It was five past the hour once I was done with it all, and Ashton still hadn’t shown.
Moran is always playing an angle.
Whatever he says he’s up to, he’s always looking for more.
Doubt hovered over me. Foolishness wrapped me like a cloak.
I wondered, What the hell do I think I’m doing? If this was something I should be getting into, why had I been hiding, and telling no one?
I waited another five minutes then headed out, somehow certain that Ashton was at the other cabana, having not cared enough to follow simple directions. No respect for my time — or me. And why should he have any? I’m arm candy.
I went in with my defenses raised, already wondering if I should have left without seeing him.
And now, after ten minutes that went so terribly wrong, I’m headed right the hell back out, away from Ashton, like I should’ve done from the start.
He really is an asshole. A total narcissist.
I can get out of the contract. I’m sure of it.
I remember hearing somewhere that you can renege on any contract in the US within three days, or something similar. And even that’s assuming the contract is something they’d want to fight for, which they won’t.
Moran wants to keep this a secret, so he can screw someone else if he doesn’t screw me.
He’s chasing me. I can feel patrons turning to watch.
Ashton is making a spectacle.
I want to get away.
“Jenna, wait!”
But fuck that arrogant asshole.
I’m out of here — and as to his contract, he can roll it up and choke on it.
CHAPTER TEN
ASHTON
“JENNA!” I SHOUT.
I GET a very businesslike “Fuck off!”
“We had a deal.”
“Fuck your deal.”
This is humiliating. Unacceptable. Nobody talks to me this way. I haven’t chased a girl since I was sixteen. If there wasn’t a significant chunk of cash on the line, I’d let her go. More: I’d shout after her to keep right on walking.
This girl doesn’t know what she’s missing. It’s not just what we’re paying her to be my pretend girlfriend for the media; it’s the opulence she’d experience simply by being around me. Has she ever ridden in a private jet? Has she ever been to a luxury compound in Ibiza? And it’s not like I could be seen with her in bargain sundresses, so of course we’d have needed to buy her all sorts of new shit that would total more than the value of whatever shack she lives in.
She’s hot, sure.
But I’m Ashton Moran, and it’s literally true that women would line up to take the gig she’s marching away from.
But … the contract.
And … this strange compulsion I feel to make it work with this first candidate. Maybe it’s my dogged determination — the same tenacity that made me my first million, then my first billion after that. Maybe it’s the arrogance I’ve so often been told I have, refusing to accept that she isn’t interested. Or maybe it’s simple curiosity.
Jenna entered today’s meeting with a chip on her shoulder, and I get the feeling it’s about more than my failure to wait in the correct cabana. Her eyes practically begged me to stick my dick down her throat the day we met, and beneath her fury I’d swear that same lust was present today. So what the hell shoved a broomstick up her vagina? Why is she so unreasonably pissed?
I grab her by the arm from behind. She shakes me off.
I grab her again and this time she spins on me with a death stare.
“Get your hands off me.” She says it evenly but definitively.
“Why are you being such a bitch?”
“Why are you such a pompous asshole?”
“You started this.” I still haven’t let go of her arm.
“I’m out,” she says.
“You can’t be out. You signed a contract.”
“Let’s see what my lawyer has to say about that.”
I try not to laugh in her face. Jenna, age 20, could of course search the Internet for a lawyer, but the idea that she has one so much on-hand that she’d refer to that person as “my lawyer” is laughable. You’ll hear from my lawyer is what poor people say when they slip and fall at Burger King.
“You can’t talk to anyone about this. You signed an NDA.”
“I can talk to my lawyer. That can’t be prevented by your stupid nondisclosure thing.”
Can. Can’t. Stupid nondisclosure thingy. She’s making all of this up. I want to slap her back to reality. Grab her tits through her shirt and twist her nipples until she listens.
She wrestles out of my grip, but this time it pisses me off. If Jenna flakes on us, we’ll have to go through all of this again. We’ll need to find some bitch whose time is for sale, with a clean record — no hookers or the press will know — and reboot the process of making our backstory believable. I’m barely tolerating this as it is. The thought of trashing it and starting over infuriates me.
I grab Jenna’s upper arms. It’s all I can do not to shake her.
“Let go of me!”
A short man with two dumpy kids looks over. “Is there a problem, Miss?”
“No problem,” I say.
“I was asking the lady.”
I think she might tap out, but Jenna meets my eyes as and I can practically see the heat inside her. Only part of it is anger and indignation. The rest is something else — something that eyes me up and down, a timid pulse visible on her long, beautiful neck.
“I’m fine,” she says.
The man looks pointedly at my hands, gripping her. I let go, but Jenna doesn’t run.
“You sure?” he asks. “You want me to get someone?”
Rather than adopting a grateful tone, she snaps back at the guy. “I said I’m fine!” Her manner says that she didn’t ask for help, can handle herself with this asshole, and resents his macho bullshit interference.
The man raises his hands in surrender, then keeps glancing back at us as he walks off with his filthy little swarm of children.
I look back at Jenna and see how hard she’s breathing — gulps of air that make her chest rise and fall. I look at the deep, tan valley between her breasts. With each heave, they separate. Her nipples are poking through the fabric. Her face is flushed, her wet lips slightly open.
My cock is so hard it hurts.
I look around, then take Jenna’s arm — less rigidly this time — and lead her into a service alcove next to a green hose attached to a spigot. Probably meant for spraying shit out of a cage.
“You’re not out,” I tell her evenly, once we’re sheltered from passersby. “You haven’t even begun.”
Her lips say, “Don’t think you can tell me what to do. I don’t like you, asshole.” But her big, slow breaths, hard nipples, and rapt eyes say something else.
“You liked me yesterday.”
“You made me a good offer. But I made a mistake. And now I want out.”
“There is no out.”
“Of course there is. I have three days to cancel the contract.”
“Did your lawyer tell you that?”
We’re six inches apart, and her back is to the smooth wall of a utility shed. We’re surrounded by indeterminate plants. I can hear patrons on the walkways, but in here they’re disembodied voices.
Jenna doesn’t answer. I advance another two inches. I can feel her hot breath. Her lips have opened farther as her chest continues to slowly rise and fall, nearly brushing against me. Her soft brown eyes are fixed on mine. I’m amazed by her casual, breathtaking beauty.
Jenna bites the corner of her lip. My cock strains against its confinement.
“I want out.” Her words are practically limping.
“No.”
“You can’t tell me no.”
“I just did.” I advance another two inches. My body brushes hers. Her hard nipples graze me. The air is spiked with adrenaline.
“I made a mistake. I don’t want to
do this.”
“Prove it.”
She blinks, confused.
“If you really want out,” I say, raising my right hand to place it flat against her belly, my fingertips just touching her waistband, “you won’t be wet for me right now.”
Her face is a parody of anger. She pushes at me but I push back, practically pinning her hands. I’m right up against her. Her ass and shoulder blades are pressed against the shack. I can feel her heartbeat and see it in her throat. She’s tipped her chin, just enough to expose her neck like a dog baring its belly.
“You can’t talk to me that way.”
I slide my hands inside her jeans. Feel the elastic of her panties. Maneuver my fingertips so they’re beneath that, too.
Her eyes close. She exhales like a deflating balloon, her breath hot. I want to cover her mouth with mine, end her with my kiss.
Instead I stare, watching her lose control, best intentions surrendering in the face of animal instinct.
I move my hand down the rest of the way. It’s a tight fit with her jeans still buttoned, but then my finger is sliding along the tissue-soft swell of her shaved mound, into the valley between her warm pussy lips.
“You’re soaked.”
Jenna looks up at me, doe-eyed. Caught. She swallows again.
I push my hand down farther. She sighs as I brush her clit. My fingers swim in her wetness, then slip effortlessly between her hot and trembling flesh.
My hand comes out. For a second, Jenna looks confused, but mostly she seems disappointed.
I add my second hand and unbutton her jeans. I work the zipper. I look down at what I’ve exposed, then see her pink panties, darker at the bottom. All that wetness didn’t happen in the past few minutes. She’s been fantasizing for a while.
“What are you doing?”
I don’t answer. I hook my fingers around the sides of her jeans to pull them down along with her panties. The sight of her bare pussy with its pink slit makes my cock throb in its denim cage. Inches of daylight peek between her lowered panties and glistening slit.
I run my finger along her, making her gasp. “I’m fucking you.”
“No, you’re not!”
“You want my cock inside you, Jenna.” I increase pressure on her slit. She’s so goddamn wet, there’s practically no friction. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t.”
She looks me in the eyes. No words pass her lips.
“I’m going to fill your pussy with my cock, Jenna. I’m going to make you come so hard, you’ll do whatever I say and then thank me.”
“Fuck you.”
I’m tired of her bullshit. “Take out my cock. Now.”
She hesitates, so I slip two fingers inside her. She must be on a hair trigger, because she almost validates my threat on the spot. A gush touches my hand and she buckles against me.
She won’t come unless I keep going. Not until I let her.
“Do it, Jenna.”
Her hands fumble at my jeans, shaking but urgent. My fly is open in seconds. I gasp as she grips my shaft and brings it into the open air, her small hand in a ring around it, jerking me, rubbing my balls and the underside.
“You’re disgusting,” I say. “You’re a fucking slut.”
She licks her lips and stares into me. I can see how much she hates me. She’s pumping my cock, glaring at my eyes. Her grip is insane. If she keeps up the pace, I’m going to shoot my load all over her.
My balls tighten. My shaft throbs, cock head red and swelling.
“You want me to fuck you. Tell me you want it.”
“Go fuck yourself.” But she’s pushing up next to me, her hand now rubbing my dick against her slit. It’s clumsy as hell. I feel like I’m being used to paint a fence. Her sexuality is aggressive — a turn on.
“I’m going to fuck you instead.”
“No, you’re not.” Then she opens her legs just enough to let my head pop inside.
I don’t like how Jenna thinks she’s in charge.
I turn her around, hard, and press her face against the side of the utility shed. Her ass, as my cock paints wet lines across it, is perfect. My hands spread her cheeks. My fingers explore her from behind, plunging in and out. I watch her knees threaten to surrender as waves shake her body.
But she won’t be coming alone.
I put a hand on her back, pressing her chest flat. Her ass is still out, her wet pink slit still open and waiting. I lean in close, my lips inches from her ear as I pull her shining brown hair back and growl: “I’m going to fuck your wet cunt until you cry, Jenna. I’m going to show you whose rules we’re going to play by. I’m going to make you beg for more. And tomorrow, you’ll be dying for me to do it again.”
Before she can respond, I bury my cock inside her.
My balls press against her bare snatch. She moans. I grip her hair in one fist. My lips graze her ear, breathing words into it as her hot tunnel grips my cock in tight, peristaltic waves.
“You don’t walk out on me. You don’t bluff against me. Because I know how much you want me to fuck you. I know how hard you want it. And I know that nobody can do the things I’m going to do to you.”
“You’re a pig,” she says, her face pressed to the shed.
“Tell me how bad you want it.”
She reaches between her legs. She alternates rubbing my balls and strumming her clit.
I take long, slow strokes. “Beg me. Beg me for it.”
Her own hand does the job, and she’s coming all over me, her slippery juices coating me, her pussy squeezing my dick like a fist.
I fuck her harder. Faster. My thighs slap her bare ass. I tug her hair. My other hand grips her ass cheek. Then I let go of her hair and grab the other ass cheek; I slam into her, giving her my full length.
Jenna shakes, almost violently, her moans coming faster and harder, out of her control.
“Beg me to come. Beg me to fuck you harder!”
Between panting breaths: “Fuck me harder!”
“You like it dirty, don’t you? You like it rough?”
“Fuck me, Ashton!”
I smack her ass. She contracts against the small pain, her pussy tightening. I can’t hold back. But I don’t want to come inside her, so I pull out just a little and pump my thick load into her wet folds, intermingling our juices.
My seed drips down her legs. It pulses from her greedy little pussy, running into her pulled-down panties.
I step back as the waves subside, and see Jenna’s hand still working between her legs. She comes again, harder this time, calling out something that might be my name.
I zip up. I’m composed in thirty seconds, but Jenna’s hand is still in her soaking pussy, her body shaking with aftershocks.
She looks back at me, her sense — and perhaps her humility — returning.
“Come to my place tomorrow at three. But don’t be late. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Wh … what work?”
“I’m going to shove my cock down your throat, and you’re going to love it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JENNA
MY FATHER IS THERE WHEN I return from the zoo.
He’s on the porch, reading on his iPad, trying not to act like he was waiting. He looks over when I pull into the driveway. It’s supposed to look casual, but is clearly rehearsed.
Oh, no big deal — Jenna’s home. I don’t spend every moment she’s out worried about her or anything.
I don’t know why, but the little gesture — the peek of his salt-and-pepper head and bespectacled eyes above his tablet like a gator surfacing in a swamp — breaks my heart. Strong or not, I really am a Daddy’s girl.
“Hey, Pumpkin,” he says as I approach.
My walking is a bit off right now. Too much sloshing downstairs, as if I put my jeans on over a wet swimsuit.
I wavered back and forth on the drive home, looking back on my Ashton encounter as alternately hot and even more disturbing and dangerous than Alex suggested.
I’m split down the middle. Objectively, Ashton could be given as an example “asshole” on the Wikipedia page. He didn’t even say goodbye, just walked away, leaving me with my ass bare behind the Snack Shack to compose myself. His parting words were like something out of the Misogynist’s Playbook, but I had a hard time not sticking my hand down my pants on the drive home, anyway.
I could still call a lawyer and see about this contract I’m sure I could still get out of.
But now I wonder if it would even matter. Is there any point in calling a lawyer? Is there any point in trying to get out?
I can wait a day.
I can wait three.
“Hey, Dad.”
“I didn’t know you had anything today.” He says it casually, but again I’m somehow sure it’s rehearsed.
“I went to the zoo.”
“The zoo?”
This clearly isn’t what he expected. He probably doesn’t believe it. Dad worries about me even when he shouldn’t, and it got a lot worse around age 15, when I started attracting boys’ attention. He seems to regard my femininity as some sort of a time bomb waiting to explode, acts like I’m walking around with a nuclear warhead and a hair-trigger, too dumb to know how easily it could go off.
I think Dad suspects I’m hooking back up with Jean — now on the sly. Or maybe another guy. Or (because this is my father), several other guys. It’s all so hard for him. I imagine it’s difficult for every dad of a daughter. But I know what I’m doing, and can’t live my life through his lens.
“Yeah.” I point to my car, where the zoo parking tag still dangles from my rearview. “See?”
He almost gets up and walks over to see if I’m telling the truth, but he must know I’ll balk. He tries to trust me — and most times, I’m worthy.
“Why did you go to the zoo?”
An idea hits me. Something that’s true, but only barely, and will make my father feel better — a luxury since the divorce.
“I got a job.”
“At the zoo?”
I push past a swallow. I hate to lie. “Yeah.”
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul Page 5
