He looks me over — the pretentious ass actually looks me up and down. “Honestly? Yes.”
I shake my head and move to walk around him. We’re done here; I’m tired of all the bullshit.
“Caitlin.”
“No. That’s enough. That’s about all I can handle.”
“Look at me.”
“I’m done looking at you.”
He takes me by the arm and turns me. I wrench away, then push against his chest.
We stare at each other.
He tries again, this time reaching for my face. I slap it away again, eyes still locked on his. I refuse to lose this staring contest.
Anthony moves toward me in one long, fast stride. I react instinctively, wanting to hit him again, but he’s suddenly too close to me. His hands are on my face. He’s holding me against him, our bodies pressed together, his lips smashed against mine. For a fraction of a second, I’m lost and floating. My arms stop trying to hit him and my mouth stops protesting. For just that blink of time, there’s bliss, and I’m somewhere else.
But then I push him away, harder this time.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What you want me to do.”
“I don’t want you to—”
He comes forward again, his hands back in place. This time I only half-protest for a couple of beats. Then my pushing hands circle his firm torso and become pulling hands, spreading open against his dress shirt, kneading, pulling his hips into mine.
We pull apart, our mouths separating. We lock eyes. There’s a small moment where I think one of us might say something — a quip from me about his failure to be strong, a protest from him about how my heat is keeping him from working — but then it pops and we’re suddenly one again, moving, undulating, pressed together from top to bottom.
He backs me up and my ass hits the table in the center of the room. His hands move lower, rubbing down my front, pawing my breasts with urgency.
Then he steps back. His lips are smeared with my lipstick. He drops his arms back, shakes off his blazer and tosses it behind me.
“Get on the floor,” he says.
“What?”
“Take off your panties and get on the floor. Hurry.”
I still stand there dumbly. All the blood in my body is one giant throb. I’m practically dripping. I catch sight of Anthony’s slacks, and see the huge protrusion.
This is really happening. Me and Anthony. Anthony and me.
How many nights have I dreamt it? And is it wise to move from fantasy to reality after all this time?
No. No, it’s obviously not.
When I don’t move, Anthony comes back to me, lifts my skirt, and drags my panties to the floor. He puts his hands on my hips and moves me down. “The carpet will chafe. Lay on my coat.”
I look back. I’m kneeling now. I see the discarded blazer behind me — not a random toss, apparently, but a sex blanket instead.
My mind says, We’ll ruin it. But I say nothing because Anthony has guided me to it already, and my ass is on it, and the lining is soft and luxurious.
His big hands open my legs and lift my skirt. He looks hungrily at my pussy, then reaches forward to run a finger between its lips.
“Lay back.”
“Here?”
“It has to be the floor. There are people in the rooms around us and the walls are thin. The table is too shaky. It’s here or nowhere.”
“I meant, here in this room?”
“I’ve got you on the floor with my finger in your pussy. We can’t stop now and pretend it’s all the same, so don’t make me second-guess this, too.”
“Anthony …”
“Lay back.”
I do. My head is in the clouds. I feel every heartbeat in every part of me. My pussy wants more of him, and grips his finger. I’m so wet. I want all of him and I want it now.
I sit back up, then lean up enough to fondle his hard cock through his pants. I begin to unbuckle his belt but he pushes me back down.
“I’ll do that,” he says. “We need to hurry.”
“Why?” And then I think, Oh, right. The time. Marcy only had fifteen minutes with Anthony, and that probably means I only had fifteen minutes, too. “How long do we have?”
He looks at his watch. I don’t know the brand, but it looks phenomenally expensive. “Seven minutes.”
“It’s enough.” I hike my skirt higher and lean again for his hard cock, wanting more than anything to have it inside me, but again he pushes me gently down.
“It’s enough to fuck you,” he agrees. “But first, I need you to come for me.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ANTHONY
I FINISH UNBUCKLING MY BELT, then lower everything enough to take my cock in my fist and give it a few pumps. Caitlin is laying back with her long legs open, pussy blushed and pink between them. Just the sight of her — all of her, from pretty face to wet slit — makes me want to come.
I want to shove myself inside her, fill her up. It’s not a desire so much as a need.
And I think, Oh God, I guess I’ve wanted her forever, too.
I’ve walled it off. Hidden it inside. But all those times Jamie brought her over and she flirted with me, radiating sexual energy like something I’d need only to pick up to run with — I now realize I haven’t been immune. I told myself I was because of what it might mean to admit that I wanted her. Wanting Caitlin would mean a desire repressed, which is something I’m always telling others not to do. Wanting then refusing her would mean I did it out of a sense of taboo, or wrongdoing, or morality, or shame — but if we wanted each other, there’d be no issue and I’d be manufacturing that shame … again, something else I’ve made a living telling people not to do.
And then there’s the biggest reason against all of this: Unlike with my usual flings, anything with Caitlin couldn’t be temporary. I don’t have time for more; I’ve made a decision not to have it. I honestly don’t know if we can make this short-lived or not — if she’s as progressive, sexually, as she thinks she is.
It’s stopped mattering. This is here and now, no matter what hangs above us.
Caitlin lies before me, bare from the waist down, and I think about how long this has been coming for us both. I wonder at my blindness; it makes me uneasy.
I didn’t see Caitlin coming — I saw none of this coming. And it makes me wonder what else in my life I might not be seeing.
But those thoughts are gone in a blink, and then there’s just my fist on my throbbing cock, its head pulsing with my heartbeat, a drop of fluid at the tip. There’s just Caitlin’s wet pussy, her fingers now beginning to idly stroke it as she waits for me.
I move down her body, put my face between her legs. I can smell her. I can feel her juices on my chin. I’ve never wanted anything more.
Caitlin puts her hands on my face, pulling me upward. I meet her eyes and she says, “There’s no time for that.”
“There’s time.”
“Later. Just … just fuck me.”
The last comes out like a sigh. I almost come right then and there.
I put my head back down. I taste her slit, running the tip of my tongue from bottom to top, through the wet center.
“Anthony, there’s no time.”
“There is if you hurry.”
“I can’t just—”
I slip my finger inside. She gasps. I curl it back like a hook, rocking slowly, my fingertip petting an inside spot on her upper wall. Then I put my mouth on her pussy, taking a few long laps before beginning to circle around the bud of her clit.
“Hurry,” I say. “Come for me.”
I use my finger to stroke her G-spot. I lay the palm of my other hand atop her mound and press down, rubbing the sensitive nerves from both top and bottom. My tongue flicks her bud, moving in long, wet circles.
Her back arches and her pussy tips up to meet me, her back flattening. There’s a long second of held tension as her breath pauses, and through the
pause I continue to rub, continue to lick. I slow just a little to make her wait, then let it happen.
I know she’s trying to keep things quiet, but she mostly fails. The door isn’t locked. Anyone could come in to see what’s gone wrong in Private Conference Room C-2.
I move up, my chin wet. I rub the flat of my hand through her gushing wetness as aftershocks run through her. Then the hand goes back to my cock, steering it toward her as she twitches.
My mouth goes to her neck. I kiss it while my cock slides inside without resistance.
She’s hot and wet inside, tight like a caress. I feel her warmth surround me, the final shocks of her orgasm squeezing my cock like sparks.
“How long?” she asks.
“Five minutes.”
“What if someone comes in?”
Too late to reconsider. Too late for alternatives. “They’ll see me fucking you.”
I thrust into her. I can’t go slow, but I force myself not to go too fast. I won’t be a jackhammer. This is something to experience, to savor. It’s been too long in the waiting.
I feel every inch of her as I fuck her. I feel the ridges inside her, sending shivers through my body as they lap the bottom of my cock like tiny tongues. I feel her grip on me — the way she is when she’s relaxed and passive, the way she is when flinches of pleasure surprise her, the way she is when she meets my eyes, bears down, and tightens herself around me.
“I’m going to come,” I say. “Come with me.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Do it, Caitlin. I want you to come with my cock inside you.”
She swallows. She lays back. Then her hand is between us, and she’s rubbing her clit while I fuck her, so I sit up straight to look down on her and watch. I wish I could see her tits. I want to see them move as I push my cock into her pussy.
I watch her pink slit as I fill it with my shaft. My eyes fix on the triangle at the top, above where her lips lick my shaft like a kiss, between me and her hand where it’s dark inside, warm folds blushed pink and shining with juices.
My mind says, This is Caitlin. This is Caitlin. You’re finally fucking Caitlin. And then my balls tighten and I know it’s almost over and that there’s nothing I could do to stop it.
Caitlin’s eyes close. Her mouth opens. Her chest rises up and her pussy grips my cock as the final wave crests within me. I thrust as her pussy holds me, my balls high against my body, my legs wanting to tense.
She cries my name and I unload, my cock emptying inside her.
She grabs my wrist as I roll away, turning it to look at my watch. “Three minutes left. One minute to bask, and then we get dressed.”
I’m looking at the ceiling, already wondering what I’ve done.
Instead of enjoying the afterglow, my mind turns to doubts. About us, yes, but really about everything. Fifteen minutes ago, my mission was on track — and yesterday at this time I knew exactly what was supposed to happen and when, with no hesitation.
But that’s no longer true. Now everything is suspect.
“It’ll be different now,” I say.
Caitlin rolls sideways, laying against me. “I can do this. I won’t ask for more. I know how this has to be for you.”
“And for you,” I say. It’s extremely important. If I wanted casual fucks, I could have them lined up out the door. What I want is more subtle: a woman who wants me only for a short time, and ends up getting exactly what she wants just as I have.
“I only want this one time.” Her voice is sleepy.
I wish we didn’t have to rush. I wish we could just lay here, if only to process.
“I promise, Anthony. Once is all I want.”
I look at the ceiling. What she said isn’t actually what I want to hear. This time barely counted. So much nuance was lost in this short encounter. I didn’t get to touch or lick her breasts. I didn’t get to savor.
I didn’t feel her lips on my cock.
“Maybe twice,” I tell her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CAITLIN
I FINISH THE DAY WHERE I should be: right up front, in the circle of honor. We had plenty of time to clean up, and plenty more for me to fully compose once Anthony told me each of his one-on-ones were in different conference rooms. His next meeting was three doors down, and when no coach appeared in our room I was able to button up without rush, straighten the jarred table, and air the place out.
It smelled like sex. I wanted to stay forever.
Anthony takes the stage after lunch, minus his blazer. It had an enormous wet spot that bled right through to the other side. I don’t know what he did with that coat — maybe took it to the dumpster — but I ruined it.
I’ve never been so hot and bothered. I needed a trip to the bathroom for a wipe-down, thanks to all my leaking. In the small private bathroom, knowing better and feeling more than a little self-conscious, I locked the door, dropped my panties, and gave my clit another round. It was utilitarian, not really hedonistic. Because how was I supposed to focus on Fate In Your Palm while I kept thinking about having Anthony’s cock in my palm?
The encore orgasm helped. A little.
So now here I am, feeling good and with none of my earlier agitation. The event ends on its usual high note — higher than usual, because it’s the final day. There’s more confetti — not green leaves. After most of the crowd files away, I walk out without hurrying, proud of myself for not being such a groupie as to wait for Anthony at the foot of the stage.
He has work to do, and a thousand people demanding his time. I’m not one of them. I’m enlightened and progressive enough to accept what happened for what it is, without neediness and expectations.
I don’t see him on the way out. I don’t try. I do get a text from an unknown number, though, and only after opening it do I realize it’s Anthony. I don’t know whether he contacted Jamie to get my number or sneaked a look at my phone sometime during our encounter. It’s more than a little strange to realize I just had the most intense sex of my life with a guy whose number I didn’t have before now.
Thinking it triggers something on the shame spectrum within me, but then I remember: I just attended an Anthony Ross event, and know better than to saddle myself with baggage over choices I made with full foresight.
Has anything been damaged? Nope. We both left satisfied, knowing this was only a physical thing. So why would I choose, now, to feel bad? Fuck that.
He texted me a smiley face emoji, with nothing else and totally out of context. Anthony knows better than to bog this down with comments, praise, satisfaction, or small talk. So he sent me a smile, open for interpretation with the only meaning possible: I’m happy. The only reason I even know the message is from Anthony is that 15 seconds later he seems to realize I might not have his number and texts again: This is Anthony BTW.
So why would I start wondering what our one-and-done relationship means, when we’re not done? We already decided to do it again and get it right — and, honestly, that’s the only thing that makes sense, given how rushed that was.
We need time to savor before declaring things finished.
I wonder if the fact that I’m already anticipating that next encounter is a bad sign — if it means I’m forming some sort of attachment. But no, of course not. I’m a big girl, able to make responsible decisions. I know my own brain and my own motivations. I’m Ross-trained, after all.
The next day, I get on a plane home. I water my neglected plants, sort my mail, and then take a short walk in the sun so that the bliss of these last few days can wash over me. People say there’s always a high after a big, emotional event like Anthony’s. But it fades; if you want the changes to stick, you need to make appointments with yourself to maintain what you’ve learned.
I did some of that on the plane: writing in my journal, checking and fleshing out the goals I set for myself during the event, planning the days ahead in detail and the weeks and months in wireframe. It doesn’t take much to put thoughts into action.
Just reminders and time to think, so your head can return to the place you’ve made for it with all that work in the seminar.
I make my reminders through my first week back. I get a few texts from Anthony, none of them suggestive or implying anything that isn’t and shouldn’t be there. He tells me he’s traveling for foundation work.
He tells me he’ll be back in Del Mar the following week, and that we should have dinner.
That sounds fun, I reply.
He texts back, I’ll schedule it with Jamie.
This doesn’t bother me a bit. Of course Jamie will be there. Why wouldn’t she be?
I walk every day now, enjoying the sun, still feeling high.
What I told Anthony and Jamie is true: This is a new dawn for me. I can’t shake the impression that I’ll look back on it as a monumental one.
My father loves his work, but my mother never really did — she worked as a CPA in a firm, hated it, formed her own company and hated the extra management tasks even more. Mom wanted to write, like me, but never took the leap. But before I even hit my first big landmark at 30 years old, I’ve already dropped the job I was so-so on to embrace my passion.
And now, after my talk with Jamie, I’m moving not just into writing, but into a career with Anthony’s company. A career that will make a difference.
I’m not going to waste my life like Mom wasted hers. She worked for money, then married a man who loved his work more than he loved his family. Now she’s unhappy and feels like it’s too late to start over.
It’s never too late to start over.
And because I’ve had this change now, I’ll never have to.
I’m following my passion.
I’m finding my purpose.
I don’t have that perfect guy yet, but that’s okay because I don’t need one. Anthony might be onto something with his quick-hit encounters, and he might be onto something with his Institute’s view of sex. The way Anthony explains it, sexual repression causes at least half of our society’s problems — including and especially the ones you’d never think of as sexual at all.
The Guru (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 6) Page 10
