With the girls still at school and the cleaning crew not due until tomorrow, the house seemed super empty. I left my purse and folder on the table in the foyer and called, “Neil? El-Mudad? I’m home.”
When they didn’t answer—not a total surprise, considering the place’s size—I tried the intercom. Again, no answer. Then, I remembered the smoking lounge upstairs. Neil and El-Mudad had decided they needed a place to play snooker and smoke cigars and be manly, manly men together, so they’d remodeled a few of the rooms on the west side of the house. The intercom was almost always muted in there; I’d spoiled too many shots with ill-timed interruptions.
It seemed unlikely that they would be doing their male-bonding thing early in the day, but lord knew they did weirder stuff. I headed upstairs and fired off a text to our group message. Where the hell are you guys?
As I approached the lounge, an unmistakable, shuddering gasp stopped me. There was some “male-bonding” going on in there, but not of the lets-watch-rugby variety.
The door stood ajar, just a crack. I wondered if it was on purpose, an invitation. Curiosity, both of the sexual and the emotional nature, drew me closer. I leaned with one hand on the frame and angled myself so I could see into the room.
The intimacy of the scene stoked heat low in my belly. The fireplace was lit, creating a warm glow in contrast to the cool daylight from the windows. On the chaise, El-Mudad reclined, totally naked, between Neil’s legs. Neil, fully clothed in jeans and a hunter-green sweater with pushed-up sleeves, slowly and rhythmically stroked El-Mudad's cock. Each long, gentle pass flexed Neil's wrist, made the muscles in his forearm stand out, and bounced light off the face of his big gold watch. The slick sound of copious lubrication filled the silence between El-Mudad's sharp breaths and stuttered groans.
I’d seen Neil and El-Mudad together many, many times, but not when they were alone. That was different, the way it was always different when two of us fucked without the third present. Leaving the door closed and concealing my presence made it a little pervier to watch them, something they would approve of if I’d asked them.
"Now," El-Mudad gasped, and Neil let go, allowing El-Mudad's erection to bob helplessly, desperate for any sensation to tip him over the brink of his release.
"Let me know when I can continue," Neil said, kissing El-Mudad's neck. The soft instruction held my Sir’s unmistakable tone.
Judging from the sweat shining on El-Mudad’s face, chest, stomach, and thighs, they had been at this for a while.
While I loved nearly every type of pain I could get, El-Mudad preferred pain through pleasure rather than the reverse. Neil was a versatile enough Dom to deliver what both of us needed, and in this encounter, I glimpsed the early days of our play before he’d trusted himself to push me to my limit.
Sir nuzzled El-Mudad’s ear and murmured, “Are you ready to come for me?”
“Yes,” El-Mudad gasped desperately. “Yes, please.”
Oh, yes, please, I echoed silently, squeezing my thighs together. I bit back a moan at the silky slip of wetness between them.
Sir resumed his original, painfully slow pace, steadily stroking. He ordered, “Come for me now,” and El-Mudad's entire body tensed. His hips jerked upward, arcing long splashes of cum across his stomach and chest. His orgasm seemed to go on and on while he shuddered and twisted, and Sir kept gliding his hand up and down at the same, measured pace.
“I can’t…” El-Mudad whimpered. “It’s too much.”
“It isn’t,” Sir scolded him. “Keep going.”
Holy fuck.
“Stop! Stop! Please, please…” El-Mudad’s toes curled and popped loudly. Then, with a cry of raw, unbearable pleasure, his hips jerked upward again, and more cum drooled slowly down the head of his cock and over Sir’s fingers.
Sir laid his free hand on El-Mudad’s forehead, wiping away the sweat. “Incredible. You are simply incredible.”
Then, as my throat went totally dry and my pussy flooded even more, Neil lifted his other hand to his mouth and sucked the cum from his fingers.
Okay, that was it. I had to get off like, immediately. Their moment was so perfect; I didn’t want to intrude. I tiptoed down the hallway, every step making my cunt throb until I didn’t know if I would find a place to masturbate before walking caused an orgasm. I popped into the closest guest room, locked the door behind me, and looked around for just a second; I wasn’t even sure I’d been in this room since our initial tour when we were buying the place.
That made the idea of shamelessly pleasuring myself there even hotter.
I practically ripped off my clothes, then fell naked to spread-eagle on the big bed. I didn’t waste any time; I plunged two fingers into my cunt, deep, and fucked myself as hard as I could until I couldn’t stand it anymore and I had to touch my clit. The moment I did, electricity arched through me. Though I had planned on being quiet, I couldn’t hold back. I humped my hips and came with a strangled moan, squirting over my wrist and palm.
And, unfortunately, the bedspread.
I was going to have to figure out how to explain that to the housekeeper.
Laughing in disbelief, I used my least-messy hand to push back my hair. That had been the mood booster I'd needed, for sure.
At some point, I dozed off. I woke relieved to see that I'd only been out for about twenty minutes. I cleaned up in the en suite bathroom, dressed, then considered how I could make my escape without revealing my presence. I opened the door slowly and listened for El-Mudad or Neil. When I didn't hear anything, I tiptoed back to the house’s central part to either find them or wait for them to finish.
I checked my phone and found a text Neil had sent ten minutes before: In the den. Sorry, I just saw your message.
I smirked at that. Of course, he'd only just seen it. His hands had been full at the time.
The moment I stepped into the den, Neil noticed my nap-reddened face. “Sophie, you’re flushed. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I just laid down for a few minutes. I was exhausted.” Not a lie. “So, what have you guys been up to?”
El-Mudad, seated in one of the overstuffed armchairs, looked up from the book in his lap. His hair was still wet from a shower. “Having a lazy morning.”
“What did the nutritionist say?” Neil patted the couch cushion beside him as he sat up to give me room.
“Same sort of stuff I’ve been reading in diet books my whole life, minus the bullshit. And I’ve got some grocery and meal plans to give to Julia.” I dropped onto the sofa and leaned against Neil. “And it looks like I may have to break down and get a personal trainer again.”
“I’ve been telling you to get one since we moved back from bloody London,” Neil grumbled.
“It’s weird and intrusive!” I said, probably with the same inflection I’d used the hundreds of other times we’d had this argument. “But there are trainers that specialize in helping diabetics.”
I hated that word. It was such an admission that something was wrong with me.
I didn’t want to talk about any of this. There should have been some kind of law where chronic illness and mortality only weighed heavy on your mind for a couple of minutes a day.
“Speaking of exercise,” I said, standing suddenly, “I need to go on my run.”
And motivate me by imagining the Grim Reaper on a ten-speed behind me.
“I should run, as well,” El-Mudad said, setting his book aside with a noise of resignation.
I tilted my head as I regarded him. “Aren’t you worn out?”
Oh, right. They don’t know that I know what they were up to.
I turned it into a joke quickly. “You know. From all the hard work you’re doing holding that book up?”
“Yes, you’re so funny, Sophie,” he said, hurrying over to grab me before I could get away. He buried his face in my neck and kissed me until I squealed and wriggled out of his grasp.
Neil didn't move from the couch. “You two enjoy yourselves. I had my
five o'clock with Jason."
El-Mudad put on a high, flirty voice and batted his eyelashes. "Oh, Jason!"
"It isn't my fault that the best trainers are twenty-six-year-olds with abs like speed bumps," Neil said, feigning innocence. His voice cracked a little on the word “abs,” somewhat lessening the believability.
"And that little L-shape thing pointing down to his…" I gestured from my hip to my crotch.
"I have that!" El-Mudad insisted, pulling down the waistband of his jeans to prove it.
"You did, at one time," Neil said, indicating where that ridge of muscle used to be more prominent.
I elbowed El-Mudad. "Yeah, you let yourself go once you sealed this sweet deal."
"Then we'd better get me back in shape." He kissed my forehead. "Meet me at the front door in twenty minutes?"
I nodded and raced off to get changed into my workout gear. I put on some spandex leggings and a sports bra under a thin fleece hoodie, laced up my shoes, tied up my hair, and headed back to meet El-Mudad. We set off from the front door and around the house to the path that wound through the wooded outskirts of our property. We’d figured out how many loops it took to add up to a mile, and while it did sometimes get boring, it was better than the treadmill.
Exercise wasn’t my favorite thing in life, but running was straightforward and didn’t require equipment. It was also a great time to connect with the majesty of nature; the sun filtering through the bare branches, the crisp spring air, the rock-hard calves, and the incredibly tight ass of the guy outpacing me...there was so much beauty for me to enjoy. I just couldn't figure out how he still had so much energy after what I'd seen him doing with Neil.
"Keep up," El-Mudad chided, running backward to face me.
"I hope you fall." I didn't. But his smugness did deserve some kind of punishment.
I held up a middle finger.
He grinned. “You know, you’d be prettier if you smiled.”
I gasped in outrage and picked up my speed, charging at him as though I would plow him over. He opened his arms and grabbed me up in a bear hug.
“I knew that would do the trick,” he laughed, dragging me with him. “Come on. The first mile is always the hardest.”
The high-pitched whine of an electric golf cart caught my attention, and I turned. It wasn’t unusual to see our security people out on the property, but they generally had their own thing going on that didn’t interfere with ours. This guard was headed our way.
El-Mudad frowned and put his hand at the small of my back as the cart rolled to a stop beside us. The guard, a middle-aged white guy with a balding strip down the middle of his head, leaned out. “Mr. Elwood sent me out to pick you both up. He said you’re needed back at the house.”
“Needed at the house?” I repeated. Neil knew where we were. Why hadn’t he found us himself?
Maybe he couldn’t.
Because something was wrong.
“Give us a ride?” I asked, climbing into the seat beside the guard. Obviously, the answer was yes.
El-Mudad hopped on the back and held on to one of the canopy bars. “Let’s go.”
We didn’t talk about it in front of the security guy, but I could tell El-Mudad was as concerned as I was. A strange car was parked in front of the house, an inconspicuous, everyday vehicle. We didn’t know many people who didn’t drive fancier stuff.
“Maybe it’s the lawyer?” I wondered aloud. But Neil hadn’t mentioned expecting a visit, and I had a hunch that any lawyer who worked for Neil Elwood probably didn’t drive a KIA.
The guard brought us to the main entrance, and we hopped off, El-Mudad wiping the sweat from his face with the bottom of his t-shirt. The sinking dread in my stomach did not improve when I considered that I wore teensy workout clothes, but a sense of urgency drove me straight through the door.
We went through the foyer and heard Neil call, “We’re in here,” from the formal living room.
I mouthed, “we?” at El-Mudad, and we walked cautiously down the wide steps. Neil sat in the grouping of chairs near the windows, a stranger across from him. She was about my age, blonde, with pale, freckled skin and a neutrally friendly smile that enforced an unspoken distance.
“Hey...what’s…” I looked between the two of them.
The woman stood and put out her hand. “Sorry to interrupt your workout. I’m Jenna Walker. I’m a social worker from the New York State Department of Children and Family Services.”
“Sophie Scaife,” I answered, completely perplexed. “What’s going on here?”
Social worker Jenna shook El-Mudad’s hand, as well. “And you are?”
“This is our friend,” I explained.
“El-Mudad Ati,” he introduced himself.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ati,” Jenna said, “but I do need to meet with the child’s guardians in private.”
“The child has a name,” Neil said, his tone as cold as the autumn Atlantic. “Olivia.”
El-Mudad glanced at Neil before saying, “Of course. Excuse me.”
As he left the room, I stopped myself from asking if there was any way he could stay. The real question was, “Is there something wrong with Olivia?”
“I haven’t been sent here because of an emergency with Olivia,” Jenna said reassuringly. “I’m here because someone was concerned there might be drugs in the household that would be accessible to Olivia.”
“That’s absurd.” Neil shook his head. “I’m in recovery. There haven’t been drugs in this house since I was hospitalized, and that was over three years ago.”
“We haven’t even had alcohol here, except for my mom’s wedding reception,” I added. “We’re not drug people.”
“There are no such thing as ‘drug people’ we can define by a particular look or lifestyle, so we have to treat every case the same.” The hint of reproach in her tone shamed me; of course, I knew there wasn’t a specific type of person who did drugs. I’d been around enough poor and enough rich people to know that. Yet, there I’d gone and demonstrated precisely how spoiled and above-the-law we thought ourselves to be.
She gestured to the brown leather satchel beside her chair. “I need to ask you some questions. Is it all right if we do it here?”
I sat in the chair next to Neil’s and watched, totally numb, as the social worker took out her laptop and opened it. She might as well have put on a powdered wig and waved a gavel in our faces. It certainly felt as though we were on trial.
Jenna asked us for our legal names and dates of birth. “And are you both citizens or…”
“I am.” For some reason, I felt suspicious of my answer.
“I have a Green Card,” Neil said coolly. “Would you like documentation?”
“That won’t be necessary right now,” Jenna replied as though it had been a genuine offer. Which was better for Neil; he couldn’t afford to let his temper get the better of him.
“And who lives in the home? Is it just Olivia and the two of you?” She glanced between us as though trying to catch us up to some secret communication.
I could have used some secret communication, frankly. I didn’t know what we should say about El-Mudad and the girls. Would mentioning them mean they got investigated, too? Or that Olivia would be taken away from us? Was this the moment that sealed our fate?
Still, lying wasn’t in our best interests, either.
“Our partner lives here with us,” Neil said. Just like that. Just spilled it out like it was nothing.
“Your business partner or…” Jenna asked, drawing out the “or.”
“Our romantic partner. And his two daughters.” Neil’s eyes met mine, and he addressed me, instead of Jenna. “I’m not going to lie, Sophie. There’s nothing we need to hide.”
“And you shouldn’t try to hide things in an investigation,” Jenna added as a friendly reminder.
We answered questions about El-Mudad, and his girls, where they were from, their ages, what their parents did, where they went to school,
their immigration status… It was so invasive.
“I feel like we’re sharing this information without their permission,” I said quietly, more to Neil than to the social worker, as she paused to move on to the next section of the interview.
“Perhaps El-Mudad should be here, since this now involves his children, as well,” Neil suggested.
Jenna nodded, smoothly processing our words and responding while simultaneously scanning her laptop screen and tapping keys. “I’ll want to speak with him alone when we’re finished here, and then I can stop by their school. I’ve already spoken to Olivia at hers.”
A squealing brake noise filled my brain. Olivia would be fine; she’d talk to anyone about anything with gusto. But the girls? “Wait, you’re going to speak to them at school?
They’re going to get pulled out of class by someone in a suit who’s come from the government? Can you see why that might be an issue for immigrant children named Amal and Rashida Ati?”
That subdued her. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it that way. I can interview them here.”
“I’ll tell El-Mudad,” Neil said, stalking off toward the bedroom.
Left alone with Jenna the social worker, I didn’t know what to say. She waited until Neil had left and asked, “May I call you Sophie?”
“Sure.” I could give a shit what this woman called me. I wanted things wrapped up as quickly as possible.
“Thanks.” She gave me that encouraging smile again. I was beginning to hate it. “Sophie, do you feel safe in your home?”
“Until about twenty minutes ago, yeah.” I quickly added, “I’m not referring to Neil or El-Mudad. I’m talking about the invasion going on here based on a completely unfounded allegation.”
“I understand—”
“You don’t understand,” I interrupted her. “You’re sitting on the other side of this thing.”
“But I’ve been on Olivia’s side,” she said firmly, all friendliness gone, replaced solely by her mission. “I’ve been the child who needed someone to ask hard questions. That’s why I ask hard questions now. And it would be a lot easier for all of us, the children included, if the adults here could put their anger aside and realize that we’re working on a common goal.”
Sophie (The Boss Book 8) Page 8
