by Sofia Tate
I fall back onto my heels, looking down at my chest. You stroke my hair with your hands. “Beautiful,” your voice rasps. You hold out your hand to me to help me up. “On the bed, baby.”
I do as I’m told, quickly wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I lie down and spread my legs, my pussy soaked with desire.
I collapse onto the cool sheets. I fist the cotton between my hands, waiting, craving that first thrust.
You brush the tip of your cock against my folds. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I reply breathlessly.
“Because you’re a slut. You’re my slut.”
“Because I’m your slut,” I whisper.
“Again,” you command. “Louder.”
“I’m your slut.”
“You are a slut. Look at you. My cum all over your tits. Your pussy glistening in the light. Your clit swollen with need. Only I do this to you.”
“Yes, Sir. Only you. I want only you.”
“Good girl,” you growl right before you slam your cock into me. “So fucking tight, baby. Tight as a fucking drum. Milk it, slut. Hard.”
You grab my hips, your fingers pressing hard into my soft flesh to the point of pain, but I’m completely impervious, reveling in the feel of having you inside me. I press my muscles down hard onto your shaft. My toes curl into the sheet. You pummel me again and again, our moans and grunts combining into a symphony of ecstasy.
I’m riding the most beautiful wave, about to crest and spill over. My muscles lock and I shout in glorious release. I use my Kegels and press down on your engorged cock and milk it with all the strength I have. Your hands vibrate against my hips as you spill into me until every last drop is spent.
You collapse next to me, both of us panting for breath. Once our breathing regulates, you pull me into your side, and I entwine my arms around you.
“That was me. The real me,” I whisper.
You tilt my chin so you can look into my eyes. Your eyes bore into me, so warm and molten. “Thank you, baby,” you reply, your warm breath wafting over my face.
You bring me closer and place your mouth over mine as we kiss long and deep, not hurried but relaxed. Once we pull apart, we rest together, sated and content. “Such a good girl,” you whisper into my hair.
I shut my eyes, smiling to myself because you finally know me, the real me.
7
Aiden
I punch my pillow a few more times, but it’s useless.
I slept like shit. The look on Bea’s face when the car pulled away haunted me, keeping me awake most of the night.
And what the fuck did her question about being trapped mean?
I turn on my phone to check the time. 5:03 AM. Motherfucker. I have to be up in an hour.
Before I shut off my phone to try to get at least an hour’s worth of decent sleep, I quickly scroll through my emails. One immediately catches my attention.
10280girl has a new post.
I touch on the link, and I begin to read the latest prose from Bea. My Buzzy.
I grip my phone so tightly that the metal bites into my palm.
Holy shit. She’s writing about me.
I drop the phone at my side, my head falling back on my pillow.
I fucking knew it. The chemistry between us isn’t fake. It’s real. She wants me. Beatrice Parker, the Park Avenue Princess, wants me, Aiden Dwyer, the construction worker from Queens.
I yank back the covers, jumping to my feet.
I’m coming for you, baby. Nothing will keep us apart now.
I rush down the hallway to the bathroom.
“Aiden!” my father calls.
“Not now, Pop. I have to go see Beatrice,” I yell over my shoulder.
“Son, please,” he pleads.
The concern in his voice stops me. When I turn around to face him, he’s carrying a copy of today’s New York Post, his face looking as distraught as his voice sounded.
“What’s wrong?”
“Go to Page Six.”
I snatch the paper from his outstretched hand, turning the pages furiously until I get to the gossip column. The headline reads, “Park Avenue Princess Seen About Town with Hedge Fund Heir.”
I swear my heart plummets into my stomach like a fucking boulder.
I quickly scan the report.
“Beatrice Parker, our favorite Park Avenue Princess, granddaughter of Park magazine founder Hamish Parker, was recently spotted enjoying the company of Porter Thorne, a scientist at MIT and the son of hedge fund king Gregory Thorne and his socialite wife, Meredith. Not exactly a match we were expecting, but money dates money, especially on the Upper East Side. We’re keeping an eye on this pair.”
This is bullshit.
My father places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
I shove the paper back at him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for because this isn’t happening.”
“But, Aiden…”
“But nothing, Pop. There’s no fucking way she’s dating some rich boy geek. This has her parents written all over it.”
“How do you know?”
My mind flashes back to Flanagan’s last night.
“Have you ever felt trapped?”
“Because I just do. Tell Joe I’ll be late today, will ya?”
My father simply nods as I hurry into the bathroom and turn on the shower, washing myself as quickly as I can.
Trapped, my ass.
I’ve got you, Buzzy. I’m coming.
8
Bea
I can hear my parents’ voices shouting in the kitchen all the way down from my bedroom.
“Phillip, how did this get into Page Six?”
“Because I had Park’s publicist call them. I thought it would be best to be proactive in case the media found out about the bailout.”
“But Page Six? It’s so…common.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, Margot! They’re the ones who dubbed her the ‘Park Avenue Princess.’ I didn’t see the harm.”
I sigh in exasperation, standing at my window, staring out at the view of Central Park.
I haven’t been seen in public more than once with Porter since he doesn’t even live here.
But I have been seen with Aiden. Nobody would believe that in a million years. The Park Avenue Princess spotted across the river in Queens, and at a construction site and an Irish pub, no less.
Aiden. Dancing in his arms. Our almost kiss.
I lean my forehead against the window, the glass cooling my warm skin.
And now everyone thinks I’m dating some guy I’m not even attracted to. And in the end, I’ll have to marry a man I barely know because that’s how things are done in my family.
My cell rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grab the phone from my nightstand. Marisol’s name appears on the caller ID.
“Hey. How—?”
“What in the absolute fuck is going on with you? Did you have a lobotomy I didn’t know about? Chica, there you were in my house telling me how much you couldn’t stand those shit-for-brains society guys and now I open up Page Six and you’re dating one?” she yells.
I pinch my nose to calm myself and gather my thoughts, knowing she’s completely right.
“It’s complicated, Mari,” I mutter into the phone.
“It’s not complicated, Bea. Why do I have the feeling your family is behind all this?”
Because they are. And that’s why she’s my best friend.
I hear her take a sip of something. “Okay, I’m calm now. I’m here. Tell me what happened.”
“In a nutshell, our magazine is losing money. We need an influx of cash and Porter’s family is going to invest in it, but our families think that it would look better if he and I started dating in the public eye. Because when this goes public, it won’t look as bad if Porter and I are married.”
Nothing but silence echoes from Marisol’s end. And then a string of Spanish mixed with French. I manage to catch “loca�
� and “merde.”
She catches her breath. “I swear to God, you stupid WASPs. Sometimes I just can’t understand your fucked-up perceptions of what life is supposed to be like.”
I imagine her shaking her head at me. “I know.”
She clears her throat. “Tell me something, chère. Doesn’t what you just said to me sound absolutely ridiculous?”
“Yes. Of course,” I admit.
“Then why are you doing this?”
“It’s my family, Marisol. I can’t let them down.”
“But you’re an adult, Beatriz. You are allowed to say no.”
She doesn’t understand. “Not when it comes to family. I’ve been going around and around trying to figure this out, and I haven’t come up with much else.”
“Have you tried every possible option?” Marisol asks.
“Yes, but I’m not sure it would work. It’s a big ask.”
“What is it?”
I bite my lower lip. “Maybe you’d want to invest in the magazine so I don’t have to marry Porter Thorne?”
She pauses. “Oh wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I know, but—”
“Stop. It’s okay, chica. Let’s get together and talk about it, especially if it means saving you from marrying that geek.”
“He’s not really a geek.”
She sighs audibly. “Whatever. Look, as batshit crazy as this entire situation is, I’ll support you no matter what. If you need to talk to someone, I’m here for you, 24/7/365.”
“Gracias, sweetie.”
“De nada. I’ll talk to my parents about it and we can have lunch once I do. Love you.”
“I will. Love you too.”
I end our call, falling back onto my bed in exhaustion.
I turn my head curiously when my parents’ voices cease yelling in the kitchen. I jump in place when a loud knock thunders against my bedroom door.
Fuck me. What now…
I rush for the door and yank it open. A pair of angry blue eyes sear into me.
Aiden.
“Porter Thorne? Seriously? That’s the name of a James Bond villain!” he growls.
This is not happening.
I pull him into the room, slamming the door firmly behind him. “What the hell are you doing here? And how did my parents not see you?”
He exhales a deep breath, his eyes softening. “They were too busy yelling at each other to notice. But never mind that.”
My heart starts to race as his eyes bore into mine.
“Last night. Your question about feeling trapped. That’s what this was all about, right?”
I take in his appearance, dressed the same as he was at the building site yesterday—bulky jacket, jeans, and work boots. His face is covered in scruff, probably because he was so intent on seeing me this morning that he didn’t have time to shave. But he did have time to shower because I can detect body wash smelling of fresh linen emanating from his skin. And I want nothing more than to kiss him and let him run his lips over me, the sensation of his scruff all over my flesh.
But when he takes me by the shoulders, I remember where I am, who I am, and which family I belong to.
I take a step back. “Yes. Everything’s been arranged.”
Aiden’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “‘Arranged’? What the fuck does that mean?”
I sigh, knowing I have to tell him the truth. “The magazine is losing money, so it’s being bailed out by a family who we’ve known for a long time, and we’re going to date for a short period of time. The marriage is just for appearances. You wouldn’t understand.”
Suddenly, Aiden’s eyes turn dark and angry, his fists clenched in fury. “Why? Because I wasn’t born with a silver fucking spoon in my mouth? You’re damn right I don’t understand! You know why? Because that makes no fucking sense. This is your life, Bea. You have a right to live it the way you want.”
First, Marisol. Now, Aiden. Tell me something I don’t know.
I shake my head, shutting my eyes to keep the forming tears from falling down my face. I can’t even look at him. “No, I don’t. This is my family. I have no choice.”
Without warning, Aiden steps closer to me, taking me by the shoulders. “You have a choice, Buzzy. And that choice is me. I know I’m not what your parents want for you. I live in Queens, I’m not rich, and I have dirt under my fingernails. And it’s definitely complicated because your brother is my best friend. But I know you. I know your favorite drink, I know you hate spinach, I know you like to go to Serendipity during the holidays with Seb because it’s tradition. And despite the way we’ve been with each other all these years, throwing insults and barbs back and forth like some fucked-up verbal tennis match, I know you care for me. Last night proved it. I want you, and I know you want me.”
I stare helplessly into his eyes, now softer and mirrored with concern.
I do want you, Aiden. More than you’ll ever know.
“Even if that were true,” I manage, despite my heart catching in my throat, “I have to do this for my family and our reputation. Our society circle—”
His strong hands fall from my shoulders, his eyes fiery again. “Don’t even start with the family image excuse,” he hisses. “That is bullshit and you know it.”
I take a deep breath. “No, it’s not, Aiden. My family has a reputation to uphold, and we can’t lose the magazine. We need the Thorne money. That’s the reality.”
I glare at him as he stays silent.
Good. He finally gets it.
Before I know what’s happening, he takes my face in his hands, clamping his mouth over mine. My eyes widen from the shock, my hands gripping his shoulders to steady myself from the force of his lips taking mine.
I don’t hesitate. My mouth opens to accept his hot tongue. We kiss each other hard and deep, nothing soft or gentle. Quick breaths exhale from our noses. My whimpers and his grunts echo off the walls in my bedroom. I fist his jacket, desperate to take him deeper, further. His hands travel down my back, holding me tighter against him.
Oh God, I want him. I want him so much.
But I can’t…
I push as hard as I can against his broad shoulders, releasing my mouth from his. “That will never happen again,” I declare determinedly.
He grins slyly back at me. “Fuck yes, it will.”
With that pronouncement, Aiden walks past me and exits my room.
My head is spinning. I sink onto my bed, my hand over my heart as if I could stop it from racing.
Once I catch my breath, I spot my laptop on my desk. A rush of endorphins spurs me to my feet. I grab the computer and jump on my bed, clicking on the open link for Prose and begin writing. I know I can’t have Aiden, but I need to put these thoughts somewhere. Hopefully, GalwayPlayer will appreciate them.
“Quid Pro Quo”
I stare out at the sea of cars in front of us, red lights lighting up the dark with each start and stop of the vehicles ahead.
I let out a huge yawn. “I hate the BQE,” I murmur under my breath. “I hate traffic.”
“Anything else?” you ask, and I can’t help but laugh at your attempt to rouse me out of my moody state.
I give you a quick list. “Spinach, snakes, and smartass Irishmen.”
You tighten your grip on our entwined hands that rest on my left thigh. “Duly noted.”
I smile widely to myself and glance over at you. I release my hand from yours so I can rub the back of your head, but you quickly snatch it back and place it on your right thigh.
“I think we might be here a while,” you observe, putting the truck’s gear into park and switching off the engine, following the example of others in the lanes next to ours.
I sigh audibly, exasperated, my head lolling back in my seat.
Suddenly, I can feel you tugging my hand toward your crotch. “I know a way we can kill time.”
My mouth drops. “Are you serious?”
You give me a look that does not welcome debate.
Still very buzzed from the wine we had at dinner, I purse my lips together. “May I ask something first, Sir?”
“Of course, baby.”
“Would you consider a mutual arrangement? A sexual quid pro quo, if you will.”
“Go on.”
I give you a sly smile, then I lift my backside so I can pull up my black Calvin Klein dress. I shimmy it up, giving you a quick glance, but I needn’t have wondered if you’re in agreement with my suggestion because your eyes are riveted by what I’m doing. I lift myself one more time and pull off my black lace thong, swinging it around my finger.
You grab it from me and shove it into the pocket of your trousers. “I think I’ll keep that, thank you very much. Now, lean back,” you command me huskily.
I quickly pull up the hem of my dress as far as it can go, then spread my legs open for your access. “I’m already wet, Sir.”
“Good girl. Now, rub your tits while I finger-fuck that sweet pussy of yours.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I do as I’m told. I lean back and begin to rub my breasts through my dress, kneading them until my nipples appear.
You begin rubbing my folds, spreading my essence around them.
“Lovely, baby. Always so wet for me,” I hear you rasp.
“It's all you, Sir,” I whisper. “Only you do that to me.”
Finally, you insert a finger into me and begin thrusting in and out of my pussy, and then when you add a second, I clench my muscles down hard on them as I dig my Louboutins into the floorboard of the truck, curling my toes inside the snug leather.
I throw my arms over my head, gripping the headrest, my body writhing in my seat. I turn my head toward you so you can see me, the look of ecstasy vivid across my face. The sound of my sucking flesh as you finger-fuck me enraptures me. It is pure audible pleasure for my ears.
