by JR King
I wasn’t, but I nodded.
Beside Alexander, swilling what could only be a finely aged bourbon or old whiskey, stood Tony. Actually, he wasn’t swilling it, he was gulping it down, and then his elegant wave prompted a prim server to refill his glass. As soon as I caught his attention, he sidestepped patrons and pulled me against him. “I’ve missed you.” The underside of a nascent erection pressed into me.
“Feeling sentimental, you pervert?”
“Aidan has a date, Alex has a girl, I feel lonely. Kiss?” His voice had sunk low, and was silky. A sex voice, complemented by sex eyes.
I pecked him on the lips. “There.”
“Mine,” hissed Alexander, pulling me away from his friend. A group of popular-looking girls cast nasty, mean-girl-clique glances me. You want summa them? Fuck off, they’re both with me, my smile told them. By staying sandwiched between Alexander and Tony as we did Chartreuse shots, territorial me made it very clear to surrounding women that both alphas were mine.
When we got home, Alexander went straight to the bedroom where he roughly undressed me. He tore off his vest and pounced on me. In spite of his nonchalance, I knew he was irritated about something.
“Making up for lost time?” I giggled, feeling his lips make contact with my neck.
“I need you pretty bad right now.” He threw me on the bed and climbed over me. I registered the sound of a fly becoming undone. The hiss of a zipper being dragged forcefully downward had me worried it could stay stuck in flesh. “Never forget that you’re mine.” His hard cock lined up with my sex. I was inflamed with wantonness. I loved this side of him; fierce, jealous, and passionate, reminding me he was only human. He jacked himself off for a few seconds, his hungry eyes watching my chest heave as I struggled to control my breathing. He bowed his head and sucked on a nipple.
Caressing his brow, my hands went to his hair, sliding through it, tugging and threading.
His dexterous hands cupped my breasts, kneading them with rhythmic squeezes. He pulled his mouth away and rubbed his cock against my sex, asking. “Do you want?”
I arched, curving against him to allow access. “Want what?” I teased, knowing perfectly well what he wanted to hear me say.
He nipped at my bottom lip and pulled back, his face twisting into a disapproving expression. “Say it.”
“I want your cock.”
“Because I fuck you good?”
“Yes, sir.”
He entered me with one slick glide. “I own you, Elena.”
I agreed because it was true, moving against him.
“Oh fuck…that feels good, baby,” he groaned hoarsely, picking up the pace. “That’s it, just like that.”
He pumped in and out until he we both came in a rush of curses.
Elena Anderson
The Action
I was on my way to tell Alexander that it was time for happy hour. He and I had made a habit of having a drink together at six o’clock on Saturdays.
I was staring at his back. His hands were in front of him, completely out of my view. By the slight movement of his biceps, I knew he was clenching his fists.
Wordlessly, his broad shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh. The anger he seethed with came out when he slammed his fists on the desk. “Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Tell him to piss off.” Turning around, his gaze found mine, his eyebrows quirking up.
“It’s ‘tini time. Join me?”
To my consternation, he inspected me with a raised eyebrow, perusing my breasts, continuing downward to my exposed knees, my stockingless legs, and my four-inch Jimmy Choo strappy heels. My mouth went dry, and a quivering that’d begun in my thighs bothered me. Despite the continuum of unanswered questions, I was in love with him. I also didn’t have the courage to ask him anything for dread of the answers.
“Magnificent,” he concluded, his eyes returning to mine. “Be there in a minute, babe. Why don’t you start without me?”
Come hell or high water, rain or shine, the wood-decked patio made it possible to drink under the sun or stars and enjoy the Beacon Hill view all year long. Fully enclosed by retractable glass walls and a roof, only in the colder months or in inclement weather we couldn’t open it. There were candles in huge glass holders, bonsai specimens with fancy names provided horticultural art, and tall, manicured pine trees were potted in built-in ceramic planters that had a dripping irrigation system. To keep things interesting, the gnarled trunks and branches of the miniature figs had been clipped, wired, and coaxed into artful shapes.
Alexander barged onto the deck a few minutes later. There were sleek leather barstools tucked in front of the huge slab of half-moon marble that served as a wet bar, but he remained standing, his brow crinkled in deep thought.
I asked, “Is everything all right?”
“An acquisition’s headed south. I’m on the case, we won’t lose much.”
Before giving him the bad news, I had to cheer him up. “So, let me see. There’s ice in the shaker, a secret ingredient, dribbling the vodka over it, now the vermouth—,”
“You look like a professional. Should I get my wallet?”
“Judge for yourself.” I capped the shaker, held it in both hands and shook, making my breasts bounce.
Alexander showed marked interest in what was going on with my breasts. “Oh yeah, that deserves a tip, honey. Big tip.”
I poured the cocktails and topped them with olives already skewered by silver martini picks. Then I placed the bottles back on the backlit shelves, and tidied up the bar.
“Pay out time, Mr. Turner.”
“Got to taste first. What’s the secret ingredient?”
“It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you, would it now?”
He placed a fingertip on the martini pick to prevent it from moving around, and sipped his drink. He closed his eyes with a dramatic sigh, smacking his lips as he judged the taste. When he opened them again, he clutched his throat with his free hand, shaking and trembling while gurgling noises came from it, his eyes staring horrified at me.
“If I were planning to kill you, I wouldn’t use poison. Too easy.”
He stopped feigning death and sipped his drink again. “Actually, you’re getting better and better.”
“A little bird told me that practice makes perfect.” I held my martini glass up to him. “A toast. To perfect martinis and Zürich!”
He tipped his glass to mine. “To perfect martinis. What’s this about Zürich?”
I tried not to shy away from him. “I’m planning to go there next week. I want to store some personal stuff in the same safe deposit box my father…chose.”
He got defensive. “Seems rather heavy to stay attached to that place, don’t you think?”
“It’s what I want. And Michael will be in Zürich too, need to mulch our friendship a little.”
He sucked in his breath and gave an uneasy, stuttered laugh. “You’re going alone? Baby, you’ve got some ’splainin’ to do.”
I started repeating the resistance is futile Borg meme.
“My captain will fly you,” he surrendered with a stuttered sigh, kissing the crown of my head.
“Thank you, Alex.” I tiptoed to kiss the tip of his nose.
Placing his glass on the bar, he cupped my chin and gave it a little shake. “Will you be good?”
“I will, I promise.”
“Don’t disappoint me.” As if to emphasize his statement, he lifted the skewered olive in his drink to his mouth, holding it in the air for a few seconds before drawing it between a perfect set of white teeth. With a huff he removed the martini pick, and I watched the succulent green flesh disappear between his lips before cruelly being crushed between his jaws.
“I won’t let you down, Alex,” I yelled lowly at him, a flick of the tongue animating my teasing.
During dinner, as I shoveled down my Maine lobster and Caesar salad, I became aware that he was staring at me. I could feel his persistent look on me.
“Wha
t?” I squirmed uncomfortably, trying to neaten myself up.
“You’ve told Michael everything?”
“He held me at gunpoint,” I tried to make a joke out of it, but he wasn’t having it. I sighed, “Yes.” He didn’t seem appeased by that explanation. Well, screw him. It was the truth. The silence and his grim expression were uncomfortable, so I changed tack. “You’re looking at me like I’m a problem.”
Thank God, now he smiled. “I’ve got 99 problems, but you ain’t one of them,” he chided me gently. “I hate being out of the loop.”
Only, I hadn’t anticipated the bedroom antics. I’d grown concerned that it might result in punishment, some spanking, not this.
He tied the scarf carefully but firmly into place, as to not have it loosen or slip, his fingers pulling plenty to make sure it wasn’t slack. “Sandalwood, sweet,” he murmured, stroking my hair.
To edge me, he used a feather tickler and a magic wand. But in the end, I just kept giggling. Red-flecked bolts of lightning consecutively ripped through me, animating my voice and movements.
“Someone’s been very bad girl,” he whispered against my cheek. I felt his cock thickening, lengthening on my thigh. Goosebumps and tingles raced across my skin and my lungs heaved for air as he shoved himself inside me. “I’ll teach you.”
“I do want to learn, sir.”
“How respectful you’ve become, little one. It’s amazing what discovering your place will do.”
I admired him when he slowed the thrust of his hips and threw back his head, roaring like a feral animal, coming hard, spurting hotly. He gripped my hips to impale me onto his ejaculating cock, filling me until semen dripped from my sex and coated my inner thighs. Gasping, he bent over to press his lips to my shoulder.
He pulled me up. “I’m not done,” he said roughly, still thick and stiff inside me.
Then he started again.
Elena Anderson
The Conclusion
I woke up when the daylight touched my face. I’d deliberately left one of the curtains open last night. Trying not to be disruptive to Sara, I hadn’t switched on my alarm. The knock on the door came at precisely 8 AM. Blissfully draped on my side of the bed, Sara didn’t stir. I walked cautiously toward the door, pausing before the mirror to my left. I smoothed down the lapels of my blazer and brushed a couple of stray hairs away from my face. A fusion of fear and excitement rippled through me at the thought of what was to come. The clouds in Zürich were eggshell-white, an intermittent draft playing about. The number of taxis, homeless people, and women traveling with dogs on leashes was significantly less, and, the pace of the city was slower than Boston, the coats dressier, the cars more expensive. Men in business suits had mobile phones glued to their ears, and women in high-heeled boots shuffled along in groups, taking in the men and discussing whatever it was they discussed.
My week had been hectic, as it was not, by any reckoning, a good one. Fishing in troubled waters, I was at my wits’ end with my suspicions. It was more than I was willing to admit, but there wasn’t a smidgen of doubt left in my mind; Alexander wasn’t covering for his uncle. On his way to NYC, he still hadn’t called or texted me back. For once, I decided to leave him a voicemail.
As if we were about to cross the Styx River, Michael asked, “Ready?”
My heart palpitated wildly. “As ready as I’ll ever be. See you on the other side.”
My mission was almost on its last legs. A team of computer scientists remained at our disposition, the manager informed us; their remit was to show me what happened to my box once it left the room, nothing else. It wasn’t uncommon for clients to break down during Inheritance Box retrievals, so he knew Alexander had been comforting me, and Christopher took the lead on the inventorying. Our tech guy was skinny in the shoulders and leg and fat in the belly, his short hair the color of a dust bunny—probably would’ve been hard-pressed to run fast and hard without collapsing.
I managed to keep my expression free of unease while I watched the surveillance video. It was a definite coda to my doubts. My instincts proved to be wrong, Christopher ticked all the right boxes of an honest man. Overwhelmed by the franticness of having to withdraw from our room on Alexander’s request, the manager had led Christopher to the adjacent private room so he could inventory the contents of the box, which he did without taking anything from it. At last, a fact I couldn’t disavow.
A sigh of relief escaped my lungs. “You are the best, Mike.”
“I’m glad to be of service to you. The best what, El? Businessman? Friend? Asshole?”
“Best asshole.”
“I’ll take it. Will you stop nitpicking? Don’t be so fickle and faithless. Alexander treats you like a princess.”
“Yessir.” I dusted off the skirt of my Chanel dress. “It’s been a real blast. I owe you one.”
“I will hold you to that.”
I was momentarily disoriented when my iPhone buzzed. I yawned as I brought it to my ear.
“How’s Zürich, kitten?”
“Without you it’s a stigmatization. How are you?”
“In the doldrums. Everything went well?”
I ran through my mind exactly what I’d rehearsed saying to him. “It went off without a hitch, the things are in the safe. I left him a letter, in case, you know, he’s still out there somewhere. Going back to the hotel for some R&R.”
“I…Christopher is calling me—for the third time. I should answer it or else he’ll lay waste to my existence. I’m in New York till Friday. All things being equal, I should be home Friday evening. We’ll try this FaceTime software when you’re back in Boston.”
The thought of him two hundred miles away, watching on his computer screen as I pleasured myself, brought a generous smile to my face. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I felt uneasy after his call. Were my actions unredeemable? Back at the Dolder Grand, in the same suite as the one Alexander had booked weeks ago, I tried to watch a movie but couldn’t focus my attention on anything the actors were saying. Reading the news, I had a good laugh: people occupied Wall Street, playing didgeridoos and guitars. Sara and I went for a long walk. We smiled at moms with all-terrain prams, watched squirrels gambol, and teased the laciniate leaves of mimosa trees. Even as it started drizzling, our steps crunched on feldspar gravel. When it became too wet to walk any further without oilskin jackets, sou’westers, and galoshes, we went back to the hotel and showered and got dressed for dinner. It felt like a fancy sleepover. She and I were sharing one bedroom, and Michael had taken the second one.
Because I’d found the day choppy, I wanted in room dining to get it over with. Sleep and fly back to Boston.
“Sara?” Lying on her tummy on the bed, she was facing away from the doorway. She moved onto her elbows and twisted around, looking up from her iPhone. “Want to stay here or go out?” I asked.
“Whatever makes Michael happy.”
To get the party started, I turned a few corners then knocked on Michael’s door. That’s when I realized he wasn’t alone. Swallowing hard, I softly rapped my knuckles against the polished wood, again a second time, and a third. This was positively a Sheldonesque reaction, only the verbalization of Michael’s name coupled to each knock was missing. I hesitated before knocking slightly louder for the fourth time, and then, unable to prevent myself, I took a nervous step back from the threshold and called out Michael’s name. I opened and closed the door when he gave permission, and came to a dead stop.
Michael said, “Just came out of the shower.” I found myself staring at his bare chest, and had to look up to see him smile at me from under the dark blonde hair plastered to his forehead. He held out the hand that wasn’t being used to hold a towel around his waist to his guest. “Look whom I found casing the joint.” He consulted an imaginary watch on his left arm. “Not to mention he’s in time for happy hour.”
“What are you doing here?” With a huge grin, I advanced toward Tony, turning a blind eye
to Michael as he dropped the towel and put on his clothes.
The corners of Tony’s mouth twitched upward in an undeniably dirty smile. “I was in London. Pharma convention. Your fancy-pants boyfriend asked me to keep an eye on you and bring you home.”
“He promised to let me be,” I protested.
“Promises are like piecrust, made to be broken.” He kissed my cheek effusively, and although the urge to hug him vagabonded in my mind, I didn’t do it. “I’m staying for dinner, even if it’s an imposition.”
I squeezed his arm, letting him know I was okay with it.
Zipping up his Maurice Sedwell garment bag, Michael asked, “Shall we languish on the terrace while the kitchen staff sets up the dining room?” He looked at Sara as she came into the room. “Unless you girls want to dine in the restaurant?”
“I don’t object,” she answered.
“Nor do I,” I offered.
“Is Sara happy?” Michael looked at her like a puppy trained to stand on its hind legs to beg.
“Happy like a corpulent pig bathing in slop, sir.” She wore a Balenciaga rose-print silk taffeta gown with a side-flutter skirt detail, the full godet skirt pooling grandiosely to the floor.
Michael’s gaze alighted on her purposefully low-cut cleavage and, the sweep of his tongue across his lower lip spoke volumes. The groan emerging from his throat, I speculated, was one of acute happiness.
My chin dropped. “That’s what I say, Sara.” I plucked at the tall lobe of an orchid flower, wondering if something was afoot between the ex-lovers. Old dogs can be taught new tricks, mark my words.
Dressed in crew neck sweaters and casual trousers, Tony and Michael mooned around bottles of Cristal they’d smuggled, mockingly booting Sara and me from the terrace.
I shivered like a torn sail when my stomach alerted me that I’d only had an almond croissant for the day. There were Mediterranean-inflected starters. A cutting board with a wide array of cured meats sat between two silver platters; one had tri-colored palmiers on it, and the other one had bruschetta. On an oblong platter, mini pies helmeted with flaky pastry puffed out steam that was laced with cooked meat and vegetables.
