by Kent, Julia
Mike took a step back, crossing the threshold, his brain mildly aware of the sound of a gunshot, of squealing tires, and of a new scent. He turned and looked and there was the man he presumed to be Bernie, standing over the balcony railing facing the parking lot and urinating. When Mike looked down over the railing, following the trail of liquid, he realized that Bernie was peeing directly on the hood of his rental car, which Lydia had so kindly rented for him. It was a sprite can, quite literally.
Somehow General Motors had managed to convert a sprite can into a car.
Tongue twisting inside his cheek, jaw flexing, body tensed, he took note of everything around him. Bad flight. Bad car. Bad hotel. Bad travel arrangements.
Lydia.
What kind of game was this? He looked at his watch: 11:49 pm. Pulling out his cell phone, livid beyond belief, he punched in the number for work and then stopped. What good would calling her at work do when she wasn't even there? And what good, frankly, would calling her at home do – even if he had her number?
He had no reason to have it no matter how much he wanted to have it. Goddammit. That woman. What was she doing? Why would she punish him like – oh. Oh shit.
Following his request, she was economizing. He had told her to make the business arrangements for Detroit and to save money. Somehow, she managed to turn everything around so that whatever he told her to do, she did to the letter of the law.
Ah, so this was how she wanted to play? She was capable of more – he knew that. Social graces weren’t something she lacked. He’d been in the corporate world long enough to know that there were plenty of people who were competent at doing the actual work of the job but who had the social skills of a stuffed monkey draped with Mardi Gras beads.
Not her. So what was this game? Why on earth would she book him in the seediest, nastiest possible set of arrangements you could ever expect a billionaire to – hold on there.
Not a billionaire yet, and she doesn’t know you. Matt Jones, yes – but not Michael Bournham.
Mike leaned back against the railing, his hand sinking into something hard and wet, and then he heard a cracking sound, pulling back from the railing just in time before one of the rods – cheap wood faded by weather, sun, and time – popped off and fell to the ground with a rattle. A clacking sound as it made its slow, crooked path down to settle by the tire of his car pierced the night air, joining in the muted chaos of traffic, sirens, and machinery.
He had had enough. Enough of this game, enough of this place, and just plain enough. No matter what Jonah told him, he didn’t need to play the part of Matt Jones 24/7. And this? This entire situation made him think that being Matt Jones wasn’t worth it. The only thing that made it worth it was Lydia.
Who had booked him in a hotel with more germs than a bird flu research lab.
Grabbing his overnight bag, he stalked past Bernie, whispering, “Make sure you give it a good shake.” As he descended the stairs with more athleticism than he’d exhibited outside of a gym with a personal trainer in months, his legs practically running as he sprinted for the car, he stopped cold.
Fuck this shit. He wasn’t driving that thing. Grabbing the phone, he called Dom, who seemed to know everyone, everywhere in every major city. This wouldn’t be the first time that Dom got him out of a mess.
The phone was pressed up to his ear, Dom’s number ringing, when the prostitute seemed to materialize out of nowhere. His only tip off was her odor, which made him gag. A look to the left and he discovered her leering in his face, only inches away.
“Hey, babe.” She looked like she had a hit of something in the five minutes between seeing her last. Oh, God, he thought, Lydia must hate my fucking guts.
“Hang on, Dom,” he said into the phone, putting his hand at his side.
“Hey babe, you got some money? I need some money. I don’t.. you don’t have to do nothin’ with me,” she said, her nose covered in pimples, forehead shiny, eyes a faded, muted blue. He wasn’t quite sure if those were dimples when she smiled – or scars. She was rode hard, put back wet and about as appealing and fuckable as a dead zombie with lice.
“I don’t want no nothing, Ma’am,” he said, the last word a form charity.
“I’m just hungry, man. You got five bucks? Ten bucks? Something?”
Mike groaned on the inside. Some part of him relented, the good part that remembered his dad giving buskers money on the street. Or telling him that you never know what another person's lived and that we all walk through life with some level of trouble. If you could afford to be generous, be generous. Mike certainly could afford to be generous, especially if this deal went through at work.
Wallet in his back pocket, he reached back and pulled it out, opened it up, and handed her a twenty. Surveying the parking lot to make sure there was no threat, no one hiding in the shadows and about to mug him, he was about to climb in his rental car when a voice startled them both.
“Freeze!” The shout was aggressive, clear, and he heard it before his brain registered the light, the bright searchlight shining on him and the streetwalker. Mike looked around, frantic and confused, sliding his wallet back in his pants, wondering if this was some sort of mugging. Had the prostitute set him up? Was he about to get rolled? Hell, for all he knew Lydia did this. She was responsible for everything else that had gone wrong tonight.
“Freeze! Detroit police! Hands up, hands up in the air now!”
Aw, shit. “No, Sir, you misunderstand, mister...officer...I’m not...I haven’t done anything wrong...”
Slam! His face smashed into the glass of his car. He was shoved over the top of the hood, the remnants of Bernie's piss now burning into the side of his face, leaking into his eye.
Rough hands, strong, muscled and very accustomed to the movements that they were executing on him, frisked him. Plastic handcuffs tightened around his wrists and he heard the prostitute crooning, “Hey, baby it’s okay. We gon’ be fine. They’ll treat you right at the jail, just don’t clench up too much when they do that strip search and you’ll be good.”
Strip search? Mike fought to come up with the right words to explain. “No, no, no, no, no. Sir, sir, sir,” he argued. “I’m the CEO of company, I’m a...I...I am not here for-.”
“Yeah, right, bud, we’re all CEOs of a company.” He could feel a sharp elbow in his ribcage. He needed to go silent.
“Hello? Hello? Mr. Bournham? Mr. Bournham?” Dominick’s voice came from the cell phone that had clattered onto the ground.
“Dominick! Dom! Dom, I need your help. I’m in Detroit – ” Smash! A thick black boot sole crashed down on the glass surface of his smart phone, destroying it with one very carefully aimed grind.
“Oh,” said a man’s voice, presumably one of cops. Mike couldn’t see him as his face was currently more intimate with Bernie’s urine and the hood of the car than it had been with anything in months. “Oh, did I step on it? I’m such a klutz. I really gotta watch where I’m stepping. You know what, though, Mr. CEO? You ain’t gonna need that cell phone where you’re going tonight.”
And with that, Mike found himself hauled up by his tightly bound wrists, his head shoved down as he was pushed into the back of a police car, a police car that was a hell of a lot nicer than his rented sprite can.
Dom's alarming speed made Mike do a double-take, the thick, burly man appearing in the flesh at the local jail within hours. While Mike had expected a swift resolution to his arrest, and that freedom would be around the corner, he was nonetheless deeply impressed with Dom's efficiency.
Impressed and grateful. Give the man a huge bonus, he thought, his hand grazing something sticky on the bench he sat on in the holding cell.
For a guy who used to be part of the throng of the middle class, being in jail – however unfairly – triggered a sense of shame and outrage. The CEO in him knew this could be taken care of with a few bribes and a well-placed threat, if needed.
Mike Bournham, the geeky kid from Easthampton, Mass., the one who always followed t
he rules and who had paid the price for doing so, though, couldn't believe he was behind bars, with an open metal toilet that was currently occupied by the head of a drunk. Bugs crawled down the visible skin on the back of the man's head.
Note to self: get some RID. And a steel brush. And take a five-hour shower.
“Jones? You're free to go.” Three men stood up, none of them Mike.
“You forget your own name, man? Maybe Sunshine made you lose your fucking marbles?” the cop cracked, pointing at Mike. Jones – shit, that's right. His fake last name. Secret identities might be great for superheroes, but right now he was sick of it. Leave that shit to the movie makers.
Movie makers. Jonah. Fuck. Were they getting this on camera? For all he knew, they had someone tailing him. Or maybe Lydia was in on this somehow? If Jonah could give him a script with drama he needed to provoke, were they doing the same with her?
Walking out of the holding cell and catching another glimpse of Dom made him want to hug the man on the spot. Instead, he grunted, “Thanks.”
“No prob, Mr. Bournham. Glad to help.” Like gravel rolling through molasses, Dom's voice seemed eerily impossible to push through vocal chords, yet the effect was mesmerizing. Even the cops froze in place, just staring. “When your phone cut out with a crunch, I knew something was wrong.” His glare could peel paint, and he aimed it at the officer processing Mike's paperwork. Goosebumps appeared on the cop's forearm, though he didn't look up.
“Here you go. You're free, Mr. Jones.” The tiniest of eyebrow twitches from Dom told Mike he would be asked the rarest of questions from his chauffeur. One of the many privileges of wealth – and power – he had learned was that of privacy. Enough money, enough connections, and you could make anything go away.
Add in a touch of illegal activity, and someone like Dominic could make a person go away. Never one to touch that, Mike simply took the guy at face value. He was a good bodyguard/chauffeur, and this mess – the one time Mike had found himself in trouble with the law, ever – proved Dom was a loyal, good guy.
Mike would pay, though. Somehow, some day.
All thanks to Lydia.
“Hey, Dom,” he asked as they climbed into a rented Suburban. “Can you find someone's personal phone number?”
“Can Tom Brady throw a pass?”
Mike chuckled. “Lydia Charles. I need her cell number. She works for me, so it should be in company records.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Jones.” The closest muscle movement Dom had to a smirk flittered across his thick, wrinkled lips.
Ha ha,” Mike mumbled. “Touché.”
Mike leaned back against the tan leather and took a deep breath. Urine. Bernie's masterpiece was still dried into his hair. Dom's nostrils began to twitch, and Mike opened his mouth to explain.
Nope. He was done managing and explaining and protesting and adjusting.
Time to get back to being in charge.
And that would start with one phone call.
Chapter Ten
Mike put his hands under Lydia's shirt as they kissed, fingers and palms gently caressing her back. “Your skin is so soft,” he whispered into her mouth and she helped him to slide the blouse up over her head and toss it onto a nearby chair. She could see the waiting bed over his shoulder, but there was no rush. Dreaming of this moment for too long meant that it was better to let it unfold slowly, his hot hands burning her breasts, beading her nipples, sending a trail of fire to her soaked pussy.
She followed his example, her fingers deftly undoing each of his buttons in turn, working her way down, the backs of her hands brushing against his tight chest and muscled abdomen. When the shirt fell off him and landed at her feet, she couldn't resist stealing a glance down at his magnificent upper body, lithe and tanned, muscles rippling as he slid his hands back up to her bra clasp and the white softness of her breasts burst forth onto his chest like heavy cream splashing onto a bronze platter.
And then she stared brazenly, as if it were all hers. Mine, she thought. Mine for now. Perhaps – she hoped, mine forever.
She didn't stop there. As his fingers pebbled her nipples and his tongue explored hers, her hands continued on, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, sliding across tight flesh and finding his even-tighter cock, ready and throbbing, needing to be in her. Soon enough, yes. For now, she wanted to hold him in her hand and to exert control over his deep pleasure. He groaned and kissed her urgently, his hands practically tearing off her remaining clothes and also his own, realizing she had struck a nerve.
So much for the slow unfolding.
Mike's strong arms picked her up almost effortlessly and laid her down on the warm bed, pouring himself next to her and looking into her eyes with a little smile. He inventoried her curves with eyes and hands that seemed to make a map of her body in his mind, cock leaping as she sighed when he brushed her mons. So open, so free – so bold, his willingness to look and explore made her momentarily self-conscious, but the desire in his eyes wiped all that away. He kissed her ear, jaw, neck and breasts, lingering there for some time, the feeling almost unbearably good and triggering a clenched build-up in her clit that screamed for release, until he seemed to remember himself and his mouth and tongue resumed their progress down her stomach and straight into her womanhood.
Where she needed him most.
She moaned with pleasure and gratitude, her hands finding his shoulders and neck and hair as he roamed her body, caressing her hips, thighs, stomach and the space between her breasts, a valley of goodness and passion. He sighed deeply, the sound telling her that he was not just giving pleasure to her body, but also receiving almost as much pleasure from it. If such a thing were possible.
Until this moment it had always only been her body. But now it was also his, and she wanted him to do with it—
Wait, what was that sound? The doorknob turned and slowly opened, revealing Jeremy, who stood there openly looking at them, a broad grin on his face. Tousled brown waves and intense brown eyes lasered in on the two nude bodies, entwined in each other and the bed clothes, a vulnerable, private sight. He removed his shirt and pants, rushing to join their naked state, tall and lean and ready for anything. She caught a glimpse of his dimpled ass and practically swooned, her juices flowing into the mouth of Mike, who was not objecting and had simply resumed going down on her as if his friend's presence were the norm.
Words and action escaped her as she melted into Mike's mouth and Jeremy's hands started stroking her from behind. She imagined both of them making love to her at the same time and she almost came right on the spot, nearly pushed over the edge by the lush precision and timing of Mike's tongue flicking back and forth over her nub as Jeremy's mouth covered her breast and his hand stroked her ass.
Mike continued loving her clit, driving her crazy, tongue lightly playing against her now and bringing her ever closer to the edge. She could smell them both and also herself, one hand in Jeremy's hair as he licked her breast, the other in Mike's hair as he savored her pussy. There were two beautiful men loving her body and it was too much, way more than one woman could withstand, but still she wanted more and more.
And more.
Now Mike moved up to kiss her and she could taste herself again. Jeremy's hand slid down to her clit and she thrust her hips hungrily forward to meet it. He started licking her ear, Mike pinching her nipple with his fingers and Jeremy's hand stroking her hair. Both men were reaching down to her pussy with their long arms and she could no longer tell whose fingers were inside her and whose were teasing her clit. “Oh, my God, don't stop,” she moaned.
Jeremy looked down at her. “You're so beautiful,” he said.
Mike stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes. “I've wanted you since the first moment I saw you.”
“We both have.”
Lydia could feel tears streaming down her face. “How can this be?”
The two men exchanged a puzzled glance, and Mike said, “How could it not be?”
It seeme
d to Lydia that she was smiling with her entire body. She reached down and took one of their cocks in each of her hands, pulling Jeremy's close to her mouth so that she could taste him. Mike was rock-hard in her other hand and she stroked him slowly and gently until a slippery drop of pre-cum oozed out onto the palm of her hand. She could really taste Jeremy's cock now as the head seemed to be swelling even larger inside her mouth. He gasped and she could tell he was about to...
Suddenly he pulled out. “No, not yet, I want to be in you.”
Sweet, perfect words of anguished need – because she very much wanted Jeremy inside her. She wanted both of them inside her. Lydia put her hands on Mike's shoulders and pushed him down on his back, straddling him –
Beep beep beep! What the fuck? Hazy and stoked, Lydia pawed her nightstand in search of the damn phone. Clit on fire and twitching – twitching! – she awoke to find herself in a small patch of wetness.
What
the
fuck?
A dream had made her come in her sleep? The wetness wasn't pee – she knew that. Only once, in college, had this happened, after an intense night of partying and her first (and only) one-night stand with a guy who loved pussy so much he ate her out for half an hour, bringing orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. The next night, her fantasies had spread into her unconscious, apparently, because she had awoken exactly like this, hips thrusting against a ghost lover and bed slightly wet from her juices.
But this? A threesome dream with Matt's friend Jeremy?
And Michael Bournham, of all people?
Slamming her head back against the pillow, she shifted her legs to take the stinging, tickling pressure off her poor, maligned clit, which popped like a Mexican jumping bean, nerves on autopilot.
If she were going to have a sex dream about anyone, it should be Matt – right? Between the supply closet, the elevator, and the nightclub she was about as frustrated and needy as anyone could get, confused and struggling with her feelings for him.
How on earth did that come out in her subconscious as a threesome with Michael Bournham and Jeremy?
