by Avery Aster
His free hand rested between her legs. “May I?” he asked as the perfect gentleman.
She glanced over her shoulder. They sat alone. She didn’t notice. Not a soul in sight. “You may.” She exposed herself a little farther under the table, giving him enough room to slide his hands under the table’s edge and inside her.
“To finish, you’d enjoy the champagne’s body which sparkles, sense initial firmness as it fills your mouth and experience a cream rush as you swallow.”
Hiking her dress higher, she took his hands in hers and assisted him pushing himself deeper into her. “The f–firmer and c–creamier the better.”
“With a subtle sweet-and-sour note in the champagne, perhaps a pink grapefruit.” He massaged her breasts with one hand and fingered her valley with the other.
Taddy covered her mouth and bit down on her pointer finger, finding it hard to control herself.
“There, there, my Red.” He leaned in again, removed her hand from her mouth and kissed her more passionately than before. His fingers danced inside her, holding onto her as if he owned her.
Take me. Grasping on to him, her legs apart, each square inch of her body danced in vibration to his deep voice. His hand moved inside her as if her body belonged to him from the very beginning.
“Big Daddy.” Right there, go deeper, yeah…yes, hit it. Push harder. Go further. Uh-huh, love that. Oh, Jesus.
“Look at you coming, Red. You’re beautiful. Let your body go, baby. I have you,” he whispered in her ear, granting her passage to enjoy herself.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Yes. Oooh. She came hard. Her body collapsed into his.
Convinced he’d slipped her an Ecstasy hit, her parched mouth dried. She hadn’t drunk, swallowed, or licked anything except his tongue. Could he have marinated his lips in euphoria? Laced his hot mouth with drugs? Nah. She realized she’d done what she’d always fantasized about—letting go.
Taddy had no clue who he was and vice versa. He could’ve introduced himself as Mista Ronald hamburger-flipping McDonald for all she cared. She didn’t seek a relationship. But this fella spoke worldliness. He knew champagne. And unless he caged an anaconda in his pants, he presented a new significance to the word ‘hung.’
Garner whispered in her ear, “Let’s order a bottle of Dom Perignon Rosé.” He leaned in further. “And some napkins.”
She shook her head. “We don’t need any napkins.”
“No?” he questioned, confused but confident, as if girls came to his kisses and champagne talk night after night.
“You haven’t told me what juice you’d care to drink.” Yes, that’s right.
“Let’s get the bottle—”
“And go back to your place?” she interrupted, inviting herself back to his house.
Eyes wide toward his hands, he brought them up from underneath the table’s edge. “Red, why are there rubies?” Palms out and facing her, a shimmer of crimson adorned his wet hands. “Is this from your dress?”
“No, Big Daddy.” Thank you, vajazzle. “I’ll show you when we get back to your place.”
“Okay then.” Garner reached for her hands. He stood with a force that yanked her to her feet.
She checked her cell.
Vive had texted her saying she’d left a while ago. Taddy seized a Dom Perignon Rosé bottle from the bar as they made their way out the door.
Vive Serves Up Bye-And-Bye Dick Pie
Warner couldn’t have dreamt Red up if he tried. He’d never seen her in his entire life, so she was unmistakably not an island local. He assumed she’d come to St. Barth for business as a swimsuit model for Sports Illustrated, remembering the photographers shot their magazine spreads nearby. She must’ve been. But her skin was porcelain, not tan as it would be if she’d been on the beach all day.
Indeed attractive, late twenties, she looked classy. Wrapped in a stunning dress, sexy shoes, and her vintage jewelry, she led him to assume if not magazine modeling a bikini, perhaps she’d jetted in from London. Red could’ve come to ‘winter’ at a villa down the shore, escaping England’s cold season. But her voice spoke with a sharp tone, maybe from Chicago, certainly not British.
Her tuberose scent remained potent, in a good way—heady, fleshy and yet sweet. The perfume confused him all the more.
Red didn’t know Warner owned the club. She kept calling him Garner and he didn’t correct her. The music had deafened their introductions at first, but when they sat down, the magic started. Warner caught her vulnerability and glimpsed Red’s taste for great adventure. He looked forward to discovering more about her.
“I don’t bring pretty ladies home often.” If ever. He forced himself to settle down as they came up the winding driveway’s final stretch. His mind and body came together.
“You have a preference for taking fuglies back to your shack then?” Red laughed, pulling the champagne bottle to her side. It was remarkable to witness a woman with such beauty be so at ease.
“This is it, my winter home.” The landscape lighting danced shadows against his manicured foliage. His guardsmen had gone for the day. It being a holiday weekend, he didn’t have the heart to make the locals work around-the-clock. Warner had no plans to host any parties where he’d typically be full-force with security.
“Exquisite. Your yard is something else.” She turned, taking in his acres.
“Maybe in the morning I can show you the gardens out by the beach.” He hoped she’d stay for breakfast. Warner cooked a tasty eggs Benedict. At least, Sheldon always gave him compliments on it.
“I don’t have much outdoor space where I live.” Her malachite green eyes blinked with sophistication. He’d not caught their brilliance until that point.
Warner drew her close. “And where would your home be?” Kissing her left cheek, his lips admired hers. He noted she didn’t answer, so he asked again. “Where do you live?”
She shook her head. Red wouldn’t tell him.
“Will you share your name?” Drawing his tongue over Red’s neck, Warner teased her nape in hopes he’d secured the answer. “Is it Red?” Tell me. His kisses traveled to her face’s right side, keeping his lips in constant contact on her skin in hopes she’d reveal where she’d come from—anything.
“Not tonight.” Mystery spoke in her sultry voice, on her juicy lips, and shone in her alluring eyes. “How’s that for an answer?” She squeezed his hand harder, perhaps with promise that she’d share more—later.
“Fair enough.” After turning the estate’s corner, exhilaration charged every nerve. He reached with his free hand inside his left pocket for the keys.
Red massaged his arm’s inner part. The stimulation ran a tingly feeling over him.
He hadn’t felt that in years.
“Gimme some sugar,” a twanged voice barked from the driveway’s opposing side.
Her voice…her presence…it irked Warner to no end and reminded him of something he’d seen on the news recently. In Dallas, ranchers called the Texas Rangers in a frantic pace, reporting the four-legged animal sightings of something similar to a boar-meets-dog creature with a reptilian appearance. It didn’t bite for blood, rather sucked its prey bone-dry. Farmers called the beast a Chupacabra.
Warner suspected it was too coincidental that the second his ex-fiancée fled their Manhattan penthouse for her native Lone Star state, people noticed an upswing in this monster roaming their prairies. He knew for certain the Chupacabra existed and called herself Rielle Bruni. And a moment ago, on his lawn, as he held Red’s hand, Rielle’s sulfuric stench arrived in St. Barth’s.
“I waited for ya,” she yapped from across the estate lawn.
No, no, no. Not Rielle. His ears could’ve bled. Each eardrum felt shot out.
Red’s perky stride slowed as she squeezed his hand tighter. “Garner, who’s coming toward us?”
“My worst nightmare.” Shit, I knew this felt too good to be true.
Rielle approached from the long, narrow driveway’s other side as if sei
zing her next victim. “Honey, I’m his fiancée, Rielle,” she drawled between cigarette puffs before flicking the fiery bud in his direction. “I’ve come to ring in the New Year with my man.” Her infamous snort got caught in her exhale, twisting her voice into a hackled cough.
Red’s warm fingers unlocked.
Don’t let go…
Every delicious inch of Red’s body went cold. She turned and stared at him, but her face didn’t seem fazed. Red wasn’t anyone’s victim. A woman who didn’t have time to bullshit, Red was too good for this.
“Rielle is not my fiancée. Not anymore. I’ll call authorities to remove—” He grabbed for her arm.
She sidestepped and spun, causing her clutch to drop to the ground and open. Papers, money, a hairbrush spread at their feet, the champagne bottle following. It landed, shattering glass shards throughout.
“I’m sorry, Red. I am.” Warner indicated with a wave he’d pick her things up. “I don’t want you to cut yourself.”
Rielle snarled and laughed at him, walking in their direction. “I’m still wearing the ring he gave me. Ain’t I?” She held the diamond to Red’s face. Warner was surprised she hadn’t pawned it yet.
“Stop with your lies, Rielle.” Frustrated, Warner dropped to his knees and collected the treasures lost. He placed Red’s items back in her bag. “We broke up. Let me explain.” I can’t believe this shit.
Red stood over him, her long legs like something off a European fashion show that had lost their runway. Her eyes were focused on Rielle.
“I’m carrying his baby.” His ex lied and then rubbed at her belly, trying to stick it out.
“Enough! My family knows you were not really pregnant.” On his way up, he studied Red’s body, her tense calf muscles, her hands fisted at her side. With lips pursed, Red held her breath, unshaken. Red could take Rielle down in addition to anyone else who stood in her way. Did she want to fight her? He couldn’t imagine so. No, Red came off altogether annoyed. He sensed she’d bolt the second he gave her the bag. Then she’d be gone. Warner hoped not forever.
“Not really pregnant?” Red repeated. “Were you ever engaged to her?”
“Yes. Let’s talk tomorrow when she’s gone. And we’re alone.” He pulled his calling card with private contact numbers from his pocket. Maybe he could salvage that night for the next. Warner slipped his number inside her bronze purse and returned it to her. And similar to her hand, he didn’t want to let go of her bag, either. He didn’t have a choice, though. Red wasn’t his to keep. Not yet.
Her arms extended, ready to catch—and leave. “Your future wife is determined.”
“We’re not engaged anymore.”
Red’s tone had chilled, eyes stoned, face mannequin-esque. “Maybe you two can get back together and work it out before the kid arrives.” She lowered her voice. “Hopefully she’ll quit smoking before the baby is born.”
“I’d like to explain everything to you tomorrow. Please. I put my card in your—”
Raising her hand, Red cut him short. “I left crazy back home.” Her once-captivated eyes unlocked from his with disinterest. “I sure as hell have no interest in your St. Barth’s drama.”
Red never looked back at him. She didn’t acknowledge her Big Daddy when leaving.
He kept his eyes on Red as she turned the corner. Her russet hair cast a black veil over her perfect face in the night. Her tuberose scent lingered behind, as if to say, ‘I should be in your arms tonight.’
“Honey bunny!”
“Rielle…”
“I’ve missed you terribly.” Reeking of gin, she extended her arms for capture.
“Congratulations.”
She cocked her head and twisted her featureless face. “For what, honey?”
“You’ve always possessed such a gift—” He didn’t finish. He was too busy staring at his hands. They were bleeding from the amber-colored glass embedded in his palm. Warner hadn’t even noticed until then. Taking a handkerchief from his pants pocket, he dislodged the bits from his skin then wrapped his hand tight to stop the bleeding.
Intoxicated, she slurred, “I have many gifts, sugar. So do you.” Rielle hurled her desperation on him.
Warner held Rielle by her shoulders, dodging her hot breath. After meeting such a wonderful woman as Red, this contact created an instant sour pucker in his throat. Hatred, he tasted hatred. Lowering his head to meet her at eye-level, he informed her, “What I was going to say was you have such a gift for ruining the best moments in my life.” It hurt him to say that to the woman he once thought he loved. From the outside, Rielle was still beautiful, but who she was inside made her ugly to him.
“What?” Rielle stepped back. Her eyes narrowed into black slits, trying to sober in hopes she’d heard him wrong.
He advanced with reassurance. “Get the hell out of my life and away from me for good.”
“Warner, honey.” She tried to stand tall.
“I have to hand it to you. Being a bitch at your level requires enormous energy.”
Whack! Rielle’s pink nails tore across his face. “How dare you! I fly down to this floating French sand dune to see you, and this is how I’m greeted?”
Blood spotted his white shirt from her scrape. “I told you I never want to see you again.” He wiped his cheek.
“I’m still hoping we can…” Her face darkened, appearing less attractive to him than ever. She stared at his crotch and argued, “Pity to waste such a beautiful horse dick.”
“You’ve run empty on tricks. No more trying to seduce the men in my family. No more fake pregnancies. No more scams.”
She swung her other hand.
Ready to snap her in half, he gripped her wrist midair. He wouldn’t, though. A gentleman didn’t. “Move on to another billionaire group or try a few millionaires. The Truman’s can’t take another iota of you.”
Rielle screamed for him to reason with her. She wanted her job back at the foundation and for everything to return to how it once was. He refused. Infuriated, she spit in his face.
You bitch. Warner didn’t care what she spewed or spit. He didn’t deserve her abuse. He should never have been subjected to the cruelty she’d given him or the pain she’d caused him.
The night Rielle had run into Sheldon’s arms in her typical cry for attention, Warner was co-hosting a fundraiser and cocktail party. The lavish affair took place at the private residence of Manhattan’s mayor. Mixed with his parents, brother, and friends, he campaigned to secure funds for a new development, South Street Seaport Resort & Spa. Adjacent to the financial district, the new condominium-resort-spa community featured Brooklyn Bridge views.
Truman Enterprises’ banks had required a high percentage presold before the residential spa and resort could break ground. With his attention divided, he’d suggested, “Rielle, it may be best if you stayed home tonight.” She’d demanded his undivided attention and couldn’t stand it when he talked to anyone else for more than a second, even if for business.
“It’s my opportunity to be seen,” Rielle had insisted and accompanied him to the party. Glued to his arm, her squinting eyes kept women away from prospecting Warner, as well as any potential investors for South Street Seaport Resort & Spa.
“Stay put. I have to go chat with someone. I won’t be long.” He smiled to reassure her she could stand her own amongst the city’s elite. “Why don’t you talk to your future in-laws?” He’d eyed his folks who sat in the corner, their enthusiasm soured.
At the start, his first wife Jacqueline had shocked his parents due to their age difference, but they’d grown to adore her. “Rielle is…different from your beloved Jacqueline,” his mother remarked gravely to him after their first introduction.
“Don’t leave my side, Warner. I mean it.” Rielle had grabbed his arm, her nails sinking into his flesh as her insecurities drove a wedge between them.
“Stop.” He turned his back, ignoring her threat.
“You bastard!” she’d screamed, loud
enough for onlookers to hear.
Christ. He yanked her close, pressing his mouth to her left ear. “Go home, Rielle.” His heart sank with disappointment as she stalked off. She’d taken pleasure in the negative charge between them. Raised in a loving home, Warner had never once witnessed his parents argue or fight. Anytime they had a disagreement, his mother would always turn to his father and say, “We’ll talk about it later, darling.” As he grew older, becoming involved in his own relationships, he wondered if his parents’ ‘let’s fight another time’ ever came. Did they argue behind closed bedroom doors? If they did, it never came close to what Rielle brought to the bickering table.
Sheldon confessed later to Warner he’d grown bored at the fundraiser, grabbed a joint from catering, and had snuck into a back bedroom to smoke. Stoned, he’d gazed up to see Rielle grabbing for his attention, unbuttoning his shirt and pants.
“Stop it.”
“Fuck me, Shel.”
“No!”
“Yes.” She’d pushed him onto the bed and attempted to ride him. When he couldn’t get hard, Rielle had pulled her dress top down and shoved her nipples in his face.
“Freak, get off me!” Sheldon had shouted.
Warner heard his brother and had walked in on them as Rielle’s authenticity surfaced. She stood and lunged for him, begging for his attention. Her fake pregnancy bump hit the floor and so did her billionaire-scheming agenda.
“Con artist,” his brother had muttered.
At first, Warner didn’t believe it. The fake pregnancy didn’t make sense to him until he recalled Rielle stating he couldn’t touch her or make love to her while she carried the baby. She also hadn’t allowed him to go to her OB-GYN appointments, because they didn’t exist. He stood stock-still, holding her shoulders as she started hitting him. In Rielle’s mind, her failure was his fault. In one night, he’d observed his engagement and baby become a sham.
That night in St. Barth felt no different.
Warner wiped the phlegm from his face. He reached in his back pocket for his cell and called the St. Barth’s police station.
As authorities arrived, the woman he thought he once knew scratched her own face and tore at her blouse. Rielle claimed he’d beaten her, but the police didn’t buy it. When her charade didn’t work, she pretended to faint, claiming exhaustion from their miscarried love child. Her lie didn’t go over with the female officer who slapped the handcuffs on her wrists. Rielle relieved herself, perhaps in hopes the policewoman would let her go. Or maybe she became scared.
