Black Tie Affair

by Rice, Rachel E.

  I wasn’t a drop-dead gorgeous woman, but I had my charms. I was just average, with long, curly auburn hair often worn in a ponytail, an oval face, high cheekbones, and large blue eyes. I never trusted my looks as a magnet for men.

  And I never got the impression that the company that hired me was more interested in my looks than whether I could do the job.

  “Ms. Bishop,” the manager, Joshua, said, holding my resume and looking over his glasses, “can you work overtime?” That was it. Staring at him as his eyes glanced intermittently at me, I thought he was a great looking guy with dirty blond hair and a taut body. The kind of body you get from farm work, not spending time in a gym.

  They must have been desperate for personnel, but you couldn’t tell by the beautiful scenery, luxurious accommodations for the staff and guests, and endless supply of food. The pay was great, though I would have paid them to work at Blackstone Ski Lodge.

  I soon learned that the altitude was unbearable, and on one occasion I almost fainted. My skin stayed dry and I had to keep a supply of Vaseline and Chap Stick in my imitation-leather purse. I was constantly licking my lips and batting my eyes because I wasn’t used to makeup. One of the hotel guests, an older gentleman, thought I was flirting with him. He was about seventy. “Get a life,” I said.

  Shuffling off none too happy, he tried to have me fired, but Joshua intervened, and that was why he and I became best buds. Besides, he let me sleep on his couch because I was afraid to live alone. I’m sure he expected much more, but that was all I had to give. I planned on remaining a virgin until the right man came along. I wanted a handsome and rich man but that was just a dream. The problem was, it was as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one, but probabilities were that I would never meet a rich, handsome man who would even take a look at me and say, “She’s the one.”

  It was the middle of the winter ski season, and the hotel was shorthanded. Joshua took his time getting to the counter because he liked his long lunches with the newly hired. He claimed he wanted to do a detailed interview. I knew better, but I owed him just for taking a chance on me.

  Reaching for my Chap Stick under the counter, I stooped, and when I raised my head, I gazed directly into the eyes of the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. Living in New York, I have seen my share of men. I have seen all races, all nationalities, all ages, gay and straight, and he was just beautiful. A face like none I have ever seen. He had wide, dark-green eyes, a strong jaw, a head full of dark curls cut short, and thick eyebrows, and he wore a hidden smile. Or was that a smirk, the kind I had seen on a billboard for Tom Ford Noir?

  Yes, Noir. It means black—how fitting.

  He was just different. I felt it throughout my body. My legs tingled, my hands shook, and my mouth opened wide. He was the one. The one I would do anything for, the one I would give up my virginity for in a fast second if he only asked with just a whisper in my ear.

  This did not say much about my self-control. I thought I had plenty until I laid eyes on him. “Wow!” His breathtaking, sinful face should have been concealed to prevent him from casting a spell on all women who gazed into his green eyes. Those eyes appeared capable of seeing through a woman’s dress and straight to her clit.

  He had been chatting and laughing as he glided into the lodge, but he paused when our eyes locked. He stopped in his tracks, there was a moment of silence, and then his gaze wandered around the room, which filled again with idle chatter.

  I knew he was trouble when I scanned his gorgeous face and body. He strutted through a throng of eligible obscenely beautiful young men and women with all eyes targeting him. They leaned and whispered. Obviously they knew him. Dressed immaculately in a black Giorgio Armani suit, a black-and-white Prada shirt, and black Gucci loafers, he strolled with a sort of swagger, leaning as he walked silent and quick like a predatory cat, through the double glass doors of the lodge, with an entourage of three handsome men trailing behind his muscular ass. His curly jet-black hair was tousled and windswept, his piercing green eyes begging me to lie down and stay awhile to be his sex slave on call, I thought. “Wow.”

  This man was a sinful delight for any woman crazy enough to fall in love with him. So I convinced myself to keep my wits about me and not act like a frigging idiot. It’s far too late for that, I admitted.

  Joshua returned just in time. “Sorry, Alex, I owe you one.”

  “Oh, that’s OK,” I said, following that handsome fuck’s gaze. I heard nothing and saw nothing; I was staring into space, dreaming, walking from behind the counter, heading in the direction of the elevators, trying to get out of the room before I fainted.

  The procession caught up with me and I nervously stepped aside to allow the entourage and that man I would die for in the elevator, hesitating, praying the door would close. Too soon, he turned around, his face expressive and light with a skillful grin, a disarming smile he used to great effect. Facing the open door and the space that I now occupied, he said, “What a delightful looking necklace on such an impeccable background.” His voice, smooth sounding, enunciation perfect; his background, prep schools, elite colleges and universities, seduced me, surprised me, and then the elevator closed immediately in my goofy-looking face.

  My head gave a quick jerk downward to see what he was looking at. I grabbed for the turquoise drop held by a black string, the only piece of jewelry that I owned, and wondered, what is it? Why would a rich, handsome fuck like him admire a cheap piece of Indian jewelry?

  As I passed the mirror, I noticed that a button had come undone and a hint of my breasts were peeking through. I now became aware of what he had seen, taking the view in. “Not bad,” I said, admiring my best assets. Thank God I wore my expensive Victoria’s Secret bra with black lace trim. Thank God I had thrown out all my old, comfortable, ratty bras; otherwise, I would never be able to show my face again. I didn’t feel so bad now, just embarrassed. I hoped he didn’t think I did that on purpose. I bet woman were hiding around every corner throwing their panties in his direction. I knew I would if I had half the chance.

  Scrambling to button my shirt and breathing deep with shame, I put my head down and scurried into the employees’ lounge. I thought about him all night. Why did he have to notice me? Why did I have to look like a misfit around all those wonderful-looking rich people, and why did he have to make me feel so inadequate? Couldn’t he just keep that beautiful mouth with those perfect white teeth shut?

  Determine to ignore him the next day, I excused myself as soon as I saw him come out of the elevator with his entourage. I muttered something about needing to use the restroom and turned away when I saw him moving in the direction of the counter. He didn’t send his secretary or one of his bodyguards. He sauntered up with all the confidence of a rich, handsome, arrogant thirtysomething. I ducked low and scurried into the back office, hiding like a child who had just stolen her big sister’s lipstick.

  When I finally thought it was safe to come out, Freddie, the new hire, looked me up and down with a judgmental look in his brown eyes. “Mr. Blackstone asked for you.”

  “Did he tell you what he wanted?” It took a moment to register. “You mean...” and “I was too...” I mumbled, looking up his room number. Yes, the penthouse suite. Why didn’t he take the private elevator?

  “People like that don’t explain themselves,” Freddie said, not looking up from the computer, “but he was awfully interested in you.”

  “What is his problem? Do you think he wants to fire me?” I asked, my voice shaky and shrill.

  Freddie rolled his shoulders to his ears. “Well, he asked your name and whether you were married and did you have any friends? Quote, ‘boyfriends.’” Freddie made quotation marks in the air. “Those were his exact words.” Freddie paused as I held my breath. “I told him that I didn’t know.”

  “Why did you say that?” My eyes opened wide.

  “Because I don’t know and it’s none of his business. Besides, I don’t care how much money he has, he h
as no right to invade your privacy.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” I said under my breath, rolling my eyes.

  The next day, standing at my desk and reading The Great Gatsby, a book I never read in college because Cliffs Notes were easier, I felt eyes measuring me. It was an eerie feeling. When I glanced up, he was staring at me with those penetrating, deep, dark-green eyes. He had come from outside, and for once he was alone. He just stood looking at me, those jade eyes undressing me, leaving me weak.

  My body shook, and blood coursed through my veins, forcing my blood pressure up. I felt faint; he appeared to have that effect on me whenever he was near. He opened his mouth, and the sight of those lips and perfect white teeth sucked out what oxygen was left in my brain. My eyes glanced up to his perfect nose, dark, layered eyebrows, and then back to his mouth, and I began daydreaming about where he could put those lips.

  “Hello,” he said, soft and smooth.

  “Yes? Hello.” I responded like the idiot I claimed I would never become if I laid eyes on him again.

  “Ms. Bishop...I was wondering if...I want...I would like to see you,” he said with a sexy English tone to his voice.

  “Why?” I leaned forward. “Did you say you want to see me, sir—ah, Mr. Black...I mean Mr. Blackstone?” I sounded incompetent, like I had escaped from an asylum.

  “Forget it. I’m sorry,” he said, fading away into the private elevator. I stood staring at the spot where he had asked to see me, my mouth so wide it could have caught a fly if any could have survived at this altitude. A man like that asking to see me—did he mean what I thought he meant? Me? Alexander Bishop, a girl who had never been anywhere except Brooklyn—well, I could count the states—breathing the same air as this rich, handsome, drop-dead gorgeous fuck. He looked all of thirty-five, so I rationalized that he was too old, too worldly, and too dangerous for me.

  And what did he mean by “wanting to see me?” Was I reading too much in those few words? Joshua said I analyzed things to death. But I couldn’t understand why a man who was obviously articulate would just say, “I want to see you.”

  If I was stupid enough to dream that he thought I was attractive or entertain such an idea, all I could do was get hurt. I had no defense. I wasn’t worldly, I had one friend, I had no money, and I wasn’t that pretty.

  What kind of experience did I have even talking to that world-class man? Maybe he was married and I would be one of the many girls he fucked on vacation, but for me it would be a fuck of a lifetime. I might never recover if he put his rich dick in me. I would be gone. I’ll probably turn into a stalker, I thought. So it was better that I get him out of my mind. But I couldn’t. He haunted my thoughts and my body, especially my clit. A chill eased up my back, caressing my spine straight into the nape of my neck and settling in the roots of my hair. Wow! It was then I knew that I would do anything for him, and that was dangerous.

  * * *

  The next day I figured the best way to rid myself of Mr. Black was to try out my new skis, maybe break a leg or something, and have them send me back to Brooklyn with workman’s comp. That would help me until I could get another job and get far away from him.

  I had lied on my application and stated that I was proficient on the slopes. So they gave me skis, and lessons were free to upgrade my skills. What skills? Bending forward, adjusting the skis, I stepped backward until I hit a wall, or so I thought. Looking through my legs, I saw a pair of skis with two long legs covered in a black ski suit behind me. It was Mr. Black’s rock-hard body. There he stood, all six foot two in a black ski suit and gear, and my ass was plastered directly on his hard dick.

  He didn’t move. Through my legs, I saw his head tilt down. His gaze scanned my hair, my back, and my ass. By the look in his eyes, he appeared to be measuring the split of my butt for something, and I didn’t know what. I couldn’t straighten up; my finger had gotten stuck in my ski boots, and when I unhinged it and stood, he never moved. He stood on my skis with a wicked smile, and without moving an inch I said wryly, “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. Take a picture; it’ll last longer.” That’s all I could think of.

  “Well, Ms. Bishop,” he said with a sly smile crossing his inviting lips, “we meet again,” he said with his body close, so that not even a sheet of paper could pass between us, as if we were entwined in intercourse and he had penetrated my ass. He whispered softly in my ear, my butt quivering against his dick as he got even closer, if that was possible. He circled my body with his arms and said, “You smell wonderful.”

  “Thank you, but could you get off of my skis?”

  He moved his hand, caressing my chin, then placing it lower. “Your beautiful neck needs something: a collar,” he stated casually, passing his fingers from the front to the back, causing me to shiver, not from the cold but from the heat of his penis penetrating my clothing like lightning. At the time I thought nothing of his comments. Maybe that was what the rich said when they want to make a pass, and I responded in a childish and girlish manner.

  “You smell pretty good yourself” was all I could get out and then I froze. I should have asked, “What the fuck are you doing?” But I didn’t. I should have asked, “Have you lost your fucking mind?” But I didn’t. I should have asked, “Do you think I’m that kind of girl? Do you want to fuck me?” But I didn’t. I managed to slightly turn my head.

  “I was wondering whether I can see you under different circumstances,” he said with a hint of vulnerability dancing in his green eyes, which had softened.

  “You are seeing me now. Why do you wish to see me? And please get off of my skis,” I said coldly, trying to cool the heat that was coursing between my thighs.

  When I finally moved my skis to turn to face my fears, the obstruction was gone and so was Mr. Blackstone. So there I was again, staring into nothingness with only a mountain of snow for company and feeling stupid once more. I swore to myself that if I saw him again, I would give him a piece of my mind—how dare he quit so soon. One minute more and I would have caved in, and he could have fucked me in my ears if he had a mind to.

  I headed down the slope, and at the very foot, I tripped, stumbled, rolled, and landed in a large bed of snow with my skis buried. I tried to stand, but that was impossible. I knew that I had sprained my ankle. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone. I panicked and screamed, “Hello! I need help, I’m hurt!” Before I could yell again, standing in front of me was the extraordinary, handsome Mr. Black.

  He rushed over to me, dug me out with a small shovel he carried somewhere, unfastened my skis, and lifted me like a doll. Cradled in his arms, I ceased to breathe. Gazing into my eyes, he asked, “Are you hurt?”

  “It’s my ankle.” He touched it gently. I screamed, not from pain, but from desperately wanting his attention.

  “You can’t take pain. Pain can be exciting and satisfying,” he said, flashing a smile. “You know childbirth is painful and satisfying.”

  “What did you say?” I always missed his cues.

  “I guess we can’t have children,” he said, passing a dark, teasing smirk along his mouth while not taking his eyes off me.

  His gaze unnerved me. “I can carry you to my cabin. It’s near. You’re so light.” I felt incredibly light, or I was incredibly stupid. He could be some kind of serial killer, or worse, a man who would make love to me and never see me again. Nevertheless, I felt comfortable in his arms, like I belonged there.

  Stopping at a large house built with logs, with care Max walked up the stone stairs with me in his arms to this unbelievable redwood cabin in the middle of the snow and the mountains. I had never seen a house of that magnitude. It was built on a mountain with boulders as steps. Strong floor-to-ceiling glass windows surrounded the house, giving a panoramic view of everything for miles. The cabin was breathtaking, and it matched the owner—rich, beautiful, strong, and different.

  We entered the house, and I looked around mystified at the decor. The foyer, wide as a museum’s foyer, had numerous g
ray leather chairs placed facing the windows, and large paintings lined the walls. The house stood half on the mountain and half on large pillars, the kind you found under bridges. “This place is beautiful.”

  “You are beautiful,” he said, making me uncomfortable. Looking around, I spied a roaring fire.

  “Oh I love a fire,” I said. He placed me in a large, cream leather chair setting near the huge fireplace, then picked up a log and fed the fire. It must have been his favorite chair because it sat alone with a large table nearby, with books and a small crystal chest set sitting on it. He watched deliberately as I acted like a little girl who had never had anything or been anywhere, and if he thought that, he would be right. Trying to stand, I wobbled. He rushed to me and knelt, looking up at me. “You can’t walk on that leg. I will have the doctor here to examine it.” His voice was commanding and strong.

  “What about my job?”

  “Joshua can get someone to replace you until you are fit for work. Remember they work for me and so do you, so relax and let me pamper you.” My mind began to work overtime, trying to figure out what it was he was after and why me. He stood, walked away, turned, smiled, and strutted into an area that appeared to be a kitchen. Then he came back moments later with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a tin of beluga caviar.

  I wrinkled my nose at the caviar, and Max looked at me, confused. “Is something wrong, Alex?” I love the way the sound of my name dripped from his lips—so authoritative, so masculine. No man had ever called me Alex; they always wanted to feminize Alexander. My parents named me after Alexander the Great, the great conquer.

  “Drinking wine is not good for me; I have a low tolerance for wine and I’ll pass on the caviar, it’s an acquired taste,” I said, looking at him and thinking I said something interesting. But the truth was I had never had caviar. I could tell by his smile and arched eyebrow that I wasn’t fooling him.

  “Oh you are one of those,” he said, staring as if he had seen an alien. “After today with your ankle, I thought you needed a drink. And the caviar, I’ll get rid of it. I’ll have my cook make you something more familiar.” He scooped up the silver tray, holding the tin of caviar, with silver matching spoons, and disappeared into the kitchen. Then he returned looking disappointed and vulnerable. “I instructed my chef to make you soup, a sandwich, and a salad. You do eat lettuce?”