She mewled, then nodded, shifting in her chair. It forced the fabric of her dress taut across her chest, her thick, pebbled nipples standing proud on her roundest flesh.
Fuck tapas.
I want to chew on those.
“Yes.”
“ ‘Yes’ what?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He smiled.
“Good, kitten. Now finish your lunch.”
TEN
EATING, DRINKING, BREATHING, talking. Nothing mattered beyond The Presence, warm from its time in her body, not stretching but nestled in like it was part of her. She was so close to coming and then he’d stopped. It had seemed cruel at first, but then he promised the release if she could just get through lunch. Lunch became her Everest and she wanted to please him because pleasing him would result in her pleasure.
Right? Maybe?
I don’t know. I want to come. I hate everything.
Forever.
Okay, no I don’t. This is amazing.
He insisted on chatting.
“I’m the eldest of three boys. No sisters, my poor mother. She lives in Dallas with my youngest brother, Alex, who often acts like the oldest brother on account of being more Catholic than the pope.” Sol examined a date stuffed with chile and almonds before popping it in his mouth. “Let’s see, what else? You’ve met Cylan. Friends since prep school and through college. Not, however, lovers, though we get asked that a lot on account of me shamelessly flirting with him in public. He hates it. It’s why I do it. Word to the wise, don’t ever call him sugar ass. He gets all flaily and his elbows are very pointy.”
That somewhat penetrated her sex haze, and she swallowed past the growing lump in her throat and shifted in her seat. Her hands clutched the armrests of the chair. “Why does it bother him so much?”
Sol considered the question. “He’s very straight, and I’ve been more omnivorous with my playmates. I think he’s afraid I’ll get the gay on him. Hopefully that doesn’t bother you—his terminal heterosexuality and my more lackadaisical approach to my partners?”
“Omni—oh. You’ve slept with men?”
“Mmm. Here and there. I prefer women, and honestly, most of my dalliances with other men were in threesome situations with Maddy, but I can appreciate a handsome gentleman in my own right. Is that a problem?”
Was it? No, not really, and she shook her head, all the while thinking about Sol and another mystery man working her over at the same time with hands and mouths and cocks and limbs everywhere. There’d be sweating and moaning and pumping and roiling and . . .
Jesus, save me.
Get this thing out of me.
Or, no, don’t! Just let me come before I die.
“Kitten? Are you distracted?”
“No?”
Yes. Oh God, yes.
He reached for her jaw, tilting her face back so their eyes met. He loomed. So close she could feel the heat of his breath. She could smell the spices from that last tapas thing she was pretty sure she’d tried but couldn’t be sure because everything was tangled up in a horny ball of horny.
“Give us a kiss, sweet girl, and go attend your cunt. Call me afterward. Room 446. You have fifteen minutes. If you’re very good, I’ll give you a special reward at dinner. Would you like that?”
“Yes?”
“Good. Now go.” He pulled her in for an obscene kiss, his tongue parting her lips, toying with her, sweeping in to steal her breath and any last qualms she may have had about diddling herself stupid and then reporting in on it. And then, like he’d done with the toy he’d slid into her, he stopped short, leaving her an aching creature desperate for release. He walked to the door, held it open, and swept a long arm out.
“After you, princess.”
Kitten or princess?
Does it matter?
She shuffled. It wasn’t that the silver toy was uncomfortable, more that she was so wet she was afraid of inadvertent, lewd sucky sounds or some kind of sloshy incident with a sodden, lint-covered steel dick splattering on the hotel’s nice carpets at an inopportune time. Like in front of other guests. Or her brother. Or anyone.
Okay so there’s no opportune time for a dick to fall out of you without preparation and/or warning.
To the elevator. He kissed her hand and then he let the doors close between them to deposit her a floor away. She exited into her own hallway and wobbled along with her thighs clenched together, squeezing every inside muscle she could in case of a Sex Disaster. Housekeeping was leaving her room with an armful of last night’s sheets, tucking them into the laundry bin for a wash.
You might as well leave another set. This is going to be messy.
“Thank you.” Rain reached into her purse and produced a twenty. She shoved the crumpled bill at the protesting woman before diving into her hotel room. The door closed behind her but immediately there was a knock.
Oh God why?
“Ma’am? I need my vacuum.”
Go away go away go away!
Rain wheeled the Hoover outside, shoving it at the maid with a string of apologies before locking and double-bolting the door. Her eyes strayed to the clock. Somehow she managed to set the alarm on her cell to warn her when her now thirteen minutes were up.
She dove for the bed.
It didn’t take thirteen minutes. It took forty seconds. She tugged the panties aside, which were heavier than the lace should have been thanks to a straight hour of fuckery, and then her hands were everywhere. She rubbed her clit, she rocked the toy back and forth until her back arched, the muscles in her legs tensed, and she let out a cry that alarmed Freckles enough that he barked at her.
She collapsed. Spent. Satisfied. Sort of?
Her dog kept barking.
“Shhh. Freckles. No, Mama’s f— Shut up!”
He shut up.
Things were looking up. She no longer felt like she’d die if she didn’t come, the dog was quiet, and she was pretty sure she’d see Sol soon, which was something to look forward to.
I like how he operates. It’s controlled chaos. Unexpected, yes, but also regimented in its own way. He directs, I obey.
It’s good. He’s good.
And then it hit her.
I didn’t think about anything while I wanked.
He said he wanted to know what she’d thought about while getting herself off and all she’d thought about was thank God this is getting taken care of and tingling parts are fun. That was it. Her brain had gone blank. She attempted to fabricate an elaborate, after-the-fact fantasy with naked bodies entangling and lots of grunting, but everything sounded too romantic or contrived or cheesy or . . .
Just tell him the truth, that I was so fuck-starved I went full brainless.
The room’s in-house phone rang.
No. Why? I have time.
Ring. Ring ring.
“Balls. Pard— No. Wait . . . damn it.”
She rolled onto her hip, dress hitched up to her belly button, toy still wedged deep. Her panties dangled from the cork heel of her sandal.
“I didn’t think about anything,” she confessed into the receiver.
“Arianna,” her mother snapped in return.
Why? Why now? All I can smell is . . . oh crapsicles.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Don’t you ‘hi’ me. Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t.”
Mama slammed something on the other end of the line, hard enough that Rain had to jerk the phone away from her ear.
Honesty is not always the best policy, I guess.
“You were told not to go.”
“To LA, because of the press. Richard sent me here instead. It was his graduation present to me and he wanted me to take it.”
The words were hardly out before she
realized that Something Horrible was about to happen. The dildo shifted and she couldn’t stop its descent. It slid from her slick hole, rolled over the comforter, and thunked to the floor. She almost moaned at the deluge of wet creaming her thighs, but remembering who she was talking to, she clamped a hand over her mouth and squinted her eyes closed instead.
Okay, this is actually the worst.
“I’ve booked you a flight out with your brother tomorrow at two. I expect you to be on it. There’s a meeting with the Harwoods this week, and you agreed to attend the Kennedy thing with Charles next Friday.”
No, you agreed I’d attend it with Charles.
Rain didn’t bother debating the point; Mama’d just argue semantics or lay some horrible guilt trip implying Rain was failing the great Barrington name. None of it mattered anyway. She wasn’t getting on the plane, she wasn’t going out with Charles, and the entire interaction was a waste of their collective time. Rain had more important things to do than listen to her mother . . .
Damn it. Four minutes to call and I’m a sopping mess.
“I have to go, Mama,” she blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“I have to go. There’s no press here so you don’t have anything to worry about, and unless there’s needless provocation, I don’t see the video presenting itself. I’ll see you in a couple weeks.”
The pause was heavy and awful, and under any other circumstance, probably would have made Rain want to peel off her own skin. But in her sex-swollen state, all she could do was sprawl out legs akimbo on her bed and stare at her canopy.
“Are you blackmailing me, Arianna?”
“No? Okay, Mama. I have to go. Talk soon. Love you!”
Click.
It wasn’t really blackmail, was it? It was more quid pro quo. Mama didn’t act like a horrid bitchbeast for ten minutes, Rain made sure the Barringtons looked quasi-functional to the ever-ogling press. It was a fair and equitable trade.
Her phone rang again.
She unplugged it from the wall.
Which left her with no recourse other than to get into the elevator, buzz for Sol, and deliver her drippy report in person. It wasn’t like she could go next door to Vaughan’s room and ask him to vacate so she could sex talk the proprietor of their hotel. And Sol hadn’t given her a cell number, so . . .
“Damn it.”
She glanced down at Freckles. He eyed the silver toy like he was afraid it’d bite him.
Oh. Right. That.
“Good pet,” she said, swooping down to retrieve the disastrously smeared dildo.
She swooped for her abandoned panties, too, and shoved them into her purse. As she exited her room, a contraband silver cock tucked into her cleavage, she realized she had been talking to Freckles just like Sol had talked to her however many minutes ago.
That’s messed up.
She tittered as she returned to the elevator. Looking at the numbered floors, she picked four, curious what would happen without Sol’s permission. The swipe pad lit up, and she pressed her thumb to it. A Please Wait message popped up on the screen before the elevator moved.
So she waited.
And waited.
She glanced at her cell phone.
Two minutes.
There was a soft hiss of intercom before a man’s voice came through, only it wasn’t Sol’s. It was quite likely Cylan the surly accountant, the only other gentleman in attendance on the fourth floor, according to Sol earlier. She hadn’t met him in person, only heard about him and caught a glimpse of dark skin and white shirt before he fled, but a few things were made very clear to her. One, never play cards with Cylan because he counted cards and it was an exercise in futility. Two, he came off much rougher than he really was so don’t take it personally. So when he opened with “Yes?” and it was as “flat as a fart” as Vaughan would say, she knew better than to take offense.
“Hello, Cylan. This is Arianna Barrington looking for Sol.”
“Maybe you can get him to sign the T-12 forms for me. He’s been avoiding me. A moment.”
Was that a joke? It sounded like a joke. She hoped it was a joke as the elevator rose a floor to the private suites. She expected the doors to instantly open—and with the time constraints, hoped they’d instantly open—but there was a pause when it stilled.
Another security measure?
She spotted Cylan through the pane of glass on her right, exiting his room. He strode down the hall in a white business shirt, black suspenders, and black slacks, wearing the shiniest shoes she’d ever seen and one of the darkest glowers.
Uh-oh.
I’m running out of time.
“Miss Barrington,” he said in greeting, his voice low and quiet, piercing the glass of the elevator. In his hand was a stack of papers.
He wasn’t kidding about the signatures.
He pressed his thumb to a pad on the other side of the doors to allow her entry. She nodded in thanks, her hand going to the bodice of her dress to hold the penis—no, cock—in place so it wouldn’t shimmy its way onto the floor and mortify her to death.
Why do first impressions have to be lasting ones?
“Did you want me to have him sign those?”
“If you would. He’s been useless these last couple of days.”
The unspoken part of the sentiment was thanks to you, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Was he censuring her? Was this some kind of accountantly disapproval? Maybe, but maybe not, and it was almost impossible to tell with someone so even tempered. He handed her a stack of official-looking forms.
“I’ll ask him,” she said.
He grunted in response before turning away and tromping toward his room. Surly, Sol had said. This was definitely surly, and she was fairly convinced Cylan hated her, which meant by social contract she had to hate him back.
Only.
He paused outside his door, his dark fingers splayed on the handle. His look was intense, his head cocked to the side as he examined her through a fringe of thick black lashes. He was so thin, when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed from his chin to his chest.
“He’s needed another friend. It’s good to see him having fun.”
He didn’t wait for her response, ducking into his room and hiding behind a heavy thud of closing door. She was staring stupidly at the white wood when her phone alarm began to vibrate.
No minutes. No minutes. No minutes.
She ran for Sol’s suite.
ELEVEN
THIS IS BECOMING epidemic.
It wasn’t the kitten thing—that was fantastic—but the postkitten spunk palm was unpleasant. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink, fly unbuttoned, cock barely tucked back into his boxers when a knock sounded at the door. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Fifteen minutes.
Her or Cylan?
In the likelihood of Best Friend being behind door number one, he righted his pants. There were some things their twenty-odd years of friendship might not overcome. Yet another “accidental” penis encounter was one such thing. How many dick sightings were too many? Where was the line? Would Cylan one day tire of their one-sided game of gay chicken and try to kill him? He didn’t want to find out.
He cracked open the door.
Small. Blond. Flustered.
Much better than boring old Cylan.
“I’m sorry,” she said, practically hopping up and down on his welcome mat.
“Kitten?”
“I didn’t call. I’m sorry. There were circumstances.”
“Of course there were. Come in.”
He stepped aside to let the sex-swollen typhoon into his flat. She looked rosy, doe-eyed, and well fucked, and if he hadn’t just taken care of his own business he’d have bent her over the nearest flat surface then and there.
God, if I don’t fuck h
er soon I’m going to explode.
“I’m so sorry. I did what you sa—okay, not all of what you said. I forgot to think about anything when I had the thingie in my you-know-what.”
He reached for her hair, fingers sinking into the thick, golden tresses at the base of her skull. He twisted the silky threads around his fist until she gasped. It wasn’t meant to hurt, merely command attention, and by the wide eyes roaming over his face, he’d succeeded marvelously.
“Use your words, kitten. The good words.”
She tilted her head back, her body leaning into his until heavy tits pressed against his arm. “The cock in my cunt.”
Oh yes.
He grazed her forehead with a kiss, fingers releasing her hair to massage along her spine.
“Good girl.”
“Thank you. So I forgot to think about anything, but I came, and then I wanted to call but my mother called my room and I knew she wouldn’t stop calling so I came to give a live report because I didn’t have any other way to get in touch with you. Cylan was nice enough to let me in and asks that you sign these forms. I’m sorry.”
It was hard to decipher her rapidly spewed kittenese, but once he’d processed it, he eased the papers from her grasp and abandoned them on the counter. His long, lean arm looped around her waist to guide her to the living room.
“Come sit.”
His vest and tie were laid out over the arm of the loveseat, and he moved them aside so he could nestle his addled guest into the corner seat. She was stiff with distress, and he lifted her legs onto the ottoman, removing the sandals to massage her heels. The response was immediate; she went limp in his hands, a pile of pink, adorable gelatin he wanted to play with for hours.
The King of Bourbon Street Page 8
