by Kylie Parker
Her phone’s battery was dead, and she slammed her fist in frustration. She had been putting off checking it, to read the contract and now she would have to wait longer. As she was trying to charge it the phone rang, it was her ride. Time to go. She looked around the room one last time to see if there was anything she was forgetting. On the way home, she charged her phone in the vehicle, reading the contract as it charged. At first, it was just a typical non-disclosure agreement, which made sense to Selena because of Lawrence’s power and position. The contract itself was more thorough, and it made their relationship sound like a business deal. And that is exactly what it would be. To the public, friends and family they would have a relationship but in private things would be much more complicated. He wanted her to submit to him, full time. Even reading over his requests, what would be required of her, laid out in simple legal terms, she felt herself growing hot.
Section IV: Sub must not masturbate without expressed permission. All masturbation must be recorded and shared.
If Sub disobeys, punishment will be three firm spanks. Four if masturbation leads to orgasm.
Reaching down Selena touched herself, becoming wet with the idea of Lawrence dictating when she orgasmed, also tempting punishment she wanted him to spank her; she was his naughty girl. Impulsively feeling naughty and turned on by the contract, a feeling that surprised her, Selena took out her phone and set the video to record. In the dark back of the limo, she touched her nipple through her shirt and then slowly pulled it up exposing her chest. Holding the camera to record her actions she played with her nipple, making it hard. Then, since she only had one hand free, she let it roam slowly down under her waistband and rubbed herself, moaning. “Oh Lawrence, I got so turned on reading the contract.”
After a few minutes, Selena felt frustrated trying to pleasure herself with only one hand. She readjusted and instead viewed the video she made. Smiling at her naughtiness, she sent it to Lawrence with the title, OPEN ALONE. In the message, she wrote that she had made a little video of her reaction to the contract. Feeling pleased with herself and especially naughty she sat back until she arrived back home. To Lawrence’s home. Settling in she talked first to her editor, confirming yes she would be back tomorrow but she would not be back to work until after the weekend. Beth tried to convince her to stay away longer; she and her boyfriend were enjoying the place to themselves. Selena laughed and encouraged them to pretend she wasn’t there. And finally, she confirmed she would go to dinner with her parents.
After all that, she went to the kitchen to get herself a drink. Her phone rang, and she recognized right away it was Lawrence. Had he watched her video? She answered the phone innocently. “Hi.”
“You naughty girl.” He growled.
“Oh Maestro, I couldn’t help it.” She teased. She heard noises as if people entered a previously empty room.
“We’ll finish this later.” He said and ended the call.
End of Sneak Peek
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BONUS SNEAK PEEK: Chasing Bad Boys Book 6
Chapter One
“Mayday, mayday… United 106 heavy on approach to Dulles Airport. We’re at 34,000ft in an accelerated stall…”
At 7:30 pm on Saturday, March 12th, 2016, 22-year old first officer John Samuels relayed a mayday call in a panic. His much more experienced captain had just risen from his seat and was facing him before suffering a heart attack and collapsing onto the control yoke and onto Samuels himself, pushing the yoke forcefully all the way down. A rather thin man with a dark complexion could do nothing to move the enormous, 6’3” and 315lbs captain away from the control yoke or himself. His head was resting on his right leg while his large stomach kept pressing the yoke down.
“Roger that, United 106. Push the yoke up and…”
“Negative, Dulles tower. The captain has collapsed onto the yoke and will not allow me to push it up…” At that moment, Samuels paused and placed his right thumb and index finger on Captain Richardson’s neck, searching for a pulse.
“I am getting no pulse from the Captain, Dulles. I think he’s dead,” Samuels announced. Silence followed his last remark. Five seconds later, he received a completely unhelpful response.
“Roger that, United 106.”
The young first officer checked his altimeter. His Boeing 767 had already lost more than 6,000ft of altitude and was falling from the sky like a rock. Unwilling to wait for any assistance from the control tower, he grabbed the microphone over his head and addressed the passengers:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I request anyone with flying experience to come to the cockpit. This is an emergency. Repeat, this is an emergency.”
However, up until that moment, every passenger had already realized that the plane was near doom. Samuels could hear the screams of his 195 passengers and his all-female cabin crew could not possibly lend him a helping hand. It seemed that the only way out of this catastrophic scenario was brute force. A skinny, 5’9” man like him had no chance of pulling Richardson off of him and, more importantly, the control yoke.
midst all the chaos, a first class passenger wearing a navy-blue cashmere suit unbuckled his seatbelt and arose to his impressive, 6’4” stature. It was Dean Marshall, heir to the famous Marshall family. Indeed, Dean was an enormous and athletic 214lbs, 32-year old man with more than 3,000 flight hours under his belt in a smaller, but equally sophisticated aircraft. He used to fly all three of his corporate jets all around the States, yet, for once, he had decided not to fly to Washington in one of those. Marshall wanted to keep the reasons for his visit secret. He was on the verge of a major breakthrough: A complex piece of software that could eventually replace pilots. Handsome, eligible billionaires like him never go unnoticed, and the last thing he needed was the paparazzi chasing him around for a statement or a photograph. With short, straight black hair, sky-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a chiseled face, full lips, and a massive chest acquired by endless hours of freediving, Dean Marshall was a great-looking man.
Straightening the suit jacket, out of the corner of his eye and through the tiny opening in the blue curtain, ten feet to the left, Dean caught a flight attendant rushing through the narrow corridor of the passenger cabin. She was a beautiful, slender blonde. She had to be at least 5’9” (not counting her heels), wearing a dark-blue, knee-long dress and black pantyhose, like all United Airlines female flight attendants. However, the young man had no time for flirting. He turned his head to the right and faced the locked, cockpit door, seven feet across him.
Just when he reached it, he heard her sweet, feminine voice and sensed a featherlike touch on his left shoulder.
“Sir!” she exclaimed.
“Sir, do you any flying experience?” At that moment, Dean faced the young flight attendant and only then did he realize just how beautiful she was: She could not have been more than 25 or 26 years-old. She had long, curly blonde hair, light-green eyes, low cheekbones, a celestial nose, and fleshy lips.
“Yeah, I’ve been flying jets for more than six years, Ms…Stiles,” Dean responded in his usual, firm tone, reading the name tag on the left side of her chest, three inches below her shoulder. His voice was deep and manly. Immediately, the young woman opened a small cabinet next to her, pulled out a key and opened the cockpit door.
At that sound, Samuels looked over his right shoulder and saw the two of them entering.
“Sir? I need your help!” he yelled. Dean remained calm and composed. As a pilot, he had faced similar circumstances before, but he had to know more about their situation before he could assist Samuels.
“Can you please take the captain off of me and the control yoke?” Samuels’ voice got even louder. Without uttering a word, Dean made two steps to the right and leaned forward. He then went to squeeze his large, long arms under Captain Richardson’s stomach.
“Ok, help me out here, man. What’s your name again?” Dean kept his voice down; it was imp
ortant not to add to Samuels’ stress.
“My name’s John Samuels. What would you have me do, sir?”
“Name’s Dean Marshall. Push him up. Push him way up. This guy weighs a ton…” Dean gritted his teeth and flexed his arm muscles, in an attempt to lift Richardson. Samuels put his right hand on the captain’s face and his left hand on his chest.
“Ok. 3,2,1… Push!”
After Dean’s countdown, both men flexed their muscles. The young first officer soon blushed while gritting his teeth. Squinting at him and also gritting his teeth, Dean saw a large vein on Samuel’s forehead; it was about to explode. Realizing how heavy Richardson was, he held him even tighter in his grasp, leaned forward, and stuck his left cheek on his back. Then, flexing every muscle in his body, he continued his seemingly hopeless attempt to remove the captain from the control yoke.
A drop of sweat ran down his forehead. Athletic as he was, he still had to give it his all. Finally, after a thirty-second struggle, the two of them managed to pull the captain up. Dean was so exhausted by the effort that he felt his knees shaking. He dropped Richardson at once. The overweight airman landed hard on his back on the cockpit floor.
Meanwhile, the plane’s altitude was dropping, fast. Samuels squinted at the altimeter.
“What’s our altitude?” Dean’s voice was trembling; he was gasping for breath.
“17,000ft and dropping. Mr. Marshall…?” Samuels faced Dean again, on his left.
“Have you ever recovered from a stall, sir? This is my first flight. Ever. I don’t know if I can do this.” The inexperienced officer was terrified. Dean nodded with his mouth partially open. Before he sat in the captain’s seat, though, he knew that he had to push the control yoke all the way up in order to push the nose of the plane down and reduce the angle of attack. No airplane responds immediately after such action; they all take four or five seconds to respond and those seconds could eventually prove vital for the survival of everyone on board.
Dean strapped himself in and faced the first officer.
“Samuels, we can do this. All I want you to do is handle communications, ok? Don’t worry…” Dean then averted his gaze from Samuels and looked outside the cockpit window. It was a dark, moonless night.
“It’s all gonna be alright,” he added. Dean checked the airspeed and took the controls in his hands lightly. His heart was pounding in his chest. Both men then sensed the plane leveling off, slowly and steadily. The plane flew at 172mph, and its speed was slowly increasing. Before the stall, and due to Richardson, the plane had slowed down dangerously, gradually losing lift. He watched the airspeed increase—175,180, 190. When the plane finally reached 200 miles per hour, Dean posed a question:
“What’s the plane’s VY (the best rate of climb)?”
“Uh… 250 is good…” Samuels wiped the sweat from his brow and went on to notify the control tower in Dulles International Airport but, before he did, he chirped:
“Mr. Marshall, you did it!” He opened his eyes widely and faced Dean; the first officer was delighted. Dean then went on to trim the airplane to a speed near 250 miles per hour. He rolled the trim wheel back a little; it resulted in a decrease in trim speed. His actions did not result in a steady climb. The plane was now less than 10 miles away from the airport. Neither of the two men could hear screams anymore.
At only 4,000ft, a sigh of relief escaped Dean. He lay back in the captain’s seat and closed his eyes before he addressed the first officer again:
“Tell them to clear our path for landing. The last thing we want is a mid-air collision. You got control…”
Chapter Two
A few minutes before 8pm that night, passengers and crew burst into wild applause. The United Airlines Boeing 767 had just touched down, and they were relieved that their ordeal was finally over. They would all live to tell the tale of their sudden and nearly fatal descent. Isabelle Miles, the flight attendant who had earlier run into Dean Marshall was the first to get up from her seat at the rear exit of the plane. With a huge smile on her face, she ran towards the cockpit door while her colleagues were checking on the passengers to see if anyone was hurt.
Her eyes were fixed on the cockpit door. It opened just when she arrived at the first class section. Dean opened it and sauntered towards the rest of the passengers. He was the man of the hour, the hero they all had to relied on in order to get out of that predicament alive. But, the only ones aware of that fact were Isabelle and the rest of the first class passengers. Samuels did what he thought was right: He stayed in the cockpit and addressed the passengers using the microphone:
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your first officer speaking. Captain Richardson passed away a few minutes ago. If it weren’t for Mr. Dean Marshall, we’d all be dead by now… We helped each other, but I’m afraid he deserves most of the credit. He was incredible. Let’s hear another round of applause for Mr. Marshall!”
Of course, none of the passengers needed any motivation. As soon as he emerged, every single one of them applauded and cheered for him. Isabelle had to step aside to allow them to get closer to him and shake his hand. Some of them went on to hug Dean. He had a crooked smile on his face and kept thanking everyone separately. His commanding presence, his earlier feat, and his polite nature had Isabelle smitten. She felt the urge to talk to him, so she took a step forward towards him and laid her right hand on his right forearm, gently squeezing it to draw his attention.
“Mr. Marshall, on behalf of the crew and everyone on board, thank you so much.” The young flight attendant was overwhelmed with emotion. After finishing her sentence, she wrapped her arms around his back and hugged him. She sensed his strong arm on her back. Dean never passed on beautiful women, especially when they looked like her.
“I’m just glad we made it…” he muttered under his breath. Then, he pulled a business card out of his left pocket and handed it over to Isabelle. However, she did not want to lose sight of him and kept staring at the tall, handsome man in front of her.
Monica Miller, Isabelle’s 27-year old friend and colleague, was amidst the cheering passengers. By standard procedure, the plane had to be evacuated. No one seemed to be in a hurry and all five flight attendants had to lead them to the front, middle, and rear exits. Dean waited patiently while gazing at the passenger cabin. His eyes met with Isabelle’s just before he stepped outside. Then he turned around, extended his right hand, and placed it on the wall next to the front exit. He ran his fingertips up and down twice before he looked at Isabelle over his right shoulder. Dean winked at her, and she smiled back at him.
Monica was 5’11”, 152lbs, with long, layered raven hair which made her face looked sleek and straight. She and Isabelle had been friends since their freshman year in college and were lucky enough to be working together. With oval-shaped, light-green eyes, a thin nose, high cheekbones, and classy lips, Monica Miller was a stunning woman by any standards.
Watching the whole incident less than fifteen feet away, Isabelle’s friend wanted to tease her, as she often did.
“I see you’ve made a new friend there. You’ve always had good taste in men…” Monica’s voice was usually fruity, yet, whenever she had something similar in mind, she would lower it and attempt to sound as sexy as possible. For all her effort though, she got no response. Isabelle kept staring at the open plane exit.
Monica then walked towards her friend. The sound of her 3-inch high heels resounded in the empty cabin. Finally stopping two feet to Isabelle’s right, she tried to draw her attention by waving her right hand in front of her.
“Earth to Isabelle? Hello?” Monica raised her voice. Isabelle blinked. She snapped out of it and faced her friend.
“What?” Her voice was almost inaudible. Monica burst into laughter.
“Oh, my God! Thanks a lot, darling. I needed that…” Monica put her shoulders on two airplane seats behind her and sat on an armrest.
“What did you need, Mon?” Isabelle could still not understand.
“Look at you… You’re totally in love with this guy!” Monica’s voice got thick all of a sudden.
“What, you mean Marshall?” Isabelle used her right index finger to point to the exit.
“Yeah…” Monica then arose to her impressive stature and got serious.
“No, I’m not in love with him!” Isabelle said, getting upset.
“But, did you see what he just did?” she went on.
“Yes, I did, Izzy. I was here, remember?” Monica’s tone was firm. Putting her hands on her friend’s shoulders, she leaned slightly forward and looked at her right into her eyes.
“And yes, you are. You are hopelessly in love with him…”
Born and raised in Washington, DC, Isabelle and Monica would be on a planned leave starting the next day. They would visit their friend and former colleague, 26-year old Kate Stinson. She had married Jonathan Stinson, a 44-year old, successful lawyer seven months earlier and was currently living in North Haven, New York. Kate loved her job, but her husband was a little old-fashioned and did not want her to work at all. More than that, the man was afraid of flying. Ironically, the two of them had met aboard a flight to Los Angeles.
The two friends knew that they would have to talk to the NTSB about the whole incident, but did not want to wait until the next day. So, they volunteered to be interviewed first. At about 11pm that night, they were at last free to go and pack. Monica would pick up Isabelle from her apartment on 16th street the following morning at 9am. It would be their first road trip in more than two years and they were really excited. They would have a chance to discuss their experience throughout the 330-mile long trip to North Haven in Monica’s red Toyota RAV-4.
As fate would have it, the weather on Sunday, March 13th was quite bad. It was cold and wet; the rain would not let up. At 9:45am, on I-95 S, staring at Dean’s gray, laminated business card in her right palm, Isabelle could not get him out of her mind. She wore a pink sweater and jeans, whereas Monica only had a thick, purple sweatsuit on.
