by Denise Avery
He felt her eyes heavy upon him and flashed a half-second long smile to ease the awkwardness between them. Though she felt that he was taking pity on her young, inexperienced self, she was glad for it. Through the thick fog that had descended upon her the moment she had locked eyes with her benefactor, Claire heard the subway PA system call out the name of her stop. Feeling embarrassed by her behavior with a married man, Claire muttered a quick thanks and darted into the crowd of hurrying bodies. She was sure to be late to work, now.
***
She stood at her bedroom window, gazing out across the rooftops and water towers toward the Manhattan Bridge. It arched gently across the East River like a sighing lover, and Claire knew that whenever she saw it from that day forward, she would be unable to think of anything apart from the man who had come to her rescue in her hour of need.
For the thousandth time that day, she shook her head, trying to dislodge her mystery man from his residence there. “Get it together, Claire!” she urged herself, “He was just some stranger on the subway. He’s probably forgotten all about you already. And besides, he’s married. And you’ve got Tommy! And whatever, he’s probably the type that likes skinny little brunettes anyway.”
She ran her hands along her sides, assuring herself that the swell of her natural curves was a blessing, not the curse it could be when met with a twig-loving man. For some reason, she felt unusually lonely in the apartment. Tommy was out at practice. She rolled her eyes just thinking about his “practicing”. He and his two guy buddies had what they called a “sketch comedy troupe”. The only thing was, they never performed anywhere, or recorded any sketches, or even came up with original material. All they did was get stoned and watch YouTube videos of British comedy teams and get off on how “sophisticated” they were.
“Christ,” Claire said under her breath, “I need a real man in my life.”
She made her way to the kitchen and snatched up the box of Pop Tarts (toaster pastries... whatever, she thought). Settling down for a long evening of novel-reading and Craigslist-ing, Claire tore open the foil wrapper of a pastry with her teeth and settled down onto her nicely made bed. As she ripped off a chunk of dough, the front doorbell rang. Or, rather, it hiccupped, being poorly made. But still...
Claire pulled herself to standing and brushed crumbs from the fabric that stretched tautly over her breasts. It was probably her super at the door, here to bug her about storing her bike in the lobby. He was always on her case about something, and after the day she’d had, she was just about ready to rip someone a new one.
“George, I told you,” she shouted through the door, “I don’t have room for Janis in here with all Tommy’s guitar crap!”
She pulled the door open and promptly dropped her pastry to the floor. There, framed by her doorway, was the man from the subway. Her angel. He looked just as ruggedly stunning as he had that afternoon, but softer somehow. He was leaning against the threshold, smiling somewhat sheepishly but still clearly in control of his emotions.
“Who’s Janis?” he asked, coolly.
“Oh...” Claire said, gaping at him, “Janis is... my bike.”
“That’s adorable,” he said, smiling. She wasn’t surprised to see that he had a perfect set of teeth. The better to rip her clothes off with? He laughed as if he had read her mind. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here...”
“Uh-uh,” Claire said lamely, “I mean, not that I mind or anything, but—”
“You dropped your scarf,” he said, holding up the garment for her to see. “I thought that I’d be a good citizen and return it.”
“Oh.”
“May I come in?” he asked, ever the gentlemen.
“Yeah...” Claire said, suddenly self-conscious of her too-small tee shirt and yoga pants ensemble. “Come on in! Would you... uh... like a Pop Tart?”
He laughed kindly and shook his head. As his eyes took a quick look around the messy apartment, Claire felt insanely young and unprepared. She was reeling from proximity to him. What was he doing here? What could he possibly want? She tugged at the too-short shirt that barely covered her midriff and saw his eyes widen. Could he have come here for...?
“It was so nice of you to help me today,” Claire said quickly, not allowing herself to dream of his hands on her, “With that creep and all.”
“To tell you the truth, I felt a bit creepy after that ordeal as well,” he said, letting the front door close behind him. He slid the lock into place and turned to face her. “I can’t understand what happened to me when I saw that man try to touch you. I felt... jealous.”
“What?!” Claire spluttered, “I mean... what do you...?”
“It’s like... I knew in that moment that I wanted you to belong to me,” the man said, advancing on Claire, “I wanted it to be my hands on you. And only mine.”
“...Oh?” Claire said faintly. The man was inches away from her, towering a foot taller than she. She felt her breath quicken, and her breasts began to heave before her. The man registered this and let out a soft moan. He lifted a strong, firm hand and cupped her quivering chin, tilting her eyes up to meet his.
“I would never dream of doing anything you didn’t want me to do,” he said deliberately, absolutely. “Do you understand that?” Claire nodded, mute. Every fiber of her being screamed in agony of his being so near and not yet in her, through her. “May I...” he said, and she felt his finger tips on her arm, “May I touch you?” She thought she would swoon as she nodded violently, pressed against the wall of her small apartment’s hallway.
He let his fingers run down her arm with excruciating care. As his hand met her waist, he let his arm slide around her body and pulled her to him. Her breasts pressed firmly against his chest, and she felt his hot breath on her neck. His hands found their way to her hips, and she let her own wander along his chest. She wove her fingers through his pitch black hair and, on a wave of newborn courage, tugged at the roots of it. He gasped softly, his fingers digging into the flesh of her back. He clearly liked a bit of roughhousing, Claire thought. That boded well.
The man threw his weight against Claire’s body and pinned her to the wall with his hips. She felt a sudden, urgent need to draw him in, into the deepest parts of her. Her shoulders smacked against the wall as she steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders. Their eyes met in the dim twilight.
“I want you to take me,” she whispered, amazed at her daring, “Take me for yourself.”
He didn’t need any coaching. The man’s grabbed a handful of Claire’s ass and savored the feel of it in this grasp. With the other hand, he cupped her breast, marveling at the size, the resistance, the touch of it. He let his thumb glance across her nipple, and a rolling wave of pleasure coursed through her body. She remembered suddenly, thankfully, that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her erect nipples rose through the thin cotton of her shirt, inviting the man. He happily accepted.
His hands crept easily up through Claire’s shirt and wrapped around her breasts. His hands were smooth but not soft. They were the hands of a man who knew how to work a woman over. He tweaked and pinched at her nipples, edging her toward the peak of pleasure. Hungrily, he drew her shirt over her head and took in the sight of her breasts, bared before him as if in offering. She felt him then, pressed against exactly where he wanted to be: he was hard for her, and she was not going to let that hardness abate without savoring every inch of it.
As he hurried to undo his button-down, she slid her hands lightly across his hard cock. He nearly whimpered, wanting her so badly. She let her hands graze his package, ran her fingertips across the waist of his slacks. His breathing sped up, and she took in his beautiful torso. His rippling chest and heaving shoulders, all of his muscles toned and bared before her. He was nearly twitching with anticipation and she unbuckled his belt.
Staring into his eyes, she dove into the front of his pants and found the sweet, sinewy hardness of his dick with her eager hands. She was shocked at the sheer size of him
—he was a stallion. As she worked her hands up and down his shaft, he closed his eyes in bliss. His hands found their way to her thighs and, through the cotton of her pants, her pussy.
The lightest touch of his fingers against her sent her into a frenzy. She savored the feel of his rock hard manhood in her hands as he ripped down her pants and thrust his hands between her legs. They moaned in unison as his fingers felt her sweet wetness for want of him. He let his fingers glide along the edge of her pussy, and tightened her grip on his unimaginably huge cock. As he brushed against her clit, Claire felt herself soar as boundless pleasure surged through every pore of her, along every inch.
The man smiled, having found the key to her pleasure, and rubbed her clit earnestly. She went limp in his arms, but he held her up, stroking faster and faster, urging her toward climax. He grew harder and harder and she began to shriek with joy, her pussy so wet that she was sure she could take him, big as he was. At the edge of orgasm, he leaned in to her, lay his lips against her ear...
“You’re mine,” he whispered, and she was gone. Past the edge of reason, and time, riding waves of back-arching pleasure in his sturdy arms.
“I love you!” she said, short of breath, straining, delighted.
“What?” a small voice answered her. It wasn’t his voice, but one further off. Her conscience, perhaps?
“I said I love you,” she repeated, looking him in the eye. He seemed to be fading.
“What are you talking about, Claire?” said the voice. It was a woman’s, and too close now for comfort. Claire shook her head roughly and was devastated as the scene of her passion faded.
It had only been a daydream.
Claire wiped at her forehead with the sleeve of her coat. She’d only just arrived at work for the day, and she was in no state to be around anyone. She looked around, amazed that she’s been able to navigate to the store in the state she’d been in. She felt a sinking in her stomach as she realized that Cheryl must have come early to open the store. Sure enough, there she was: super model tall and thin, face lined from years of smoking, a short, severe bob and all. And she sure didn’t look pleased.
“How nice of you to show up,” Cheryl said, her thin, high voice creaking with anger.
“I... I’m so sorry Cheryl. The train—”
“I don’t really give a shit.” Cheryl said, scowling. “This is really unacceptable, Claire. My husband and I need to go to our son’s parent teacher conference. Or something. What if you’d made us late?”
For the first time, Claire noticed that there was another body in the room. A man’s. He was just finishing a cell phone call and turned toward the women. He looked familiar...
The bottom dropped out of Claire’s gut. It was him. Her mystery man. He was... Cheryl’s husband? Oh, no... Claire thought. This is not going to end well...
“Parker, this is Claire. Claire, Parker.” Cheryl said, striding toward the exit. “Try not to mess anything else up today. OK, Claire? Come on, Parker. Get the lead out.”
She strode out the door, letting it slam behind her. Claire stared at Parker, unable to believe that it was him standing before her. To her surprise, his expression mirrored hers.
“Hello... Claire,” he managed, drinking her in.
“Hi, Parker,” she responded, smiling at him.
“I’ve... uh... Got to run,” he said awkwardly. “I guess I’ll... see you?”
“I guess?” Claire offered, and he made his way past her toward the door. As he did, she dared to let her hand graze his. He looked back at her as he left and, for the first time in real life, smiled at her.
Oh my god, Claire thought, her world spinning on its head, what have I gotten myself into?
* * * * *
Chapter 2
* * * * *
“Are you even listening to me?”
“What?” Claire Baxter looked up guiltily from her coffee cup and saw that her best friend Savannah was not amused by her absentmindedness. They were sitting across from each other at their favorite neighborhood coffee shop on what was supposed to be a catch-up date. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“Oh my god,” Savannah exclaimed, “What has been going on with you lately? I feel like I’ve been venting to a brick wall all week. Are you on drugs or something?”
Claire grinned at her friend, appreciative of her straight shooting. Claire and Savannah had been like sisters their entire lives and longer—their moms had been next-door-neighbors and good friends themselves before the girls were born. Savannah was the perfect complement to Claire in every way, and though they had plenty of things in common, in some ways they were like night and day.
Whereas Claire was as buxom and blonde as any Swedish milkmaid, Savannah was absolutely pocket-sized. She was four eleven on a good day, rail thin, and had straight black hair that she wore to her waist. The girls had been hearing the obvious “Betty and Veronica” jokes for ages, but couldn’t deny how spot-on the comparison was. Savannah was far more outgoing than soft spoken Claire, and much more likely to get into trouble. While Claire had only been with two guys in her life, her high school and college sweethearts as it were, Savannah’s “number” was definitely in the double digits. Claire would never give Savannah flack for being promiscuous—in fact, she rather envied her, being too shy herself to take advantage of her man-snagging curves.
“I was saying that I think I might try and convince Brandon to come out this weekend, if he doesn’t have work,” Savannah went on.
“Which one is Brandon?” Claire asked.
“The barista.”
“Again... which one?”
“The taller one.”
“Oh... Yeah, he’s cute.”
“Right?” Savannah flashed her signature devilish grin, “I’ve got big plans for this one.”
“Oh, wow... Are you thinking he’s relationship material?” Claire asked.
“Relationship material? There’s no such thing. You must be on drugs after all. No, I just bought a new vibrator that I want him to help me break in. It has five settings. Five.”
“Oh... Cool,” Claire said lamely. She wished that she could be more adventurous, like Savannah was. “You really don’t believe in relationships at all? I mean, don’t you ever wish that you had someone in your life to take care of you... protect you... really stand up for you when you needed help?”
“Who are you talking about?” Savannah asked craftily, “Because that sure doesn’t sound like your boyfriend to me.”
Claire blushed in the face of Savannah’s joking. Not only did she get all hot and bothered whenever Savannah started in on how much she disapproved of Claire’s boyfriend, Tommy, but it hadn’t been Tommy she was thinking about. For the last week, Claire had been fantasizing shamelessly about another man. An older man. An older, gorgeous, chivalrous man she had met on the subway that just happened to be the husband of her and Savannah’s dragon lady of a boss.
Claire had been keeping this secret to herself, in the hopes that her obsession might wane, but that certainly didn’t seem to be happening. In fact, as the days went on, she found herself more and more desperate with yearning for her mystery man. She was beginning to worry herself—this level of preoccupation couldn’t be healthy. Maybe it would settle down if she told Savannah what was going on? It was worth a shot, anyway.
“It’s funny you should mention Tommy, actually,” Claire began, wincing at her lame segue attempt.
“Oh? How is Mr. Deadbeat these days?’ Savannah quipped.
“Just as lazy as ever,” Claire responded. “I’m... uh... actually thinking that maybe it’s time to bid farewell to him. There’s someone else that I can’t get off my mind.”
“What?!” Savannah shrieked, “Who is it?”
“Just some guy,” Claire said, smiling, “I met him on the subway last week.”
“Last week?! And you’re only just now bringing it up? Claire. As your best friend, I am shocked and offended.”
“I know. I’m
sorry. It’s just that I was sort of hoping that the whole thing would blow over. He’s kind of off-limits.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s... older.”
“Like, Hugh Hefner older?”
“No. Like George Clooney older.”
“That’s a good kind of older!”
“But he’s also sort of married.”
“Tricky... but doable.”
“Not quite,” Claire muttered.
“I think you should go for it,” Savannah said definitely, “What have you got to lose?”
“My job, for one,” Claire said.
“Why your job? What does it have to do with...” Savannah trailed off, her eyes wide. “Wait. Are you telling me... Are you into Cheryl’s husband?”
Claire nodded guiltily. “In my defense, I didn’t know he was her husband.”
“Claire, that’s... that’s absolutely nuts!”
“I know,” Claire groaned, “It’s horrible.”
“Horrible? More like amazing!” Savannah crowed, “How perfect would it be to get back at Cheryl for being a miserable effing human being than by sleeping with her husband?”
“You have a twisted imagination,” Claire said, “I could never do something like that. I’m not like you, Savannah.”
“True,” Savannah said, “But maybe this is your chance to start living! Ditch that idiot you were stupid enough to shack up with and get some billionaire action going on!”
“Billionaire?” Claire said, “Who’s a billionaire?”
“Cheryl’s husband, dummy.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh,” Savannah said, “She made me do her taxes last year. The bitch.”
