Unspoken (The Prose Series Book 1)

by Sofia Tate

  I sigh, letting it all out. “All right. I joined an online service for single people. It’s called Prose. You don’t exchange pictures. You share…”

  “What?”

  “Sexual fantasies,” I whisper under my breath.

  Marisol’s mouth drops. “You what? Oh my god! The good girl has finally gone bad! I knew you had it in you! How long have you been doing this?”

  “About a month.”

  She slaps my leg. “And you’ve been keeping this from me all this time? Have you met anyone?”

  I smile slightly. “Not yet, but I’m hopeful.”

  “So that’s why you brought all this up with me.”

  “Yeah. I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t be myself with the men my parents steer toward me. And there’s something about not being the Park Avenue Princess when I’m on there that’s so appealing. On Prose, I’m just a woman with fantasies looking for someone to play them out with me.”

  “So it’s not a dating service?”

  “It is, but the site doesn’t advertise itself that way. You read other fantasies, and if you connect with someone, then you can become exclusive and your profile becomes private. I don’t necessarily want to meet them in person. I just want to have fun. Does that make sense?”

  She takes my hands once more. “It totally does. I’m really proud of you, chica. You deserve better than some frat boy who’s still tied to his family’s apron strings. As for the benefit committees, maybe you can volunteer somewhere? You need some excitement in your life.”

  I nod. “Isn’t that the truth?” I take a deep breath. “I’m just glad I finally told you. I needed to talk to someone about this.”

  “I’m glad too. Who else would you have told except your best friend since high school? And I’m all in.”

  Marisol’s face suddenly changes, her mouth forming a frown.

  “What?”

  “I am happy for you, don’t get me wrong. But I just want you to be careful. This is the internet, after all.”

  I nod. “I totally understand. Personal pictures aren’t allowed on the site. And my user name doesn’t give me away.”

  “What is it?”

  “10280girl.”

  Marisol laughs. “Where the hell is 10280?”

  “Battery Park City.”

  “No wonder I didn’t know it. It’s out of our comfort zone. Good idea.” She rises to grab her glass from the side table near the chaise, joining me once more. She raises her glass. “Here’s to 10280girl!”

  I laugh, toasting with her. “Salud!”

  When I get home, Sinclair instantly opens the door for me, even though I was halfway through the lock with my key.

  “You didn’t have to, Sinclair.”

  “I have the ears of a bat, Miss Beatrice.”

  “I know, which is how Mom found out about all those nights I snuck home after curfew in high school.”

  He smiles at me amusedly. “All part of my job, young lady.”

  I shake my head at him and go to my bedroom. I dump my things on the bed and change into my sweats and slippers, then grab my phone and laptop.

  I walk into the dining room where Mom is finishing up her lunch. I lean over and peck her on the cheek. “Hey.”

  “Hello, sweetheart. You were with Marisol, I’m assuming?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  She takes a sip from her iced tea. “I’m in a rush, dear. Off to my bridge game, and I’m already running late.”

  “Kick their butts, Mom,” I tease her.

  She rises from her chair. “Beatrice, it’s bad enough you greet me with a ‘hey.’ Must you also mock the one hobby from which I receive the most pleasure? One does not ‘kick butts’ in bridge.”

  I give her a loving smile. “I know. I’m just yanking your chain.”

  She shivers in fake horror. “I cannot believe you are my offspring. See you for dinner?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She gives me a quick but firm hug and walks out. I head to the kitchen and make myself a cup of Lady Grey tea, carefully carrying the steaming mug with my phone and laptop to the library.

  I settle myself into my favorite chair and log into the Prose website. I begin typing where I left off at the meeting

  I read it over twice to check for typos and consistency. Then I hit Post, sending it to my profile page.

  “Ecstasy” is now live.

  I lean back in the leather-worn chair and take a sip of my tea. Putting the cup back on the side table, I close my eyes and drift to sleep, dreaming of Aiden calling me his “good girl.”

  “Ecstasy”

  Wearing nothing but my Agent Provocateur silk stockings and Christian Louboutin “Pigalles,” I present myself to you, reveling in your reaction, feeling the sexiest I ever have in my life.

  Kissing you with our tongues tangling as you have taught me, following your direction because I'm always a good girl. Licking your sculptured abs, nuzzling my nose against them. Taking your cock in my mouth, moaning from the pleasure of doing this for you. Being bound at the wrists, with my eyes covered, turning wet at the anticipation of what you will do to me, my heart pounding inside my chest from the unknown. Your mouth feasting on my breasts as you mark me with your teeth.

  Your warm breath trails over my body as you finally reach my bare pussy. You alternate between finger-fucking me and sucking on my clit as I writhe and clench the sheets with my fists, begging for you to let me come.

  Your glorious cock inside me, pounding me, pummeling so hard and so deep, my entire body bucking, my muscles gripping your shaft so tightly, and then…fuck…I scream your name as I come so damn hard and you fill me with your cum.

  The rasp of your voice in my ear calling me your good girl, your warm breath sending shivers up and down my body as I smile in return, knowing I have pleased you, Sir.

  3

  Aiden

  Taking a long sip from the fourth cup of coffee I’ve had since this morning, I carefully study the blueprints again. Sitting in the construction trailer in Long Island City where my dad and I are working on our latest building, I make it a point to know every single inch of it to ensure everything is up to spec and there are no screw-ups.

  The door opens letting in a whoosh of cold air. Joe, our foreman who’s worked for Dwyer Construction for twenty years, stomps his work boots on the floor and heads straight for the Mr. Coffee machine. He pulls off his heavy gloves, grabbing a mug and pouring himself a cup, instantly wrapping his hands around it.

  “Fuck, it’s freezing out there! Look at you, all cushy in here.”

  Everyone gives me shit for being the boss’s son, but I know it’s all good-natured ribbing.

  “Don’t you think someone should know how to put Nail A into Divot B?”

  “Wiseass.”

  “How’s Tommy working out?”

  “Not bad, I guess.” Joe shrugs.

  The second those words come out of his mouth, the growling sound of a bulldozer suddenly cuts out.

  “Ah, hell,” Joe murmurs. “That’s number three.”

  He puts down his coffee and rushes outside, with me right behind him, pulling on my Carhartt jacket, hardhat, and gloves, grabbing a megaphone.

  My father insisted on giving his nephew, Tommy, my uncle Danny’s kid, a chance. He was the perfect choice, seeing as he has absolutely zero experience in construction. But he was being way too gentle with the bulldozer, and for us, time is money.

  Joe starts to wave his arms to Tommy to get down, but he can’t hear a damn thing over the drills and cement mixers. I turn on the megaphone. “Tommy, get down here. Now.”

  The kid looks like someone just told him Santa Claus doesn’t fucking exist. I don’t have time for this. “Joe, take over, yeah?”

  “No prob. You need to find another job for him.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Mixing cement shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

  He gives me a look before heading up to the cab of the dozer. Tommy jumps d
own, completely dejected.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, man. You gave it a shot. Want to give the cement guys a hand?” I ask, pointing to our crew next to the mixers.

  He nods his head slowly. “Sure.”

  I walk him over and introduce him to the crew. They look at him suspiciously, but since I’m the boss’s son, they welcome Tommy, albeit reluctantly, and begin to point out how the mixture is made.

  I sigh to myself and head back to the trailer. I check my watch. Almost time to go home, and I smile to myself because as much as I love my job that’s kept me insanely busy since dinner with the Parkers yesterday, I’m aching to get home for one reason—to finally meet 10280girl.

  Two hours later, I pull into my driveway in Astoria. I grab my phone and slam the door of my truck shut, beeping the locks.

  My dad and I share a two-family house with my uncle Danny, Aunt Rose, and their four kids—Tommy, Patrick, Siobhan, and Danny Jr. I’m an only child, but it never bothered me since I always had my cousins next door to hang out with if I was bored.

  I slam my boots against the mat to knock off the dirt and snow before I walk into the house. “Pop?”

  “Kitchen, son.”

  I leave my boots inside next to the door, hanging my jacket on the coat rack. I trudge to the back of the house, finding my dad sitting at the table, eating some kind of meat and potatoes. “Damn, that looks good.”

  “Aunt Rose brought it over. Leftovers.”

  “Bless her.”

  “How was the site?”

  I sigh in exasperation. “I still can’t believe you gave Tommy a job. Construction is definitely not in his future.”

  “He’s family, Aiden. That’s good enough for me.”

  I shake my head, grabbing a plate from the cabinet, when I spot a paper bag from the pharmacy on the counter. “How was your appointment with the doctor?”

  “Eh, same old shite. ‘You work too much; you drink too much.’ What does that quack expect? I run a construction company and I’m Irish. Comes with the territory.”

  “Don’t you want to live long enough to meet your grandkids?”

  He looks over his shoulders in both directions as if he were searching for someone. “You’d better get on that, since I don’t see any running around here now.”

  “Funny, Pop.” I sit down and heap a huge portion of roast beef and potatoes onto my plate, shoveling a forkful into my mouth.

  “Speaking of, how’s Beatrice?”

  My mouth instantly stops chewing at the sound of her name. “Why?”

  “You never told me how dinner went with her and her family.”

  I start chewing again. “Fine,” I mumble with a mouth full of food.

  The room turns silent, unnerving me. When I look up from my plate, my father is staring right at me. “What?”

  “First, don’t talk with your mouth full. I raised you better than that. Second, I asked because usually you come home ranting about the latest jibe she took at you, but this time, not a damn peep. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Aiden.”

  I put down my fork. “Fine, since you asked.” I pause. “She was nice to me.”

  His eyebrows lift in surprise. “She was nice to you?”

  “Yeah, and it fucking threw me off. Scared the shit out of me, to be perfectly honest.”

  A huge smile takes over my father’s face. “I see.”

  Now my curiosity is piqued. “What does that mean?”

  “Your ma, God rest her soul, hated my guts at first too. But then, well, you know…” His eyes light up at the memory.

  My heart stops when I see his eyes glaze over. “It’s okay, Pop. Go on.”

  “When she came to see me in the hospital after I had that emergency appendectomy back in my twenties, I asked her why she was here and she said, ‘To make sure you’re still alive. You scared the crap out of me.’ Even though she said it like it was no big deal, I could tell she was afraid she was going to lose me. And that’s how I knew.”

  We simultaneously look at the refrigerator door where three pictures hold a permanent place—me with Pop and Ma when I was born, one from their wedding day, and her graduation picture from Hunter College where she studied to be a kindergarten teacher. And above them, her prayer card from her funeral with her name across the top, Maeve McLoughlin Dwyer.

  Pop takes a long swig from his beer. He puts down his glass and looks me straight in the eye. “Son, if you care for that girl even one ounce of what I felt for your ma, do something about it because life is just too fucking short.”

  I stare back at him just as determinedly. “Already on it, Pop.”

  He pats my hand. “Good boy.”

  Pop pushes back from the table, carrying his plate to the sink. I watch him leave, then quickly finish my dinner because, like he said, life is just too fucking short.

  After washing our dinner dishes, I take a quick shower to get the dirt and sweat off me. Wrapping myself in a towel, I pour myself a whiskey, carrying the tumbler into my room. I shut the door, then sit down at my desk and turn on my desktop.

  Hurry the fuck up.

  Finally, I’m online. I click onto the Prose website and sign up for the free membership, giving myself a second to think of a user ID that won’t give away my identity. I fill out the usual profile questions about age, height, eye and hair color, again using the opposite of what each one really is, except for gender.

  I click on the “About” page. What the…

  “Prose is an online site like no other. We are dedicated to serving the needs of singles who have no interest in sharing their pictures or biographies. Instead, our members share their ultimate sexual desires and fantasies with one another. Prose caters to all sexual orientations – in our opinion, love is love.

  NOTE: Before you join, you must agree to adhere to our zero tolerance policy on abuse, harassment, and non-consent, which can be found on the ‘Become a Member’ page.”

  Holy shit.

  Buzzy, how in the fuck did you find this place? And why the fuck are you on it?

  I continue reading over the website’s features— only written prose is allowed, but you can IM with other members if they’re online.

  I search the membership rolls for her. Finally, I spot her ID.

  I grin to myself.

  Found you, baby. Now let’s see what you don’t want anyone to know. Let me meet the real you.

  According to her profile, she’s only written two pieces. I click on her latest one that she titled “Ecstasy.”

  I start to read her words. What the…my eyes widen.

  I can’t believe…my cock grows harder with each line I read.

  Oh, baby…

  My Bea, my Buzzy…

  So much I didn’t know about you.

  Untying the towel from my waist, I start to reread it. I reach for my dick, slowly stroking it.

  I want to see you in those stockings and stilettos, baby. Just for me. While I’m sitting in my desk chair, wearing nothing but my worn jeans.

  I won’t tie you up at first because I want to feel your nails scoring the flesh on my back.

  I hold my cock tighter as it grows swollen to the point of pain.

  I will devour your tits, Beatrice. Suck on them so hard that I’ll make you come from that alone. Stretch out your nipples with my teeth, mark you as I bite them because you are mine. You will carry my mark with you.

  I pump my shaft faster and faster…

  I’m fucking you, baby. Fucking you so hard and rough. You’re screaming “Yes!” and then I command you to say my name, and you do so obediently because you are my good girl.

  I explode all over my torso, coating my abdomen with my cum. I fall back into my chair, panting hard. I use the damp towel to wipe myself off. I rise on shaky legs to my feet, putting on a fresh T-shirt and pair of boxers.

  Still standing, I stare back at the screen, my chest still rising and falli
ng rapidly.

  I sit back down and begin to write.

  You don’t know it yet, but you will be mine very soon, baby. All mine.

  4

  Bea

  You have a message from GalwayPlayer, the email message from Prose reads when I open the Mail app on my phone.

  My heart starts to beat faster from the first reply I’ve received since joining the site.

  I begin to read his profile.

  Galway…Irish. Nice.

  Player. Either he’s a manwhore or he’s into sports. I hope it’s the latter.

  Heading down the hallway to the foyer, I smile widely to myself, about to open the message when my father’s voice jolts me, forcing me to look up.

  “Sweetheart, what has got you beaming so much that you’re practically glowing?”

  I shake my head dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just some good news about the benefit. The florist we wanted gave us a reasonable quote.”

  I look behind my father to see my mother giving instructions to our maid in the living room. I notice the coffee table is covered in crystal vases of fresh flowers, as are the mantel and side tables.

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  He looks at my outfit before replying. “Are you going somewhere?”

  I pull tighter on my coat and scarf, suddenly hesitant to answer. “I wanted to see the Canaletto exhibit at the Met before it closes on Sunday. Is there a problem?”

  He purses his lips. “I need you to stay home this morning. The Thornes are coming over.”

  I sigh in disappointment. “Porter Thorne’s parents?”

  “And Porter, which is why I’d like you here.”

  Porter Thorne. God give me strength. The kid who always stepped on my toes when we were thrown together at the Knickerbocker Cotillion dancing lessons that my parents forced me to attend when I was a kid. The pimple-faced geek whose hair was always falling in his face and nose was always running. I heard he ended up at MIT, but beyond that, I don’t know what he’s up to now.