by JR King
“How so it won’t hurt? Hurting girls is what you like, isn’t it? Torturing them with sadistic tools? Isn’t pain the whole point? Isn’t that what gets your rocks off?” She said this scathingly.
“There’s my kitten,” I chuckled. “Do you want me to hurt you? To administer pain? Is that what you want, pet? Because you’re right, it would get my rocks off—hard.”
Her headshake was almost imperceptible, but it was given nonetheless. One of her hands came off the bed, trailed down her body until it rested over mine. Her fingers pressed mine, telling me they would begin to scratch.
“Scratch me and I won’t be responsible for what happens next,” I told her flippantly, voice edged with promise.
Immediately her hand inched lower, then disappeared from my view.
While my fingertips traced a line across the concavity above her spine, I activated the oil with my warm breath and kisses, which, to my pleasure, took her by surprise.
“What…it’s like…see? Alex, I feel feverish. Take it out.”
You’re fucking clever, I lauded myself. I started to massage her. Feet first, calves, and thighs in the end. As I kneaded her flesh, I felt her body vibrate and heard the mewing sounds. I slipped one hand past her hip, across her pubic bone, downward. My fingers found the engorged nub and I skirted a fingertip around its circumference. She was so fucking wet.
I stroked myself; the mere thought of what we were about to do was enough to make me come. “I can’t wait until my cock’s inside your ass,” I whispered against her ear, moving the toy in and out of her.
“Alex…please,” she implored, moaning and wriggling at my touch.
I knelt behind her, pushed her forward and pressed her down until the side of her face rested against the pillow, palms and knees on the firm mattress. “Want me to fuck you, pet?”
She gasped into the bedding. “Yea…,”
She made no sound when I removed the plug. Then, at the first press, she screamed so loud it could be heard down in hell.
“Let me in.” Feeding myself into her, I let out a feral whisper of a noise. “Fucking hell, baby. How far do you want me?” Civilization seeped out of me with every second. The urge to thrust wildly, savagely, was excruciating. “Tell me, Elena,” I managed. “What will it be? How much of me do you want?”
She didn’t respond. For an age, I was lost to our frantic breathing, my consciousness swimming in a world of enchantment. Finally she spoke, her voice little more than a whisper, “All of you.” She looked over her shoulder, her eyes ablaze with want.
I could scarcely breathe. Watching her surrender to her basest, blackest desires was the most cherishable sight. “Say it again. Tell me again.”
“I want all of you, Alex.”
My grip released the back of her neck and pushed up into her tousled hair. I fisted them and tugged until my lips found hers. The kiss pushed a new wave of lust through my veins, and I gave her hair a hard yank, feeling ensnared strands snapping in my fist. “Move, Elena.”
She gave a pitched gasp and started moving with slow impetus.
“Oh,” a dry sob swept up her throat when she came.
“Oh, indeed, my patron saint of virtue,” I whispered.
From there I took what I wanted, exactly the way I wanted, fast and hard until she was sobbing my name. I’m sure you have no interest hearing about more details. Elena didn’t safeword, but her drowsy voice did whisper gibberish into my cheek when she came again. The minute I caught my breath, I eased myself out of her with care and collapsed onto the bed, rolling onto my side. Elena rolled off the pillow I’d slipped beneath her to raise her ass. She had smudged makeup under her eyes and looked tired as hell, but knowing that I was the cause of it all made her look more beautiful than ever.
She propped herself up on her elbows and looked at me very seriously. “That was…,”
I started laughing before she finished it. “Spectacular? Wicked?”
She shrugged and nodded, swung her feet up and down, wiggling her little toes in the air. “We could make it more interesting.”
I copied her almost adolescent position, and smiled at her as I wiggled my feet. “We could.”
She grabbed the same pillow that had supported her, initiating a pillow fight.
I had to let her win.
“Did it hurt?” she whispered. We were both snuggled into the soft sheets, and she ran aimful circles around the Celtic symbol on my bicep.
“Eensy-weensy bit. Did I hurt you?”
She was already fast asleep, jewels sparkling on her. As the intense pulsation of blood in my ears died down, I saw she’d drifted off in a quiet sleep, head on my torso, one arm holding my lower chest, the other one alongside my body, legs thrown over and hooked about my left leg. Her breathing was peaceful and melodious, the sight of her body holding absolute power over me. She was made to wear diamonds and little else while sleeping in my arms. I slipped away, too, already dreaming of when I could take her again this way.
Elena Anderson
The Sixtieth Floor
“I’m stuck here till Miranda finishes the presentation about cost this year versus what we could save next year. Cost savings and metrics and units and all that shit, so it looks like to be a while.”
“COO?”
“The one and only. Listening to her droning out about layoffs makes me want to strangle someone.”
“Concentrate on the blue bar graphics of the PPT slide.”
“I’ll be in my office in half an hour, you could have my cock inside you then. Do you want that?”
I quivered convulsively, a rivulet of perspiration trickling down the back of my neck. “Maybe. Maybe.”
I hung up and went on to finish my own presentation slides.
Calling it a morning, I took a pair of Jackie-O sunglasses out of my bag and perched them atop my nose. Puddles of stagnant water glimmered as the morning haze burned off, a breeze from the nearby Charles River carrying with it the promise of a balmy day. Driving toward the tower, I kept checking the time. I was on time; my appointment was in ten minutes. When I stopped my car in front of it, Hamilton opened my door.
I continued mechanically as I walked past the doors of one of the most iconic buildings in the city. Turner Industries took up one sixth of The Hancock. Trailing behind Ray, I glanced down at my pristine Hermès Kelly handbag—another gift from Alexander—and sighed. The elevator doors slid open, the carriage disgorged and, the passengers, a great many dressed in grays and blacks, sidled past us. I shuffled to a corner of the spacious carriage. As it glided, ascending with swift velocity, I contemplated the utilitarian architecture.
Without interruptions, the elevator opened on the highest floor of the money mill. It was a drab, eerily quiet place, Turner Holdings obnoxiously written in gold letters on the wall. The serpentined sculpture that dominated the middle of the lobby looked like something Anish Kapoor could have designed. Behind a walled off half-moon marble reception desk, two gatekeepers smiled at me. A guy and a girl, and they were dressed sharply in black and white. Although the girl—a blonde with immaculate makeup and a chignon—was a bombshell beauty queen, she was forgettable. The guy’s physique stuck with me. His eyes looked kind behind his dark-rimmed glasses. It wasn’t that he was smiling at me, it rather seemed as if his cherubic face seemed frozen in a state of kindness, eyes twinkling and lips thinned. He reminded me of Leonard in TBBT.
“Ms. Anderson, he’s currently indisposed,” the blonde began. Her hoop earrings looked like hollow diamonds disks that were the size of Frisbees. “I’ll walk you to his office. Would you like some coffee or anything?”
With a polite smile, I declined. She gave a quick history of the building and described the layout of the floor while we went through hallways wallpapered with muted colors and inlaid with oriental quality runner.
“Ah-h,” someone enthused from an intersecting hallway.
Michael’s voice was dry and humorless. I fought hard to keep my expression neu
tral as he dismissed the blonde.
“You’re terribly arrogant,” I told him when we exchanged la bise.
“Don’t like flapping my gums. Cutting to the chase with rookie receptionists is best.” I accepted the arm of my escort.
I wasn’t dumbstruck by the opulent interior of Alexander’s vast office. It inspired confidence and power, the fittings looked flawless, just like white gold, massive leather-inlaid desk with a classic banker’s lamp honoring it, top-of-the-line office chair. Along the near wall were bookshelves, and along the far wall was a wall length credenza. In the corner, before the widest, highest panoramic view of Boston seen through an office, stood his larger than life desk. Pictures of him with Presidents, Kings, Queens, and even the late Princess Diana partially covered a wall. There was also a bar with highboy stools, and a brainstorming corner with tufted black leather chairs and a chesterfield sofa.
I squinted against the brightness as I approached the floor-to-ceiling windows. A smell of polished leather prickled my nostrils, the carpet underneath my Manolo Blahnik pumps soothing my shaky steps. I stopped inches away from the glass and looked down at the bay area. Sixty stories down, the world scurried back and forth, each entity entirely oblivious to where I was. No one would ever catch sight of me standing tremulously in front of this window. I placed my hands on the glass and closed my eyes.
How’d I end up at the home base of Turner Holdings?
Wealthy men were a familiar breed, big egos and an even bigger sense of entitlement. My father was extremely wealthy, my grandfather became rich too. Dad’s bank account held over twenty-five million dollars, his liquid assets roughly amounted to something similar—it would be mine when I scrawled my signature on stale documents. I couldn’t find it in my heart to forgive him, so don’t wait for that to happen.
I liked my men macho and open-handed; a man should provide for his woman, regardless of the century. Surely that’s why I’d dated younger versions of such men at a young age. My boyfriends had been born into the world of trust funds, yachts, private jets, and strict Harvard legacies. When I graduated High School and moved into the world of adults, older versions that reminded me too much of my father attracted me. For me, it wasn’t about subservience, but I only respected men who took what they wanted, which was established by their superiority. Rich, affluent men had their benefits. Exorbitant gifts, expensive eateries, a penumbra of admin staff, big homes and vacation houses on each continent, limos and sport cars, and most importantly: no commercial flights. The shortfalls were equally impressive. Mood swings, big tempers, arrogant and manipulative, an impossible schedule, challenging if not enviable intellect, and most importantly: adultery. Just like their opinion of women left much to be desired, my mutual respect of men was a common ground; it was easy to imagine myself standing in their shoes, that’s why I put up with all of it. Peter and my father made damn sure I never became one of those girls who dreamt about a big ass rock on my left hand and that special day you get to wear a white dress and walk down an isle.
Alexander wasn’t another wide-striding, wealthy man. Therein lay the problem. I’m not talking about the uniqueness of The Hancock. I’m talking about mentality and compelling mannerisms. In contrast to other wealthy men I’d met, he listened attentively every time I spoke, asked for my opinions and duly valued my intellect. Sex was the currency we used between us, serving the dual purpose of respect and satiation. At least he had the grace to look me in the eyes when he addressed me, not always my cleavage. I’d been so easily invited into his life, enjoyed being put on a pedestal sixty stories high. Both of us were explorative, stepping around the relationship in the cautious way that a friendless little boy approached kids his own age, steps becoming more sure-footed with each passing day. Whenever we’d reach the height of our relationship, I could fail him, so I knew it was going to hurt when I hit the bottom and wake up to find myself lying face first in stone-cold reality.
How long before he got bored?
It was then that the door opened, catlike steps ensuing.
Not turning around, I waited several minutes for Alexander to address me. I opened my eyes, and they were now acclimated to the brightness. From this altitude, I could distinguish eddies of mist lurking about the city. I caught Alexander’s reflection in the glass and, past it, the world below me, which, to my eyes, was a depressingly grayish scene. The yellow blur of cabs was lost to the soaring height, and so was the endless parade of businessmen and shoppers and harried housewives and deliverymen and buses. The only continual movement was the whooshing of cars, the drivers perhaps admiring the building as they drove past it. No one knew how conflicted I felt, I’d let it all macerate for too long. Hell, no one knew that the man standing behind me was a sadist.
The honeymoon period would soon be over. To build on our rapport, I needed answers. Taking the road most dangerous and most traveled would surely reveal major facts.
I saw Alexander approaching. Anticipating his touch, I drew a deep breath. He came up behind me, and edged closer until I could feel his broad chest pressed firmly against my back. I kept my eyes trained on the city. He scooped my long mane to one side and pressed his lips to the nape of my delicate neck. I shivered, goosebumps rushing up my arms. I knew he could snap my neck in less than a second, which made me wonder how disciplined he was at controlling the sadist within him. Despite the uncertainty, I felt a flutter in my stomach when wild, ravenous lips nudged against the side of my neck, nuzzling the curve of it, his chin clean-shaven, no chafing of a five o-clock shadow yet.
“I’ve missed you, kitten,” he breathed against my skin, kissing it ever so fervently. I waited in response.
He broke the neck-kiss off at last. “Good afternoon, sweetheart,” he rasped in his deep voice. Warm fingertips swept across my collarbone, then his hand settled on my shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Alex,” I answered, meeting his reflected gaze. Beyond our almost transparent duplicates, the city had taken on more color.
“You are hell-bent on driving me crazy, aren’t you, Ms. Anderson?”
“Mr. Turner, if my memory serves me right, haven’t you requested this meeting?”
His hands found mine, and then he lifted them, inch by inch, his palms against the back of my hands, slapping my palms against the window.
Quivering like a twig in a gale, my fingers tapped restively, undoubtedly leaving a jumble of fingerprints on the glass.
“You smell clean, Elena.”
My eyebrows lifted. “I do tend to shower before going to work.”
“Too clean for my taste.” He licked my neck. A whimper escaped me.
“I shouldn’t be clean?”
“I like you clean.” I felt the unmistakable hardness of his erection raking my behind. “Clean and white like bedsheets so I can mess you up. Leave my smell on you, sweat on you. Leave my frustration and fears on you.”
“Charming. I’m a bedsheet.”
His right hand crawled up my hip and went to the front of my dress, stopping at the décolleté to trace where the fabric met the swell of my breasts. All the while, the heat of his tongue caressed the length of my neck. I looked down, watching his fingertips as they danced over my chest. My heart was beating so furiously that he must have felt it. These fingers had manipulated my body so many times, pleasuring me to my heart’s content. I lifted my face upward as his kisses moved down the side of my neck, toward my shoulder. I could feel his erection pressing persistently against my behind. I even moved against it, welcoming the obstinate declaration of desirability.
“Dirty girl,” he murmured. “Imagine a flash of brilliance from a penthouse window, a long range camera looking up here, zooming in. You want strangers to see you getting fucked by me? Show them you’re loving every minute of it?”
Hell yeah. Did I just think that? With the tantalizing possibility of someone in search of exhibitionism flickering across my mind, I tilted my head to bare the sensitive part of my neck to him.
“I
think,” he took my earlobe between his teeth, dragging them across my flesh, “you’ll be the ruin of me, baby girl.” He pressed his lips to the side of my neck, and snapped his teeth together around my flesh.
Business first, pleasure second.
“Alex?” Our eyes met in the reflection, and I continued in a voice just above a murmur. “I won’t sing your praises, but I get that you wanted to put your life in order before committing to a relationship. Calling me back and telling me this wouldn’t have done us any good. But why date Diane?”
He spun me around so fast it made me dizzy. I blinked when his face came into focus, our noses just centimeters apart. “You’re looking for a fight and I won’t oblige.” He pinched my breast so hard I cried out in pain. Without regard for my wellness, he did the same thing to the other one. “Don’t go there.” Quiet threat was evident in his voice.
I felt a pit in my stomach, acknowledging I didn’t fully trust him. Feeling the narcotic hurt of this precariousness felt paltry in comparison to letting him flog me. As a woman, I had to utilize my God-given assets, so I gave him a pained look and spoke in a low voice, “I don’t want to know about Diane. Make me understand why she’s a feather in your cap. Make me trust you, Alex.”
The hands on my chest retreated. “I wanted to initiate by the end of last year. As the one who captured my heart, Jerry mentioned that reporters would want to know why I chose you and all that newfangled nonsense. Diane is a pawn, an excuse I can use by saying I’m burned out on dating expendable celebrities. Do you want reporters to dig into your past?”
Stupefied, my endeavor to eloquently answer back failed for the most part. A frantic oh or ah came out. Because he considered all angles before doing something, it was one of those undebatable admissions. I managed a kiss-ass belly-giggle. “I captured your heart? I like the sound of that.”
