will made a few attempts at conversation, but I didn’t want to hear anything
he had to say to me. I should have dropped him off the balcony when he was a baby.
When the cab pulled up outside our parents’ building, Will said, “You should at least come up and say hi to Dad.”
“I’ll talk to him later,” I said. “Goodbye, Will.”
With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the cab.
I gave the driver my address, and then leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. Home was quiet, had abundant quantities of good liquor, and best of all, was free of anyone who would harangue me.
I would get in touch with Sasha tomorrow. For now, I just wanted to read a book and fall asleep early.
It was probably a sign that I was getting old.
I slept for a glorious twelve hours that night, and woke up a little before noon when my phone beeped. The battery was dying. I plugged it in and sat on the edge of my bed, rubbing my eyes, while my email loaded. I had the usual “urgent” overnight emails that were only urgent to the people who had sent them. I spent a few minutes dealing with those, and then sent Sasha a text message: 8pm at my place.
Just thinking about it made my cock perk up.
Plenty of time for that later.
I spent the next several hours taking care of the things that had been badly neglected for the last week: trash, laundry, general tidying. I refused to hire a housekeeper because I didn’t like the idea of someone else going through my things, but there were times I regretted my own stubbornness. When my mother insisted that Will and I learn basic housekeeping skills, this probably wasn’t what she had in mind. Scrubbing the toilet wasn’t a task for the future head of the Turner Group—and yet, there I was.
When my apartment was clean, and I had showered and eaten, I looked around and realized that I was at loose ends.
It had happened to me before, in the aftermath of intense bouts of work. I felt aimless for a few days without the constant pressure of deadlines and to-do lists, and then remembered that I was a real person with hobbies and a social life. But the few days until normal life clicked back into place were always disconcerting.
Later, after everything was over, I couldn’t have said why I decided to go to the Silver Cross Club that afternoon. Boredom was part of it, and a vague sense that I had neglected the business for too long, although Germaine was certainly more than capable of handling anything but the most dire of emergencies. Maybe part of it was wistful nostalgia for the not-so-long-ago days when Sasha had been little more than a sex toy, and not a complex, fully realized person with hopes and dreams. I felt guilty, I realized, for treating her poorly, and for being the sort of man who willingly paid a woman a quarter of a million dollars for a month of sex.
