by Emily Bishop
Ohhh. “Suck until I come.”
“Good,” he says slowly. He’s so in control.
I feel the firm wetness of his tongue on my clit. He flicks his tongue up, and I feel such extreme heat and wetness in my cunt. He does it so slowly. So, so slowly. I desperately want him to suck on my clit and the hood. To take it all in his mouth and suck and nibble and suck. I moan. He laughs softly.
“All right. I’m teasing you,” he says. “I’ve forgotten what you want. Tell me again.”
“Suck my clit, Gray,” I say. “Please.”
He pulls back and watches me. He’s fully clothed. My skirt’s up around my waist. My trembling pussy’s open, my legs spread so far they’re stretching my panties around my ankles.
“You really want it, don’t you?”
I nod, and a little whimper escapes my lips.
With one swift motion, he dives into my pussy. He takes my clit in his mouth. The stubble of his beard feels so manly against my bare cunt. And then he does what I’ve been desperately wishing for. He sucks on my clit. The hot sweet rush in my pussy brings a moan to my lips and my back arches in ecstasy. “Oh, Gray!”
He lets it go, then pulls it back, then lets it go, then pulls it back. Oh god, this is so amazing. I’ve never felt anything like this. The heat and the overwhelming, pulsating pleasure in my clit.
Then, with my clit still in his mouth, he maneuvers my leg and pulls my panties down around my ankle and off that leg, so they’re hanging off my other thigh. All the while he’s sucking, then nibbling, sucking, then nibbling, on my clit, sending waves of pleasure soaring through my body, over and over again. I sense one of the hottest, hardest orgasms of my life is going to come and steal me away. He’s going to take me to realms I’ve never gone before. I can feel it in the tips of my hard nipples. In the depths of my cunt.
Then he takes his mouth off my pussy. “Come, darling,” he says. “Come down here.” He takes me by my hands and helps me up off the chair. “Lie down.” He’s gentle with me as he maneuvers me down onto the carpeted floor. Then he goes around to my right side, facing down toward my pussy. He pulls back my thighs until my cunt faces the ceiling and spreads my legs wide. I feel so exposed. So vulnerable. But so, so good. “Ready, sweetheart?” he says.
I have no idea what he’s going to do, but my whole body cries out, Yes! Yes! Yes! “Yes, Gray.”
“Tell me you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“You might have to scream.”
I think of the neighbors. “I won’t scream.”
He gives a soft, little laugh. “All right.”
Then, without warning, he pushes his face into my cunt and grabs my clit with his teeth. Then he sucks, like before, but with a vengeance. He plunges two fingers into my pussy and pumps them in and out, in and out, as he sucks on my clit hood. Oh, fuck!
Before I know it, Gray’s prophecy has come true. The heat, the gorgeous, beautiful, tantalizing heat, is too much for me to bear. It mounts and mounts and mounts in glorious pleasure until I can’t keep any semblance of control. I have to let go. I have no choice.
I come.
Waves and waves of heat and pleasure. I scream. I scream out in ecstasy. “Gray! Gray! Gray!”
His mouth stays firmly on my clit, sucking and biting. His fingers pump in and out of my cunt just the same. I feel myself flooding over his fingers, and my clit pulses and trembles in his mouth.
“Gray!” I scream, forgetting who I am and where I am and that neighbors exist at all. “Yes! Yes, yes, yeaaaaaas!”
Chapter 23
Grayson
DAY 17
Isabella and I stayed tangled in an embrace in her bed the whole night. Waking up was like entering another world. Except I didn’t know which one was real—the glorious, heady pleasure of last night, or the cold, crisp brightness of morning. Maybe both.
Whenever I’m in England, I hate it there. But when I’m abroad, I feel a real connection to home. Isabella’s asleep next to me. I grab my phone and flip to the English news, something I never do at home but always when I’m somewhere else. Nothing much of note on the news site. All the usual. Terrorists killing people in Mali. A horrendous accident on the M25. A young woman arrested in Dubai for kissing a man in public. Tragic as the news always is, but nothing I haven’t heard before.
But before I go on to look at the sports news, I freeze in shock. There’s a picture of me. From a club. I’m a thumbnail to click over to an article. I read the title below it in absolute horror. The Bad-Boy Duke’s Billion Pound Inheritance Love Triangle. What the actual fuck?
I click it, my heart pounding.
When I see what pops up, it takes all my strength not to sling my phone across the room and smash it on the far wall. It’s a picture of Lilly and me, with my arm around her, captioned Lillia Smythe-Darcy and the future duke, in happier times. In happier times, my backside. I contain my fury long enough to read the piece of crap:
Lillia Smythe-Darcy, a young aristocrat socialite, tells all about Grayson Fairfax II, his sleazy antics, and how she plans to tame the loveable rogue.
Ugh!
Lillia says, “Gray has always been a bad boy, and I’ve always been attracted to a bad boy with an edge, ever since my days at Stowe.”
She’d have to mention her prestigious boarding school, of course.
“He was always drinking, flirting with women, and causing chaos wherever he went with his cousin Eddie. But when he fell in love with me, and I him, that all changed. All of a sudden, he wanted to bond, to settle down, to think of having a family. It was very sweet.”
Sweet? Sweet?!
“But, despite his wealth and title, my family didn’t want me to marry him.”
What a load of shit! They were all chomping at the bit for a slice of the Fairfax pie. I was the one who pulled out of the engagement, when I finally got enough sense to see she was a bloodsucking leech, a money-grabbing parasite, a status-crazed socialite and nothing more.
“I very much regret listening to their advice. I thought I was fine at first, but now, seeing him with an American woman who has no title, no class, and no scruples is killing me on the inside.”
Fuck! I get up and storm out of the apartment. I don’t care if I’m just in my boxers. I need to release my fury, and I don’t want to wake Isabella.
“I won’t name names, but I can show you pictures.”
Then there’s a photo of Isabella at the club, sitting at the bar looking out of her depth. She’s slouched over, and her expression makes her look like she’s drowning. It’s the worst picture I’ve ever seen of her.
“She’s totally clueless,” Lillia continues. “She’s timid and unable to cope. How will she ever tame Grayson so that he’ll spend the inheritance properly and become the real family man his father always wanted him to be?”
I want to smash my phone on the ground and stomp on it again and again until it, and what I am reading, are nothing but a pile of glass shards and plastic.
“Besides, I looked up her father’s department store business she’s inherited. Not only is it in so much debt it’s due to fold into the ground any moment now, but there was an electrical explosion just recently. She can’t cope with a simple million-dollar business. How could she cope with a billion pounds and a wild-child bad boy? I think she’s just after his money. He needs someone who will really love him for who he is.”
I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe this. Please tell me this is a nightmare and I’m about to wake up. Please.
I don’t even read the rest. I don’t trust myself. I could destroy this whole apartment. This whole apartment building. This whole city. I could transform into the Hulk and tear everyone and everything limb from limb. If I had a bomb that could wipe out the whole earth, I would detonate it right now. Fury pounds through every part of me. I have to go run. I want to run and run and run and run, to stop myself from killing someone.
But where can I run to?
Where can I go to escape reality?
I fall against the hallway wall and slide down it. All the strength of my rage seeps away. I’m a shell. An empty, hollow shell.
Once Isabella reads this, she’ll never come back to England. That article was on a hugely popular newspaper’s website. I don’t know if they’ve run it in print, too. That photo of her. Dreadful. The thing about her father’s business. Ten times worse. I could wring Lilly’s neck.
A new thought strikes me—she’ll have to retract it.
I find Lilly’s number in my phone book. It’s been years since I’ve phoned it, and yet she always pops up in the most inconvenient places in my life. She’s like a rat in the house, which you thought you killed until it peeks its head out of a hole and scurries through your kitchen, shitting everywhere. Where is the rat poison? Where is the damn rat poison?
She picks up, surprisingly. “Hello, Grayson, how wonderful to hear from you.”
“What the fuck have you done?”
“What?” Her voice is laced with fake innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play games with me. The story.”
“What story?” I can imagine her eyes all round and faux-innocent.
“Snow White and the Seven Fucking Dwarves, Lilly, what do you think? You know exactly what I mean. The story about you and me and Isabella.”
She laughs. “Oh, that one. You should have said. Well, I thought I was doing a public service.”
I could send my fist through a wall. “The only person you serve is yourself, Lilly, as we all know.”
“I’m hurt.” She turns her voice all whiny.
“Retract the story.”
“I can’t,” she says. “They paid me already.”
“Paid you?” My voice explodes out of me. I have to pace up and down the corridor to keep any kind of control over myself.
“It’s not so bad,” Lilly says gently. “I didn’t mention Isabella’s name.”
“Thank you for being so discreet,” I say.
“Don’t be like that, babe.”
Isabella will never come back to England. I know it. I imagine as soon as someone gets a glimpse of us at the airport, paparazzi will swarm us. I’ll be the “irresponsible bad boy,” and she’ll be the “incompetent, pathetic American.” I can play the irresponsible bad boy to the hilt—I’m so used to doing so, even though I didn’t know it was an act back then. But incompetent? Pathetic? Those are words to strike right into Isabella’s soul. She’s always striven to be independent, and she’s always been a go-getter. Now the whole of the UK will think she’s some pathetic little wallflower. She’ll never set foot there. I’ve failed in protecting her honor. If only I’d been firmer with Lilly. But I was firm. I don’t hit women.
“Baby, come home,” Lilly whines. “I miss you so. You know you miss me, too.”
“Home?” Nothing I can think about back there equals home. Being wrapped up in Lilly’s arms in the drafty old mansion sounds like some horrific, torturous form of double imprisonment. “You must be out of your mind.”
She begins to cry. I have no idea if it’s real or fake. She’s such a good faker. “But, Gray, I love you.”
“No, you don’t. You never did.” I hang up and wander off to the end of the corridor. As horrible as the place is, it does have a good view of Seattle. The only city that has felt close to being home. But now even this place feels infected. Contaminated by the bad luck that spreads through my life like a deadly disease. Lilly calls again. I punch the reject button. But as I look out over the city, I know I’m the one who’s been rejected, by life itself. Why on earth did I try to be positive? Why on earth did I think I could be anything other than a loveable rogue? Why on earth did I think Isabella would go for someone like irresponsible, party-animal me?
This has all been a mistake. I’ve been kidding myself. I guess I should thank Lilly, really, in some sort of twisted way. It’s not her fault. It’s just life, putting me in my place. I’m a failure. I have no money in the bank. I have no achievements to speak of. I hate my own dead father, even though he’s giving me a billion pounds. Or, not giving them to me, as the case may be. I miss my dead mother, even though she’s been gone for years. I have nothing going for me. Nothing.
I creep back into the apartment. My chest feels full of darkness, like if I speak, black shadows will come twisting and twirling out of my mouth like demonic smoke. Like if I cough, I’ll spit up tar. I don’t even bother with showering. I go into the bedroom, and thankfully Isabella’s still asleep, snoring gently. I pull on the clothes I was wearing the day before. I really don’t care. Her wallet’s in the living room. I take some money out. It’s her business money, from her line of credit. But what does it matter anyway? She’s going to despise me as soon as she finds out about this. I’ve failed to protect her honor. What will an extra $100 matter? Just add it to the tab of absolute hatred for me. The tab of the disaster of my life.
I exit the apartment feeling like a zombie. A dead person walking around. Life? Who invented this shit?
I’m hitting a bar. What’s the point in denying who I am? A person who’s only good for partying, drinking, and having superficial hook-ups with women. I have no other skills or talents. So what if it’s early in the morning? So damn what?
I roam the streets, unshaven and unshowered, something I’d never dream of doing any regular day. But my swagger’s broader than ever. Anyone who dares look at me a strange way, I stare them down with a death gaze. Today is not the day to mess with me.
I almost feel ashamed as I reach the green doors of the Irish pub. I’ve been here so many times before, but at a respectable time, with flashy clothes, a luxury sports car, and with a hot girl on each of my arms. Well, if I didn’t arrive with them, at least I left with them.
But I swallow that shame and march in. I meet the bartender’s gaze, as if challenging him to say something to me, and tell him I want a double shot of whiskey.
He pauses. When he pours the shot out, he looks at me tentatively. “That’s a strong breakfast.”
“I’m a rogue,” I say. “I don’t play by the rules.”
He laughs as he places it in front of me.
I knock it back and don’t know if I love or hate the warmth that slips down my throat. “Now pour me one on the rocks and give me a packet of cigarettes.” I’ll sit in the corner and drink and smoke myself into a comfortable oblivion.
Chapter 24
Isabella
DAY 17
I’ll wring Gray’s neck. I will. And I won’t feel a flicker of guilt.
At first, I was worried. I looked all around the apartment. I called his phone more than twenty times, each time the panic in my chest buzzing ever more urgently. I had all sorts of horrible visions of what might have happened to him. I considered calling the police and reporting him missing, but looked online and it said someone has to be uncontactable for a while before you do that.
I didn’t even shower, I was so worried. I pulled clothes on and grabbed my purse. That’s when I saw it. I had $300 in there last night. But when I looked this morning only $200. Then all that worry morphed to anger. So Gray stole $100 out of my purse, disappeared without waking me up or leaving me a note, and won’t pick up my calls?
That’s why I’m now storming around my neighborhood, fury pumping out of my every pore. He’s so irresponsible. Like having a reckless teenage boy around. We’re supposed to be going to the hospital later this morning. But he obviously doesn’t consider that to be important. Oh, yeah, who cares about all my customers and employees who are in pain and need reassurance? The more I think about it, the more rage grips me. It steers me around all the local bars. Isn’t that his natural habitat, after all?
I pass by the Irish pub and am about to go in when I see there’s some kind of fight going on. One man’s got another in a headlock, while someone tries to pull them apart. I’ll skip, thanks. How depressing. Obviously drunk and in a fight in a pub
on a weekday morning. What kind of lives must they lead? That question would have been a judgmental, rhetorical one just a few weeks ago. But now, for some reason, it’s a genuine one. What would drive someone to be there, doing that, at this hour, instead of working, or studying, or spending time with people they loved? I pause and turn to look in the pub windows to study these men.
It’s Gray. The man doing the headlocking is damn Grayson Fairfax II. I should have known. All that mature contemplation stays outside as I go storming in.
“What the fuck is this?” I yell.
Gray’s so shocked he drops the man, who falls to the ground. “He called me a loser,” Gray says with a heavy slur to his voice.
I help the man to his feet with the aid of the bartender. “So sorry about this.” Then I hook my arm firmly in Gray’s and march him out.
Thankfully, Gray doesn’t resist. We walk down the street back to my apartment.
“You are acting like a loser,” I hiss. “What the hell are you thinking? We’re supposed to be going to the hospital. But instead you steal my money, sneak out, go drinking, and get in a fight?” I check my watch, and my voice takes on a new fury. “And all before ten o’ clock? What the hell is wrong with you?”
He shrugs. “Everything.”
His voice sounds so mournful it gets right under my skin. “Oh, poor you. Poor little billionaire boy. You have such a hard life, don’t you?”
“Money isn’t everything,” he slurs.
“It’s a damn important part.”
“Who cares?” He nearly falls over, and I have to straighten him up, which annoys me even more.
“I care!” I say. “Everyone else in the world cares about money. Except you. You have no concept of what money even is. You know, some people in the world have to work fourteen-hour days to go home with a dollar, right?”
“I forget about those people,” he slurs. “That’s far away. Far, far away.”
“Damn right you forget about them,” I say sharply. “You have no concept of struggle. No concept of reality. No concept of money. You know the opportunity you have right in front of you? You have more money than ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine-nine percent of the world will ever see in their lifetime. You could do so much good with that money, make so much change.”
