by Aiden Bates
“Mr. McCormick, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Holy shit, he was referring to me. I turned and tried to heave my suitcase to hide the fact that I was blushing. The other gentleman shook his head and grabbed the bag. He lifted it as easily as he would a rag doll.
“This way please,” the first one said. He led the way and we walked towards a sleek Range Rover. He opened the door of the back seat for me; it was the most beautiful car I’ve ever been in. The seats were made of rich leather, and the floor mats were so thick and clean I was tempted to shake off my shoes.
The gentlemen got into the front seats, reminded me to buckle up, and then we drove off slowly.
We barely drove for ten minutes. Pretty soon, we were pulling into what looked like a private airport.
He had to have been showing off, right? The jet itself was straight out of a spy movie. It looked flashy and elegant, and that was before I stepped into the cabin. That was when it hit me that I was marrying a billionaire. It was like stepping into the tastefully furnished living room of a president’s summer home. Not only was the cabin larger than my living room, it was also decorated with such impeccable detail I was afraid to touch anything. Everything within sight was pearl white. The leather seats were so immaculate I was hesitant to sit down for fear of soiling them. There was a 60-odd inch television right across from me. If ever a plane embodied complete opulence, then it was this one.
I was so comfortable I barely noticed the takeoff. Or the flight. I reclined my seat and switched on the television. I got lost in the documentary I was watching, and was soon drifting off. I must have slept through most of the journey. When I woke up and glanced at my watch, I realized I had been asleep for almost two hours.
I looked out of the window and saw a looming wall of forests in the distance, and further, what looked like the top of a mountain. So it was true? I thought he had been joking when he told me he had retired to the mountains.
We landed on an airstrip just outside Redvale. One of the gentlemen who had helped me onto the plane informed me that we had arrived, and that Mr. McCormick was waiting for me on the tarmac.
My pulse picked up considerably as I walked off the plane. Any anxiety I had experienced prior to this had been a bad joke. My palms were damp and my fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. It took a concerted effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other; the steps seemed to go on and on.
I saw the eyes first.
Saul McCormick strode purposefully towards me, and I couldn’t have looked away from him if I wanted to. Every impression I had gleaned off his photo was amplified tenfold. He was tall, dark and simply delicious. His hair was thick and unruly, but that may have been because of the wind. His beard was fuller than it had looked in the photo, which I was shocked to see made him even more appealing. Thin lips curled upwards from the depths of that beard, and I caught a flash of white.
But God, those eyes. They were jet black and imposing, almost unnervingly so.
I felt like he wasn’t looking at me so much as undressing me with his eyes. They had such an intensity I could not bear to look at him for more than a few seconds. They bore into me, searching me out, awakening sensations I had not known I had. There was a glint there that was definitely sexual. A promise of what was to come, an invitation and a challenge.
And then his scent wafted over to me, and my mind went blank. It was elemental, a heady mixture of cedar and something else, something primal. He smelled like the woods after a storm. Every alpha had their own unique scent, as did every omega, and I definitely loved his. In that moment, I wanted to touch him more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. Every nerve in my body perked up and screamed in desire. I knew I was staring, and I was distantly aware of moving my lips. The word slipped out before I could stop myself.
“Fuck!”
And as that beautiful man stood there wreaking havoc on my body, I couldn’t tell whether it had been an exclamation or a plea.
6
Saul
Kyler Nielson was a portrait of perfection. And he was mine. The photo he had attached to his Mail Misters profile had been a poor imitation, a mockery of the man who had stepped out of that jet. His features were delicate, almost like an artist had sculpted them with hands inspired by love. Narrow, proud cheekbones. Lush, moist lips. Hair blowing gently in the evening wind. Bright green eyes. And he was mine.
It was funny. I had spent so much time imagining this moment, visualizing how it would go. And now that it was here, I was at a complete loss on what to do. I decided the safest course of action was to attempt a hug, if for no other reason but to get closer to him.
I stepped towards him, smiling when I caught his clean, fruity and flowery scent with hints of citrus, and noticing at the same time that I was getting visibly aroused.
I saw his lips move, and I could have sworn I heard him curse.
I spread my arms and enclosed him in a tentative hug. He was about a foot shorter than me, so his head nestled somewhere around my neck. I took a deep breath and my nostrils filled with his fragrance. It felt like home. I held him for as long as I thought was appropriate, then smiled and stepped back. Now I was definitely aroused.
“Hey, hubby,” I said, remembering how he had initiated contact with me.
He grinned. It was beautiful to watch.
“You look nothing like your photo, Revenant Leo DiCaprio.”
That one made me laugh.
“I was going for Django Unchained DiCaprio,” I said.
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Any Leo can get all of it.”
“Careful, now. You’re a married man.”
“Uh uh. Not just yet. There’s the small matter of a wedding night deflowering…”
He held out his fingers and pretended to be examining them.
I laughed again, relieved and impressed by how quickly we had fallen into easy banter, and how natural it seemed.
“Speaking of which,” Kyler went on. “Where’s the welcome party? Where are the thick melanin queens with hula hoops and sisal skirts? Where’s the local band?”
He looked this way and that, like he was expecting an old man to jump out from behind the jet with a conga drum.
“Well, I was hoping a small, intimate welcome party would do the trick,” I told him. “I was hoping I would be enough for you.”
I held his gaze as I said it, infusing the words with as much innuendo as I could. I saw his lips twitch slightly, but he looked away almost immediately.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that you are,” he said, and the lust in his voice was unmistakable.
We continued to stand there, the air between us charged and sizzling, the import of unspoken longing hanging thick in the air like a raincloud. Eventually, when I was sure the pressure would snap my zipper, I politely asked if Kyler would like to see my home.
I rested a hand on his thigh the whole drive home. He said nothing, but I could feel the heat coming off him in waves. Once or twice I caught him looking at me through the sides of his eyes, and when my eyes met his, it was like a current had passed between us.
“Welcome to my little paradise,” I told him when my mansion came into view. We walked up to the house together, side by side, matching each other step by step. I asked him how his trip was, and he told me he could barely remember it, as his mind was elsewhere. I took that to mean he had been just as excited to meet me as I was him.
I really liked him. He was even better than the site suggested, and that was quite something. He had already made me laugh more in the time since I picked him up than the entirety of my stay here. I was sure we would get along quite well.
My gaze followed him as he inspected the house. He had an easy grace, no doubt aided by his strong athletic body. He was also unafraid to be himself. His reactions were anything but muted as he walked through the house. He gasped, he waved his arms about, he squealed. He threw himself on the couch and made a snow angel. He waltzed into the kitchen and did such a perfect impr
ession of Gordon Ramsey’s cold disappointment at trying a meal I could not stop laughing for a few minutes. He falsetto-ed the opening lines of ‘Memories’ from ‘Cats’ to test out the acoustics in the main bathroom. When he was done, he danced back to me and shrugged.
“It’ll do,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “Are you not going to show me the bedroom?”
I led him into the bedroom, then stepped back and continued to watch him. I felt like it was my chance to drink him all in. I was so absorbed by him I did not want to tear my eyes away from him. He fascinated me to no end. He was a bundle of restless energy. He would keep me on my feet, this one. In more ways than one, too, it seemed. I doubted my erection had subsided since the airport. I wondered what he would do if I just grabbed him and kissed him. I had been thinking about it all evening, so why not just do it? But, no. There was plenty of time for that. There was no hurry, after all. He was my husband.
Mine.
He opened up his suitcase and lay it gently on a table.
“I would like to freshen up, please,” he said, giving me a significant look. “Big night ahead, you know.”
“Of course,” I said, turning to walk out of the room. “Take all the time you need. The bathroom is over there.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and Kyler…”
On second thought, I walked back into the room and closed the distance between us. My nostrils were filled once more with that heady scent of him. I reached down and took his hand.
“I don’t know if I’ve said this at any point. I apologize if I haven’t. But I’m thrilled to have you here. I couldn’t be happier that it was you I matched up with.”
“Thanks. I’m glad I matched up with you too.”
He was so close to me I could almost taste him. You could if you wanted to. I had started drawing small patterns on the back of his hand with my fingers. Slow, unconscious circles, light, feathery touches. I could tell it was having an effect on him. His eyelids were suddenly heavy, and he licked his lips once.
With my free hand, I reached out and touched his face. Flawless skin, as expected. I slowly tilted his chin upwards. I took another step towards him so that our bodies were now touching. Not yet, I thought. It took everything in me to drop my hand back to my side. I wanted him, badly… All I could think of was pushing him onto the bed and ploughing into him. I swallowed hard, remembering that I had promised to wait until later.
Kyler was smiling.
“Great,” I said, a bit too loudly. “Please make yourself at home. This is literally your home now. I’m going to go get dinner started.”
“Good. Okay.”
“Any allergies I should know about?”
“Latex?”
I was grinning like an idiot when I walked out of the room and made my way back to the kitchen. I was happy, I realized. It was a long time before I even remembered the business of the contract, and by then, I literally could not care less.
7
Kyler
The thing that impressed me the most about Saul’s house was just how understated it was. You could tell almost right away that he was a man of means. Everything about the design of the house said expensive and tasteful. But it was so subtle it was easy to miss. There was no opulent furniture, no thick animal skin rugs to hammer home the point. The walls were dotted with sensual artistic sketches, not pretentious art. It was all simple and practical, like he was so rich he did not feel the need to show it off. And yet it had a certain homey feel to it, a lived-in quality that made me instantly welcome.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for almost ten full minutes before the reality of all that had happened finally settled on me. Even in the mirror I looked stunned. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes were wide.
I splashed some water on my face, then checked to see if I was still presentable. I contemplated taking a quick shower just before dinner, and maybe a change of clothes. But the scent of Saul lingered on me, and I could still feel the heat on the skin of my forearm where he had touched me. It was silly, but I did not want to mess with that just yet. So after a generous dabbing of a wet cloth on my armpits, I stepped back out into the bedroom to finish unpacking.
More than any other room in the house, Saul’s bedroom seemed like a representation of his personality. It was a large room, with several feet of open space bookended by a comfortable-looking king bed on one end and a working area on the other. Here there was a small mahogany desk lined with a handful of dusty books. From the way the small chair was tucked into the desk, I gathered that he had not sat there for some time. Just off the writing area, a small door led into what I discovered to be a walk-in closet.
It was the art that piqued my interest the most. During my initial tour of the house, I had noticed right away that all the artwork depicted the male form. It wasn’t crude or gratuitous in any way; there were professional looking photos of models, and canvas paintings of their bodies in various poses, almost always from the back.
In the bedroom, the same theme was present. The walls were covered almost completely with similar art, from photos to oil paintings. I wondered if that had something to do with who Saul was, but the overall effect was largely pleasant. It was cozy and personal without being over the top. I would have no problem living here.
Having emptied my suitcase, it occurred to me I had no idea where to put my clothes. Saul had said to make myself at home, but I felt it would be presumptuous to dump my stuff in his closet. I walked over to the closet door and pushed it open. The lights flickered on automatically as I entered, illuminating a brilliantly white room. It was bigger than I had expected it to be. Rows and rows of clothing items spread out from the first rack, disappearing into the depths of the room. Shirts, t-shirts, sweaters…they were all lined up in perfect color coordination. There were dedicated shoe shelves, rising up into the ceiling, each filled with a range of shoes I could not believe were owned by one person. Each item of clothing seemed to have its own area.
The clothes seemed simple, practical. A lot of sweatshirts and sweaters; the clothes of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. I wondered briefly if Saul had gone out of his way to make a good impression, if his closet was usually this impeccable.
The problem of where to put my things was sorted out easily enough. Even without the little note attached to one of the shelves with my name on it, there was enough room there to fit the entirety of my belongings. It was almost funny that all I had was a single suitcase, the contents of which barely filled the first shelf. But I was impressed that Saul had even thought to make room for me. It was good to know that he had been preparing for my arrival, that he had thought about such details.
Having unpacked completely, I went back to the bathroom to freshen up. Then, satisfied that I looked okay, I ventured out to look for Saul.
The smell of frying was wafting around the house, and I thought I heard the sound of humming. I tiptoed along the floorboards, keen not to make a sound. I wanted to see him in his element, as he would be if I wasn’t there.
He was moving around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had done it a lot, someone who knew where everything was. A good cook, too?
I watched as he waltzed from a sizzling skillet, where he carefully lathered its contents with butter using a spoon, to a pot on the counter in which he was mashing potatoes. He looked comfortable and in charge, and it was beautiful to watch.
I stood there staring at him until he must have felt it, because he looked up suddenly, and when he saw me at the door, his face split into a grin that stopped my breath.
“Kyler!” he exclaimed, taking a step towards me. “How long have you been standing there?”
“A few hours,” I replied. “Long enough to see that you have everything under control.”
“Oh, you wanted to help?” he asked, in a tone of voice that suggested he wouldn’t allow it.
“Only if standing here admiring your work counts as helping.”
“Not a cha
nce, Kyler. You’re far too big a distraction. See?”
He rushed over to the skillet, which had begun to sizzle. He turned his steak over carefully, then added a few drops of oil. He checked the timer before turning back to me.
“Dinner will be ready in less than 10 minutes. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be over here looking cute.”
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you pick out some music? I have an old fashioned system, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out easily enough. It’s over in the den.”
By old fashioned, he meant a turntable. And it was far too sleek and good looking to be called old fashioned. The turntable rested on a small, sturdy table. I could not see any sign of speakers, so I assumed they were connected wirelessly. Just behind the turntable, a low shelf was lined with several vinyl records. I reached up and began looking through the collection.
Unsurprisingly, Saul was apparently a fan of classical music. Bach. Mozart. Beethoven. He also had quite a few soundtrack albums, including the scores from films such as E.T., Jurassic Park and Edward Scissorhands. It was fascinating. Each new record I thumbed through was like a little nod to what he related to. Unfortunately, Saul had clearly not been in the world for quite some time. There was not much there in the way of popular modern music.
I settled on D’Angelo’s Voodoo, which was just about the only record there I was familiar with.
The sound rose up from somewhere close by, and then swelled around me and all through the house. I guessed he had speakers lined throughout the walls, in every room of the house.
When I got back to the dining room, Saul was setting the table. It was a relatively large table, but he had set two places. Right next to each other.
“Great choice,” he said, nodding along to the music.
He pulled out a chair for me, and I sat down. He excused himself and dashed off, returning with a bottle of red wine that he held up for me.
