But they were young—probably freshmen college students at Nova out on their first night, still riding that first high of having their way with their daddies’ credit cards away from their hometowns. I was impressed that one of them was still looking at me, making eye contact. She had dark skin and short hair, and her dark eyes told me she knew exactly what she wanted out of life.
Part of my job was to recognize potential, and she was brimming with it. I could tell.
But she was too young for me. I was thirty, and I always thought that men my age going after women that age were playing in a shallow pond they were too big for.
Our eye contact lasted about half a second before I smiled and looked elsewhere, shutting her down subtly. I could tell she was going places in life, but my bedroom wasn’t going to be one of them. There were plenty of local young men who could oblige her.
My eyes moved across the room and held attention as though my gaze was my physical presence. I passed over a group of medical students that I could recognize by the tight-bound hair and the stress that radiated off them. I enjoyed relieving that stress, sometimes, but not tonight. Maybe it was the whisky putting me in just the right headspace, but I wanted something I’d remember.
That didn’t happen often, though.
The sound of awkward laughter I could barely hear through the music drew my attention to the bar to my left. I knew that kind of laugh.
There was a woman leaning against the bar that my eyes drank in immediately. She had olive skin and legs so long she could probably lean over the bar and show off that ass she had, rounder than any I’d seen tonight. Curly black hair spilled down past her shoulders, dancing just below the straps of a black bikini top. Her face in profile showed full lips and smoldering eyes.
She was talking to a man that was a few years younger than her, probably more in league with the freshmen girls, and she clearly wasn’t interested. The guy was broad-shouldered and had the look of an athlete about him—strong, but untested.
I got the bartender’s attention with a glance, and she made her way over to me. I nodded to the brunette. “Vodka cranberry for her. Let her know it’s from me.”
The bartender gave me a tight, knowing smile, but she obeyed. She always did. I’d have to thank her for her service one of these days, or at least set her up with a colleague of mine she’d appreciate.
I watched the drink go to the mystery girl, who looked surprised, but not as surprised as the guy. The girl looked back to me, and those eyes of hers lit up with a spark of interest. She paused for a moment, but I watched a smile play across her face before she turned to the guy to say something. I could read her lips well enough to know she was saying something to the effect of “. . . my friend over there,” pointing to me, and she gave the unsuccessful man a slight wave before making her way over to me.
The guy glared at me for a moment, sizing me up, but the look I gave him put him in his place. It was close to closing time, but at least he wasn’t drunk enough to think he could start trouble over what I’d done.
“Thanks for that,” the girl said as she took her place at my side, leaning against the bar and taking a sip of the drink. She let her eyes do a little drinking of their own. “How did you know I like vodka?” she asked.
“Lucky guess,” I admitted with a smile. I arched an eyebrow at her. “That accent of yours. Greek, isn’t it?”
She brightened a little, genuinely surprised. “Wow, I’m impressed. You’re the first one to guess it right. I’ve been listening to guys ask if I’m Russian all night.”
“That one wasn’t a guess,” I said, still not turning my body to face her. I was still sizing this one up, after all. “I’ve had business there a few times. But wait, Russian? Really?”
“I know, right?” she said with a laugh, rolling her eyes.
“So, what brings you all the way to Florida?” I asked. “Law school?”
She blushed, giggling. “Flattering, but I’m out celebrating a job with a couple of my friends. We just got hired as servers at one of the five-star resorts around here.” She pointed across the open-air bar to the rows upon rows of glittering high-rises that loomed over the beach. “That one’s me,” she said with a smile, knowing there was no way to make out individual hotels here.
I laughed, leaning into her and pretending to look where she was pointing. “Ahh, yes, that’s a nice one.” She giggled and bumped her hips into me, and I held up my drink to her. “But I think congratulations are in order.”
“I think so too,” she said with a little pride I admired, clinking glasses with me as we drank.
“Where are your friends?” I asked, looking around the bar. She rolled her eyes and pointed to a couple of men in short-shorts who had their hands in each other’s back pockets, clearly flirting with each other.
“They’re here, just a little distracted,” she said, leaning into me and smiling. “I’m feeling...what do you call it, ‘third wheel syndrome’?”
I laughed, sliding my hand around her waist and feeling the soft give of her hips, drawing them into me. She put up no resistance, her eyes lidded as she looked up at me. “Close enough,” I said in a low tone, “but spending the night as a third wheel is no way to celebrate a new job.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, her eyes sparkling hopefully up at me. “What do you suggest?”
My smile grew more meaningful, and I reached down to brush a little curly hair away from her ear to whisper into it in a husky tone. “I think we should fix that,” my voice rumbled softly, and I felt her shiver, her smile growing. “And give you a taste of something you deserve.”
She didn’t need much more encouragement. They never did. She quickly finished off her drink and set it on the bar, and I took out a wad of cash that I placed next to it, nodding to the bartender.
The Greek girl’s eyes widened at the hundreds I just put down. Before I could let her ask questions, I tugged her along with me, my hand still on her waist.
“The extra is taxi fare for her friends,” I told the bartender, nodding to the two men who were too wrapped up in each other to notice me and the girl. She nodded, and the girl smiled up at me as I led her away.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she said.
“No, but you’re all celebrating,” I said as we made our way out of the bar and started walking down the docks. “Besides,” I added, “you might be late for work tomorrow.”
She giggled, and there was a pause as though she was trying to come up with something clever to say back, but that just turned into more laughter as her hand ran up the back of my shirt, feeling my rippling muscles. She’d had more than enough to drink, and by the way I was swaying on my way out, I could tell that I had too. That didn’t matter. My mind was swimming with the thoughts of this woman’s legs around my hips, my thick cock thrusting up into her against the wall of my suite before I put her on her knees on my bed and had her crying out for more until we were both slick with her honey and panting on the bed.
“My place is on the docks, though,” I said in a husky whisper, “so we can take all the time we need.”
“You’re very kind, Mister…” she trailed off, waiting for my name.
“Tonight,” I said, “you can just call me ‘sir’.”
Two
Jillian
God, it was so damn hot.
I fanned myself with the manila folder in my hands, sighing heavily as I looked out the tinted window of the black Mercedes Benz, silently wishing the chauffeur would turn the air conditioning on just a notch higher.
I glanced through the partition and noted that it could, in fact, go up one more level if I asked. I bit my lip. Sure, I was used to getting what I wanted. I had money, means, and moxy. I wasn’t afraid to stand up and stand out, and when something needed to be done, I was always the first one rushing to do it. But sometimes I still hated feeling like I was asking too much of people. Especially since my driver, who was a Florida local, didn’t se
em the least bit bothered by the incredible heat. He was happily humming to himself, a tune I vaguely recognized. Probably a Jimmy Buffett song.
The folks around here were all about that chilled-out, Hawaiian-shirt aesthetic. For someone from around here, the temperature today probably did feel pretty pleasant. Eighty degrees is downright chilly if you’re used to one-hundred-and-ten in the summer months.
So I decided to keep my annoyance to myself, but I did make a mental note to wear something a little less fallish tomorrow. This wasn’t New York or Martha’s Vineyard. This was not the Hamptons. This was Fort Lauderdale and yes, even in November, it was still hotter than any place had a right to be.
Of course, it was sometimes difficult to keep tabs on what the weather and climate would be like on any given day. I traveled so frequently—well, more like constantly—that as soon as I started to feel comfortable and at home in one time zone, I was on back on the tarmac, jetting off to the next ritzy locale.
Last week, I had spent a few days off the coast of Washington state, chatting up some wealthy Seattleites who were retiring and planning to head down the California coast. Their plan was to pass their booming, wildly successful tech company to their children and retire in San Francisco, take up yachting as their new hobby and lifestyle. Because that’s what it was: a lifestyle. At least, that was what I told all my clients.
Buying a yacht is a uniquely life-changing event, I would tell them, because a yacht isn’t just some toy you can toss in a garage and let collect dust. A yacht is not a Ferrari. A yacht is not a tennis court. The loaded retiree I spoke to in Washington had scoffed at first, responding that he had been on a friend’s yacht before and while it was enjoyable, it certainly wasn’t the life-altering experience I was trying to sell him on.
I loved when a client tried to challenge me on my sales pitch. It made my heart race, made the adrenaline start pumping. It was the thrill of the chase, the dramatic but subtle to-and-fro, back-and-forth of the sale. It was my job to paint a beautiful, irresistible portrait for my clients, promise them heaven and actually deliver. So I explained to him in elaborate, eloquent detail, how it was a different experience when it was your yacht. When you were the one at the helm, deciding how far to sail and how long to drift. When you chose which champagnes to stock, what manner of bartender to hire, what music to play. Buying a yacht was a game of infinite choices and customizability. For a bored, spoiled retiree who was very accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted when he wanted and where, it was a gold mine. A honey trap. All I had to do was prove to him how many expensive, detailed choices he would get to make over the course of the purchasing process, and he was hooked.
I had to admit, I was pretty damn good at my job.
“Oh, right up here is fine, thank you,” I told the driver, leaning forward slightly.
“To the curb, ma’am?” he asked.
I nodded and smiled at his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yes, perfect.”
“Very good, ma’am. And when would you prefer to be picked up?”
I thought about it a moment. How long would this sale take? I had been sent here on a very important and unusually personal mission: to stake out and purchase a yacht for a client I knew better than anyone else in the world. My older brother, Jeff. It was strange, being on location not to sell a yacht, but to buy one. It wasn’t unheard of for me to play customer, of course. As a broker, it was my job to inspect and buy products and designs for our growing portfolio. But this time, I needed to find the perfect ship. Family was everything to me, and my brother was no exception.
“I’m not sure yet,” I confessed to the driver. “I will be in touch when I have a better idea of how the day will go.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The black Benz rolled to a stop at the curb outside a ritzy-looking coffee shop on the boardwalk and the chauffeur hopped up to come around and open the door for me. I took his hand as he helped me out and I nearly gasped at the oppressive heat bearing down on me. I had to fight the urge to swear at the sun. Too hot. Way too hot.
“Have a wonderful day, ma’am,” said the chauffeur. I gave him a hasty smile and nodded.
“You, too,” I said.
He got back behind the wheel and drove off, leaving me melting on the sidewalk with my manila folder and my designer work bag. I pulled my aviators out of my bag and slid them on, looking around at my options. I needed a quiet, cool place to sit and look over my notes. And some iced coffee wouldn’t hurt, either.
I was a shameless caffeine addict. I’d already had a mug and a half of terrible hotel room coffee before the driver even arrived to pick me up this morning. But with my job, my chemical dependency could hardly be held against me. With the way I hopped back and forth between wildly varying time zones, it made perfect sense that I didn’t sleep much. I was in a constant state of adjustment, either jetlagged or wired or both at any given time. And it was vital to my success that my clients would see me as confident and competent. That meant I needed to be on my A-game all the time, no matter how exhausted or loopy I really felt.
In the evenings, I turned to a Manhattan to keep me relaxed and in the zone, but in the mornings? It was all about the coffee. So I turned on my strappy Louboutin heel and walked into the coffee shop behind me. As soon as I passed through the door, I was wrapped in a wave of ice-cold air conditioning and I knew I’d made the right choice. I stepped up to the counter and smiled at the barista, a young girl with cropped blonde hair and what had to be a permanent Florida tan. I definitely envied her that—it was always a joke I made to my clients that they had to just take my word for the fact that I knew my yachts well, because with my pale skin it was probably a little hard to believe I’d ever spent much time in the sun. Still, I thought my creamy skin contrasted quite nicely with my long, sleek, dark brown hair and light green eyes. Jeff, my brother, always poked fun at me for it. He inherited our father’s golden tan and dirty blond hair, so he looked like the poster boy for yachting, whereas I looked more like someone who worked in an office somewhere and rarely saw the light of day. He was forever teasing me, prodding me to go get a spray tan or something. But that wasn’t me. I knew who I was and I was comfortable this way. As far as I was concerned, there was no need to change.
Still, sometimes I wished I had that natural glow, too.
“Hello. Welcome to the Java Jetty Café,” chirped the peppy barista. “What can I get started for you today?”
“Hi, yeah, I’m going to need an iced coffee with a double shot of espresso,” I said.
“Any special flavor? We have mocha, caramel, white chocolate, gingerbread, pumpkin spice, and raspberry,” she rattled off, her smile never wavering. I almost laughed.
“Gingerbread? Really?” I asked, amused.
She nodded cheerfully. “It’s seasonal for autumn,” she explained.
I glanced back out at the blazing sunshine, the sparkling blue waters of the harbor visible through the wide window. “Doesn’t quite feel like autumn here to me,” I said, getting out my wallet. “Must be pushing eighty-five out there.”
The barista shrugged. “It’s Fort Lauderdale. We don’t really get much of a fall. Or a winter. But the gingerbread flavor really is good if you want to try it.”
I grinned. “Sure. Let’s do gingerbread.”
“What size would you like?”
I handed her my credit card and answered, “The largest size you have.”
Once I had ordered my massive cup of iced coffee, I found a table by the big window and set up shop. I took out my tablet, my phone, and my notes on the seller I was supposed to meet in about an hour or so. I started scanning the bullet points I’d made a couple days back, taking down information from my brother about his specific preferences in regards to the yacht. He was, like our father before him, a shockingly picky guy for someone who could look at home on someone’s back deck grilling hotdogs and hamburgers.
Jeff was a chameleon of sorts. He could look equally comfortable relax
ing with a beer in his hand or seated at a table in the fanciest restaurant surrounded by billionaire businessmen. I wasn’t quite that flexible. My job was stressful, with long, weird hours and constant travel. I technically lived in Atlanta, Georgia, but I was on the road so often that it hardly felt like home when I was there. My apartment was sparse, decorated nicely but without a lot of personal character. Don’t get me wrong, I thrived on the stress of dealing in such a high-stakes market, but sometimes it did wear on me. I rarely slept more than a few hours a night, and bouncing from city to city made it pretty impossible to make and maintain a lot of friendships.
And a romantic relationship? Well, that was pretty much off the table altogether.
Just then, my phone rang. A FaceTime call. I quickly answered, “Yes?”
“Jilly!” exclaimed my older brother. He was grinning. I sighed.
“Hey, Jeff. What’s up?”
“Just calling to check in on how the deal is going,” he said.
He sounded out of breath, panting a little. There were trees behind him, the cry of seagulls in the background. I told him, “I haven’t even gotten to meet the guy yet. Be patient. Are you running or something?”
“Jogging. Gotta stay in shape. I thought the meeting was at ten,” he said, moving the phone to show his running outfit. He was all sweaty. I grimaced.
“Yeah. It’s nine-thirty. You’re in Monaco, still, right? So you’re in a different time zone,” I explained to him, rolling my eyes. “I’ll call you as soon as the meeting is done, okay?”
“Can we just go over the notes one more time really quickly?” he asked.
I groaned. “I need to prep for the meeting right now. I don’t have time.”
“Come on, I just want to make sure all the details are right.”
“I got it. All the info is correct. You just have to leave me alone and let me handle it. I have an MBA. I have experience. I know what I’m doing here, Jeff. Chill,” I told him.
“What if the guy is a jerk? What’s his name again?” he pestered me.
Double Mountain Trouble: A MFM Menage Romance Page 18
