Knocked Up and Tied Down

by Melinda Minx

  I gasp for breath as her pussy squeezes me. Ruth shudders as she lowers herself down, and then I feel her ass press against my thighs, burying me to the root. She’s engulfed me completely, and judging by the gleam in her eyes, she’s ready to ride me.

  I slap her ass lightly in encouragement, and it spurs her on. She begins to bounce up and down. Her ass slapping against me each time she moves, her tits bounce with every movement. I look up in awe, almost too overwhelmed to move.

  When her wetness begins to drip down onto my balls, an animalistic fervor takes over, and I squeeze her ass so hard that I worry I’ll never let go. I thrust up into her as she rides me, driving my hips skyward, and my cock deeper.

  Ruth rides me harder and faster. I nearly lose it when her hand slips between her thighs and she starts to finger her clit. She rides me so hard that she’d likely break off a lesser man’s cock, but my thickness can handle it. I can handle anything she gives me. Soon, her eyes roll back up into her head and her body quivers, her pussy tightening all around me.

  I thrust harder from beneath her feeling my balls tighten up once again. Even though I already came once tonight, her intense riding has completely refilled my reservoir, and I feel the intense pressure build up like a dam.

  “Ah! Eric, I’m cumming!” She moans.

  Her pussy locks down on my cock and I feel her gush. Her orgasm triggers my own and I release as deeply inside her as I can. I blast the thickest of loads into her already soaking pussy. And then another and another. Ruth never stops moving, she bucks her hips against me, and screams and moans. Her fingers grip my muscular abs, her nails digging in as her orgasm completely overtakes her.

  I finally stop cumming, what feels like eons later. Ruth’s body slows until she’s trembling on top of me, my cock still buried deeply inside her.

  Those eyes lock onto mine, and I find myself wishing I could always see her eyes like this rather than through those thick lenses. She bites her lip as she begins to rise up off my cock. When I finally pull out, there’s a wet pop, and she falls back onto the couch, breathless.

  I lay down behind her, both of us on our sides. My cock is softening, but I press it against her ass all the same. I know I’ll be hard again soon, but for now I just want to lay here with her in my arms.

  14

  Ruth

  All my doubts about Eric were fucked right out of me last night. At some point we moved to the bed, but sleep didn’t happen until we fucked each other several more times. When we finally fell asleep, Eric held me in his arms.

  When I open my eyes, he’s already looking at me with a smile on his face. He didn’t disappear in the morning, never to call or acknowledge me again like the few guys I’ve slept with in the past have done to me.

  Just a few inches from my face, I can see him clearly, but I close my eyes to kiss him. It’s a warm, slow kiss. We spent all our energy last night. When our lips part, he rolls off the bed and stands up.

  He disappears from my narrow focus, becoming a blurry tan shape. I grab my glasses off the nightstand and put them on. They force Eric into focus, and I watch with regret as he covers his perfect abs and arms with a crisp white shirt.

  “You have to work today?” I ask.

  “I have to work every day,” he says.

  “Wouldn’t you still be rich if you took it easy for a day?”

  “It’s rare to find someone as rich as me that ever takes it easy. It’s a personality flaw—or feature—depending how you look at it.”

  “I’ll call it a feature,” I say, smiling.

  “Unfortunately,” he says, popping his collar and wrapping around a tie, “it means I have to leave soon. You’re free to stay here as long as you’d like. If you need to go, you can take the helicopter or—”

  I laugh. “It was fun, but I think I can just take the train.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says. “My chef is making breakfast if you’re hungry.”

  “Your chef…” I say, “I should have figured you’d have a chef if you have a helicopter. Can you cook?”

  “Of course I can cook. I haven’t always been a billionaire,” he says.

  “I know plenty of poor people who can barely make pasta.”

  “I wasn’t one of them,” he says. “Next time you come over, I’ll cook dinner if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you.” I stand up and wrap my arms around him, pressing my breasts against his back. “But I’d still love to have you cook for me all the same.”

  It’s hard to believe that I didn’t trust him before. He probably just hadn’t let his guard down when we first met, and neither had I. Two people can’t really trust each other if they both are hiding something or holding back, but now that he’s let go of his secret, I’m finally ready to open up.

  “This is serious,” I ask, letting go of him. “Right?”

  He turns to face me. He gives me a serious look and runs a hand through my hair. “It is for me.”

  “So you’re not going to just disappear on me, right? Or tell me later that we were just having fun?”

  I don’t want to actually ask this, but it feels like the right time.

  “I want this to be long-term,” he confirms.

  I have to hold back tears. It feels too good to be true.

  “With that big of a smile,” he says, touching my cheek, “I’d almost guess you were thinking you could give up on the LSAT.”

  I laugh. “I wasn’t thinking that! I’m not the kind of woman to just give up on my life’s goals because I’m dating a rich guy.”

  “I was joking,” he says.

  “Eric,” I say. “I really don’t want to work in a bike shop my whole life, but if we end up together—long-term—I’d still rather work in a bike shop than just lounge around all day and mooch off you.”

  Then again, what if we had kids? If Eric works so much, I’d rather raise our kids myself than hire a—Jesus, why am I already thinking about kids? We just slept together for the first time. I’m jumping the gun way too hard. Then it hits me, I didn’t even think of using protection last night. I’m not on the pill either. I could have kids from being so reckless.

  “What’s that look?” he says, leaning in closer to me. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Guys aren’t supposed to ask that. That’s an annoying question reserved for women to ask.”

  “Oh,” he says. “So you want to make sure you work no matter what, but you’re fine with certain gender roles like that?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” I say, laughing and pushing him away.

  He grins. “I’d rather put something else in your mouth.”

  “Me too,” I say, blushing.

  “But now,” he says, “I really need to go. If you’re hungry, just take the stairs down to the dining room.”

  I kiss him goodbye, and watch him step into his private elevator.

  After I get dressed I make my way to the dining room, the table is covered in food. There are freshly baked croissants, some kind of egg and salmon dish, and a glass carafe of what looks—and smells—like freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “Unreal,” I whisper.

  I almost feel bad eating this stuff, like I might get used to this level of luxury, and then eating granola from Aldi won’t ever taste good again.

  I cut open one of the croissants and put the egg and lox onto it, and just as I take my first bite, I feel my phone vibrate.

  I pull it out, hoping that it’s Eric, but I frown when I see that it’s actually my Dad.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say.

  “When were you gonna tell me?” He asks, his voice sounding accusing.

  “About?” I ask.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” he scolds. “The billionaire asshole you’re dating. You didn’t think to tell me about that, sweetheart? Or you didn’t want to tell me about it, because you know it’s a bad idea.”

  I take in a breath, but avoid sighing into the receiv
er. “Look, Dad, I was cautious at first, I admit it. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to make some big deal out of this before I was sure about it. But now I am sure about it.”

  “So that’s why I’m calling you instead of you calling me?”

  “Dad…”

  “I’m just trying to protect you, Ruthy, you know that. I did a lot of research on this Prince guy—and I just really don’t see how any of this is okay.”

  “If I just read about him from tabloids, I wouldn’t think he’s a good guy, but I know him face-to-face, and that’s what tells me he’s a good guy.”

  “I wanna meet him then,” he says. “Or I won’t be able to sleep, you know?”

  “Dad, we just started dating—”

  “If it’s so serious, then he can meet me,” he says, not giving an inch.

  “Alright,” I say, with a sigh. “I’ll ask him.”

  15

  Eric

  “Andrea Copeland for you,” Lana’s voice chirps through the intercom on my desk.

  Andrea Copeland? She’s on the panel for New York’s Best Couple. Or she’s rumored to be, at least.

  “Put her on,” I grunt.

  “She’s here in person.”

  “Send her in then,” I say, trying to sound as friendly as I can, but really my stomach is churning.

  I’d somehow compartmentalized everything in my mind. I’m still glowing from last night, and I’d walled off everything to do with the fucking bet. Until now.

  Andrea walks into my office. She’s wearing a pantsuit with very expensive shoes. She’s pushing fifty, but doesn’t look a day over thirty-five—in the kind of way only the very wealthy can pull off.

  I stand up and shake hands with her, and then I gesture for her to have a seat. I sit in the chair across from her rather than behind my big—and imposing—desk.

  “Mr. Prince,” she says, “I know you’re busy, so I’ll get right to the point. I know it’s supposed to be something we just decide, and you’re not supposed to be ‘on call’ for it, so to speak, but I want to let you know that the panel for New York’s Best Couple—you’ve heard of it, right?”

  “Hmm…” I say non-committally. “I believe so. I didn’t realize you were on the panel though.”

  “I’m rumored to be,” she says. “And the panel is—all rumor of course—hungry for more about you and this girl you’re dating.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Because they are considering you two, of course,” Andrea says.

  Her eyes lock onto me, and I can tell she’s trying hard to read my reaction.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” she says flatly. “You know, I was telling everyone you wouldn’t be interested. We wanted this to be something that just was announced rather than something candidates would ‘perform’ for, but you kind of put a wrench into that.”

  I put up my palms. “How’s that? Andrea, how did I put a wrench into this, I didn’t even do anything knowingly.”

  I notice she dropped the pretense of “rumor,” and has effectively told me she is on the panel. And she speaks for them too, apparently.

  “I know,” she says, “But I had serious doubts you’d actually want to win this, and we can’t have the winning couple be ungracious winners. How would that look? We want this to be a big annual thing, and we can’t have the first winners shrug the whole thing off like it’s no big deal.”

  “And you think that’s what I’d do?” I ask.

  She looks at me as if to say that’s exactly what she thinks I’d do.

  As much as I wish I could back out of this bet and this whole fucking contest, I need to try to win. It’s the only way I can spare Ruth the bloody details of the fucking bet I made with Dmitri.

  “You’re wrong,” I say, leaning forward and looking at her seriously. “I would very much be interested in winning.”

  She furrows her brows at me. “Why’s that?”

  “My reputation is a bit in the tank,” I say. “I’m known as ruthless in business, which helps for certain types of deals, but I’m also known for being aloof and a player, which cuts me out of many markets. This could change that.”

  Andrea narrows her eyes at me. “So is this Ruth Biederman in on it all then?”

  “In on it?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  “It’s not like we’d ever have considered you if you’d just been dating another brainless debutant who summers in the Hamptons.”

  “So you think I hand-picked someone who would give me better chances?” I ask, waving my hand dismissively. “Andrea, I wouldn’t mind winning this, but I also don’t have time to dump a lot of resources into it. I met Ruth by chance, and I’m pleased to hear that the panel thinks we’re a good couple. That’s as far as it goes.”

  Andrea smiles politely and begins to stand. “I don’t really believe it’s so simple with you, Eric, but knowing that you would like to win is all I really need. So thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, standing up. “And I don’t really care if you believe me or not. I’m happy with where we are.”

  She gives a stiff nod of the head. “That’s exactly what I’d say if I were trying to win, but if I also didn’t want to come off too strong.”

  I shrug, and Andrea steps out.

  So the panel is talking about us? Not only that, but Andrea thought the likelihood of me winning was high enough that she blew the panel’s cover and told me? Is she telling everyone who might win the same thing, or just me?

  I’m going to need to get Ruth out in public more. As much as it pains me to think like that, I need us to win this thing to avoid Dmitri’s wrath when I refuse to dump her publicly. As soon as we’ve won, I can just cool it and date her like normal. For now though, I need to make sure we stay fresh in people’s minds, and that we keep making the same splash we did when those photos first leaked.

  16

  Ruth

  I see Maya staring jealous daggers at me as Eric puts a hand onto my waist.

  “Are you doing Critical Mass on Friday, Eric?” Maya asks.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  Wilson holds up a flyer from the counter. “It happens every month. We start here and do a big circuit around Manhattan.”

  “So it’s like a group bike ride?” Eric asks.

  “Yes,” I say, “but it’s to help teach drivers about bike safety and to be aware of bikes.”

  “When there’s just one bike on the road,” Wilson says, “cars can tend to ignore it, or worse, get aggressive and try to pass even when it’s not safe. But when you hit a ‘critical mass’ of bikes…” he quotes in the air with his fingers, and gets a big, self-satisfied grin on his face for the pun, “...then cars are the minority, and they need to treat cyclists with respect.”

  “So safety in numbers,” Eric says. He squeezes me tighter. “Usually, I like to just ride with Ruth.”

  “Ruth doesn’t do Critical Mass,” Maya says. “But you totally should.”

  “I’m doing it this month,” I snap, glaring at Maya.

  She crosses her arms. “What happened to you being against it?”

  “I’m not really,” I say, and I realize I don’t sound at all convincing.

  “It sounds like fun,” Eric says.

  “Those guys you don’t like, Ruth, buy a lot of stuff here. It’s not really good business to turn them away,” Wilson says.

  I sigh. “They ruin the spirit of Critical Mass.”

  Maya rolls her eyes. “Just have fun, not everything has to be so super serious.”

  Eric takes me to the Coffee Snob, and we get espressos.

  “Who are these guys you don’t like?” Eric asks.

  “You’ll see,” I say. “Critical Mass is supposed to be about making drivers ‘respect us,’ but it usually plays out like a bunch of cyclists’ pent-up frustration for the month being released—and taken out—on the drivers. Remember when you were riding around like an asshole on th
e sidewalk? Shouting ‘bikes! bikes!’ imagine that but with five hundred people.”

  I grin, “It does sound like fun then.”

  17

  Eric

  I meet Ruth at the shop on Friday. I’m wearing my bike gear, and hoping that not many bike people will recognize me as Eric Prince. Then again, I need at least someone to recognize me for photos of this to get out. Me and Ruth biking together in an event like this will play up pretty good for the panel, although I am slightly worried about potential bad press from the guys Ruth is worried about. I might get lumped in with them if I’m not careful.

  I arrive early and hang out a bit. Critical Mass starts at 5:00 p.m. when the shop closes, just as Ruth is finishing up for closing, I see hundreds of people with bikes begin crowding the sidewalks all around the shop.

  “This is pretty big,” I say to Wilson.

  “You gotta have a lot of people to reach ‘critical mass,’” he says, grinning and air quoting.

  The door swings open, and two guys ride their bikes into the shop. They have bikes with huge, comically thick tires, like some kind of monster truck bikes. One guy has some kind of huge Bluetooth boom box thing hooked up to his bike, and it’s blasting an old Beastie Boys song from the 80s.

  “Critical Mass!” one of them shouts as he pops a wheelie and rides through the tiny aisles of the shop.

  Wilson laughs nervously as the tire hits a helmet and knocks it off the shelf.

  “These the guys Ruth doesn’t like?” I ask Wilson.

  He leans in toward me. “Yeah.”

  They make a few circuits of the shop, then stop next to Wilson.