by Alexis Angel
“Be safe, girls,” I wave as I watch them leave, and they slam the door behind them. I offer Joyce a smile as the strippers’ giggles start fading away as they enter the elevator.
“Homeless girls, I took them in. They were starving. It was charity, really,” I grin, a vein in Joyce’s temple pulsing angrily. Behind her, the young brunette’s face has turned into a violent red. I guess she isn’t used to a conga-line of half-drunk strippers in the morning. Well, her loss.
“You’re incorrigible,” Joyce says, and all that’s left is for her to throw her hands up in the air in complete exasperation. I almost insist that I’m telling the truth, which is that these girls were really starving for my cock, but I decide against it. Lawyers are like bears: you shouldn’t poke them when they’re angry.
“Incorrigible, but just on Thursdays,” I shrug, downing the rest of my awful-tasting green juice. Swear to God, this thing could use some whisky in it.
“Magnus, this is serious. You need to get your shit together. We need to do some damage control, and we’ll have to change the image you present to the public.”
“Yeah, yeah … I know about all that,” I wave at her, going around the counter and walking toward the couch. I sit down next to Joyce’s assistant, and her pretty eyes seem to widen so much I wouldn’t be surprised if they jumped out from their sockets. She turns her head slowly, her eyes roaming over my naked chest; I stretch then, offering her a nice view of my washboard abs. I know Joyce is off limits, but what about her assistant?
“I’ve set up that $1 million dollar donation you asked me to do,” Joyce sighs, following me all the way to the couch and sitting between her assistant and I. Which is a good thing, or else I’d probably end up making a move.
“Which one?” I donate so much fucking money that I lose track of these things. One day it’s the refugees in WhoFuckingKnowsLand, the other it’s the whisky draught or some bullshit like that. And then there’s the fucking polar bears, and whatever animal is close to extinction this week.
“The one to the children’s wing of the NYU,” she replies patiently, cracking open one of her folders and balancing it on top of her knees. “You’ll deliver the check at a fundraiser tomorrow, and you’ll be the keynote speaker.”
“Hey, slow down. Fundraiser? Keynote? What are you going on about? I told you I wanted the money donated anonymously.” That’s the trick when donating money: always do it anonymously. If you don’t, people will hound you for interviews, prop you up as some messiah, and then tear you down the moment they find out you also donated to some animal rescue center while being an animal eater. Trust me, if you ever find yourself with a million to spare, don’t donate and brag about it. It’s not worth it. If I didn’t have such a soft heart, I’d just blow it all on strippers.
“Yeah, you told me you wanted it done anonymously. But you pay me to do what’s right by you, so I ignored you. That anonymous shit needs to stop, Magnus. We need to get the city behind you, and this donation will be a huge step in that direction.”
Well, not much to argue there.
“Fine, I’ll go to that stupid fundraiser.”
“You’re finally being rational --”
“You better make sure there are hot women there.”
Penny
Good reporting is as much about stealth as it is about moving quickly. And today’s a day for a frontal assault. Guerrilla style.
Magnus is going to be at the fundraiser gala for the NYU children’s wing, and that’s exactly where I’m heading right now. I’ve bought a new dress (and an expensive one at that), one that’s the perfect blend between classy and slutty, and I’m wearing my favorite Jimmy Choo heels. I've spent close to two hours in front of the mirror, trying to get the makeup just right. It’s femme fatale hour.
By the time my taxi stops in front of the Four Seasons, the place where the gala is being held, the whole thing is already halfway through. That’s on purpose; being fashionably late should always be part of a woman's arsenal, and it’s a weapon I’m not afraid to use.
I stroll inside the hotel with my head held high, and I approach the receptionist with an easy smile. Laurel Trask has secured me a place on the guest list, and all I have to do is give the receptionist my name before she points me to the room where they’re holding the gala.
The place is packed with New York’s finest, the crème de la crème; there’s Parker Trask, the former mayor, more than a dozen billionaires and a few of the major political players in the city. All told, I should be the only person in here whose net worth doesn’t break the one million mark. But I have my Jimmy Choo heels on, and these shoes are even better than having a few million in the bank, so I’m not particularly concerned.
I scan the room, trying to find Magnus, and I find him leaning against the bar, nursing a glass of scotch and looking as bored as one would be at a funeral. He’s taking a deep breath. I make my way toward him and lean against the bar casually, trying hard not to make eye contact with him. He looks more roguish up close, even more so than when I've seen him on TV. And, as much as it pains me to say it, he really does look devilishly handsome. Even though he’s in his mid-thirties, young men in their twenties wouldn’t stand a chance against him—either in a fist fight or in the bedroom. It isn’t hard to see why women seem to drop their panties when around him.
“Whisky, neat,” I ask the bartender, and I feel him turning on his stool to face me. I ignore him all the same, sitting on a stool of my own and looking around the room as I wait for my drink. Parker Trask is on stage now, giving a heartfelt speech about making a difference and whatnot, words carefully designed to part rich men with their money.
“Whisky, uh?” I hear Magnus say as the bartender slides me my drink over the counter, and I repress a smile. He swallowed the hook. “I figured you’d go for a Sex on the Beach.”
“Is that what you drink when you’re picking up girls at the bar?” I shoot right back at him, turning on my stool and flashing him a smile. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, expecting him to recognize me any second now, but that doesn’t happen. Unbelievable—the bastard doesn’t even remember his own stepdaughter!
“I love Sex on the Beach,” he replies with a grin. I grit my teeth, realizing that I dived headfirst into this verbal trap. Magnus is an experienced man, and he’ll run circles around me if I don’t step up.
“Does your boyfriend know about that?” I say, perhaps more haughtily than I should. Any other man would be stammering right now, but he just laughs at my words.
“Cheeky. I like that,” he chuckles, and then offers me his hand. “The name’s Magnus. Nice to meet you.” I stare down at his hand, but I don’t reach for it.
“I know who you are,” I merely say, feeling the blood run cold in my veins. I lock eyes with him, once more waiting for a spark in his eyes as he remembers I’m his stepdaughter, but that moment never comes.
“Oh, I see. Have we fucked before?” he throws at me, and I feel my blood unfreezing and starting to boil; it rushes straight to my head, and I feel my cheeks burning up. Did he really ask me that?
“So it’s true, you’re as much of an asshole as everyone says,” I sigh, picking up my whisky and taking a gulp. The amber liquid burns its way down my throat, and I struggle against the avalanche of indecent thoughts filling my mind. The moment I heard the word fuck on his lips, an image of his naked body pressed against mine flashed right in front of my eyes, and now my heart’s racing because of that.
Magnus might be the biggest jerk in New York, but there’s one thing I gotta admit: he’s the most handsome jerk I’ve ever met. And the worst part? He knows it. Sitting here by my side in his tailored Tom Ford suit, his panty-dropper smile on his lips, the man seems like he stepped out of some Hollywood highlight reel.
“Maybe I’m an asshole,” he starts, slowly leaning toward me, “but I’m the kind of asshole you just can’t help yourself around.” He stops for a moment, his words hanging in the silence wrapping us both. �
�Or am I wrong?” he then adds, like a flourish, and I feel my body reacting on its own.
My pussy grows wet with each heartbeat, and time seems to slow down around the both of us. His deep voice turns and twists around my thoughts, slowly choking the rationality out of them, and all that’s left is some primal urge to… No! Oh, no. I’m not going down this way. Even though the man oozes sex, every inch of his body screaming for mine, I won’t stumble and fall before him like a crippled prey.
“You’re right,” I finally manage to say, looking back into his eyes and forcing a grin onto my face. “I can’t help myself when around assholes like you,” I say and, with that, pull my hand back and let my open palm fly straight into his face.
He stares at me, blinking once and then twice, and then laughs, brushing his fingertips over the place where I just slapped him.
“I know the kind of man you are, Magnus Davion. You’re the kind of man who thinks he can bow everyone and everything to his will just because he has money. You don’t care about anyone, Magnus. Only about yourself,” I find myself saying, the words flying out from between my lips before I can even stop them. I had them bottled up inside of me for too long, it seems.
“Self-esteem, babe, it’s the new craze in Europe,” he continues, talking to me as if I hadn’t just insulted him. He’s not a quitter and, hell, the bastard sure knows how to be charming.
“That’s not self-esteem. It’s arrogance. You only care about yourself,” I repeat, feeling as if I’m losing control of the situation. I hate him because of everything that he stands for; I hate him because of what he did to my mother… And, even so, I can’t help but feel irresistibly drawn to him. He’s like human quicksand: the harder you struggle, the faster you sink.
“I care about women too. Deeply,” he whispers, and my heart insists on picking up the pace. I feel my mouth go dry, and I reach for the whisky and down the whole thing at once, hoping it’ll help me steady my nerves.
“Just because you spend your days fucking half the women in this city, doesn’t mean you care for them,” I say, and that mental image of his naked body pressed against mine floods my mind once again.
Jesus.
“Seems like you have me all figured out,” he says without a care, a mocking tone to his words. “Have we met before?” he teases me, and I’ve finally had enough.
“I’m surprised you don’t remember me,” I tell him, feeling more pissed off than I’ve felt in a long time, and he just shrugs.
He has absolutely no idea who I am.
“Who are you?”
“Penny Wright,” I say, allowing the hint of a victorious smile to dance on my lips. That’s when I see it—that flicker of memory in his eyes. He parts his lips as if he’s about to say something, but then just closes his mouth, looking at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
“Penny Wright,” he whispers, disbelief washing over his face. And that’s when I hear Parker Trask saying his name, the voice of the senator carried to us through the overhead speakers.
“... Introduce our keynote speaker, the one and only, Magnus Davion!”
Magnus
Jesus fucking Christ.
I'm walking to the podium in a fucking daze. I mean, come on, is it really that hard to empathize with me in this situation?
I mean, you try having a drink at a bar during some charity gala for some shit you just found out you're going to. You try sitting there at the bar and see the most gorgeous fucking woman you've ever seen in your life sit down next to you and order a fucking whiskey neat.
I mean, she had some tits that left fucking echoes in my brain. Those were the plumpest, perkiest, gravity-defying orbs of pleasure I've ever seen in my entire goddamn life.
It's not just her fucking tits, but Jesus, it's hard to move on past those. I mean the way that dress was clinging to them. The way it was low cut that it gave me just enough to see. Fuck.
But the rest of her body too. That slender, tight body. I can imagine just emptying my balls on her.
God, that ass. That dress clung to her ass like tissue paper.
I'm walking toward the Senator, but I'm still fucking thinking about that ass. It's causing my cock to keep twitching. It was twitching like a snake that came alive when Penny sat down next to me.
It began to get a heartbeat it was so hard when we were talking.
And I swear to fucking God, it's freaking me out, but I almost came in my fucking pants when she told me her name.
She's my fucking stepdaughter.
I'm literally three, or maybe four, strokes away from just shooting out a gallon of cum after what just happened here. Holy hell.
But let's pause for a second, okay?
Because I shouldn't be having these feelings for Rhoda's daughter. I shouldn't be thinking about rubbing my cock in between her tits. About squeezing those melons together as my cock travels in and out of that flesh pocket.
I shouldn't think about squeezing that ass. About smacking it. About sucking that pussy.
God this is my stepdaughter.
That's the only thing that keeps me from carting myself off and jumping off the fucking Empire State Building.
The fact that she's my stepdaughter. No relation at all.
But what the fuck.
That's no justification for having my brain filled with swirling thoughts of lust, especially for someone so young.
So innocent.
Looks at me like a father figure.
Mainly, because I am her father.
In a manner of speaking.
Fucking Christ, I'm going to hell, aren't I?
You don't gotta lie to me.
The worst part is that the crowd is still clapping and looking at me as I make my way without any outward sign of distress.
I'm shaking Parker Trask's hand and looking out at them from the podium.
I know what they want to hear.
But all I can see is one woman.
The girl at the bar. She's standing up now. Her wide innocent eyes are taking me in. Her breath catches when she sees me looking at her and I look at the rise and fall of her breasts—even from all the way over here—and I start to forget who I am and what I'm fucking doing.
But just like the applause can take you by surprise, its quick death can be something that jolts you back to the present as well.
That's what happens to me and all of a sudden, I'm facing at least four hundred people dressed in their finest.
My mind completely fucking blanks as to what to say.
To be fair, when Joyce set me up with this speaking engagement, she gave me a list of things to say. I even have them here in my jacket pocket. I just have to get them out and read them.
But somehow, after seeing Penny, it doesn't seem like it's doing enough justice.
I know. I sound like an absolute fucking idiot. It doesn't matter what I say, as long as I say it and get the photo op, right?
That's what Joyce would say.
And normally, even for something like that I'd fucking begrudge her. But not today.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I say into the microphone. "Most of you won't know this, but I'm really wealthy."
There's a smattering of laughter from around the crowd. Actually a fair bit of laughter.
It's not that everyone around me at this dinner today is super fucking wealthy. Some people don't even have a net worth past 1,000,000 dollars.
But that's not what I meant before you start to roll your eyes.
"I'm not talking about money," I say to clarify. That's right. I'm clarifying for everyone. "I'm talking about opportunity."
Now there's silence. Could it be that people loved my hook?
"I was born in New York City," I state. "Actually in this hospital itself. Then I lived with my parents on the Upper East Side. My parents aren't around now, but it's not hard to imagine my father and mother coming through the doors to this great hospital to schedule my birth. Hospital stays were expensive back then, and my par
ent's were modest. They didn't have much money. But my father was friends with the doctors. My mother went shopping with the secretary pool. So when they came into this hospital, they were treated like royalty."
People are quiet. They're listening to me speak. They must think I have something prepared for them to hear.
But the truth of the matter is that my brain is too jumbled now to recite or remember any of the talking points that I had. I'm just speaking from the heart now.
"Treating people like royalty is something that at Davion Development, we strive to do day in and day out," I say to them. I notice a few raised eyebrows.
What? You don't believe me?
"We make sure that any new construction for condominiums or residential towers includes at least 20% of the units allocated for low-income subsidized housing. Then we offer this housing to the people we're displacing," I say. Silence.
They're listening.
"Do you realize how incredibly destructive a development corporation like mine is to the social fabric of a neighborhood?" I ask into the audience. Silence.
"Does anyone realize what happens when the corner butcher, or baker, or liquor store can't pay their rent when it comes time to renew?" I ask again. And again silence. "When they have to make a choice between paying rent and paying their workers?
People are listening to my words with a sense of interest now.
"New York City isn't just about the big buildings that reach toward the heavens," I say quietly. Flatly. "It's about the people. The people in the neighborhoods who make up the foundation for those buildings."
People are now nodding.
"Did you know that if the first floor tenants aren't good tenants and decide to vacate their spaces, then the maintenance fund of a skyscraper drops dramatically?" I ask. Bet you didn't know that either. "That's because anchor tenants are nice, but the people who are on the ground floor are the ones holding up the building."
