Temptation

by Liv Morris

  Eddie gets behind the wheel and mutes the volume of the music. I look at him annoyed. “Home, Mr. Kingsley, or do you have an engagement to attend?”

  Normally, I confer with him on my agenda, but this afternoon’s event with Simon has me off-kilter and I simply forgot. “I have a benefit at the Lincoln Center tonight. But take the long way so I can change into my tux.”

  “Yes, sir.” Eddie pushes the mute button again, and the music blares from the speakers. I see him slyly smirk in the rearview mirror.

  Eddie has been my driver since my company landed on the Fortune 500 list two years ago. It was shortly before I turned thirty. A magical year indeed. Heady and intoxicating. My first taste of obscene wealth and its rewards.

  Since then I’ve fucked my way around this city, and poor Eddie has witnessed it all. I’ve burned through women like a wildfire roaring across a dry forest. Nothing has stood in my way. My passions have been all-consuming as I’ve indulged myself in all kinds of debauchery. I might think about settling down in a few years, maybe. But, for now, I’m content to sample the choice delights surrounding me. What single man in my shoes wouldn’t say the same? Temptation is just too fucking tempting for me.

  As Eddie prepares to pull away from the front of my building, I spot Simon being escorted out of the glass doors. A team of two security officers, one on each side of Simon, has their hands placed tightly above his elbows. I watch as they roughly release him once they have him fully outside. Simon stumbles but remains standing.

  “Hold up, Eddie,” I shout above the music before the SUV moves into the traffic. “Stop right here.”

  The SUV lurches to a stop and I brace myself against the back of the front seat. I shift slowly on the leather, wet from my rain-soaked clothes, until I’m totally facing Simon through my window. To my surprise he is approaching my vehicle and the look on his face is murderous. Never have I seen him show this much emotion. Never. Even when his fiancée left him a few weeks ago. It’s unnerving.

  Simon slowly approaches the Escalade and stares into the tinted glass of my windows. His eyes are wide and crazed, the veins in his forehead protruding. He appears ready to fight. Part of me wants to fling open the door and pummel his ass into the sidewalk. Pulverize him. Make him pay. I have about five inches on him and maybe forty pounds of muscle. He’s no match for me. But something about his face, his eyes make me reconsider. I grip harder into the seatback, grounding myself into place.

  Simon leans in closer, his nose almost touches the glass as he shouts something at me, but I can’t hear him. His words are silent to me as I sit behind the car’s dark wall of glass and listen to the loud music piped through the speakers and vibrating around me.

  As I am getting ready to tell Eddie to pull away, Simon makes a move that conveys what his words could not. He places his finger beside his neck and drags it across from one side to the other. The universal symbol for you’re dead. An eerie feeling runs through me, and I consider calling security to remove him from the sidewalk, but Simon turns away practically running from me.

  Throughout Simon’s angry display, Eddie is silently observing his behavior through the window. He’s known Simon for as long as he’s worked for me, so this stunt has to come as a shock. Glancing at Eddie in the front seat, I see a look of confusion mixed with concern on his face.

  “It’s been a hell of a day, Eddie.” I take a deep breath and release my white-knuckled fingers from the seatback. An indent in the leather remains, a ghost outlining where my tension lay. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

  I’m tempted to tell Eddie to take me home and skip tonight’s benefit, but I have committed to be there and make a major donation. I will likely be called by name and asked to stand and be acknowledged for my charity. An empty chair in my absence would be an affront to the organization. One that I’m actually quite fond of, which in this town is rare.

  Resolved to keep pressing on, I remove the bag that’s hanging from the hook behind my seat. Inside there is a black tux, brilliant white shirt, and shiny black shoes. I start to undress and as I do, Eddie, on cue, raises the divider between the seats. I laugh as he does. He’s seen and heard just about everything in this backseat. Surely a flash of my briefs won’t offend him. But he remains a gentleman as usual, even when I’ve given him no cause to believe that I am one.

  As soon as I’m fully dressed, Eddie pulls up in front of the Lincoln Center, the location for tonight's benefit. I comb my fingers through my hair, trying to settle it back in place. It has a mind of it’s own. Sex hair, I’ve been told.

  Other than my white shirt, I’m adorned in black from the top of my head to the soles of my shoes. It’s the color of success in New York City, and likely the color of most people’s hearts attending tonight, too.

  I'm scheduled to appear at two similar events this weekend, each one as stimulating as a prostate exam. Since my company made the Fortune 500 list, the invitations and requests from charities in this city have poured into my office. Poor Mrs. Carter practically needs an assistant to weed through them all. I think it’s time to cut back on my attendance. I’ve frankly had my fill.

  During the last two years, I’ve found the conversation at these affairs to be mundane and as boring as hell. The attendees address me speculatively, shocked by my success and youth. At thirty-two how I’ve succeeded is not the norm unless one’s empire is built on family wealth and prestige. In a sick way my empire was built on family money—the hush money given to my mother when she fled this city thirty-two years ago. Funny thing about hush money, though, it’s rarely kept quiet.

  But tonight I’ll have to endure all the disgusting verbal fawning. I can hear the people now, those shocked by my accomplishments.

  "Hello, Mr. Kingsley. I've heard so much about you."

  "Good evening, Mr. Kingsley. It's amazing how you've taken Wall Street by storm."

  "Oh, Mr. Kingsley, what a striking man you are . . .blah . . .blah . . .blah."

  The eyes on the nameless faces of my commentators have one thing in common: fear. Fear that I will dislike them, fear that I will crush them, and fear they will never obtain the wealth and power I have. It's pathetic how each dinner, gala, or benefit turns into a sycophant ball. A wicked dance where I'm placed in the center to be admired and envied. Displayed on some invisible pedestal until the sands shift beneath me and another up-and-coming man replaces me. Someone with more money, more power. The next bright and shining star. No one remains on top forever, and I have no illusions about my tenuous position among New York’s power players.

  Eddie opens the door and I exit with a quick nod to him. “Plan on company tonight. I need something fun to look forward to.”

  He nods back in a silent reply because he knows my routine and sexual appetites very well. It's a waiting game for him. He will receive my pick-up text and appear in five minutes at the curb. I'll let him know in my message if I’ll have a friend at the end of the night. He will then prepare my arrival accordingly. Tonight, since I've alerted him early, he'll have some champagne ready when we enter the car, the backseat divider up, and seductive music playing in the background. Later, after I’m finished with the night's delight, he’ll drop her off at her Upper East Side condo lovingly bought by her rich father who I've probably done business with.

  Making my way to Lincoln Center’s entrance, I pull the ticket Mrs. Carter gave me from my jacket’s pocket. I see a line has formed in front of the building, and I dread having to stand with everyone outside. When I decide to bypass the line and proceed inside through the doublewide doors, a young woman with an official-looking badge pinned across her flat chest approaches me. Her blond hair falls haphazardly against her shoulders and she appears overwhelmed. I notice a little perspiration glisten on her forehead as she forces a smile at me. Sweating is so weak, I think to myself. I plant a smile on my face and prepare for her compliments, the inevitable suck-up that asks me to open my wallet and hand over its contents.

  “Good evening.�
� I decide to speak first.

  "Good evening, Mr. Kingsley.” She offers her hand to me in a formal greeting, and on reflex I respond in kind. “My name is Natalie Vincent. I'm the assistant to Ava Swanson, the executive director of The Swanson Foundation. It’s an honor to have you attending our benefit tonight. We have special seating for you in the ballroom." She doesn’t spew the usual false platitudes. How refreshing.

  “This way.” She tilts her head toward the direction she wants me to follow. She appears to be on a mission, and her high heels begin clicking with speed against the marble floors. Pulling my eyes away from her long, slender legs, I stop briefly to acknowledge some pompous men from whom I’ve legally stolen money. It’s the Wall Street way, and the only place on Earth where stealing is applauded and rewarded.

  I shake a few clammy hands and endure a couple slaps on my back, then hurriedly make my way back to Ms. Vincent. She’s halted her march toward the ballroom and stands waiting for me a few feet away. Her patience may be running thin as I watch her feet tap away until I’m back by her side. I have to smile to myself as I’ve never had a charity executive show such disregard to me. Me, the person who will likely be the biggest donor of the night.

  “Excuse me,” I say and add the best devilish grin I can produce. “I hate to leave a woman waiting.” But I see her discreetly roll her eyes and huff as she turns in the direction she was headed. And I have to say I’m enjoying the view of her backside as she walks a few steps ahead of me.

  Ms. Vincent and I enter the main dining area for tonight’s event. I watch her stop at the head table and I start to tense. I despise sitting at the head table as it ensures that I am front and center. I prefer to blend in and watch others, not have all eyes fixed on me. Turning toward me, Ms. Vincent points out my seat and the identifying place card with Adam Kingsley written boldly across it.

  "You will be sitting by the speaker, Sir Lawrence Scott. He's the organizer of The Hope House in Ethiopia. A wonderful outreach and a wonderful man.”

  “It should provide some stimulating conversation for the evening, I'm sure." I attempt to sound sincere but become distracted when I notice the elaborate diamond necklace lying on her pale chest. The clasp is moved to the front and ruins the piece's declaration of importance. After pulling my gaze away from her chest, she eyes me speculatively and continues.

  "Stimulating might be a stretch, even for Sir Scott." She gestures toward a wall of open doors. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you the patron's reception area."

  Once again, I'm trailing behind Ms. Vincent and wondering what's underneath the tight black dress she’s wearing. My imagination conjures up lace encasing soft silk. If I found her more attractive, I might try to see if I’m right.

  After entering the reception area off the main ballroom, Ms. Vincent departs, assuring me I will be speaking with her later. I head straight toward one of the several bars scattered throughout the large room and order my standard scotch, Glenlivet. If they have my favorite brand, I'm likely to contribute more money. Otherwise, my donation goes down considerably. After I successfully place my order, it appears The Swanson Foundation is in luck tonight.

  Scanning the crowd as I wait for my drink, I see the usual suspects: balding men with pooching bellies holding on to their latest trophy wives or girlfriends. Some of the women meet my gaze with a knowing look as I’ve already been improperly introduced to certain parts of them when they were less attached.

  I spot a former friend, Sarah Edmonds, I believe it is now. She has wonderful auburn hair that cascades against her alabaster skin, but her hideous laugh sounds like a hyena. I need to turn my gaze away from her quickly or she'll interpret my perusal as interest. I don't touch the merchandise once it's bought. And she most surely is bought. Poor fucker, Mr. Edmonds.

  I take a couple more swigs of my scotch and let some of the better memories with the women I’ve known in the room come to mind. Between the scotch and brief sexual fantasies, I feel my body start to relax for the first time since this afternoon. I signal the bartender for a refill. I need a few more before subjecting myself to an evening next to Sir Lawrence. Fuck, this night needs to speed by.

  In the far corner there’s a stunning raven-haired beauty, and I shift my body slightly so I can watch her more closely. I've noticed her at a couple events the last month, and both times she has appeared alone. No one seems attached to her, which I find extremely odd as raw beauty like hers is uncommon in Manhattan. I wonder who she is and where she came from. No one suddenly appears on the New York social scene without some fanfare, especially at her age and her likelihood of being single. I bet she’s family money, or a trust fund baby beautifully grown up.

  I would guess she’s older than I am, but I have never been close enough to see the details of her face and determine what her true age might be. Early thirties possibly. Her luminous skin gives her the glow of youth, so it's hard to tell. I enjoy watching the men around her as they hang onto every word she speaks out of her ruby lips.

  Her congregation reminds me of a scene from Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara had all the naïve southern boys circled around her and eating out of the palm of her hand. I can almost hear this stunner mocking the men with a little fiddle dee dee thrown at them.

  She ceremoniously extricates herself from the crowd of fawning suitors and moves toward the bar where I’m located. My heartbeat quickens at the thought of seeing her up close, maybe even sharing a word or two.

  As she approaches me, I watch the sway of her hips and damn how they sway. Her tight dress accentuates her every move and I’m mesmerized, completely in her thrall. Her stature is petite, but curves grace her body seductively. Everything I see makes me thankful I’m a man. The sexy stilettos she’s wearing belong in one of two places, over my shoulders or on the floor next to my bed.

  Finally she looks my way and our eyes immediately connect, and at this moment I’m perfectly still. I can’t break the intensity I feel in this first interaction between us. Her blue eyes are surrounded by creamy skin and framed with her long, black hair. She is a fucking masterpiece. An artist’s beauty.

  The next thing I see on her lovely face is a knowing smile. She doesn’t appear to be mocking me, at least that's my hope. And I decide right then that I need to know who this mystery woman is and where she came from.

  I have an unspoken rule of never introducing myself at these shitty functions, but this woman I've got to meet. Now. I walk toward her, blocking her path to the bar and making it impossible for her to ignore me. She places her hands on her hips and looks up at me expectantly.

  Feeling a bit on edge, I revert back to full-on business mode. What is it about this woman’s beauty and expressions that make me feel uneasy? I stretch out my hand to her, but her hands remain solidly on her hips.

  Well damn, this is interesting. There isn’t a single wrinkle or line on her face, but the way she looks at me is intriguing, a confidence only acquired with time and experience. Everything about her fascinates me, and her sudden appearance on the social scene bewilders me. But most importantly right now, her body has totally aroused mine. This combination almost never happens with the women I meet at these things, so I start to speak.

  "I’d like to introduce myself, I'm Adam Kings—”

  She laughs before I can finish my name.

  "Oh, I know who you are, pretty billionaire boy. Everyone in the room knows your name. Likely even the bartender I was on my way to visit knows you.” She holds up an empty wine glass. “Do you know who I am, though?"

  "I'm afraid you have me at a loss." Smirking, I draw my hand to my chest to feign feeling hurt and rejected. "And calling me ‘pretty’ and 'boy.' That stings."

  "Please don't be offended. They’re really meant as terms of endearment."

  She moves closer to me, so close I see the full swell of her breasts as they disappear beneath the silk of her dark green dress. My cock responds to my perfect vantage point as I watch her mostly exposed chest move
slowly and evenly. This intriguing yet nameless woman is an enticing tease, and I have to say I’m thoroughly enjoying myself for the first time tonight.

  "Let me introduce myself. In polite company I go by Kathryn.” I watch as she winks and runs her little tongue across her bottom lip. I swallow, hard.

  “We have a name. That’s a start.” I find myself smiling at her. A full-blown grin, which contradicts my usual behavior. “And what do you do, Kathryn?”

  “You want to know what I do?” She keeps her eyes trained on mine, and I swear I see a mischievous twinkle in them. “In my case that’s a loaded question.”

  “Loaded question or not, I would still like to know,” I say, hoping she’ll reveal more of herself to me. “I’ve seen you before at other functions. It’s like you just appeared out of thin air.”

  “Not quite thin air, but close. And it’s funny; I’ve noticed you, as well.” She moves even closer, and now we are nearly touching one another. “I wondered if we’d ever meet. You know I’ve been warned about you.”

  “Warned?” My question sounds hollow, unconvincing: I know what she’s likely been told. Adam Kingsley is a player. A skirt-chaser. And I can’t deny it, either.

  “Yes, warned to keep my distance.” I see a touch of amusement in her eyes, and now I’m sure she’s mocking me. “I know we’ve just met, but I’m curious about something. Can I ask you a really personal question, Mr. Kingsley?”

  “Sure, but you have to call me Adam.” Honestly, I just want to hear her say my name. Watch her full lips mouth the sound.

  “Let’s stick to formalities, Mr. Kingsley. My question is actually a semi-professional one.”

  “A professional one?” I’m still left in the dark about her occupation, even her last name, yet she wants to ask me personal questions. Who is this ballsy woman?

  “Yes, professional. I have a doctorate in psychology and coach couples in the intimacy department.” The intimacy department? What the fuck does that mean?