by Kylie Parker
“I'll make sure to enjoy every minute of it,” I wink and sit down, turning my attention to paperwork on my desk.
I hear a low growl, but I don't look up. I won't give them the last word. Once they leave, I ponder what was said, then I think about what Blake said. I cannot believe my marital status could actually be what causes me financial ruin. It's 2017. How are people still living in the dark ages?
“Mrs. Daniels,” I buzz her on the phone. “Can you tell Blake I need to see him?”
I wait, knowing this could take a minute or two. The woman can work the intercom easily enough, but dialing the various extensions in the office gets her a little flummoxed.
“He's on his way, Mr. Hawke,” I hear her voice cut through the air.
I smile. I love that old woman. She is a secretary straight out of the sixties. When she showed up at my office that day so long ago, she had been a broken woman. Her husband of fifty years had passed away and left her almost nothing to live on. At first, I wanted to tell her no, but there was something about her. I never had the typical family life growing up. There wasn't a grandma around to bake me cookies or spoil me when my dad wasn't looking.
My mother had left me with my dad and run off for who knows where when I was a couple months old. I never knew her side of the family. The first time Mrs. Daniels brought me a plate of chocolate chip cookies, I was hooked. I knew I would never fire her and when she did decide to retire, it would leave a huge void in my life.
Mrs. Daniels didn't have any real job function. She did control the traffic outside my door, get me coffee, take care of my dry cleaning and occasionally write memos, but beyond that, I had my assistant Nick or Vicki, who was my real secretary. No one dared question my choice to pay Mrs. Daniels a healthy salary for doing almost nothing. It is my company and I do what I want.
“What's up?” Blake asks, barging through my door.
No matter how rich we are or sophisticated we are supposed to be, Blake still acted like we were in our dorm room at school.
“I just met with Garwood. That guy is an ass. He says Larsen has already promised him the sale of his company. And do you know why?” I glare.
Blake grinned, “Yep, because you are a naughty boy.”
“Bullshit! Where are these people from, Blake? How can they think to deny me because I am a single man enjoying the single life?”
I stand, needing to pace.
Blake shrugs, “I warned you. Just think about it. You can get yourself a hot wifey. Stay married a couple of years, divorce her and call it good. You can play the victim card and people will sympathize with you.”
I shake my head, “Bullshit!” I repeat, unable to think of anything else to say. My mind can't wrap around the archaic ideas the Larsens are forcing on me.
“The other option is to look for other companies, but I have to warn you, the Larsens are sitting on a gold mine. Their software is geared towards Bible thumpers. It is an untapped market. We could tweak it, develop it further and it will make us a fortune. You can't let Garwood get his hands on it. If he does,”
I stop him. I already know what he is going to say. If Garwood gets it and sees the same potential, it will propel him to the top. It will give him the capital he needs to compete with me.
“No, I won't let that happen. I'll figure it out,” I say, my mind whirring with the idea of marriage. It actually makes me a little sick to my stomach, but being poor or at the bottom is more nauseating. The lesser of two evils I suppose.
“Find out what you can about the Larsens—and Garwood. They think they know so much about me, I want to know a little more about them. I'm sure they have some skeletons in their closet as well,” I grumble.
“Will do. I'll see you tonight. Don't even think about not showing up,” Blake says before leaving my office.
I have no plans of standing him up. I need to unwind. Maybe find a woman who doesn't know who I am. Wealth was a double-edge sword. Women want me for my money, maybe my body, but none of them give a shit about who I am. It made it easy to get laid, but difficult to actually start a relationship.
7
Dylan
I scan the dance floor from my comfy couch in the roped off VIP section. So far, I see nothing that interests me. It is the same crowd, maybe a few new faces, but they all look the same to me. Short skirts, tiny tops and big heels. It seems like that is the dress code for all of the women pressed in below.
My couch gives me an excellent vantage point. I can see the bar and most of the dance floor. I feel like a king, watching the subjects below, looking for my next victim. I sit, wait and watch until I find what I want. Once my target is decided, I will move in. It's easy pickings from that point on. I flash a smile, make sure the woman knows who I am and she's mine.
I take another drink of my Jack and Coke. I'm bored. I turn to tell Blake I am ready to call it a night when something catches my eye. I scan the dance floor again, trying to see what it is that sent off alarm bells in my brain. I watch the throng of people gyrating. Same old scene.
Wait! There! I see two women, both wearing the standard uniform of the club, little black dresses and killer heels. My eyes hone in on the woman with her butt pressed into her girlfriend's stomach. It isn't the two women grinding on each other that has caught my eye. That little show is far too common in the clubs. No, it's the woman with the blonde flowing hair.
My brain starts whirring, like it is going through a rolodex as I try to place the face. I know her. Have I slept with her already? I watch, unable to look away. She turns, throws her head back and laughs. Her sleek neck leads to sinful cleavage that is on full display in the low cut dress. I see a hint of red peeking out from the black dress. A red bra—interesting. It reminds me of Alexa. She is the perfect substitute.
I'm intrigued and watch the women laugh and slap each other on the ass before laughing more. I love how they appear so natural, as if they don't care about anything else in the world. They are enjoying themselves and appear to be completely carefree. The song ends and the tall woman with the flowing brown hair grabs the blonde's hand. They head to the bar. I have to make my move.
“Blake,” I call out, not looking away from my prey. “Have Dominic invite those two ladies up here.”
He walks over, plops down next to me and stares in the direction I'm pointing.
“I call dibs on the blonde,” he says.
“No!” I growl. “That one's mine. I saw her first.”
Blake laughs before going to tell the security guard my demands. I watch as the big, black guy crosses the room, people making a wide path for him as he moves. He reaches the women, leans in close and starts talking.
I quickly avert my eyes. I don't want to look like a stalker. I cross to the other side of the small area to avoid being seen by the women. I don't want them to know who I am—yet.
Blake takes a seat on another couch, grinning like a fool, “I knew you would find one.”
I roll my eyes, “We'll see. It's hard to see clearly in this light. I may change my mind. If she has one of those horrendous high-pitched voices, I am out of here. You can have them both.”
Blake waggles his brows, “They don't have to talk you know. In fact, they don't need to say a word.”
I sip my drink, waiting. The anticipation of seeing the woman up close makes my nerves feel like they are being zapped with small electric shocks. When the velvet rope drops, I look up. Dominic moves to the side and allows the women to enter. The one with the chestnut hair enters first. She is beautiful. She has an exotic look that promises a good time.
Her friend is behind her. I can't see her yet, but I can see her shapely legs. She is much shorter than her friend. My eyes travel back down those gorgeous legs to the red heels. My brain starts doing some kind of polka dance—trying to tell me something.
Those heels—I've seen them before. My heart races as my mind struggles to relay an important message. Before it has time to process the shoes, the gypsy woman steps forward a
nd smiles.
“I'm Jessica,” she says, but I barely hear her. I'm holding my breath, waiting for the blonde to step into the light.
And then she does, “Shit,” I mutter.
The woman gasps, “No!”
Blake and Jessica glance back and forth between the two of us.
“Have you met?” Blake asks with confusion.
“Mr. Hawke,” Alexa chokes out.
I can't stop staring at the woman. She isn't wearing those ugly glasses and her body, oh my God, her body is absolutely fantastic. My eyes drop to the breasts that are billowing out the top of the tiny dress. I can see the lace from the red bra she is wearing underneath and it nearly takes my breath away.
My eyes drift back up to her face. She is wearing heavy dark eye makeup and red lipstick. It isn't over the top, but so different from what I have seen of her. Her hair. She has long hair. I suspected as much, but both times I've seen her it has been tied up in some school marm bun.
“Alexa,” I say the name again, but it is barely a whisper.
“We should go,” she says, grabbing her friend's arm.
“No, please, stay and have at least one drink,” Blake says with all the smoothness of a used car salesman. He runs his finger up Jessica's arm. It has the desired effect.
“One drink, Alexa. I'd like to hang out with your new boss,” she says with what could only be dubbed as an evil smile.
Alexa looks at me. There is a hint of fear in her eyes mixed with that defiance I had seen earlier today. She nervously licks her lips. It is something I have seen her do before and each time, I imagine that tongue dragging across my neck as it creates a wet trail down my chest to the place I want her mouth the most.
“Have a seat,” I demand.
She hesitates and moves towards the couch across from me. I stand, grab her hand, “Here,” I order.
I wait to see if she will comply. I stare at her, daring her to defy my command. She gazes back, but does as I ask. I sit down next to her, sitting close enough that her bare thigh is pressed against my own. I stare down at the bare legs, my gaze moving upward to where the skirt ends. I wonder if she is wearing red panties?
“What are you drinking?” I ask in a low voice.
Her tongue darts over her lips again and I groan. Sitting this close, I can barely control my urge to run my hand up her thigh.
“Long island,” she breathes out.
“That's a stout drink,” I say, expecting her to have requested something a little more frou-frou.
She shrugs, “It gets the job done a lot faster than a margarita.”
I put my hand on her bare knee that is currently crossed over her other leg. She looks at me, but doesn't say a word. I leave it there, absorbing the heat and relishing in the smoothness of her skin. I causally inch my hand towards her inner knee, apply a little pressure, encouraging her to drop the leg.
Again, she looks at me, resists for a moment before the leg drops next to her other. I move my hand on top of her thigh before slowly moving it to push between the legs she is squeezing together. The whole time, I hold her gaze, daring her to deny me.
“We're going to dance,” Blake says, exiting the area in a hurry. I don't bother looking or answering him. My focus is only on Alexa.
I use my fingertips to caress her thigh. I feel her shudder and push on. Her legs slowly spread apart. I move my hand beneath the skirt until my fingers run into a tiny patch of lace.
“Fuck,” I breathe, unable to fight the erection straining against my pants. She moans and closes her eyes as I slowly brush my knuckles over the thin scrap of lace. I deftly move my fingers to pull the lace away from the place I am desperate to touch. When my finger finally touches the bare skin the lace had been protecting, I nearly explode.
“Alexa,” I groan again.
She moans in response, her head falling back on the couch. I run one finger down the center of her core. She's already wet. My body is demanding I push into her. I want her so bad it actually hurts. I slowly caress her and then slide a finger in. She gasps before adjusting her hips, making it easier for me to press deeper.
“I want to fuck you,” I whisper into her ear.
She moans, “I want you.”
I grab her hand and shove it into my crouch, forcing her to feel me. She turns her body slightly towards me, her legs falling open a little more. I pull my finger out and press my hand against her. Her body presses back. I push harder, using the hard part of my palm, rubbing in slow circles.
“I'm gonna cum,” she whispers. “I can't,” she moans. “I can't do this.”
“Yes you can and you will,” I say in a harsh voice.
I keep my hand where it is, refusing to enter her. She squeezes my cock through my pants. I ache to release it, but still manage to stay aware of our surroundings. Her other hand grabs the arm pressed against her, demanding I push harder.
“No,” I say, denying her the pressure she wants. “Not yet, Alexa.”
She rolls her head on back of the couch, “Please,” she begs.
I jerk my hand away, her body arches, trying to get closer to the very thing that will give her the release she longs for. I trail my fingertips down the inside of her left thigh and then back up the inside of her right thigh. I can fell the wetness through the panties I know to be lace. I want to see them.
I let my finger linger on the outside, before trailing up and pressing on the little nub I know is going to make her crazy. I press, rub and release a second before she can cum.
“Yes, more” she begs.
“I say when, Alexa. You cum when I say.”
She whimpers and scoots her butt down the couch, moving closer to my finger. I gently move the scrap of cloth again and run my finger inside those luscious lips, ever closer to the spot I know she craves to have me. I push in just a fraction and find it like a heat-seeking missile.
“Dylan, please,” she moans a moment before grabbing the back of my head with her free hand, squeezing my cock with the other and pulling me in for a kiss. She pulls me in with such force, my finger drives home. Her release is swift and violent. I can feel her juices pouring over my hand as her body bucks off the couch. I plunge my tongue into her mouth, mimicking what I really want to do.
I ride the wave with her, nearly bursting in my pants. Once the last shudder of sweet release rocks her body, she pushes me away and forcefully removes my hand from under her skirt.
“I can't believe I just did that,” she groans.
I smile. I can't wait to do it again, “Next time, it will be mutually satisfying,” I say.
She looks at me horrified, “No! There can never be a next time. I don't sleep with clients.”
I raise an eyebrow, “I wasn't planning on sleeping and there will be a next time. I think you owe me,” I say grabbing her hand and putting it on my crotch again.
She snatches her hand back, “No. I mean. I'm sorry to, uh, leave you hanging, but I can't.”
This time I narrow my gaze at her, “You can and you will. I will have you, Alexa and I know you want me.”
A bright flash of light followed by a commotion grabs my attention. I see another one of my personal security guards smashing a cellphone. A woman is hysterically screaming he can't do that.
“Oh shit,” I mutter.
“What was that?” Alexa asks.
I sigh, “That was another busy body with a phone taking our picture.”
Her eyes widened, “What? Oh my, God. What if they took a picture or saw,” she waved her hand, not saying the words.
“They couldn't see anything. We are up high enough and the railing blocks the view from below for the most part,” I explain, having been in this same predicament on more than one occasion.
She raises a beautifully sculpted brow, “Is this a habit for you? Call some woman up here, have your way with her and then send her on her way.”
“Alexa, I did not even come close to having my way with you and I am not sending you anywhere—except my
bed,” I tell her in a low growl. “This isn't over. I always finish what I start. You want more, I felt it and I promise I am going to have you screaming for mercy by the time I'm done.”
I see her involuntarily shimmy her shoulders. Her body betrays her. She is still quivering and the promise of more makes her very excited.
8
Alexa
I can barely walk after what that man just did to my body. I have to walk. I have to escape him and his magic fingers. Who am I kidding? It wasn't magic. I was desperate. I came out tonight with the sole purpose of getting laid. Dylan wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but there was no way I was going through with my mission of finding a one night stand. I doubt any of them could follow that performance.
“Where are you going?” Dylan asks, still sitting on the couch, practically licking his lips like that cat that got in the cream.
“It's time for us to go,” I say, trying my best to appear cool and nonchalant.
“You aren't going to find her in that mess of people. Sit down and wait for your friend to come back,” he says, looking at me with eyes that see too much.
I scan the throng of people just beyond the velvet rope. He's right.
I turn back to look at him, “I want to go,” I say softly.
He must have heard how desperate I was and jumps off the couch, taking three steps to reach me. He grabs my elbow, pulls me in close, tilts my head up a little, “Don't run away,” he whispers.
I shake my head, trying to shake off him along with the last five minutes, “I think it is best we keep our relationship on a purely professional level. This can never happen again,” I say, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.
He smiles. Not a real smile. The kind of smile one does when they are guilty or planning to do something they know is bad.
