Unique

by Avery Aster

  Vive’s head spun. “Move over Russian aristocracy. This champagne club is what VIP should embody.”

  “Don’t you dare ruin it with a magazine article.”

  “So says the publicist.” Vive huffed. “You can be such a hypocrite sometimes.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “My stories don’t detract.” Vive wouldn’t drop it as she glanced around for management. “I wonder who I need to speak with to land a photoshoot here for Debauchery.”

  The main room featured a bar in the center with two side areas of smaller service stations. Couples chatted in French and English, laughed, kissed, and danced.

  Wait a sec… “Do you see what I see?” Taddy’s vision refocused from the space’s far corners. She could’ve sworn she’d observed shadowed bodies screwing. Sex oozed in the Privé Extreme’s atmosphere.

  “I smell Ssss…” Vive waited for Taddy to spell it out.

  “E.”

  “X!” Vive finished and then kissed her on the cheek. “I see some hunks. I’m hittin’ the dance floor. Check ya later, girlie.”

  “Text me if you leave to hook up.”

  “Ditto.” Vive strutted off toward two men who were waving her over. As a Swedish blonde, Vive always secured first looks, even in the dark.

  Alone, Taddy felt the night stood to get ten times hotter. Maybe better than what she’d planned for Algarve, Portugal. Please, sweet Jesus gumdrop. Anytime you wanna bring me a man, I’m ready.

  Moonlit ocean views glowed behind the wine bottles as she walked over to the main bar. Taddy studied the champagne menu. It listed over fifty varying bubbles from France’s champagne houses along with brands she’d tasted from media parties in years past, such as Bollinger, Moët & Chandon, and Piper Heidsieck. However, this place had even stocked the unique and unfamiliar from Italy and California.

  “Pouvez-vous m’aider?” Impressed with the menu, she secured the champagne sommelier’s attention. “I’m hoping for a suggestion from your overwhelming menu.”

  “Talk to him, mademoiselle,” the tuxedo-wearing server shouted over the loud music, pointing to a far corner.

  Her eyes followed his direction toward men dressed in their best linen suits and women in lavish cocktail attire. The patrons seemed relaxed yet elegant, possibly homeowners living on the island for the season. She could tell by how at ease people mingled with one another, as if they’d been friends for years. One tall stud stood out from the rest, though.

  Huh?

  Taddy was shocked to see what appeared to be a Midwesterner from the Buckeye State. How did he beat the in-the-know system? Oh, my God. It’s my NFL quarterback Brayden Brooks. Pussy creaming while standing, she held on to the bar as if an Ohio tornado swept her right off her Casadei alligator-embossed platform pumps. She studied his backside. He had to be at least six-foot-five. Yummers.

  His legs appeared thick, like great oak trees. She imagined herself as Red Riding Hood, ready to walk through his forest under those trees. And his back. Holy Mary mother of…

  Certain Heaven had gifted her with an NFL player as a royal payment for the Birdie Hell she and Lex had endured, Taddy reminded herself of the $175,253.84 she’d paid. She waved the server off with a graceful smile. Taddy stepped closer for a better view.

  Dear baby Jesus,

  Hold your gumdrops. You just had your holiday. Now let me have mine. I’ve waited a long time to kiss those full lips…to feel his NFL-playing, fifty-something-inch chest meshin’ against my nipples…to have his long, thick cock slamming into me. I know I must sound shallow, but let me have just a few hours of fun.

  Tonight is going to be the best. Better than wearing Chanel. Better than living in NYC.

  Thank you, God, for answering my prayers. After the week in Vancouver, I hoped, I prayed you’d pay me back, but I didn’t expect anything as magnificent as this.

  Holy shiiit.

  Sorry. I mean, thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

  Amen.

  Hot men who stood at Brayden’s size gave off a wholesome stock in the air that her Manhattanite edge could easily sink her teeth into. Do you remember the first time I noticed you, Brayden? Five years ago, New Yorker Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. The weather was in the high nineties. Blake had attempted to secure a new athletic footwear account for the lifestyle division….

  “You have to go to this New Yorker football game with me.” Blake batted his puppy dog eyes, which came out when he wanted something.

  “I don’t understand anything about football, Blake.” She didn’t know much about sports in general.

  “Ummm, and I do, boo?” Blake air-jacked a cock to his mouth, signifying ‘Dah!’

  “I’ve never hung out in Joisey.” She glanced out her Times Square window from the forty-eighth floor overlooking the Hudson River at The Garden State. “We have to go over there?”

  “We must win the Vuma sneaker account,” he tried again.

  “No.” She rested her weight on one stiletto and focused her attention on her cuticles. Taddy didn’t do the boroughs, let alone New Jersey.

  “We’re up against four other agencies. It’s vital to the Brill girls. I can’t do this without you.”

  “It’s crucial to your commission check, darling.” She’d pay his inflated salary, but she didn’t want to go to some ballgame.

  “The editor-in-chief at Athletica magazine gave us two media passes.” Blake fanned the ticket stubs in his hands. He tested her easiness for anything exclusive. “These are VIP packages with all the fixings.”

  “How much is the Vuma account?” she asked, weighing her options. Her schedule was booked for the season. “Ballpark figure, please.”

  Blake jotted the digits on a Post-it and held it up, “$1,000,000.00.” With his palm, he then rubbed the note over the polo emblem on his Ralph Lauren shirt and enthusiastically cheered, “Cha-ching!” For a final Mr. Morgan dramatic effect, he twisted his right nipple in mockery, followed by a slow trace of his tongue over his lips.

  One million dollars? Her jaw dropped and then her breasts hardened. Money always turned her on, not other people’s cash, just hers, and it was all Brill, Inc.’s. On that seven-figure note, she jumped into the NFL world to win the footwear industry, but not wearing Vuma. Taddy sported Christian Louboutin jeweled stilettos.

  Do you remember what you wore, Brayden Brooks? She’d gone to the wrong team’s side—not the New Yorkers, but the Devil Browns—walked right in and there he stood…in his jockstrap. You are the most attractive hunkadoris I’ve ever seen. Who else could bench-press 224 pounds in twenty-four reps and squat 500 pounds? Total hunkadoris.

  I’ve wanted you, Big Daddy, since the second I set eyes on you. She’d followed him to the Denver team and the Kansas City lineup when traded. Wherever he played, Taddy jetted in to keep an eye on him.

  That night, Brayden stood before her near an ivory banquette set in a private corner. His broad shoulders and backside faced her.

  A server talked to him.

  She couldn’t see his face, but it had to be Brayden.

  Taddy pushed her shoulders back and her confidence out. She stepped closer, three feet opposite the velvet rope separating him. “Brayden, I’ve attended every game.”

  Entrenched in conversation, Brayden’s sculpted shoulders didn’t turn around.

  Damn this loud music. She had no doubt he was Brayden. Hands large enough to throw a football 120 yards, he could pick her body up, slam her against the wall—in a good way—and fuck her until she screamed—in a very good way.

  As any fierce New Yorker would, she slipped behind the restricted area without being noticed, stepping in behind him. For a millisecond, she closed her eyes and took in his smell—baby powder. As he talked to the server, Brayden’s baritone voice sent a vibration through her entire body. She wanted to jump on top of him and say. “He’s mine—all mine.” After six years and over ninety-eight games, her time had come.

  “Excuse me, Brayden.” Fearing
her toes would get squashed, she didn’t dare poke him.

  Still nothing.

  Waris Sugar, you’re preventing me from getting laid. Turn down this flippin’ music. “EXCUSE ME!” Her Manhattanite-taxi-cab-calling, last-sale-at-Barneys, no-you-didn’t-cut-me-off-in-line-at-Duane-Reade voice erupted toward his tall ears.

  The server talking to Brayden acknowledged her existence and pointed over his shoulder, causing him to turn.

  She started to repeat, “I’ve attended every—”

  He wasn’t Brayden Brooks. This hot man’s face was…

  “You are excused.” He smiled with his warm hazel eyes, studying her, possibly enjoying the view.

  Your face is per-fucking-fection. Her NFL game recovered a turnover, scoring a touchdown. Taddy Brill, six points. Big Daddy, you’d better advance. “Sorry, I, uh…I thought you might be someone…else.”

  “And who would that be?” He bowed, as if giving her his full attention, revealing his V-shaped torso covered by a sheer white shirt.

  Her eyes counted his abs up—two (umm), four (ooh), six (holy shit), eight (he’s mine). “Brayden…Brooks.” Mortified beyond belief, she realized Birdie’s insanity had become contagious.

  The server laughed from behind him. “The football player?”

  “Happens a lot.” He smiled off the staff, accepting the conversation. “Sorry to disappoint you.” He returned those inviting chestnut eyes back to her.

  “You guys could be twins.” She studied him in closer detail. “In particular from behind, and I’m not disappointed in the least.” Her face-body-voice assessment of this man confirmed he embodied a hunk ratio ten times hotter than the Brayden whatchamacallit she’d OCD’d over for longer than she cared to admit even to herself.

  “Do you stare at men’s behinds often?” He overshadowed her. Leaning in closer, this stud conveyed importance.

  Her thighs clenched as she stood and defended herself. “No, unless they’re Brayden Brooks’, or now yours.” Gripping her Judith Leiber clutch, she tried to stop her hands from fidgeting. She’d always been tall. No man had ever made her feel petite—until that moment. Keep it together, Red. “I’m Red,” she introduced herself over the strident tune. “It’s nice to meet you.” Unsure if the conversation would climb uphill or down, she didn’t reveal her identity. Taddy Brill holidayed unknown, as Lex requested, and since this club was part of the hotel where their reservation had been made, she’d stick with it.

  “Red, huh?” Suspicion quirked his eyebrow and he complimented, “Neat name. I’m—” Waris Sugar boomed as he took her hand in both of his and she couldn’t really hear the rest.

  “Nice to meet you, Garner.” Is that what he’d said? It had sounded like it. But he didn’t exude a Garner. He resembled a Big Daddy.

  “Care for a drink, Red?”

  “Champagne, please. Thank you.”

  “Which do you prefer?” His hands took her arm with gentle authority to the seated area next to them by a round table.

  She blinked in haste. He sat my ass down. “Something—anything with bubbles is fine.”

  “There are many champagne flavors and types.” His arms spread wide. “You could have Ultra Brut, with no sugar. It may taste bitter.”

  “I’m not bitter.” She shook her head, tapping his thigh. Oh, my Lordie. His body felt like rock.

  “Brut regular. It’s dry with one-and-a-half percent sugar.” His eyebrows drew together, revealing the ever-so-adorable furrow from his forehead.

  “There’s nothing regular about me, either.” Not wanting to remove her hand, she let her fingers glide higher up his leg. She’d inch higher until he pushed her off.

  He glanced down at her hand and invited her to continue.

  Red’s comin’ for ya. So she did, a magnetic pull drawing her into him. She’d waited years to sit, talk, stroke, and play with a man such as this. Am I shallow? Abso-fucking-lutely! Who cares?

  “You could do extra dry. It’s sweeter with two percent sugar.”

  “Do you have any more suggestions?” Taddy was accustomed to making snap decisions under any circumstance, but nothing lingered as circumstantial with this man. Intent on taking her time, she’d do something never done before: she’d let a man order for her.

  “Yes…dry champagne.” He swallowed hard and added, “Four percent sugar.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward as he observed her hand inching closer.

  “I’ve made my mind up.” She wanted him. Screw the champagne.

  “You have?” His leg rose a little higher, grinding warmth against her palm, encouraging her to fondle him more. Perhaps he enjoyed her finger lap dance. “What’ll it be?”

  “Obviously you have good taste—possibly better than mine.” She shut her mouth to see if he’d follow her words. Taddy studied his lips then glanced into his eyes. Gold flecks stared back at her. It caused goose bumps on her thighs.

  She confirmed he listened to her every word—hanging on to them, waiting for her to speak again. Good! Very good. She licked her lips.

  Nipples hard, she said, “I’d like to have whatever juice you’re serving.” Their eyes locked, and her nails dug a little into him, as if saying, ‘Mine.’

  “Red, something tells me you enjoy extremes.” He grabbed the top of her hand.

  “Sorry.” She realized she’d gone too far. Typical.

  “Don’t apologize.” Interlocking his fingers with hers, Big Daddy shoved her hand to his hard-on.

  “I do love…intensity,” she confessed, outlining the large bulge.

  He grew under his slacks as if a snake surfaced to the Earth’s soil to sun. Garner’s thick, bulbous head visibly swelled under his linen pants. He was epic from head to toe and back to his other head. She imagined his dick lifting the hood of her clit up. The urge to unzip his fly, pull out his cock, and take it into her mouth consumed her more than the previous month’s Prada sample sale.

  Garner’s thick legs spread apart. This dude was a full-time free-baller. “I’ll order us an intense champagne bubble. It’ll pop in your mouth.” He lingered on his statement for a second, his silky words ringing a challenge in her ear.

  Sensing a stir in her pussy larger than any Ohio tornado, she mumbled, “Uh-huh.”

  “Your champagne should have mysterious copper and amber tints.” He observed her hair.

  She couldn’t stop rubbing his erection. The pleased look on his face told her he loved it.

  “Those are two of my favorite colors.” She resisted the urge to flip her hair back with her hands, a habit she struggled to avoid. With a nod, she moved her neck, hoping her hair would get out of her face.

  It didn’t.

  Her new Big Daddy reached over and brushed her tresses over her shoulder, out of her view and complimented, “Such gorgeous features.” He grazed her chin with his thumb. “Amazing bone structure, too.”

  “Thank you.” She’d heard his compliment a million times over, but his caress struck a pulsating chord in her. One she hadn’t felt—ever. His hands felt confident, as if familiar with getting whatever the hell he wanted. She re-crossed her legs as her instincts brought her torso closer to his.

  “Where were we?” Perhaps he got lost in her face and the tuberose aroma from her hair he’d unlocked. His nostrils twitched with an inhale, and his mouth exhaled with a smile.

  “Discussing my juice’s colors—the champagne.” She squeezed his thigh. Oh, my.

  “Right, thank you. Perhaps when your taste buds savor the sap, you’ll swallow black cherry.”

  “I love cherries.”

  “So do I.” His eyes remained on her face.

  She understood why. He behaved as a gentleman, but she didn’t desire to be a lady. Not tonight. Her cunt was dipped in Swarovski.

  Excel-lent-a-licious, but if you wanna stare at my tits, you can. She leaned forward, running her fingers alongside her collarbone as if to signal to him to play.

  He swallowed hard. “Ummm…Red…?”

 
“Yes?” Her gazed shifted, examining his lips. He licked them with a thick tongue, with any luck to match his even thicker dick.

  “I bet you also want your champagne to taste as a candied fruit peel.”

  “Very much so.” Her vivid imagination transported her somewhere away from the club and onto a beach. She fantasized herself lying topless in the sun while he fed her orange glacé slices.

  A breathy unevenness hummed between them. His nostrils flared to recover. As his chest rose up and down, it revealed pecs as fabulous as her breasts.

  Too good to resist, she raised her hand for a torso-hot-touch. I wanna lick you.

  In an instant, he grabbed her hand, drawing her closer, placing her palm on his chest.

  Ah! Her thumb rested above his shirt’s thin fabric. “You are such a Big Daddy—a very delectable Big Daddy.” Fuck me pah-lease.

  His quarter-sized nipples stiffened under her thumb as if on instinct, thanking her for the compliment. Suddenly, the material between them became somewhat undetectable. “Once the champagne’s tart bubbles glide down your throat and your sugar-high kicks in”—he moved her hand from his nipple to the center of his chest—“you’ll feel your heart skip.” He pulsed, lub-dub, lub-dub.

  “I see.” A knot rose in her throat. Sweet Jesus nipplelicious. He’s got me. Fighting the urge to tear his white, tailored button-down shirt off, she raked her nails over him.

  Nodding to confirm, he reached for her chin and pulled her face in close, giving her a soft kiss on the lips. Dry at first, lip to lip, no tongue, but the promise of what came next. “You want to sample…smoky aromas, a powdery cocoa on your palate after the first swallow.”

  “S–Smoky aromas sound interesting.” She felt itchy. A hot ache burned throughout her. The urge to unzip the damn Céline dress off her feverish body became excruciating.

  So flippin’ male. So effin’ mine. So fucking now.

  “Do you know what else sounds appealing?” He held onto her face with intent, as if he owned it. He could if he wanted to.

  She dreamt she’d be crushed in his hands as candied sugar.