The Drazen World: The Tryst (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Milana Raziel

  MISSY

  I'd taken the train before. In fact, it was how I traveled between Chicago and Philadelphia on the rare occasions I got to go home. It was that or the Greyhound—and the train was, by far, the better option. As a little girl, I always loved the train. My mother and I would take the train downtown to the museums.

  Truth be told, warning bells were going off in my head about going beyond the parameters of our Saturday-only, sex-only arrangement. But we had already blown that limit out of the water with our snowbound episode. It was time to just be gracious, set aside my misgivings, and accept this for what it was—Jon being his kind, generous self. And honestly, running around New York City to see all the paintings we'd been talking about so passionately over the past month as we developed our joint project really excited me. Jon had a discerning eye, and a way of looking at things that was both sardonic and revelatory. Seeing art through his eyes gave me a greater appreciation for nonrepresentational art. I thought it was the way his brain worked. While my primary focus in college was accounting, I still thought in words. I suspect Jon thought more in numbers. His command of so many languages was a reflection of that. I wasn’t even sure how many he spoke.

  That being said, the ninety minutes on the train flew by, and before we knew it, we were at Penn Station and I was getting in my first New York taxi. It was amazing. Most girls would say it was a "Sex in the City" moment. It was more of an EL Konigsberg moment for me. I felt like a little kid, hypnotized by the skyscrapers and street scene scrolling by. Hot dog carts, street vendors, and people everywhere. Everything they said about the energy in New York was true. It was a being in and of itself.

  We pulled up to the Mark, and stepping out of that taxi felt like a quintessential New York moment. I stood there gaping at the towering skyscrapers like a total rube, but I couldn’t care less. I was cementing the moment in my memory.

  Jon hustled me into the sumptuous lobby so we could get checked in and explore the neighborhood before dark. We spent the afternoon in Central Park, then Jon dragged me into some vintage shops near the hotel. In them, I became a kid at a candy counter. So many exquisite time capsules of silk and lace—it was girlie heaven. Jon commanded me to try on every piece that caught my eye. I indulged him but drew the line at a fashion show, hoping that would forestall an argument over a Drazen shopping spree, but no such luck. As I emerged from the dressing room in my street clothes, I caught him red-handed, shoving his wallet in his back pocket and gathering up an armload of shopping bags.

  "In for a penny, in for a pound." Jon smiled at me brightly, like the cat that swallowed the canary, as he pointed out the "No Returns" sign. He was so proud of himself that chastising him just didn't seem right.

  "I feel like I was just played in the nicest possible way. Thank you. How did you know about this place?"

  "Thank my sister Leann. She drags me in here every time we're in town."

  After a stop at an equally amazing lingerie shop, we strolled in the twilight back to the hotel, where Jon insisted on champagne and caviar in the bar. I was surprised by how much I loved the combination—it was like the sea and the stars as the briny bite of the caviar melded with the fizzy, sparkly bite of the champagne. A bit giddy and supremely exhausted from our explorations, we tumbled into bed and each other's arms.

  The next morning, we woke up bright and early and were on the steps of the Guggenheim before they opened. The Drazen name got us a private tour with the curator and the gallery with Manet's Before the Mirror to ourselves for a half hour before we moved on to Picasso's Woman with Yellow Hair. Jon loved the theme of women depicted in their private moments, and his reflections on the theme were surprisingly touching rather than prurient. We spent the morning exploring the other galleries, making sure to visit their Bonnard and Gaugin, before we made our way over to the Frick and the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit. We had a slice of pizza on the street before we immersed ourselves in the world of one of New York's robber barons.

  After our day out, I was standing in the bathroom in stockings, garters, and heels, finishing my makeup and getting ready to pull on a confection of a dress that Jon had insisted I try on yesterday, arguing that I'd need a party frock for the auction house events I’d be attending in a few months. I should've argued against it harder, but he’d had his heart set on it and, honestly, I was just tired of saying no and seeing the disappointment in his face. It was the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen, with the black corseted bodice, cap sleeves, and a Dior New-Look-type, super-full tea-length skirt complete with a tulle underskirt. It really was perfection.

  I felt Jon's gaze before I noticed his reflection in the mirror, appraising me openly. He looked good enough to eat. That man in a suit . . . there should be a law against it. The tailoring was exquisite, and his grooming was impeccable. As usual, I was mesmerized by his hands, this time accented by a beautiful gold case watch that probably would've paid my tuition for the year. Jon was dressed like every bit the scion of his family. I just hope I measured up. And in that dress, I felt as though I did. I was Cinderella, albeit a punk rock Cinderella.

  "Let's grab a drink in the lobby before we make our way over to 30 Rock."

  "Wait, 30 Rock? Why does that sound familiar? Isn't that where they have the skating rink?"

  Jon got this guilty little boy look on his face and held up his hands in mock surrender. "You've got me. I made reservations for dinner at the Rainbow Room."

  The Rainbow Room. He made reservations. . .this is a real, honest-to-God date. Totally outside the boundaries we agreed to, but it's also not Philadelphia. We'll be safe, won't we? Despite my trepidation, I didn't try to talk him out of it. And off we went.

  The Rainbow Room was a beautiful time capsule at the top of what had once been one of the tallest buildings in New York, and the haute monde had made it the place to be seen for decades. I'd seen the Rainbow Room in old movies and read about it when I was on a Golden Age of Hollywood binge, but the experience of actually standing in that room and looking out at the skyline was something I wasn't prepared for. The city lay at our feet and, naturally, we had a table by the window. The only thing that could have topped it was Windows on the World, but alas, that wasn’t a possibility any longer.

  We had an amazing meal. We chatted about our day, about everything and nothing, just like a normal couple, but in the back of my mind, I never lost sight of the fact that we were anything but normal. So when Jon grabbed my hand and pulled me up, insisting that we dance, I decided that I had to draw the line. The normalcy was crumbling the barriers around my heart. Moreover, I didn't know a waltz from a foxtrot. I shook my head and looked away.

  "Yes, we are going to dance." For emphasis, he used his Dom voice, something I was powerless against. "Besides, I need to put all that time wasted at cotillion on Saturdays to good use. Let me teach you a few formal ballroom dance moves so you can dazzle the fuddy-duddies when you're working at Sotheby's."

  Oh Lord! Jon had figured it out. I didn't know how to properly dance. I could fast dance, but the nuns hadn’t seen the need to teach us ballroom dancing. I felt the color draining from my face.

  He stood there looking at me expectantly, his hand out. "Miss Corradi, may I please have the honor?"

  And with that, I relented, placing my hand in his. He escorted me out onto the floor, and we danced to the classics for what seemed like hours. He was the consummate partner, and in no time at all, I felt like Cyd Charrise. Jon was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. It was an older woman, definitely high society, and a distinguished gray-haired gentleman in a tuxedo.

  "Jonathan Drazen, I had no idea your family was in New York." Her voice oozed finishing school and ladies who lunched.

  "Mrs. Grendell, It's a lovely to see you. May I introduce Messalina Corradi, a friend of mine from school? We were just in town for the weekend to take in the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit for class."

  Mrs. Grendell gave him a quizzical look and extended her hand to me. "Miss Corradi, it's a pl
easure to meet you. My name is Alva Grendell. I've known Jonathan's family for quite some time. It's lovely to meet you. And this is my husband, Marcus. So what else is on your agenda besides the Lautrec exhibit?"

  And she deftly led the conversation to the art scene in New York. I talked about our time at the Guggenheim today and my hopes that we would have a chance to do a quick tour of the Met before we left. Jon, of course, mentioned that I was up for the internship at Sotheby's. He'd always been convinced that I would get it, but I certainly wasn't sure about it. In fact, to me, it was a pipe dream. I had no connection to the art world or to New York. Before I knew it, Ms. Grendell had insisted on making arrangements for us for a private tour of the Met. She was on the board, of course, and roused some poor junior curator from their bed as we were standing on the dance floor.

  Before we parted ways, she said, “I'll be looking forward to seeing you, my dear, at the winter art auction.” As I tried to explain that the likelihood of me being there was very slim to none, she opened her Judith Lieber peacock minaudiere and extended an entirely too old-fashioned calling card to me. "My dear, I will be seeing you at Sotheby's soon enough. In the meantime, here is my contact in case you need anything at all. You'll be a breath of fresh air in our lovely little art community here. Jonathan, give my regards to your family if I don't see them first.”

  And with that, she swept out of our presence.

  "Jon, why do I feel I just got bibbidi-bobbidi-booed? It's like the fairy godmother swept in."

  Jon chuckled in my ear as he swept me around the dance floor. "Just go with it. Alva Grendell does things her way, and she's taken a shine to you. Let her help you. She lives for these things. And it never hurts to have another friend in New York."

  The fairy tale got decidedly darker once we got back to the hotel. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Jon had his hand up my skirt and my teeny-tiny black lace panties were quickly in shreds and in his pocket, but not before he held them to his face and inhaled deeply. So vulgar. So libidinous. So fucking hot. Once he had me pressed against the back wall, his hands were all over me and I utterly surrendered. Thankfully, it turned out to be an express elevator. We went from zero to sexed up in no time.

  Jonathan was absolutely predatory. He made me feel stalked and vulnerable with his dominance of a different flavor. In Philadelphia, he was a star on campus, and while he was dominant, it was as if he was so comfortable in his own skin that he felt he never had to prove a single thing. In New York, it was different. He was a predator out to make his mark. To conquer. To prove himself. It was amazing and terrifying. God. This man. He was capable of so much. He owned me.

  The elevator door slid open, and he tossed me over his shoulder, his hand up my skirt. Working me with his hands all over my thighs and trying to coax an orgasm out of me, he made his way down the hall to our room. He always won, and this was no different. I gushed all over his hand.

  He dropped me on the bed, facedown. "Don't move."

  He freed me from my dress, carefully pulling it off. I sighed, so happy that my beautiful dress didn't end up a casualty of Jonathan's lust.

  But he held me down by the neck, face in the pillow. "Ass up. Now."

  I scrambled, sliding my knees up close to my body, but he forced me into a position that surely left me vulnerable and exposed. I could feel the cool breeze on my cunt. And then the spanking started.

  "This is for arguing with me at dinner and refusing my offer to dance."

  Jonathan wasn't messing around. He struck like a snake, the blows falling fast and hard. He was bound and determined to truly make this punishment, not funishment. I relaxed into my pain, letting it rush over me, and the mere act of surrender transformed it into something more. Jonathan began alternating his blows with caresses. My ass. My thighs. My cunt. I had never been so wet. Reminders to keep my ass up hissed in my ear as the punishment continued.

  I was closing in on another orgasm from the spanking alone, but Jonathan wasn't about to have it. "No, you don't. That belongs to me. You will not come again until I allow it."

  The next thing I knew, I felt his mouth on my ass, sucking at that sweet spot where thigh met cunt. He rammed his tongue into me repeatedly, taunting me toward that climax. The punishment was soon abandoned for unrelenting, licentious pleasure.

  "Remember what I told you. Not until I let you."

  All this time, his hand never left my neck. The pressure of it was just another sensation contributing to my loss of control. I willed myself to submit to his instruction and submit to his will. But my body rebelled against me as he crammed his cock in me without warning and pounded into me for what seemed like forever. I struggled to catch my breath as the pressure on my neck increased, making me feel almost lightheaded as Jonathan's single-minded assault continued. He was like a man possessed. I'd never seen this side of Jonathan before, but I could quickly become addicted to it. He showed me a whole new dimension of hedonism. As I gasped and choked against my tears, struggling to follow his directive, he suddenly withdrew and flipped me onto my back, tossing my legs up on his shoulders and angling himself into me even deeper than before. He loomed over me, his glittering green eyes locked on mine. I was his prey, and he was reluctant to let the game end and go in for the kill.

  It could've been a moment or it could've been forever, but when he yelled "Now," it was as if the dam burst. I'd never come so hard for so long, waves of pleasure crashing through me over and over and over. I floated on the waves, reveling in the pleasure when Jonathan resumed his assault. He may have come, but he was still hard as a rock. He pounded relentlessly until I’d orgasmed twice before he came again, finally spent.

  I was still. My legs were still wrapped around him when he collapsed on top of me. For once, he was without words. He laid his head on my breasts, and still joined, I cradled him to me as we drifted off to sleep, sated and replete.

  The next morning, after a decadent room service breakfast, Mrs. Grendell's car called for us and escorted us to the Met. It was an art lover's dream as we were handed off from one department curator to the next. Any piece we wished to see was available to us, even those in the care of the conservation lab or in storage. We didn't abuse our privilege, but I did ask for a tour of the conservation lab. The girls in lab class will be so jealous. No, they won't, because I can't tell them.

  After a late lunch and a detour past Sotheby’s New York showroom, we scooped up our bags from the bellhop at the Mark and headed for the station. The trip home on the train was a bit melancholy for me, but I was sorry it came to such a quick end. I thought we both enjoyed being able to escape ourselves in New York for a bit.

  That Tuesday, we turned in our project, and that technically signaled the end of our working relationship in art history. Jon had to cancel our Thursday museum walks because pitching practice was scheduled in its place.

  That Saturday, we met as usual, relishing the time we had. The season started in the coming week, so we were making a point to utilize every free minute. Our Saturday included another session on our makeshift St. Andrew's cross, so my extra special treat was a beautiful rainbow of welts across my ass. I looked forward to the squirming they’d cause during Tuesday’s class, knowing that it would amuse him. As usual, he insisted on dropping me off at the side door of my dormitory.

  But New York had created a new, more open connection between us. A little more reckless and intuitive and emotionally honest. For the first time, I kissed him good-bye before I hopped out of his truck.

  JON

  I opened the doors to the apartment only to be greeted by the ramrod-straight figure of my eldest sister, Margie, who looked as though she was about to walk into the courtroom rather than off of the red-eye from LA. Not even her suit dared to show a wrinkle. Her expression was all business.

  "Don't tell me you're just getting back from six thirty mass. Save it for someone who will believe it, Jonny. By the way, you need to give your doorman a bigger Christmas bonus. He was more than kin
d; he even escorted me up to wait while you took the lovely Miss Corradi home. All it took was a smile from your sister."

  "Spare me, Margie. Your brand of honey always comes with a stinger. What has you pacing a hole in my parquet? Surely it's not whether or not I'm in before curfew." I could feel the vein throbbing in my temple. My perfectly good mood was now a distant memory. If Margie was on my doorstep, "not good" was an understatement. That she was dressed in her boardroom battle armor could only mean that the enemy was at the gate.

  "I'm making sure that you and your little match girl stay off of Dad's radar. I ran into Mrs. Grendell last week. Just because I left New York doesn't mean the gossip doesn't find its way back to me—especially when it involves my baby brother with a starry-eyed brunette in borrowed finery on the dance floor at the Rainbow Room. A tip for the next time. If you want to play dress-up with your date, do yourself a favor and spring for the matching shoes. Cheap shoes are a giveaway every time. Mrs. G had an awful lot to say—mostly kind things—but the undercurrent never strayed far from 'What's the Drazen Prince doing slumming?'" Her voiced dripped with venom and sarcasm.

  "Margie . . ." My hand started to flex, and a fist wasn't far behind. "Elitist bitch is Theresa's department, not yours. And since when is it any of your business where I stick my dick? I know you love to play the helicopter parent, but you're not mine. Keep your nose out of my fucking business, Sister!"

  Margie raised her voice as she went in for the kill. "I don't give a damn where you stick your dick, but let me tell you, Dad does. Especially after the fiasco with Rachel. If he thinks you’re involved with someone who may cause a problem or is otherwise ‘unsuitable,’ and trust me, the piss-poor daughter of a drunken steelworker will fit the bill, he will rectify the situation by any means necessary. And I do mean any." Margie went pale and pain reflected in her blue eyes before they shuttered again, but her voice never faltered. "Trust me on this one. Drop her—especially if you care about her."