“Come on Tristan,” Lydia moaned breathily, winking at me in the backseat, leaning back halfway while canting her hips up so that I could get a better view. “Come on, kiss me,” she egged me on.
And a normal guy would have been on it in an instant because it’s not every day you get a woman like Lydia offering herself up to you for free. But she just wasn’t my type, I can’t get over the boniness, I could see her hips protruding, rib cage moving up and down rapidly as she breathed. Plus, her skin stretched dryly over her frame, papery thin and dusty almost, like an ancient piece of parchment. I leaned back subtly, trying to keep my distance, because I was well and truly repulsed. I like curvy, heavy even, with big boobs, a luscious ass, and wide, swinging hips. And at this moment, I was addicted to a certain brunette’s curvy body and Lydia was exactly the opposite of what I had in mind.
But ever aware that the blonde was a business associate, I tried to keep it professional.
“Lydia, this isn’t a good time,” I said, keeping an even tone, not looking at her. “We’re already at the Carlyle.”
Sure enough, the black car had pulled up to the curb, a doorman already scurrying out, one hand reaching for the handle.
But Lydia wouldn’t be denied. Not caring that we were about to be exposed, she thrust a finger into her snatch, lubing it up before wiping it across my lips, forcing me to taste her cunt juice. It was so rancid, spoiled and rank that I almost choked right there. But the blonde didn’t give a shit.
“Oh you like it, stop pretending Tristan,” she hissed as she zipped herself back up into the dress. “You used to drink me like wine when we dated.”
I shook my head again as the door opened. It was true that once upon a time, I’d gone out a couple times with Lydia, fucked her brains out on a whim, stuck my dick into her dry box. But it’d been a turn-off even then, hard to get hard, hard to come, the twig-like arms and legs like spider’s feet brushing against my skin.
So I’d never followed up, keeping our interactions professional after that. Except Lydia had never forgotten and continued to bring it up, alluding to our “torrid affair,” the “times you banged me,” and other embarrassing events. I shook my head. What would it take to get her to lay off? I sighed, realizing that so long as Marks Holdings did business with her company, I was probably stuck in some way, shape or form with the scheming blonde. Fuck, I ruminated, fuck, fuck, fuck.
And the woman didn’t let up once we were in the Carlyle either. She paraded in like she owned the place, sashaying right and left, her hair mussed, make-up slightly ruined from her display in the car. Why hadn’t she cleaned herself up? Did she want to give the impression that we’d been fucking in the backseat, that we’d gotten down on the short car ride over?
Evidently so because when the bartender came our way, the blonde leaned over, showing a bit of cleavage and breathed, “Just a water for me to cool down, thanks hon,” while waving a hand back and forth, fanning herself.
It was so fucking unprofessional, I could see people watching us from the corners of their eyes. After all, I was an eligible bachelor and Lydia was a scrawny blonde, a socialite who always showed up in the papers. You can bet that people were looking, talking out the sides of their mouths, drawing conclusions already. Ah, it was all bullshit, the Post could write whatever they wanted, I didn’t care what the editors of Page Six reported.
But suddenly everyone’s gaze turned away because another group of customers had arrived, breezing into the Carlyle bar in a gust of heady perfume, all long legs and nubile bodies, giggling and fawning. I turned away, bored. It was just another group of high school girls, hot sure, but there was no way my ward was with them. Daisy had just gotten back from Switzerland and as far as I knew, hadn’t made many friends yet.
But suddenly a flash of brown curls caught my eye, a certain bounce, a wiggle to a walk. Because there she was. My luscious little ward wearing a come-to-Daddy outfit, all tight curves and jouncy ass. And you know what? I was willing to bet that there were no panties underneath that skirt, that pink pussy bare and wet … and all mine.
CHAPTER NINE
Daisy
After the meeting with Mr. Ranger I’d had to report the results to the girl clique, and unfortunately it’d been a complete let down.
“What do you mean, nothing happened?” demanded Trina. “Mr. Ranger came over to your house right? You had him alone?”
“Well, yes, for part of it,” I admitted, biting my lip. “We met with my guardian at his office first and then headed back to my house for some studying. Mr. Ranger helped me dissect the book, threw some study questions my way,” I added lamely.
“Hmmph,” scoffed Trina, hands on her hips. “That’s all? You didn’t get down? Did you kiss him? Touch him? What happened to his pen?”
And I sighed. That stupid pen. I was supposed to get it, to procure it as evidence of our illicit liaison. But it was hard to explain that pen or not, I wasn’t the least bit interested to our overly muscled English teacher. To me, John Ranger was no different from any other John on the street, just another guy that I’d pass without even noticing his face. Because I was obsessed with a different man, a man who was a thousand times more off-limits, more dominant, more alpha, who conducted himself like he owned the world.
But how could I tell that to this rapacious girl crew? So I just hemmed and hawed.
“I didn’t get the pen,” I said, hanging my head, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I can try again,” I promised, “Mr. Ranger will have more meetings with my guardian, I’m sure,” I said quickly, “you know, to raise money for the library and all.”
And Trina scoffed then.
“Make sure you get it next time,” she said haughtily. “We don’t really know you yet, so this is your test, get it? To make sure you’re like one of us.”
I looked around, confused. Like one of them? What did that mean?
“Are you saying that … you all have pens?” I asked, looking around, shaking my head. I expected the girls to ridicule me, make fun of me for asking a stupid question but instead they tittered, hiding their smiles behind their hands
“Of course we do!” exclaimed Mary, a particularly dumb blonde. “I got Mr. Peters’ pen,” she said in a hushed voice.
“I got Mr. Nichols’,” whispered Carrie, giggling a little as her cheeks colored. “It was so big!”
I shook my head, shocked. Were we talking about the same thing? Did “pen” allude to cock? To male penis? These high school girls had all had some illicit liaison with various male faculty at our school?
And they confirmed it, voices chattering, unable to keep from blabbing despite the illicit nature.
“Oh yeah, we all have “pens,” they’re like trophies to us,” bragged Carrie-Ann, Trina’s best friend. “It’s how we’re graduating this year. Because you know, I haven’t done any homework for months, no reading, no problem sets, no nothing,” she simpered. “But it’s worked out because I’m graduating with honors.”
And I gaped then. Holy smokes! Clearly, my naive past hadn’t prepared me for this revelation, the Swiss boarding school was nothing compared to Central Prep. Girls were putting out to get their diplomas? My head reeled and I couldn’t help but stare. But it was absolutely true.
“We’re passing with flying colors,” nodded Trina with a smirk. “Not only are we graduating, we’re going to have honor cords wrapped around our necks too!”
And so I bit my lip, trying not to look amazed, trying to make like I was cool with it.
“Oh sure, I get it,” I nodded, hoping I appeared noncommittal and casual. “Totally awesome,” I added for good measure.
And Maria was the only one who caught onto my discomfort. She was the only girl who’d rolled her eyes slightly at the exchange, a dark-haired beauty from a rich family.
“No worries,” she whispered to me while the other girls continued giggling. “Just say you got the pen even if you didn’t,” she confided.
I shot her a quick smi
le, grateful. It was the only acknowledgment that what these girls were doing was totally, utterly wrong, a sex squad for good grades. So I shook my head, whispering back, “Got it, thanks.”
And Maria and I have developed a friendship of sorts, just to stay alive in this crazy girl crew. We look like we fit in, with all the right clothes, our hair done just so, but sometimes I felt like we’re the only ones living in reality, that the other chicks are vapid, caught up in La-La Land, always talking about whichever new guy they were going to screw. It was insane, especially since a couple of them were doing policy officers and even the town mayor. But then again, who am I to judge? I’ve shown Tristan my pussy, which is just as nasty and whory.
And feeling especially pitiful, I said no at first when Maria asked me to come out.
“The Carlyle Hotel?” I asked skeptically. “Isn’t that filled with old people?”
“Yeah,” the brunette confirmed, “but we can’t avoid them forever.”
And I knew who “them” was. For the last two afternoons we’d decided to have lunch by ourselves, saying that we had to finish up a lab experiment for Biology. But our absence had been noted and the alleged experiment was done now. There were no more excuses not to hang out with the girls.
So I hung up and got dressed slowly, pulling on a red wrap which complemented my chestnut curls, the dress the exact hue of an autumn leaf, bringing out the highlights in my hair without clashing. Plus, I loved the way the jersey hugged my boobs and butt, clingy without being vulgar. Just right for the Carlyle, a super-classy joint. Sighing, I stepped into brown suede boots and picked up my purse.
“Coming!” I called downstairs and Maria giggled as I descended the stairs.
“Looks like we match,” she said, indicating her own outfit. Because she too was dressed in a red dress but I just shook my head.
“Let’s not change,” I said, looking at her meaningfully. “Seriously, we’re not like other girls, it’s fine to wear the same color.”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” she nodded. “Although if we were headed to the Academy Awards, I’d say one of us should change,” she joked.
“Sure, but it’s the Carlyle, not the Oscars,” I retorted wryly as we got in the car. And soon enough, the black car pulled up outside the hotel. The other girls were already waiting on the sidewalk.
“You’re late, ladies,” sniped Trina, shooting us a nasty glance before swiveling in her high heels and heading in. Her long platinum locks flew, almost hitting us in the face and Maria and I exchanged a tortured look. Why did we put up with this? Oh right, because Trina was Queen Bee, leader of the Mean Girl pack and somehow, we’d become part of her coterie.
But as we filed into the Carlyle’s bar, a feeling of well-being settled over me because the setting was so wonderful, luxurious and exquisite. It was old-school with a long oaken bar along one side of the room, soaring ceilings with colored glass paned windows and artwork that looked expensive yet hip at the same time. I was reminded of just what money could buy and settled down in a booth with my friends, making myself comfortable on the red velvet cushions.
“Oh my god Daisy, isn’t that Tristan Marks over there?” said Carlie quizzically, nodding towards a table across the room. Immediately, I swiveled my head, glancing, squinting my eyes a bit in the dim light.
But Tristan’s form was unmistakable. He was ungodly handsome in his suit, massive and imposing in a small wooden chair, an amber shot of something or other in front of him. But what caught my eye wasn’t the drink, the setting, or even the man … it was the blonde with him. She looked like a model, probably six feet tall sans heels, hair gleaming in the light, buttery-yellow with expensive highlights. And the female talked animatedly with my man, her lips ruby red, parting to flash even white teeth, making long, meaningful eye contact with him as matching scarlet nails clicked and clacked with animated hand gestures.
Oh god, who was that woman? She was so beautiful, all smiles and flirtatious female charm wrapped in a gorgeous package. I felt like an oaf, a two hundred pound walrus next to her, suddenly aware of how rolls jiggled under the thin jersey of my dress, how my calves were like solid tree trunks next to the thin twigs of her legs. Oh god, I thought again, mortified. What had I been thinking? Tristan would never be interested in someone like me when he could get her.
But the little voice in my head spoke up then. Get a grip Daisy, the voice warned. There’s nothing between you guys but a little taboo action in the past. Get a grip.
And I shook my head resolutely. The voice was right. There was nothing between Tristan and I, nothing. So I turned back to the group and began chattering, pretending I was checking out other men in the room, pretending to be really into the scene although my heart pounded with awareness of Tristan, trying to keep myself from turning to look at them.
Except the big man had seen me and now stood by our table, the skinny blonde at his side.
“Daisy,” he rumbled, his eyes taking in the table full of girls, all nubile, shimmying flesh.
Before I could reply the blonde cooed, “Oh aren’t you guys cute! So cute!” she trilled, her voice high and fake.
And Trina, one bitch to another, snapped back.
“Oh yeah, so cute!” she agreed sarcastically. “We’re so cute and so young right?” she added. “We’re drinking virgin margaritas,” she added, smirking. And I had to smile internally because it was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, we were old enough to get into the bar, it was a hotel bar after all so there was no bouncer at the door and you could waltz right in. But on the other hand, we were so young, juicy, and ripe that we weren’t even drinking alcohol yet, as if to remind the older blonde of her advanced age.
But Queen Bees never lose their sharp stingers.
“Virgins?” trilled the old lady. “I don’t think so.”
And I applauded silently at her rapier wit. Because yeah, we had virgin drinks in front of us but this was no group of physical virgins, no way.
But evidently Tristan had had enough.
“Daisy,” he nodded at me again. “Have fun with your friends,” he rumbled before walking off, the blonde hanging onto his arm.
And the gasps and titters started up again.
“Oh my god, your guardian is sooo hot!” giggled Carlie, her little form almost bouncing up and down in her seat. “Soooo hot!”
“Get his pen, get his pen!” cooed Carrie-Ann, never far behind. “Do it, do it!”
And I brushed them off.
“Oh my god, you guys are so gross!” I scoffed even as I flushed inside. “He’s my guardian for crying out loud, he raised me since I was a little girl!” I would have explained more but thankfully didn’t have to since the girls were distracted by a junior banker type who’d just stopped by our table.
“Ladies,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “I’m Colin,” he introduced himself, “and this is my buddy Jason,” he said, pointing to another frat boy.
And so the spotlight was off me for the moment as the gaggle of girls began chatting with the two dudes, eating up their muscles, engaging the meatheads in conversation. Except they’d been right on point without even knowing it. I wanted my Tristan’s pen, needed it, craved it … but who was that woman he was with? Jealousy coursed through me again, making me see red, then green. Oh god, I hated myself for feeling this way, but the dragon within me had woken.
CHAPTER TEN
Tristan
I lay in bed, restless, re-playing the scene in my head. Why the fuck had Daisy been out on the town? She’d been so fucking gorgeous in that red dress, every male head in the bar had swiveled at her entrance watching that female flesh jiggle and sway as she sashayed in. She was so entrancing, so nubile, and so fucking young.
My hard-on grew just watching her across the room. The brunette was gorgeous, those brown suede boots caressing her calves, the juicy curve of her thigh outlined beneath the red fabric. Down boy! I growled at myself. We’re out in public, you don’t want to be parading a stiffi
e in front of the wrong crowd.
But just the sight of Daisy had been too much and my pole inevitably became rock solid, hard and stiff in her presence. Unfortunately, Lydia had noticed as well.
“Is that for me?” she simpered and giggled, eyeing my crotch lasciviously.
I said nothing, choosing to ignore her. As smoothly as possible, I edged out of my suit jacket, draping it over my groin area discreetly. No need for people to notice my hard-on, keeping it covered was paramount given that we were surrounded by the cream of society at the moment, Upper East Siders with sharp eyes and loose tongues. Shit, wasn’t that Mayor Kane over in the corner? I nodded slightly, acknowledging the small man and his coterie, always in tune to the power elite.
But it was time to beat feet, I’d had enough of the bullshit with the blonde, enough catering to Lydia and her whiny ways.
“Come on,” I ground out, standing up while making sure to keep my groin covered. “Let’s go.”
The blonde was more than happy, thinking that she was going to get a taste of my dong finally. She wrapped her arm around mine companionably, leaning close to my ear and whispering. I held myself still although creepy-crawlies were running up and down my spine from her presence.
“You really do want to get that PrettyGirl deal done, don’t you?” she murmured slyly into my ear. “Paramount really has you scared don’t they?”
She was referring to the upcoming auction for PrettyGirl magazine, a girlie mag that had hit the rocks recently. As a conglomerate, Marks Holdings has interests in several publications, from family and lifestyle magazines such as Michaels Living, to straight news outlets like World News, World Report and U.S. Global. More importantly, we’ve been looking to expand the “laddie mag” part of our reach because the 30-55 men’s demographic is so powerful, with a sizable chunk of disposable income and leisure time. So the acquisition of PrettyGirl was something Marks Holdings was definitely interested in and as its CEO, I was already sniffing out angles, sussing out the best way to make a deal.
Claiming His Virgin In the Ring Page 44
