Marbella Nights

by Camille Oster

  He actually felt quite excited following her wherever she was about to lead him. “No matter what fine cuisine you’re stuck with, when you’re this drunk, all you want is a greasy kebab.” Using his hands on the railings, he made his way onto the jetty, walking after her. “Let’s have a drink,” he said, watching her legs move.

  “No.”

  “Killjoy.”

  “I’m not carrying you back.”

  An image of her carrying him snuck into his mind. Not the most manly of images and he tried to sober up a bit, picking up speed to catch up with her. “You’re Australian; you must surf.”

  “I’m from New Zealand. And yes, I have been known to. I’m not die hard, but if it’s a thing, I can do it.”

  “A thing?”

  “You know, going to the beach, camp and fire, early morning surf. I can handle it.”

  “Sounds like a fucking ad campaign.”

  She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. He wanted to fuck her so badly, but hopefully he had managed to not say that out loud.

  They were crossing a road. Bright lights shone everywhere. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing, but he was happy to be with her. Then they were at a stand and he stood, not well, and watched as she ordered.

  “Why do you get so drunk?” she asked.

  Quentin shrugged. “There was nothing else to do.”

  “All of San Tropez and there was nothing else to do?”

  “Dodging expectations, I guess,” he admitted.

  “What expectations could possibly be on you? Which latest brand supercar to buy?”

  Quentin chuckled. “More than you think.”

  Two kebabs were handed out the window and she took them, walking over to a small, circular standing table. She handed the kebab to him and he took a bite. Greasy, saltiness filled his consciousness. “Uhm, you can’t beat a kebab when you’re drunk,” he said.

  A small piece of lettuce sat on the corner of her mouth and he reached to wipe it off. Her skin was so smooth and warm. Stepping forwards, he kissed her. Sweetness suffused his mind, but she pushed him away. “Kebab,” she said tersely. “Eating. No kissing.” She spoke like he was slow.

  “I’m sorry. You’re just so damned hot.”

  She shook her head, but he was sure she blushed a bit. “And you’re a drunk mess.”

  “A hot mess, admit it.”

  “And so full of yourself.”

  He smiled, knowing full well that women thought he was hot—even her. But he was going to get no joy with her and he knew it. “So cruel. I love it.”

  “Not to mention that you are here with someone.”

  “Megan? It’s not like that. We’re just each other’s back-up fucks—friends with benefits. Seriously, I went to kindergarten with Megan. It’s not like that with us. We just hang out when we’ve got nothing else going.”

  “Are you sure she knows that?”

  “Of course she does. Contrary to what you believe, I’m not a total creep.”

  “And what do you know of what I believe?”

  “I can see that judgement in your eyes—that middle class prudence.”

  “Prudence?” she said with a gasp.

  “Calling you on being an arsehole is prudence, is it?”

  He pointed the little wooden fork he was holding for some reason at her. “Okay, I might be a bit of an arsehole. Doesn’t mean you have to get all judgy. That’s all I’m saying. Everything is cool with me and Megan. She knows exactly what I am.”

  “An arsehole.”

  He held his hands out, as if he was about to argue. “Alright, I did fuck her mother, but it was an accident, kind of.”

  She laughed, placing her fork up to her mouth, a lilting laugh. “Sexy laugh, too,” he said quietly. “No, we’re all good. As long as Megan’s brother doesn’t find out. He’s a fucking RAF ranger, and he would seriously just shoot me if he ever found out.”

  She laughed more, almost sending bits of her late-night snack escaping her delectable lips. He liked making her laugh and considered telling her some other sordid stories of his past—and he had a few to tell.

  Chapter 9

  The bus was hot and stuffy when Trish made her way home. Lack of sleep gave everything an eerie quality, but at least in these jeans, it wasn’t completely obvious that this was the bus ride of shame. She had considered forking out for a cab, but it just wasn’t worth it. There were so many better ways she could spend her money—besides, she wasn’t exactly in a rush.

  After a fifteen-minute walk up the hill, she made it to her house, turning the key in the lock. The back door was open, so someone was up.

  “Look who the cat dragged in,” Amber said. Hannah and Amber were all lying on the huge daybed, which took up most of their small back yard. “Dirty girl.”

  “Shut up,” Trish said, a blush creeping up her cheeks. She grabbed the juice Hannah held out to her and lay down on the stiff cushion.

  “How was it?”

  Trish smiled. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “The hell you don’t. Spill. He was friggin’ hot.”

  “And he knew what he was doing,” Trish confessed through a bitten smile.

  “Good night then?”

  “It wasn’t bad.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “Nah, bit too smooth. Perfect body. Don’t get me wrong. It was a night to remember, but he’s just a little too attractive—too comfortable with the ladies.”

  “Total player?”

  “Probably. Besides, why would I want to get tied down? It was a good night, and I’ll leave it at that.” She downed her juice. “So what happened to you guys? Chrissy with him? What was his name again?”

  “Nathan,” Hannah said in the over-exaggerated dreamy voice that sounded just like Chrissy.

  They all laughed, all at some point bystanding victims of Chrissy’s love life antics.

  “Hey, we were thinking about heading down to the beach this morning. Wanna come?”

  “Sure,” Trish said. “But I’ll have a shower first. And if I fall asleep,”—which she planned to do—“wake me before I go crispy. She thought of the ham and egg rolls, with all its salty goodness, from one of the street sellers down the beach and she started to salivate. “I’ll go shower right now.”

  Heading upstairs, she thought over the events of the previous night. It really had been one of the hottest nights she’d ever had. He’d made her come repeatedly, and he really was ridiculously hot—definitely knew what he was doing, working her body like it was an instrument. It just sent all kinds of red flags waving around in her mind. It was just a really hot one-night-stand, she told herself and relegated it to that, refusing to think about it further.

  The evening was pumping when Trish went to work. She always got a feeling when it would be a crazy night. There was a scent in the air, of anticipation. Hens-night girls were doing shots at the bar and everywhere people sat in quiet anticipation of the night. The calm before the storm. The club was actually open twenty-four hours a day, but it only really took off after nine in the evening.

  Pressing her way through the swinging door, she made her way into the back where only employees were allowed and walked down to the dressing room assigned to the girls. Her outfit was on a hanger, cleaned by Vanna Price’s team. Vanna Price was the stylist and she chose the costumes the girl had to wear, and Trish’s current outfit was a shiny pink one-piece with long arms and hotpants, with a thick white belt around her waist. The white zipper up the front was undone down to her navel, showing off her cleavage.

  It wasn’t a bad number, she’d worn worse, but the material didn’t breathe so well. That was just something they had to deal with. Dancing all night was a great workout, but Trish had learned how to deploy intermitted tricks to look good without spending massive amounts of energy. Their dancing was supposed to be high energy, to spread like contagion amongst the guests, as well as serving as a visual focus for the people partying with them
.

  After applying the required smoky eye make-up, Trish took her jeans and t-shirt off and pulled the pink one-piece on. It was tailored to make her boobs look amazing, and the tan she’d worked on that morning wasn’t hurting. There was something a little sixties chic about the look, helped by a teased, high pony tail.

  The pumping music pounded through the walls. There was no getting away from it here. The club was never a place of quiet, but then this wasn’t a job for someone who wanted quiet.

  She looked over at the other dresser, which had make-up strewn across it. It really could use a clean. Chrissy was going to get told off for the state of her things. Where the hell was Chrissy anyway? She was supposed to be there, Trish thought when she zipped up her boots.

  Getting her phone out of her bag, she sent Chrissy a text, reminding her that she had to work tonight. With a worried look at the large clock on the wall, she realised her shift had started. She had to get out there. Dropping her phone back in her bag, she made her way out.

  “Where is Chrissy?” Jesus’ velvet voice said behind her. She hadn’t heard him come up, but through the music, it was hard to hear anyone approaching. His tanned arms and shoulders on display with the dark vest he wore. Jesus owned the club and he ran it like a tight ship. He was also incredibly attractive, his dark eyes hooded, with a straight nose and firm jaw. His pants were always tight and they showed off a strong body and a pert arse. Trish had had the biggest crush on him when she started working here, but Jesus didn’t mix business with pleasure as a general rule. He never even looked at the dancers with anything but a critical eye. But he was fair, even if his standards were exacting. “She is late.”

  “She texted and said her bus broke down. She is trying to get a cab,” Trish lied. Jesus looked less than pleased.

  “She better be here in the next twenty minutes or she can go home.”

  Trish bit her lip as Jesus walked away, a chain swinging from his hip. Chrissy had an issue with tardiness and for some reason, she’d managed to sweet-talk Jesus in the past, but Trish suspected that his tolerance was running out, and his anger flared when he was annoyed. Trish tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. What he hated more than anything was lying and she’d just committed that sin. Chrissy better not screw her over by not showing up.

  Jesus had been with this stunningly beautiful Spanish girl for a while, but they’d fought endlessly in passionate Spanish and then she was no more. He wasn’t a saint though—she’d seen him succumb to the charms of a particularly attractive and forthright Danish girl once, and there had been that bikini model Italian girl he’s run with for a while. His girlfriends looked like models and they make an insanely good-looking couple.

  Taking to the elevated platform, Trish smiled broadly and started dancing. Laser lights made patterns over the people on the dance floor in front of her. The Czech girls were dancing across the club. Chrissy’s platform was still bare and Trish swore. If Chrissy didn’t turn up, Trish would probably have to do the champagne glass, which was topless. In essence, it didn’t bother her—it was just something she had to do when Chrissy couldn’t, but she still didn’t like it. Being ogled was part of the job, but topless brought it to another level, and Trish was perfectly fine with the cleavage level.

  Chrissy finally emerged, giving Trish a wave before taking to her platform. Trish swore silently. Chrissy had to do better or Jesus was going to fire her. But she wiped these negative thoughts from her head and just gave herself over to the music. She always imagined that the music was her lover, seducing her, tempting and watching her. It seemed to do the trick, put her in the right frame of mind to do the kind of dancing them were envied for.

  Chapter 10

  Cheyenne loved being naked. She loved being fucked—especially by someone powerful. It definitely added spice to it. She loved Alexi’s eyes roaming over her, saw them lock on her breasts as she rode him. He had a good cock. Thank heaven for small mercies. His ab muscles contracted as he strained beneath her, sweat making his skin glisten. She also loved seeing how hard he worked to not lose it as she milked him.

  The only downside was the condom he insisted upon. She would love to dispense with that little barrier, but he didn’t trust her and he was right, she smiled. Getting pregnant was a second best outcome. It would mean she’d have good money flowing in for a long time, but it wasn’t as good an option as marriage. Who wants to be stuck with a screaming brat when there were parties and midnight flights to Paris for a dirty weekend?

  Shifting his hips, he hit her g-spot and it felt so good. She like controlling the pace, working his cock for her own pleasure. Her orgasm was creeping up on her and she pushed it away, not ready for this to be over. But apparently, Alexi was, rising beneath her, lifting her with a strong, corded arm around her waist so he could lay her down underneath him. She moaned her disappointment at losing control, but he wasn’t having it.

  Grabbing her knee, he parted her further, surging into her with force. She loved this part, when he pounded into her, making her take whatever he wanted. It made her think of a conqueror, taking what he won, his cock like battering ram.

  She tightened her muscles around him, making him groan with the friction as she pressed down on him as hard as she could, feeling every inch of him inside her. He wanted her, was desperate to be inside her. This was power. She brought the powerful to their knees. That was the feminine power and they were helpless against it.

  Every one of his muscles strained, approaching the edge. “Come on, baby,” she mused, bringing her knees up to cradle him, which also positioned his thrusts right on her clit. “That’s it.” The world floated away as her orgasm approached, taking over like a roaring beast. “Fuck,” she screamed and arched her back, the intensity of it so high, she didn’t know if she could take it. Waves washed over her and she imagined his cum pumping into her, except it wasn’t. He used that damned condom as a barrier between them. How she wished it wasn’t there, and it wasn’t just the pregnancy upside. There was a certain eroticism in being totally claimed by a man, a powerful man. There was an honesty to it that lacked otherwise.

  Alexi rolled over and went to sleep, while Cheyenne lay on her back letting her breathing calm. The moonlight made dancing reflections on the ceiling, coming from the porthole behind them. She kind of wished they could go again, but Alexi was asleep and he would want to sleep after he woke in a minute to clean himself. Maybe she would just suck him off during the night some time. He always liked that. Men liked surprises.

  Sighing, she admitted that she wasn’t falling asleep. The worries of the coming week bounced around her mind. She had to spend the week in Milan, which meant she had to be away from Alexi, leaving him to roam free. Although she knew he was going back to Moscow, and business was the only thing on his mind. But there was always the potential of some gold-digger coming in to try to snatch his attention away. She knew exactly how ruthless those women were, willing to exploit any weakness. She liked it better when she was there, able to guard him against those bitches.

  Another sigh and she got up, looking back at Alexi’s sleeping form, wishing she had his ability to fall asleep anytime she wanted. The air felt a little stifled in here and she needed some open space, and maybe a juice. She might even get a glass of milk like she had when she was younger.

  Taking her silk robe, she swung it around her shoulders and quietly tied it around her waist as she walked to the cabin door. It let light into the cabin, but Alexi didn’t wake as she stepped out into the hall. Padding softly on the soft, white carpet, she made her way to the stairs, hearing voices—mumbled, and definitely drunk. Had to be the Brit boy.

  At the top of the steps, she looked out, seeing the Brit boy with his arm around a girl, and it wasn’t the useless Megan, instead the serving girl. Cheyenne snorted. So Alexi’s staff was making moves on drunk guests. A drunk fuck in some broom closet wasn’t how one moved up in the world, but stupid girls didn’t know that.

  “Let’s go down
the stairs,” the girl said, moving him forwards so they could descend.

  Cheyenne stood in the way with her arms crossed. “Sweetie, he’s too drunk to get it up.”

  “I’m not—,” the girl started, having been snapped in the act.

  “I’m not,” the Brit boy cut in, obviously insulted that his manhood was questioned in overcoming copious amounts of alcohol.

  “It’s nothing like that,” the girl said.

  “Uh huh,” Cheyenne said disbelievingly, walking up the set of stairs to the upper deck. Fucking amateurs, Cheyenne thought, imagining the girl trying to suck off the Brit boy’s flaccid penis while he passed out. Alexi would not be happy if he knew one of his staff were trying to work his guests. All a little too seedy, but then what did she care if the he caught the clap slumming it with some slag willing to suck him off for a chance at playing in the big league. Brit boy wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.

  The deck was completely empty and she no longer heard the under-cover black widow carting away her victim. Cheyenne knew there was something not right about that girl, looking so innocent and young. Those fucking corn-fed backpackers. Totally clueless. Maybe Cheyenne had given the girl more credit than she deserved. She might actually be stupid enough to think he cared about her, eagerly receiving all his drunken declarations like they meant something, thinking she lived in some version of a fairy tale—the rich, handsome prince falling for her on sight. This fairy tale just happened to have a prince pissed out of his nut, but girls were willing to overlook anything if it remotely looked like a dream come true. Cheyenne shook her head. The world was full of morons.

  Chapter 11

  It was a busy day at the pool. A party of five kids had been there for a few hours and Cory always paid attention when there were kids in the pool. The mothers chatting and relaxing by the pool while their kids entertained themselves.