by Jess Bentley
Friday. I wish.
Seeing her like that made my insides clutch and my cock swell immediately. She was undefended, and somehow still ready. It was only when she started to make a sound that was an awful lot like whimpering that I was struck by the fact that I was watching her, and I crept away. She was crying in her sleep.
It was too hard to listen to her and not go in, take her soft body in my arms, and kiss her tears away. And stroke her skin… her innocent-looking skin. Distract her from whatever pain she had by pushing her hair out of her face, kissing those lips, and stroking down her body. Stretching my fingers over Friday and brushing the letter “i” almost accidentally before keeping my hand going.
I ended up pulling away from her doorway, berating myself for my arousal the whole time until I reached the bathroom. My cock was huge, erect, heavy, and stiff with desire for her, and I felt like I was going to come as soon as I took my pants down—ostensibly to use the facilities.
My cock in my hand, I stroked myself to a ridiculous climax trying to simultaneously gratify and rid myself of this inappropriate lust that had me in its grip.
“Jordan,” I whispered, in her parents’ upstairs bathroom. Now I wish I’d never gone up there, but Margaret insisted since Dustin was in the downstairs one. I wish I’d never thought of him, I wish he wasn’t the best man for the work I needed done.
Goddammit.
Now I’m not going to be able to forget her, and that sweet, innocent pussy, laid open and ready.
Am I just a dirty old man? Possibly. More than possibly; probably. But I didn’t ask for any of this. She wasn’t even supposed to be there, and who would have expected she would be defenseless and practically naked. Who knew she’d turn into such a beautiful woman from a little baby, and an annoying child? Fuck, Dustin, why do you have to have a gorgeous daughter?
I’ve been with all kinds of women. It’s not difficult when you’ve got money. I’ve been with women of all races, of all temperaments: gold diggers, career women, philanthropists. But sometimes I just wish I were in college again, at that point in my life where we only think we have things figured out—where there’s nothing but possibility and the air thrums with the sexual tension of the still-almost-innocent.
My cock is hardening again. The vibration of the sports car isn’t helping, but instead of slowing down, I rev the engine.
I want you, Jordan. You and that tiny little mole on your hip that entices me to adventure. Invites me, even.
But that’s bullshit. To her, I’m just her dad’s best friend from college. Some dirty old guy. She’d never see me that way as long as I’m her father’s friend.
What if she were to travel to Paris? If she came to France, maybe she would see me as something different, not as her dad’s friend. She’d be far away from Daddy and Mommy as she’d ever been, and she’d feel free. Ready for adventure, but still wanting some measure of safety—which I would be happy to provide.
My cock throbs.
I realize that something is niggling at the back of my mind, an uncanny feeling like I’ve seen her before—not the times that she was shoving her dollies in my face, or being thrust in my arms by her mother. A feeling that maybe she’s not as innocent as she appears to be. It’s hitting me on a deep, sensual level, the way she was sprawled out on that bed. It was one of the sexiest things I’ve come across, but like I’ve seen it before... no, that’s crazy.
I turn up the radio to rid myself of these mad thoughts. Jordan is my friend’s daughter, nothing more, nothing less.
Then why am I more rigid than I’ve been since I was eighteen?
As I pull into the driveway that leads to my estate, I hit the phone button and command my car to call my private investigator, the one I use to suss out all the businesspeople I plan to do work with. As much as I want this woman, my friend’s daughter, ugh... I have to know more about her—and if there’s a reason I feel like I’ve seen her before. I need to know if she’s going to Paris without asking her, or asking her parents, for that matter. I don’t want to come across as inordinately concerned about her and set them off, but right or wrong, these feelings that have sprung up inside me are just too strong to leave alone.
Hiring my PI will tell me exactly how much trouble I’m asking for, and what I can get away with—two things that have served me well in my forays in the business world, and that have made me my fortune.
So what if Dustin and I were close in college, says a small part of me. It’s not like we’ve talked much in the last decade. Last time I saw him was when Jordan was pulling me away from him, after all. Why should I be more loyal to him than the next person? I’ve given the man the business opportunity of a lifetime. I don’t owe him anything after that. I figured I could use his skills and wanted to see how he was doing. It’s not like I would suffer if I turned him against me.
Which I would probably have to do either way—if I decide to pursue Jordan or not. If I do the right thing and cut her out of my life, I’ll have to get rid of Dustin and Margie as well. Because if I see Jordan again I will not be able to hold myself back.
To be completely honest, if I do see her again, I’m going to fuck her brains out.
“Henderson,” I hear through the speakers. It’s so crystal clear, it makes me jump every time.
“Don,” I bark in a voice I hope doesn’t sound as lust-ridden as I feel. “I need some information on a Jordan Burke. Can you look into her for me, maybe by... Friday.” Her panties flash through my mind again. Friday.
“Of course, King.” He coughs. “What do you need to know?”
“I need to know everything you can find out about her. And I want to know what her near future plans are. But you can’t tip her off. That part is very important.”
“Of course not, King, you know I’m a professional,” he says. He sounds taken aback. “I never tip off a client’s mark. You know that.”
“I know you’re the best,” I say. “It’s just that this one is a delicate matter.”
“They all are,” he answers.
“True.” I shouldn’t have put him down. But the last thing I want to have happen is for Dustin and Marg to get the idea that I’m following their daughter. My mind immediately starts to come up with some story that would excuse it if they were to find out. Don clears his throat.
“Okay, you know the drill. I’ll send you an invoice and then a full report,” he says gruffly. “By Friday.”
“I’m counting on you,” I answer, and he clicks off the line.
I ease the Lambo into its garage and wonder if I’ve lost my mind.
As Friday flashes through my mind, I know I have.
True to his word, it’s not much longer after I pay the invoice that I have the full report on my desk at the office.
Jordan Marie Burke. 22 years.
On birth control, doctor says it’s for cramps. Never pregnant. No STDs on record.
Good.
I keep reading, and then I find out the answer that I’ve been looking for—she is planning on going to Paris, and has already booked a flight. I note the dates down for my executive assistant to flank for my private plane.
No. I will fly the same flight. First-class. I cross out the private plane reservation and note the airline. She’ll be surprised. I can see her eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly. But she’s a pro. She’ll keep her mouth shut.
I start skimming when the answer I’ve been looking for as to why she seems so familiar hits me like a punch to the gut.
Of course. That’s where I’ve seen her.
I click on my computer, and wonder how the hell I didn’t realize it before. Jordan. Of course.
This complicates things. It makes her a completely different person than I had thought.
“Jordan,” I say out loud. “I want you to be mine. Mine only. I want you for my own.” My cock strains at the zipper. “For me.” I’m almost lightheaded, the blood rushing to my cock so quickly like this. I press a button under the desk and the door
to my office locks with a hearty but discreet click. I’ll never get anything done now that I know this.
But it only makes me hungrier.
Jordan, you are mine, says that voice in my head. The malevolent voice that I try to silence.
Mine.
3
Jordan
“Excusez-moi, Madame?” says the barista in her perfect, slippery, elegant French.
“Um,” I struggle to remember the words I was just practicing in my head over and over. “Café?” is all that comes out. I see a small curl form in her lip.
“What can I get you, miss? You would like a coffee? What size?”
She’s impatient.
“Medium,” I say, cheeks flaming. Goddammit. I thought that coming to France was going to help me be more brave, but instead I’m feeling stupid and helpless.
“We don’t ‘ave medium,” she says flatly.
“Large.” I have no idea what they have.
She turns and draws a couple shots of espresso out of a large silver maker, as I regard the case with all manner of pastries.
“Here you are, deux Euro, s’il-vous-plait,” she says.
I hand over a bill and she looks at it with scorn.
“Nothing smaller?” she asks, and shares a look with her fellow barista who is waiting to ring in his customer. I shake my head quickly. If Kelsey were here, I’d have someone to share a look with, myself. If Kelsey were here, she’d be the one ordering for both of us. It’s probably why I’m so fucking useless, because she used to do everything for me.
Kelsey was the one who, when we were just kids, pulled me out onto the playground and made sure I was friends with the others. Sure, she didn’t like it much when I got too close to this one or that one. Then I’d pay for it. But for the most part, being with Kelsey was like having a ticket to the popular kids, to birthday parties and later, to boys. She was always a bridge to other people, but sometimes she blocked that bridge when she got angry or felt like I might be getting too independent. I realize that now. I thought she was opening me up to new experiences, but I realize she was just providing herself with some kind of safety net.
“Merci,” I choke out.
Don’t see this a failure, Jordan, I tell myself sternly, but inside I’m cringing. Hard.
“De rien,” she says but she’s already turned away. I resist the habit to count my change. I don’t know anything about this currency and the people behind me are grumbling.
I stuff the money in my pocket, grab my coffee, and go.
Once I’m out in the bright sunlight, I lean against a wall and take a sip of what is the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.
It’s only then that I realize in my embarrassment I forgot to get any breakfast. My stomach growls and turns a little, the acidity of the coffee harsh on my empty belly.
Oh well, I say brightly, in my mind. There are other shops.
I’m uneasy.
My stomach grumbles as I walk down the wide street. Maybe I’m not in the best area but Paris sure doesn’t seem like it does in the movies. The signs said I was in the Marais section, and it looked good online—filled with culture and excitement, they said. But that’s not what it is, I figure, as I avert my eyes from the sight of someone shooting up in a closed storefront.
Some hippie types are sitting with their dog. One of them is rolling a joint, and the other is playing a stringed instrument that I haven’t seen before. It’s kind of like a ukulele but different. More strings. A small guitar? Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound quite in tune.
The sumptuous pictures I saw online of my room are nothing like the reality either. Clicking through the site, the place seemed so modern, clean, and fresh; almost a miniature apartment with lots of space. In person, it’s funny-shaped. Not square or rectangular. More like a closet. It’s small, and I can only wedge the tiny window open with the door stopper. Otherwise it crashes down.
When the concierge shuffled ahead of me with his key, I was so looking forward to sinking into a tub, or a bed, but all that flew away when he let me in. I could feel my face fall, and I know he saw it. I tried to ask him for a different room, but he said he didn’t speak English. I’m not sure I believe him.
No, this Paris is not like any movies I’ve seen. It’s full of graffiti, people doing drugs in the street. The only thing that seems authentic is the cranky barista. Well, that and the proverbial dog shit covering the sidewalk.
I am starting to wonder if everything is like that once you scratch the surface.
The sun is bright and hurts my eyes a bit as I rush toward the area that contains the Louvre and some other attractions: Eiffel Tower, a grand Ferris wheel overlooking the city, and large parks.
It strikes me that it’s not only the look of the place. Paris doesn’t feel the way I expected being here would feel, either. I rub my stomach to stop its complaining, and consider doing my best to muster up the courage to buy a pastry from a shop, but I’m not quite hungry enough to face humiliation again.
There has to be some kind of cart around the tourist traps that would have English speakers. The food might be questionable, but I’ll grab something there and devour it. Not exactly the Parisian breakfast that I was imagining I’d have. Which I would have, if I weren’t so shy.
Damn you, Kelsey.
I remember sitting on her bed with her in college, and her playing with her globe.
“Look, there,” she said, pointing to a little spot. “That’s Paris. And here’s where we are. We would just have to go all the way around to... here, and we would be in the most beautiful city on earth. The city of love.”
“Can’t I just look on my phone?” I groaned. It wasn’t a question but a complaint. I didn’t really want to follow her across the globe. I was, frankly, getting sick of following her everywhere else.
Who knew I would follow her ghost?
At this point I’m so hungry I can’t wait to walk to the Louvre. I need food now. Chatelet-Les Halles metro station is in front of me, and I decide, that’s it. Who cares if it’s one stop, it’s worth a damn Euro. After all, it’s Kelsey’s money from the will that will be paying for this trip. Might as well spend it, as I’m starting to feel like I earned every cent from living with her.
Louvre-Rivoli is the next station and I wait on the platform, its sharp architecture with its dated browns and creams looking a little sad under the grime of the day.
I notice with a grin that the subway tube is encased in some kind of metal sheath. Mr. King comes into my mind unbidden as the train penetrates the track.
I feel someone hit me in the arm, and there’s a huge, ragged face in mine. He’s speaking French, but roughly, and laughing. It’s partly the shock and partly his demeanor, but I can’t concentrate on what the words are. Suddenly his hands are on my breasts, and at the same time the subway stops.
He’s yelling at me, and I instinctively bat his hands away and cover myself and turn to run into the subway car. Nobody stops to help me—they’re just like robots walking onto the subway. He grabs my ass, and squeezes, hard. What the hell?
Is he going to follow me?
I run into the car, and as he follows me past the other commuters, I wish that I had only turned and run up the stairs. My breath is fast, but I feel like I can’t get any air. Finally I find my voice.
“Leave me alone!” I say, and he only laughs more, and I can see that he’s missing a tooth in front, and another is gold.
For some reason the image of a pirate comes in my mind. A pirate ready to steal my booty. I try to keep my purse in front of me to cover myself, and lean on the subway door to protect my rear end. My heart is pounding. Why is nobody helping?
He’s telling me something in French, and I can’t understand a word. Finally he speaks English.
“I know you,” he says in heavily-accented French. “You want this.” And with that, he drives his erection into my hip. It feels disgusting. Hard and aggressive. At the same time the door opens. “I masturbate to you!�
�� he yells as I half-stumble and half-back out of the subway car. He licks his lips as I turn and run up the escalator.
I emerge into the bright air again, feeling dirty and disgusting. Now I know this is definitely not the Paris I was imagining. This is not the world I was imagining when I thought about traveling. All I want to do is take a shower and lie down in my own bed, not the strange bed in the strange room. I reach in my pocket to pull out some money to buy something eat, but I realize I’m no longer hungry. I feel numb. Then I see what I’ve pulled out of my pocket is Mr. King’s card.
I could call him.
It would be nice to see a familiar face.
I finger the paper for the hundredth time since he gave it to me. R. King, it says. I could call him; he said so. Before I left, he wished me bon voyage, through my parents. Said again that if I got into any trouble while I was in the city I should let him know and he would be happy to get a call.
I sit down in the large square, leaning against a lamppost. The architecture of the Louvre is simultaneously welcoming and forbidding—its sheer size, the beauty, the modern entrance protruding up from the expanse.
I’ve somehow missed the vendors; where are they? I figure there must be some here. Hungry or not, I should probably eat before I faint. Fingering the card again, I weigh the pros and cons of calling him. It’s only a simple call to your family friend, a little voice in my head says.
A gorgeous family friend. A gorgeous older man, says another. You know your motivations aren’t entirely innocent. Do you really want to wrap yourself up in someone else, someone who would never think of you that way? Especially after just being assaulted?
I don’t know if I could even entertain such a thought of being with anyone after that drunk pushed himself against me in the subway, though.
But Mr. King isn’t anything like that, the first voice tells me.
I bet he knows some really nice restaurants. And he’d probably invite me, too. My cell phone seems to jump into my hand when I root around in my purse for some candy or a mint. It’s the perfect size for my grasp. Why am I thinking of Mr. King’s cock?
