by Krista Lakes
"Don’t tell me anything for once."
His quick retort made Tracy feel flustered.
"I don’t…"
Mr. Hayes jammed the remaining chunk of ice down the front of her shirt and pressed it against her right nipple, causing Tracy to gasp. The mix of surprise and desire left her speechless.
Again he leaned in for a kiss, this time taking the time to thrust his tongue over hers in quick, hard caresses while he worked her breast with the ice. It was then that Tracy felt the last remaining threads of her migraine give way to pure, unadulterated lust. She needed him to take her right there, needed to let go of the control that she had worked so hard to build in her favor. Something about Mr. Hayes’ eagerness made her go limp in his arms.
Tracy pulled away from their kiss just long enough to groan, "Take me, Mr. Hayes."
The billionaire yanked his hand out of her top and flicked the melted water off of his fingers. Still behind her, he pushed both hands down below the waist of her designer denim shorts. He put his head beside hers. Tracy could hear his breathing. It was deep, heavy and slow, like an animal waiting to strike. Each hot breath rolled down over her shoulder, heating the cold skin on her chest back up.
The hot, prickling sensation made her bite the corner of her lip and moan.
Mr. Hayes’ roving fingers tip-toed beyond the precipice of her quivering mound. His nicely manicured nails barely grazed the curved tops of her neatly trimmed strip of pubic hair. From there he pushed onward, letting his middle finger slip down between her dripping wet folds.
Tracy slouched down in her seat just slightly and pushed her knees apart. The whole time, her eyes stayed clenched shut. Something about the way she felt right then, the way that every touch sent rippling waves of pleasure racing out through her tense body, made her reluctant to move another muscle.
As it turned out, she didn’t have to.
Mr. Hayes spread his fingers into a ‘v’ and pushed down in a smooth, rocking motion. The webbed spot where his fingers met would caress Tracy’s swollen clit with each stroke, though just barely. Even so, hard shudders of delight rocked the tired woman’s body in time with his movements. For several minutes Mr. Hayes stayed there, rubbing up and down with increasing speed.
"Yes," Tracy hissed through clenched teeth.
After a little longer, Mr. Hayes withdrew his hand and came around in front of her, poised between Tracy’s spread legs. He jerked her new jean shorts down, along with her delicate, lace panties. Tracy moved like she was going to close her knees, but Mr. Hayes pushed them back apart, even wider.
He fell to his knees and began to kiss and nibble softly on the inside of her right thigh. Working his way up at what felt to Tracy like an agonizingly slow pace, Mr. Hayes guided his skilled mouth upward to the delicate fold of flesh lying between Tracy’s quivering thigh and her slick, throbbing pussy.
She didn’t want to wait anymore, but before she could raise her head and demand release, Mr. Hayes’s hands spread her open and wrapped his lips around her bright pink nub.
"Oh fuck," she cried out, her voice echoing through the empty restaurant.
Mr. Hayes continued to suckle and slipped two fingers into her, pumping in and out with a rhythm that matched his pulsing sucks. Over time, Tracy could feel herself starting to fall over the edge. She buried her shaking hands under her now contorted tank top and bra, massaging her already erect nipples with tight pinches and twists.
Before she could come, Mr. Hayes pulled his mouth away from her. He knew her well enough to know when to pause for air. It was, however, only a brief interruption. Almost immediately he went back to work, this time using his tongue to rock back and forth over her aching clit. At the same time, he curled the two fingers inside of her upward and coaxed them forward, massaging Tracy’s most delicate spot.
Every pound and lick came together at just the right time, pushing Tracy into the first throes of her orgasm. She screamed out and ground her hips toward him, forcing his skilled tongue against her wet area. The racing waves of ecstasy spread out through her body, making her hands and feet tingle wildly.
When he was sure that she had finished completely, Mr. Hayes slipped his fingers out of her body and rested against her torso. He reached up, wrapped both hands around the back of her neck and pulled her head down so he could kiss her once more. Right away, Tracy’s own sweet taste melted between them.
"Come on," Mr. Hayes said after pulling away. "Let’s go home and get some rest."
Tracy knew that there was so much more work to be done, but she also knew damn well that no amount of coffee would be able to revive her from the deep sleep that she could feel coming.
She sighed, "Okay. Okay."
Mr. Hayes helped her stand up and slip her shorts back on, forgoing the panties all together. It was only a short car-ride home, and she could go commando that long. Once that was done, he took the keys out of her back pocket, lifted her up, and carried her out of the restaurant. On the way out, he locked the heavy deadbolt and stuffed the small key ring into a pocket in his slacks.
From there, it was only a few feet to his car.
No sooner than the door slammed shut did Tracy start to drift off. The plush leather beneath her, though cold on her naked thighs, was like a soft embrace that lulled away all of her stress. Every care and worry melted into the finely-stitched seat, along with whatever tenuous grasp on reality that Tracy still possessed.
She didn’t even hear Mr. Hayes slide into the driver’s seat next to her; didn’t even wince as the stabbing, white flash returned with a powerful vengeance.
Tracy felt dizzy, like the world had begun to spin faster on its axis. Everything around was a white blur that was streaked by a dizzying, swirling mix of blue and a deep, blood red. As if in her own little bubble, Tracy watched the dancing colors move around her in a perfect sphere, blocking out whatever lay on the other side.
She reached out apprehensively. Slowly, carefully, she extender her fingers toward it. She could feel an icy wind. Her hair began to whip around her head, blocking out her vision in quick flashes. All the while, she still couldn’t muster the courage to touch the sphere.
The Arctic wind blew even stronger. It forced her back a little and she wrapped her arms around the thin nightgown that covered her supple body.
"Paul?"
She never just called him Paul, but it seemed to make sense to her right then.
Though the fluttering chunks of her hair, Tracy saw a large hand break through the mist, which had by then formed into large, black clouds. On one knuckle, a tiny crescent scar caught her eye. Had he gotten hurt?
"Paul! I…"
The hand slapped down onto her arm and squeezed her so tightly that she could feel the tendons in her wrists crackling. Then, with a powerful jerk that made Tracy feel like the wind had been knocked out of her, it forced her up.
In the car, one of the many yellow street lights that dotted the street passed by overhead and illuminated the sleeping woman in a brief flash. Mr. Hayes looked into his rearview mirror and then turned his attention to Tracy. Her nightmares had been keeping both of them up at night.
"Paul," she muttered softly. The sound of her voice speaking his first name took him by surprise, but he remained silent.
Suddenly, Tracy gasped loudly and turned over in her reclined seat so that she was facing away from her concerned lover. Mr. Hayes reached a hand out and stroked her head softly as he turned his gaze back to the road.
"What is going on with you?"
The powerful hand jerked her back to her feet. In front of her stood a man who wasn’t Paul Hayes. Tracy had no idea who he was. The clouds and colors were long gone, leaving them in an open plane of icy white under a blue sky.
The man’s deep brown, almost black eyes pierced into Tracy’s thoughts. He was a short man, but wrapped in muscle. He had black, buzz-cut hair and his jaw was locked tight, working the muscles in his face.
The two of them stood there for a whil
e, just staring, before the man sprang toward her like a lion. In seconds, he had forced her to the ground and pinned her down. Tracy’s already short night dress flipped up, exposing a pair of lacy, red panties.
Underneath her body, which began to throb wildly from the surge of adrenaline, the ground felt like one giant slab of ice. It sent a violent chill racing through her spine and made her previously soft nipples stand out immediately.
"Who are you?" she tried to yell and bucked her body against the man. "Get off of me!"
The man grabbed each of her wrists again, just as hard as the first time, and slammed them down onto the frozen ground. The force was enough to make her breasts bounce up and down, exposing the very edge of one of her pink nipples.
Tracy tried to scream for Paul. She could feel her mouth moving, could feel the straining vibrations making her vocal chords spasm, but there was no sound except for the constant whooshing of the cold wind racing over them. She tried again to push his body away, this time using her feet to try and kick him off of her.
The man growled – she could see it in the way that he gritted his yellowed, crooked teeth, even though his voice was as silent here as her own – and pushed her down again. He was like quicksand: the more that she fought, the closer the two became.
Finally, after a struggle that felt like it lasted hours, the man sank down between Tracy’s thighs. Leading the way, his massive erection bulged out against his smooth, black slacks. The huge lump settled against Tracy’s pussy, resting there like an anaconda ready to attack.
The man’s eyes flashed with red, and he leaned in so that their cheeks were nearly touching. His lips, a rough as sandpaper, grazed her lips as he spoke on mute. His hips began to grind down onto her, rocking his member against her tender area.
He had taken control of her.
Tracy squeezed her eyes shut. The man let go of her wrists and cupped one of her full breasts in one hand. While his thrusts continued, his other hand started to trace a line from the top of her head. With one finger, he dragged across her forehead, over the scar that had been left from her accident, and continued on along the top of her eyebrow. From there, he slipped the single digit over her cheek, coming to rest just below the right side of her chin.
The man pressed his finger into the sensitive patch of flesh. Then it went cold, just as cold as the ground beneath them, which had begun to melt from their collective body heat.
The wind stopped abruptly. Now there was no sound at all. No heavy breaths or beating hearts. No hint of Tracy’s protests or the words that the man was still reciting into her ear. Instead, the only thing that broke through the silence was an unmistakable sound: a gun being cocked.
Tracy didn’t have to look, but she did anyway. The man’s icy finger had transformed into a gun and was neatly pressed against the bottom of her jaw. The cool, silver steel that wrapped the body shone like the sun, making Tracy’s eyes water uncontrollably.
Now giving off a glow so bright that it started to melt everything around, the gun started to vibrate against Tracy’s shivering flesh. It was only seconds before it took over everything. The man melted away, as did the freezing ground and baby blue skies.
The last thing that Tracy saw was the gun’s handle. It had been painted a deep, purple-tinged hue of crimson. In her head, the man’s solemn, monotone voice finally burst through the ether.
"I’ll have his blood."
Tracy awoke with a start as the car pulled into the driveway. She was still so tired, and felt like she hadn't had any rest in days. Was what she just saw someone's dreams? Or was it just a bad dream of hers produced by stress? It was all so confusing, and she almost didn't want to go to sleep again. However, as she crawled into bed with Mr. Hayes, sleep claimed her almost immediately.
Chapter 18
The morning of Tracy’s meeting with Gordon Baxter was a frenzied rush of activity, as she had tons of things to do. She was a nervous wreck. Everything that she did was done with half her mind elsewhere, leading to more than one disaster. The coffee machine overflowed after she dumped way too much coffee grounds into the basket. Her solitary piece of toast, the only thing that she thought could stomach, burned into a stinky, square puck.
Even her lowly hair brush wasn't immune. Some time earlier, Tracy had accidentally turned on a flat iron that she’d left out. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t left her brush sitting on top of it. When she stepped out of the shower, she was met only by a molten puddle of plastic and rubber.
If this is how today is going to be, she thought to herself, maybe I should just go back to bed.
Mr. Hayes, who had gone out briefly that morning, walked back into their bedroom and spotted Tracy sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a plush cotton towel. Her hair was still wet and she wore a look of absolute defeat on her face.
"What’s wrong?" He looked around and sniffed dramatically, "And why does the whole house smell?"
Tracy sighed. She wanted to tell him about her concerns, wanted to be able to talk about her last vision. It was, of course, the whole reason why she couldn’t seem to get her head on straight. Who was that man? Could it have been Baxter? Though he was a famous chef, Tracy couldn’t remember his face. After all, today would be the first time that she would meet him in person.
But if she was to confess to the powers that she had, Mr. Hayes could find out about how their relationship really began, and that was something that Tracy wasn’t prepared to deal with. She stared down at the floor between her bare feet.
"Tracy?"
Mr. Hayes’ words snapped her out of her trance-like state.
"Yeah?"
He sat down onto the bed next to her and wrapped his arm around her without saying anything else. Tracy sighed and let her head fall onto his shoulder.
The earthy, sweet scent of his cologne filled her lungs.
After several quiet minutes, Mr. Hayes cleared his throat and asked softly, "Seriously, Tracy. What is going on? This has to be about more than just the restaurant."
His words made Tracy’s heart skip a beat. Could he know what was going on while she slept? Did he have any clue? She turned her eyes up, though she could only see the bottom of his jaw, and stared blankly at the light peppering of dark hairs. There was a tension growing between them because of the silence – her silence. She could feel it like the impending shock waves of an earthquake rolling up below them. But, still, she couldn’t relent.
"Work," she said. "It’s just work."
Tracy could feel Mr. Hayes’ shoulders sink down ever so slightly in defeat.
"Okay," he muttered with an air of resignation. "I understand."
He stood up and walked out of the room with a big, damp circle on his t-shirt where Tracy’s head had been. She watched him go and nervously rubbed her thumbnail over the tip of her middle finger.
It was going to be a long day.
Over an hour later, and with only minutes to spare until Gordon Baxter was scheduled to arrive, Tracy stumbled through the restaurant’s back door with one arm full of papers and the other precariously balancing a paper bag of odds and ends. She hustled through and dropped everything on the long, sleek prep table with a sigh.
"What a…"
The paper bag toppled over, sending dozens of glass salt shakers spilling out with an enormous clatter. Tracy grabbed one before it could hit the floor. Unfortunately, there were about five more that she didn’t have the reflexes, or the spare hands, to grab. The rest smashed on the tile in small, glittering explosions.
"Great. Just great."
Tracy grabbed a broom and started to sweep up the mess. Right away, the repetitive stroking motion let her mind wander back to her earlier vision and the mysterious man in it. What were his intentions? Why was he appearing to her? Tracy knew that she was safe for the time being. After all, it was "his" blood that the man wanted, not hers.
What if he was lying? Her thoughts took it further. What if he shows up at your door right now?
What are you going to do if it is him?
It had to be. She could feel it in her gut, which had quickly twisted itself up into tight, painful knots.
A hard, firm pounding sound made Tracy jump, the broom’s handle slipping from her hand and falling down into the glass pile.
Again the knocking came, and this time it was enough to get Tracy moving. She walked slowly over to the door, took a deep breath and jerked the thing open.
At first, the bright light of day made it hard for her to make out the man’s features. Tracy squinted her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek, trying desperately to see the man she was sure would be her undoing.
When her eyes finally came into focus a few seconds later, she saw Gordon Baxter’s light skin and dirty blond, swept-back hair.
Tracy sighed a deep breath of relief and extended her hand. "Hi. I’m Tracy."
Gordon met her handshake with a smile.
"It’s a pleasure," he said and softly flicked his head to get a stray chunk of hair out of his eyes.
The award-winning chef’s features were chiseled and rugged. Even his crystal blue eyes screamed masculinity. He was taller than Tracy, though not by much, and he was already dressed in his newest whites.
Realizing that they’d been standing there a little longer than they should have, Tracy released her grip on his rough hands and stammered, "Come, uh, come in. Please, Mr. Baxter."
"Thanks. And, please, call me Gordon."
He walked past Tracy, who had already started to relax. In fact, she felt like a huge weight had been lifted, though the impending grand opening was more than enough to keep her spirit bogged down in the mean time.
Gordon walked in and set a sizable case down next to the bag of spilled salt shakers. Tracy had been so distracted that she didn’t even notice he had it.
