When the pressure building in my cock, in my balls, grew to a deep ache, I took over. I brought a hand to the back of her head and began to guide her. I brought her head down hard, then up again for a moment, then down again to take in the whole length of my giant cock.
Eyes wide, she worked hard to take me all in, but I was huge. It took a lot of effort to suck in every inch of me. My eyes glazed, panting, I watched her, my erection solid, wide and glistening.
“Suck it,” I commanded and she did as she was told, squeezing my length in the wet heat of her mouth and throat. I dug my fingers into her ponytail, rough with need as I forced her down onto me. Her erect, clamped nipples grazed my inner thigh, her high heels stuck out as she knelt between my legs.
I could feel myself getting close, the tension building, my shaft growing to a giant length in Kara’s mouth. Slick, sucking hard, she worked me as I guided her, taking me in full, deep, worshipping my cock.
She looked up at me, her gorgeous blue eyes half-closed in pleasure as she sucked hard and brought me into her. I locked eyes with her.
“I’m going to come,” I groaned. Then I exploded so hard I nearly blacked out, thrusting down her throat, pumping all of my seed deep into her, my hand fisted tight into her ponytail.
“Kara,” I called out, torn up by the sight of her taking me all in, sucking every last drop, swallowing my entire load. I collapsed back onto the sofa, panting, shocked with the intensity of it. Kara slowly drew back her mouth, then licked my tip, savoring her last taste.
“Fuck,” I panted. I pulled her onto my lap and wrapped both large arms around her, encircling her tight against my chest. My heart pounded and she nestled into me. I breathed her in, inhaling her scent, the softness of her hair, the feel of her so right, so lush and pliant against my hardness. I brought my fingers down to her glistening sex.
“Did that make you wet, my Kara?” She nodded against my chest, her hand against me. I could feel my erection, still pulsing. Damn, I was still hard, even after that mind-blowing blow job. I still throbbed with desire for her. How did she do that to me?
She became aware of me as well, glancing down, her plump lips parted slightly. Those lips that had taken me in, wrapped glistening around my length, sucking me, worshiping me. I brought my mouth to hers in a demanding, possessive kiss, my tongue caressing her, stoking her fires. She leaned in to me, tilting her head up and bringing her palms to my rock hard chest. With trembling, urgent fingers, she began fumbling with the top button of my shirt.
With a growl, I leaned back a few inches and pulled my shirt up over my head. Her eyes widened at the sight of my muscled, tattooed chest. I wanted to give her time, let her explore every inch of me, but not just now. Now I needed to bury my cock deep inside her wet, waiting pussy. Bringing a hand to her knees, I tore her panties away and she gasped.
“I need to be inside you.” Grasping both of her hips in my large hands, I positioned her over me. I ground her down hard and full onto my huge, erect cock. Her sex dripped, taking me in deep as I filled her. She screamed and collapsed against me, grinding down with need even in her surprise. I held on tight to her hips, thrusting deep into her wetness, stretching her pussy so tight and hot around me.
Wanton and wild, Kara began to move, bucking against me, following my rhythm and matching it with her own. I brought my hands to her ass, grabbing on to her cheeks as she started to ride me. She drew up, palms against my solid chest. She rocked and moaned with my thrusts.
“Ride me,” I commanded. “I want to see you wild.” She moaned and began moving faster. Grinding harder against me, she took every steel inch of me into her wet, slippery depths, again and again. Her eyes closed and her tits bounced as she worked, a glistening sheen of sweat forming over her naked body.
“That’s it,” I murmured. I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything better as she moved with abandon, needy and crazed with lust. I fucked her hard, and she braced herself against my chest, arching her back and angling her pussy down around me. She grunted, taking as much of me as she gave of herself, needing this every bit as much as I did, slick and fast and dirty.
“Yes,” she cried out. Moaning, grinding on me, I could feel her desire mounting, feel her tensing around me.
I reached out and suddenly freed a nipple from its restraint. As the blood rushed back in, flooding her with sensation, she screamed and I took her into my mouth, my wet heat kissing, sucking and lapping at her. I freed the other, bucking into her, fingers hard into her ass cheeks as I sucked her sensitive nipple into my mouth.
She was so close, shuddering and quaking against me, around me. I growled in her ear, “Come for me.” Instantly, she shattered, undone, screaming as an orgasm ripped through her body. Shuddering, her pussy throbbed and squeezed around my cock. It brought me to the brink and I came deep inside of her, thrust after thrust shooting my come deep inside and filling her completely.
Panting, sweaty, Kara collapsed against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, hands up along her back. She buried her face in the crook of my neck, nestling into me, naked and wonton and satisfied. I couldn’t imagine anything better.
CHAPTER 3
Kara
“What’s frisée?” I whispered to Declan, looking up from a large, linen menu.
“Rich people’s lettuce,” he whispered back, conspiratorial.
“How about endive?”
He nodded. “Escarole, arugula, radicchio. It’s all salad.”
I cracked up. He’d taken me to a rooftop garden restaurant on the Upper East Side for brunch, our first day in New York City. Wisteria and lavender, crystal and china, this place was right out of a storybook. Without Declan, I would have felt like a servant snuck into the master’s quarters, about to be kicked out at any moment for using the wrong fork. With Declan, it felt like we were both in on the same joke and I loved every second of it.
Last night when we’d arrived late I’d been blown away. New York City. So far it hadn’t disappointed a bit. The hotel Declan had us staying in was so over-the-top it ought to be arrested for trying to impersonate Buckingham Palace. We’d rolled up in our limo to manicured shrubs in ornate planters and a lit awning with what looked like a royal crest emblazoned upon it. One man in a red jacket with golden epaulets and matching cap had rushed to open the door. Another hustled to the trunk to begin removing our luggage while yet another stood at the ready should I need assistance exiting the vehicle.
The entryway stairs were covered in red carpet. The elegant foyer had 50-foot high ceilings with marble and gold inlay and a crystal chandelier the size of a blue ribbon cow at the county fair. Declan had stayed as cool as James Bond at a casino table. We weren’t just tourists, we were VIP guests. He’d done some business with the owners. He’d led me up past more golden cherubs than I could count into a hotel suite with 10-foot tall windows and plush red velvet drapes framing a breathtaking view of New York City at night.
The view from the rooftop restaurant was incredible, too. The greenery of Central Park was framed by an impossibly packed, high wall of buildings. We enjoyed our brunch—a light salad for me, something seasonal and sustainably-raised for him which basically ended up being bacon and eggs. He entertained me talking about everything we could see in the city, 5th Avenue, Soho and Times Square which apparently was all cleaned up, not that I had much with which to compare it.
“Now, you have to play it cool, Kara,” Declan whispered from across the table. Then he nodded his head slightly to the left. “Nine o’clock.”
I looked over and saw a woman in a gigantic picture hat and sunglasses. You couldn’t see much of her face. She looked slender and pale next to an eager older man.
“Star of that new hit Netflix series,” he informed me.
“How do you know?”
Declan shrugged. “There are always celebrities around here. But in New York, you can’t look, can’t react. It’s all got to be on the down low.”
The patrons seated around me were like
no people I’d ever seen before. The women seriously looked like large heads on top of skeletons. I’d never been that self-conscious about my body, not overweight seemed good enough. These women made me look like an overfed farm animal. But in my world, most of them wouldn’t even pass inspection with their bones sticking out like that. None of them looked like they’d make it through the winter.
“Do these women eat anything?” I whispered again, using the giant menu to partially hide my lips.
“I think it’s mostly frisée,” Declan agreed. “And gin and tonics.”
Next to me, I couldn’t stop glancing at a woman with perfectly clear, smooth skin, her blonde hair in a bun without a strand out of place. Both her skin and her hair were pulled up and back, tight. On a Tuesday morning in June she wore a midnight black wool Chanel suit, nylons and pumps. She might both weigh and be 95. I tried not to gawk, but I’d never seen anything like her.
“I think you’re safe,” Declan whispered over to me, seeing my fascination. “She only drinks virgin’s blood. And we know you’re not that.”
I would have balled up my napkin and thrown it at him, but I guessed this was the kind of place that didn’t cotton to that kind of juvenile behavior. I scrunched up my nose at him instead.
Looking around, I had to admit that I felt a moment of doubt. I definitely hadn’t gotten the color memo. “I should have bought more black clothes,” I murmured.
Declan dismissed my worry with a big hand. “Just be yourself.”
I laughed, easy for him to say, Mr. Big now with his real estate empire. I was still just a rancher from Montana.
“I’m serious,” Declan continued. “Here’s the secret: never let them make you feel less-than. You’re not. In fact, they want what you have.”
“What’s that?”
“Open air. Free range. There’s nothing like the feel up on a Montana ranch.”
“I didn’t know you still felt that way.”
“Of course I do. It’s in my bones. I’ve just figured out how to sell it.”
Our moment, smiling at each other, recognizing our common ground, was interrupted by a long, blood-red manicured fingernail trailing along Declan’s shoulder.
“Declan!” A woman slunk up to his side. The way she said his name made it sound intimate, just the two of them. She bent down and air-kissed him on each cheek. My mouth popped open in surprise. And, OK, jealousy.
“Courtney.” Declan acknowledged her, cool as always.
“I’m so glad to see you here. It’s been forever. I’ve been so bored.” She emphasized random words when she spoke, so dramatic. Who was she to him?
“I’d like you to meet Kara Brooks.” Declan gestured to me. “She’s visiting from Montana.”
“Montana!” Her heavily-tweezed eyebrows shot up and she looked at me like I had a contagious disease.
“Hi, there.” I waved feebly, instantly transported back to the seventh grade lunchroom, tray in my hand, unsure where to sit.
“Listen, we have to talk about Saturday.” She turned her attention back on Declan. “It’s a disaster. The caterer quit last week. I’ve been scrambling.”
I narrowed my eyes. That woman wouldn’t know scrambling if it came up and hit her over the head with a baseball bat. She was wearing some sort of strapless one-piece black silk thing, fitted at the top and floating into wide-legged pants at the bottom, plus elaborately strapped, heeled sandals. I’d be willing to bet she’d never done a scrap of hard work in her whole life.
“I have to run, but I’ll be in touch.” She brought her hand up again to Declan’s shoulder while she said it. She definitely meant touch.
I grew quiet, focused on my salad. What were those red things in it anyway, sort-of chewy and nutty?
“Goji berries,” Declan whispered to me.
I still gave him a quick smile, but really I was thinking what was up with that lady? Was that the type of woman Declan spent time with now? She’d be right at home in his private plane. They certainly seemed to know each other well. Maybe all this connection I felt with Declan was in my head, the sad concoctions of a lonely woman who desperately needed a reason for this agreement to be OK, to mean more than it did—a raunchy, debauched week. Paid to do his bidding.
“Let’s get out of here.” Declan rose, napkin down on the table, hand outstretched to me.
“Happy to.” I brought my hand to his and away we went.
§
The next couple of hours passed like a montage from a romantic movie. Arm in arm, Declan and I strolled through Central Park on the sunny June day, pausing to watch street performers dancing on roller skates or drumming on overturned plastic buckets. When I exclaimed over a horse-drawn carriage, Declan insisted and we hopped on one ourselves.
“It’s like the whole city’s a carnival!” I exclaimed, marveling over a man walking along on stilts. “Is it like this all the time?”
“Pretty much,” Declan confirmed.
The driver delivered commentary in a full, brash accent that he explained was “all Bronx, sweetheart.” We passed a glassy expanse of flat water featuring model sailboats. A couple of little boys shouted over two that raced, neck and neck. I took it all in, the tall, ornate stone edifices of the Upper East Side, the cooler-than-school teens with tattoos and piercings and dyed green hair.
Declan wrapped an arm around me. I liked the feel of it, possessive, protective.
“This afternoon you have a four o’clock appointment for a fitting.”
“A what?”
“I’m taking you to a gala Saturday night. It’s black tie. You’ll need a ball gown, and the gown will need to be fitted.”
“A fitting for a ball gown.” I shook my head, amazed by the strange mix of familiar and new. He was still Declan, the man I’d first met when he was just 21, already hardened with the demeanor of a stray, scruffy and ill at ease. The same Declan who knew our local diner and had spent so many days and nights on my family’s ranch. Now he talked about an entirely different world with the expertise of a native tour guide.
“I’ll have to leave you for a couple hours,” he apologized. “I have some meetings. But I’ll meet you later at the dressmakers.”
“I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.” I suddenly felt self-conscious, like I’d been monopolizing his time and wasting it. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to show me around. I’m sure I can find something to do here in the Big Apple.”
“I’m happy here with you.” When he said it, it felt real.
He walked me to the entrance of what he called the MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. Encouraging me to look around, he explained my fitting was only a few blocks away.
I had to admit, a lot of that museum went right over my head. White-on-white, blocks stacked up, I didn’t get it. But the colors and faces in a painting by someone named Klimt reminded me of an old quilt we had. I knew someone in the family had made it, but not who, and something about that painting made me feel exactly like I was looking straight at it. I spent a while looking at a Pablo Picasso painting called Repose. He’d done it way back in 1908. The angles and lines, the woman’s closed eyes and the way she rested her head in her hand, I wanted to know her story, why she felt so sad and exhausted.
But the one that knocked me way back, where I spent about 20 minutes just sitting was Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I’d heard about him, how he’d cut his ear off and sent it to a woman. That kind of story stayed with you. But I’d never seen one of his paintings before in person. The vivid swirls, the strokes of color, so vibrant and thick and teeming with life. I’d never studied art, lacked all the right words to describe it, but something in it moved me, deep. I’d looked up at starry nights before and felt just like he did, like this painting made me feel, enveloped in the universe. I guessed that was why they called it a masterpiece.
§
At four o’clock I managed to get to the address Declan had given me. It didn’t seem right. I didn’t see the name of the stor
e anywhere, nothing displayed in the windows, just a golden plaque to the side of large, ornate, heavy doors embossed with small letters: la modiste. I pressed the doorbell.
A tiny woman with a bun met me at the door. Instead of the tight, fragile look of the elderly woman at the restaurant, she bustled with vivacious energy. She moved with the grace of a ballerina yet possessed the stern command of a governess.
“Miss Brooks?” She spoke with a thick accent that I couldn’t immediately place.
“Yes.”
“This way.”
Before I knew what was happening, she had me in a back room standing up on a block, stripped down to panties and a bra in front of a three-way mirror. An assistant measured me all over with a cloth tape while the older woman surveyed me from various angles. Based on the amount of tsking and tusking, I could tell she didn’t like what she saw.
“Four days! Not nearly enough time. I cannot work miracles!”
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t know I was coming to New York.”
“And this!” She brought a hand to my bosom. “What am I supposed to do with this! You are Kate Upton here.”
“Oh, no, I’m not—” At least I stopped before I finished explaining I wasn’t actually the model Kate Upton. I realized she was using the comparison as an insult. But all words of protest fled my mind when another assistant walked into the room through a side door carrying a red, full-length evening gown straight out of a movie.
“Arms up!” the tiny woman commanded me. “Stomach in!” As they brought the dress down over my head, I felt like a slab of beef, and a fat one at that.
But then I saw myself in the dress. Strapless, it dipped down into a V in front with embroidery and beading along the edges. It came in at my waist and traveled down to my ankles with a slit up to mid-thigh. I looked ready for the Oscars.
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