Mr. Rich

by Virna DePaul

  His cock is gorgeous—there’s no other way to describe it. Thick and long and hard, and I can see a bead of pre-cum at the tip. I lick it, and he shudders.

  I take him in my hand, my fingers barely able to close around him, and begin lightly fisting him. I know the pressure isn’t enough, but I want to tease him as much as he teased me. I swirl my tongue around the tip. He tangles his fingers into my hair.

  Most guys would take control and start fucking my mouth, but not Bastian. He lets me play. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m doing something wrong. Instead, he just curses and groans and says my name as I take him into my mouth, hollowing out my cheeks as I suck him. He tastes like salt and man and I love it. I fist him harder.

  I can sense the tension in his body. He’s close. I take him farther into my mouth, until he’s almost touching the back of my throat. He gently thrusts in rhythm with my sucking, but he still gives me full control.

  I wrap my arm around him for leverage. Then I use my other hand to lightly caress his balls, which I can feel have drawn up tightly against him.

  “Jesus Christ,” he grinds out. “Julia, I’m about to come. Do you—?”

  I suck him harder.

  I can feel him coming. His body shudders and he curses, and he comes and comes, filling my mouth. It’s honestly one of the most erotic moments of my entire life. I’ve never really enjoyed blow jobs, but this has made me a convert.

  To see a man like Bastian lose himself completely? It’s the best thing ever.

  I lick him one last time before swallowing. He’s breathing hard, and he wipes water droplets from his face. “Damn, I think I blacked out from that,” he says.

  I grin. “That good, huh?”

  “So damn good I can’t wait to do it again.”

  The water’s getting cold, so Bastian shuts it off and begins to towel me off. It’s a surprisingly tender gesture, and my heart contracts. Geez, if I’m not careful, I could fall in love with this man.

  He dries off as well. Then he picks me up, swinging me effortlessly into his arms. I can’t remember a man ever carrying me before, and though I’m tempted to make a joke that he’d better be careful of his back, I immediately stop myself. Fuck that, I think. I’m a goddess. At least, that’s how Bastian makes me feel and I’m hanging on to the feeling with everything I have.

  Even as he lays me on the bed, he won’t stop kissing me, touching me, and I’m the same. I don’t want him to leave. I want to stay in bed with him all day and learn everything about his body. I want to know what other position can make him lose his head, how many orgasms he can give me in one session, and maybe talk to him about his life. His hopes, dreams, future.

  I almost laugh at myself. I guess having a guy go down on you and give you an orgasm like that makes you get kind of sentimental.

  But as I start to come back to earth, that initial anxiety starts flooding back. Dammit, can’t I just enjoy things without getting all antsy?

  Turning over onto my back, I sigh out loud.

  Bastian turns over, arm propped up beside me. “Why the sigh?”

  I stare at the ceiling. Should I be honest? I glance at him, then back to the ceiling. “You mentioned you want to do this again. I’m just wondering what that means.”

  “It means I enjoy your company and want to spend more time with you. In bed and out.”

  “So you want to date?”

  “Yes.”

  “Casually?”

  Unease flickers over his face, and I assume it’s because he definitely wants to keep things casual, but he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings or insult me by saying so. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. “Because that’s what I want, too,” I blurt out. “I mean, it’s not like I think this is going to go anywhere serious, right?”

  “Julia…”

  “I just want us to be honest with one another. And exclusive for as long as we’re sleeping together. If you want to stop seeing me an hour after you leave here, that’s fine. Totally fine, Bastian. Just tell me. Can you give me that? Casual but exclusive for as long as it lasts?”

  “I can give you that, Julia,” he says.

  “Good,” I murmur, then lie down next to him, sighing when he readily pulls me in his arms and kisses me.

  —

  A few hours later, Bastian tells me he has plans with his father and brother, but will see me soon. When he’s gone, I fall back into my bed but then my phone sounds, and I make a grab for it, thinking it’s Bastian. But it’s just Kevin, who’s asking what happened last night. I vaguely remember telling him I’d text him when I got home, but obviously that didn’t happen…

  I don’t want to tell him everything, but I end up replying, Bastian stayed over last night. I add an angel emoji at the end and hit send.

  The response is immediate. Tell me everything! You slept with Big Sexy? Oh my God, Julia, I can’t believe this!

  I laugh out loud. I don’t tell him the exact details—that’s between me and Bastian—but I hint that it was good. Very good. And that he wanted to keep seeing me.

  I knew that red dress was perfect for you! Kevin replies.

  I get dressed and go rifle through my refrigerator, thinking that I should probably make a trip to the grocery store. Samson comes up to me, curling about my legs. “Where did you hang out all night?” I ask the cat. I vaguely remember him coming into the room at some point, but probably with all of the activity, he slept somewhere quieter.

  “What did you think of Bastian? Good, bad?”

  Samson purrs.

  I take that as a very good sign.

  Chapter 11

  Bastian

  When I get home from Julia’s, I strip off the clothes that smell like her and try not to obsess over her asking to keep things casual.

  Isn’t that what I should want? Doesn’t every guy want a girl who’s not begging him to marry her? And given my health situation, I should be glad Julia’s made things easy for me. I can spend time with her now, not worrying that she’s going to get too invested in our relationship or will feel obligated to stay with me as my health becomes more and more of an issue.

  But Julia doesn’t strike me as the casual relationship type. She was so responsive during sex, so into me and so desperate for me to touch her that I have a hard time believing she’s as blasé about everything as she wanted me to believe.

  I go downstairs to turn on the TV and prepare for my father and brother coming over. My house is newly built, admitting lots of natural light through high windows. The décor is sparse and I’ve been meaning to hire an interior designer to make it look less like a bachelor pad, but who has time for that? Definitely not me. I have a business to run and oh, a disease that keeps coming back no matter how much I don’t want it to.

  Lucian arrives about an hour earlier than expected. “I figured we could talk some business before Dad arrives,” he says. “Ryland’s still not sure if he’s going to stay with us. We need to make a plan here, Bastian.”

  My head’s hurting just hearing this. I think of how Ryland flirted with Julia at the concert and my rather caveman reaction to him. Can I help it that she brings out the best and the worst in me?

  Turning off the TV, I say to Lucian, “Let’s hammer this out.”

  We spend the next hour swapping strategies and brainstorming until our father arrives, then stop to watch the game with him. It’s a good time, but after they leave, I can tell something’s not right. My joints are starting to ache, and when I feel my forehead, it’s hot. Taking my temperature, I’m right at about 100 degrees.

  I force myself to eat something and take bottles of water upstairs to my bedroom. My head hurts; exhaustion fills me. All of a sudden I feel like I’m ninety-five years old, and it’s a struggle to get undressed and into bed. Lying there, gazing at the ceiling, I wonder how long this will last.

  I sleep in bits and spurts. My dreams, though, are filled with Julia: her smile, her laugh, the way she moaned underneath my hands, how she tasted. In o
ne of my dreams she finds me like this, and she’s so disgusted that she runs away. I try to run after her, but I’m too weak. I can’t move.

  Waking up before dawn the next morning, I’m sweating buckets. I check my temperature. It’s 102 now. I stagger to the bathroom and take some ibuprofen. But as I’m walking back to my bedroom, I can feel that damned dizziness fill my brain, and before I know it, I black out.

  When I come to, I have to crawl to my bed. My heart’s pounding and it’s a struggle to breathe, while my joints hurt like hell. I hurt all over, and when sleep claims me, I hope I don’t wake up until all of this is over.

  —

  Lucian shows up the following day with food and ginger ale. He’s been around me enough when I’m having a relapse to know that I don’t want to talk. He’s brought me my favorite soup, and I thank him in a slurred voice.

  “Feel better soon, okay?” he tells me. “I need you for this Ryland Masters deal. You’ll let me know if you need anything, right?”

  I nod groggily. I don’t even hear Lucian leave.

  That’s how the rest of my week goes: sleep, aches, fever, bits of time when I can get some work done, exhaustion, rinse, repeat. Every day I think of calling Julia; every day I stop myself.

  I can’t tell her how sick I am. The thought of her looking at me with pity in her eyes? I feel even more ill thinking about it.

  It’s stupid—and I know it’s stupid—but I can’t get rid of the idea that men shouldn’t appear weak, especially in front of women they like. I can’t stand the thought of Julia treating me like I’m some delicate flower, or worse, deciding that she needs to nurse me back to health. I’ve had girlfriends who thought they needed to be Florence Nightingale when they realized what my lupus does to me.

  A man’s lover becoming his nurse kills the mood quicker than a guy who’s forgotten to take his Viagra.

  Of course, just because I don’t want to tell her I’m sick doesn’t mean I can’t contact her. I can text her at the very least. But the thing is, I’m more convinced than ever now that seeing her again is a bad idea, mostly because I was fooling myself when I agreed to a casual relationship with her. I’ve just met her, yet I want her. I want her to be mine. I want her in my bed. On my arm. I want to hear about her dreams and help her accomplish them. I want her to stay by my side, in sickness and in health, and asking her for any of that is wrong, plain wrong.

  So I don’t call Julia.

  But I can’t stop myself from dreaming of her.

  Chapter 12

  Julia

  Two days after Bastian left my apartment, I still haven’t heard from him. I try telling myself he’s just busy. Either that, or he isn’t texting or calling because he doesn’t want to freak me out. I did say I wanted to keep things casual, but I never thought absolutely no communication after sleeping together—twice!—was what casual would entail. Since I’m the one that put that parameter out there, I decide to suck it up and contact him first.

  I text him, but I get no response. By the time I get to Cooper’s for my shift, I’m a cranky asshole. Kevin just raises his eyebrows at me when he sees my expression. When I explain why, he tells me that straight guys are just terrible texters and I shouldn’t worry about it.

  But when another day passes, and then another, and then it’s Friday with no text or phone call from Bastian?

  Well, to say I’m pissed would be the understatement of the year.

  Late that afternoon, my phone sounds and I hate myself for my excitement, thinking it has to be Bastian.

  Sorry you couldn’t come to brunch. How’s your day been?

  Holy moly. The text is from Ryland Masters.

  Been better, I text back.

  Maybe I can help with that.

  For the first time in days, I smile.

  We text back and forth. Ryland’s replies are borderline flirty, but nothing that makes me uncomfortable. He seems more friendly than anything. We talk again about his music, and I mention offhand that I went to school as a music major.

  No way! What was your instrument? Or were you a singer?

  Guitar, and singing. But I haven’t been doing much of either for a while.

  The three dots blink on my screen as Ryland formulates his response. The dots blink for a while, and I shrug and set my phone down. Maybe he got sidetracked with something else. As I’m pouring a Coke into a glass, my phone finally sounds with a text.

  We should get together sometime and play. I’d love to hear you. I bet your voice is amazing. Two heart-eyes emoji are included, and I snort.

  Right. Ryan Masters is a musical, risk-taking genius. But even though I have a very healthy share of neurosis and self-esteem issues, there’s one thing I don’t lack confidence in: my music. I might not measure up to Ryland, but I’m not bad, and if he wants to help me distract myself from my Bastian-induced misery by getting together to jam, I’m all for it.

  I’m kinda rusty, but sure, why not?

  Chapter 13

  Bastian

  One week after taking Julia to the Ryland Masters concert, I’m back at work, staring at my phone and telling myself for the fiftieth time she’s better off without me.

  It’s not working. I can’t stop thinking of her. So much so that it’s starting to affect my work. So I rationalize that at the very least I should talk to her and explain. As it is, she must think I’m the biggest jackass on the planet, and she’d be right about that.

  Picking up my phone, I call her. No answer. I call her again. No answer. I call her a third time because I won’t do this over voicemail, when she finally picks up with an irritated, “Hello?”

  “Julia, sorry to be calling you so many times, but I wanted to talk to you.”

  She makes a snorting noise. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “I know I screwed up, but things have been crazy on my end, and I wanted to explain.”

  “No need to explain,” she said. “Obviously you found my request to simply let me know if you no longer wanted to see me too onerous. That’s perfectly fine.”

  “It’s wasn’t too onerous, Julia. It’s just, well, I’ve been kind of busy and—”

  “So you were so busy that you completely forgot about me? That’s not very flattering.”

  “More like I’m the type of person who gets so focused on one thing that I sometimes forget to eat or take a shower.” Which is true, even though what I’d been focusing on for the past week was trying to feel better. “Let me make it up to you?”

  She scoffs. “So you ignore me for an entire week, give some lame excuse, and expect me to just give in and see you again? Have a nice life, Bastian. No, on second thought, go to hell.” She hangs up.

  I stare at my phone. She hung up on me? She hung up on me!

  I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s so ridiculous and my life feels like it’s veering out of control, so all I can do is laugh. I also laugh because Julia Rominger is a spitfire. She doesn’t let anyone walk all over her and I can’t help but admire that about her.

  And want her all the more.

  Chapter 14

  Julia

  It’s Wednesday, and I’m stuck handing out samples of sushi made with some kind of organic tofu, and now Joe is back and looking at me like I just tried to hand him poison.

  “What are these again?”

  I sigh inwardly. “It’s sushi. And these are vegan sushi made with tofu and avocado.” I place a little container in Joe’s meaty paw. “Try it. They’re good.”

  They’re not good—and I like sushi, I should add—but I can’t say that. Joe stares at the circular bite of food and then back at me. Then he pops it into his mouth and chews for what seems at least an hour.

  He chews, and chews, and chews. He furrows his eyebrows in concentration. I’m about to ask if he needs a glass of water when he swallows in one loud gulp.

  “That was not good,” he says in a disappointed voice.

  Story of my life, I want to say, and I hate that I’m feeling sorry for
myself. I’m healthy. I have reliable work. I even got to jam with Ryland Masters a couple of days ago, after I’d accepted his invitation, and it had felt so incredibly right to play a guitar and sing again, period—let alone with a genuine rock star. Yet all I can focus on is my misery over Bastian. Of course, I don’t tell Joe that. Instead, I just reply, “Well, it’s not to everyone’s tastes, I know.”

  “When are you going to have chicken wings again?”

  “No idea. I don’t get to choose the samples.” At Joe’s sad look, I add, “Sorry! But I’ll try my best.”

  He takes this as best he can before pushing his cart down the aisle. I feel like I just killed the guy’s dog, and all I did was give him some crappy sushi. I look down at the sad array of tasteless samples, and I feel like it’s a metaphor for my life. Boring, tasteless, mediocre.

  Oh, sure, I thought I’d gotten some prime-time sushi lately. But then that sushi had to turn out to be a real jackass, and now I’m stuck with the shitty stuff.

  I rub my forehead. I’m losing my mind, I think.

  After Bastian’s phone call yesterday—and me hanging up on him—I fumed and stomped and yelled things while Samson watched in confusion until I felt a little bit better. Not only was he a jackass to ignore me, but then he calls, acts like it’s no big deal, and thinks buying me a steak dinner will make me forget? Hell no.

  He’s gonna have to try a lot harder than that to get back into my good graces.

  The sad thing is? I’m not sure I’m worth that much work to him.

  It’s a depressing thought. I slump down at my stand, gazing out at the customers milling about Cooper’s. A young guy in sweatpants is furiously looking through the vitamins, while an older woman seems intent on finding just the right kind of fiber for her diet. I feel the monotony of everything press down on me. It’s a terrible feeling.

  I thought Bastian was different. After he apologized that first time, and then the concert, and then the sex…But he’s no different than any other guy. He just wanted some ass, and I sure did give it to him, didn’t I?