by Avery Aster
He strived for tenderness, she could tell, as gentle as his bull-designed body would let him. But she didn’t occupy a Lenox china shop. Her body had been crafted in steel. Bring it on, Big Daddy.
Garner’s lips returned to where they left off. His tongue didn’t ask for permission to enter. It didn’t tickle, lick, or dance. With one deep, intense plunge, his kiss spoke in silence and declared, ‘I have you.’
Fucccck. Toes curling, scalp tingling, pussy wetting, she wanted all he had to give and much more.
Pulling back, he acknowledged, “To reiterate your champagne order.”
“Ooooh—” Intoxicated by his words, she’d disregarded the booze. She hadn’t consumed an alcoholic drop in days, not with Birdie around.
“You want a bold flavor.” He extended his hand above her breast and, lowering his voice, he asked, “May I?”
Nodding and closing her eyes, she flirted, “You may.” Here we go. It’s my turn.
Heat came from his palm and seared her breast through the gown’s fine material. He hadn’t even touched her skin-to-skin yet. As the hand came down, she opened her eyes to see him admiring her. “Red, keep your magnificent eyes open for me.”
“This feels—”
“Let your body relax.” Garner grazed her nipple with his palm.
Raising her ass about half an inch off her seat, she sat back down again, directly on her clit. I’m going to come. She crossed her legs.
“You okay?” He stared at her as if she’d shoot off to the moon.
She nodded for him to continue. “Fine. It’s warm in here, is all.”
Garner unbuttoned his shirt a notch. “We agreed intense, deep ruby shades in the champagne.” He held his hand over her other breast and waited again for permission. “May I?”
The heat from his hand reemerged over her cleavage.
“You may.”
His hand drawing over her hungry breasts, he went under the V-neck of her cleavage. He slipped his fingers skin-to-skin under the perky fold of her breasts and massaged her. His hands felt warm and dry against her moist, increasingly hot skin.
Nipples firm and pussy dripping, she fought the urge to release the pleasure she experienced with words. They didn’t exist in the English vocabulary to describe the party going on in her mind. She tripped high on his Big Daddy ecstasy. Being in his arms wasn’t a walk through her beloved Central Park. It was a psychedelic journey in Candy Land with a race to her pussy castle. Taddy fantasized she was Princess Lolly, skipping to her own tunes in the honey clouds. Engrossed with enthusiasm at the pleasures before her, she followed her desires where they took her from one adventure to the next. Indeed, this Big Daddy held the powers. He became her King Kandy, and together they danced through her Gingerbread Plum Trees. Snap the flip out of it, Taddy Brill.
He nuzzled her earlobe with his lips and whispered, “The first thing your tongue should taste is a floral note with your champagne.”
“Floral…” Echoing his words, she almost came in her seat.
“You desire a fruity taste.” Garner held on to the base of her breast then flicked her nipple.
Air. I need to breathe. Everything felt as if it was happening in slow motion. She uncrossed her legs, putting a slight space between her knees.
His free hand rested between her legs. “May I?” he asked as the perfect gentleman.
She glanced over her shoulder. They sat alone. She didn’t notice. Not a soul in sight. “You may.” She exposed herself a little farther under the table, giving him enough room to slide his hands under the table’s edge and inside her.
“To finish, you’d enjoy the champagne’s body which sparkles, sense initial firmness as it fills your mouth and experience a cream rush as you swallow.”
Hiking her dress higher, she took his hands in hers and assisted him pushing himself deeper into her. “The f–firmer and c–creamier the better.”
“With a subtle sweet-and-sour note in the champagne, perhaps a pink grapefruit.” He massaged her breasts with one hand and fingered her valley with the other.
Taddy covered her mouth and bit down on her pointer finger, finding it hard to control herself.
“There, there, my Red.” He leaned in again, removed her hand from her mouth and kissed her more passionately than before. His fingers danced inside her, holding onto her as if he owned her.
Take me. Grasping on to him, her legs apart, each square inch of her body danced in vibration to his deep voice. His hand moved inside her as if her body belonged to him from the very beginning.
“Big Daddy.” Right there, go deeper, yeah…yes, hit it. Push harder. Go further. Uh-huh, love that. Oh, Jesus.
“Look at you coming, Red. You’re beautiful. Let your body go, baby. I have you,” he whispered in her ear, granting her passage to enjoy herself.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Yes. Oooh. She came hard. Her body collapsed into his.
Convinced he’d slipped her an Ecstasy hit, her parched mouth dried. She hadn’t drunk, swallowed, or licked anything except his tongue. Could he have marinated his lips in euphoria? Laced his hot mouth with drugs? Nah. She realized she’d done what she’d always fantasized about—letting go.
Taddy had no clue who he was and vice versa. He could’ve introduced himself as Mista Ronald hamburger-flipping McDonald for all she cared. She didn’t seek a relationship. But this fella spoke worldliness. He knew champagne. And unless he caged an anaconda in his pants, he presented a new significance to the word ‘hung.’
Garner whispered in her ear, “Let’s order a bottle of Dom Perignon Rosé.” He leaned in further. “And some napkins.”
She shook her head. “We don’t need any napkins.”
“No?” he questioned, confused but confident, as if girls came to his kisses and champagne talk night after night.
“You haven’t told me what juice you’d care to drink.” Yes, that’s right.
“Let’s get the bottle—”
“And go back to your place?” she interrupted, inviting herself back to his house.
Eyes wide toward his hands, he brought them up from underneath the table’s edge. “Red, why are there rubies?” Palms out and facing her, a shimmer of crimson adorned his wet hands. “Is this from your dress?”
“No, Big Daddy.” Thank you, vajazzle. “I’ll show you when we get back to your place.”
“Okay then.” Garner reached for her hands. He stood with a force that yanked her to her feet.
She checked her cell.
Vive had texted her saying she’d left a while ago. Taddy seized a Dom Perignon Rosé bottle from the bar as they made their way out the door.
Vive Serves Up Bye-And-Bye Dick Pie
Warner couldn’t have dreamt Red up if he tried. He’d never seen her in his entire life, so she was unmistakably not an island local. He assumed she’d come to St. Barth for business as a swimsuit model for Sports Illustrated, remembering the photographers shot their magazine spreads nearby. She must’ve been. But her skin was porcelain, not tan as it would be if she’d been on the beach all day.
Indeed attractive, late twenties, she looked classy. Wrapped in a stunning dress, sexy shoes, and her vintage jewelry, she led him to assume if not magazine modeling a bikini, perhaps she’d jetted in from London. Red could’ve come to ‘winter’ at a villa down the shore, escaping England’s cold season. But her voice spoke with a sharp tone, maybe from Chicago, certainly not British.
Her tuberose scent remained potent, in a good way—heady, fleshy and yet sweet. The perfume confused him all the more.
Red didn’t know Warner owned the club. She kept calling him Garner and he didn’t correct her. The music had deafened their introductions at first, but when they sat down, the magic started. Warner caught her vulnerability and glimpsed Red’s taste for great adventure. He looked forward to discovering more about her.
“I don’t bring pretty ladies home often.” If ever. He forced himself to settle down as they came up the winding driveway’s final
stretch. His mind and body came together.
“You have a preference for taking fuglies back to your shack then?” Red laughed, pulling the champagne bottle to her side. It was remarkable to witness a woman with such beauty be so at ease.
“This is it, my winter home.” The landscape lighting danced shadows against his manicured foliage. His guardsmen had gone for the day. It being a holiday weekend, he didn’t have the heart to make the locals work around-the-clock. Warner had no plans to host any parties where he’d typically be full-force with security.
“Exquisite. Your yard is something else.” She turned, taking in his acres.
“Maybe in the morning I can show you the gardens out by the beach.” He hoped she’d stay for breakfast. Warner cooked a tasty eggs Benedict. At least, Sheldon always gave him compliments on it.
“I don’t have much outdoor space where I live.” Her malachite green eyes blinked with sophistication. He’d not caught their brilliance until that point.
Warner drew her close. “And where would your home be?” Kissing her left cheek, his lips admired hers. He noted she didn’t answer, so he asked again. “Where do you live?”
She shook her head. Red wouldn’t tell him.
“Will you share your name?” Drawing his tongue over Red’s neck, Warner teased her nape in hopes he’d secured the answer. “Is it Red?” Tell me. His kisses traveled to her face’s right side, keeping his lips in constant contact on her skin in hopes she’d reveal where she’d come from—anything.
“Not tonight.” Mystery spoke in her sultry voice, on her juicy lips, and shone in her alluring eyes. “How’s that for an answer?” She squeezed his hand harder, perhaps with promise that she’d share more—later.
“Fair enough.” After turning the estate’s corner, exhilaration charged every nerve. He reached with his free hand inside his left pocket for the keys.
Red massaged his arm’s inner part. The stimulation ran a tingly feeling over him.
He hadn’t felt that in years.
“Gimme some sugar,” a twanged voice barked from the driveway’s opposing side.
Her voice…her presence…it irked Warner to no end and reminded him of something he’d seen on the news recently. In Dallas, ranchers called the Texas Rangers in a frantic pace, reporting the four-legged animal sightings of something similar to a boar-meets-dog creature with a reptilian appearance. It didn’t bite for blood, rather sucked its prey bone-dry. Farmers called the beast a Chupacabra.
Warner suspected it was too coincidental that the second his ex-fiancée fled their Manhattan penthouse for her native Lone Star state, people noticed an upswing in this monster roaming their prairies. He knew for certain the Chupacabra existed and called herself Rielle Bruni. And a moment ago, on his lawn, as he held Red’s hand, Rielle’s sulfuric stench arrived in St. Barth’s.
“I waited for ya,” she yapped from across the estate lawn.
No, no, no. Not Rielle. His ears could’ve bled. Each eardrum felt shot out.
Red’s perky stride slowed as she squeezed his hand tighter. “Garner, who’s coming toward us?”
“My worst nightmare.” Shit, I knew this felt too good to be true.
Rielle approached from the long, narrow driveway’s other side as if seizing her next victim. “Honey, I’m his fiancée, Rielle,” she drawled between cigarette puffs before flicking the fiery bud in his direction. “I’ve come to ring in the New Year with my man.” Her infamous snort got caught in her exhale, twisting her voice into a hackled cough.
Red’s warm fingers unlocked.
Don’t let go…
Every delicious inch of Red’s body went cold. She turned and stared at him, but her face didn’t seem fazed. Red wasn’t anyone’s victim. A woman who didn’t have time to bullshit, Red was too good for this.
“Rielle is not my fiancée. Not anymore. I’ll call authorities to remove—” He grabbed for her arm.
She sidestepped and spun, causing her clutch to drop to the ground and open. Papers, money, a hairbrush spread at their feet, the champagne bottle following. It landed, shattering glass shards throughout.
“I’m sorry, Red. I am.” Warner indicated with a wave he’d pick her things up. “I don’t want you to cut yourself.”
Rielle snarled and laughed at him, walking in their direction. “I’m still wearing the ring he gave me. Ain’t I?” She held the diamond to Red’s face. Warner was surprised she hadn’t pawned it yet.
“Stop with your lies, Rielle.” Frustrated, Warner dropped to his knees and collected the treasures lost. He placed Red’s items back in her bag. “We broke up. Let me explain.” I can’t believe this shit.
Red stood over him, her long legs like something off a European fashion show that had lost their runway. Her eyes were focused on Rielle.
“I’m carrying his baby.” His ex lied and then rubbed at her belly, trying to stick it out.
“Enough! My family knows you were not really pregnant.” On his way up, he studied Red’s body, her tense calf muscles, her hands fisted at her side. With lips pursed, Red held her breath, unshaken. Red could take Rielle down in addition to anyone else who stood in her way. Did she want to fight her? He couldn’t imagine so. No, Red came off altogether annoyed. He sensed she’d bolt the second he gave her the bag. Then she’d be gone. Warner hoped not forever.
“Not really pregnant?” Red repeated. “Were you ever engaged to her?”
“Yes. Let’s talk tomorrow when she’s gone. And we’re alone.” He pulled his calling card with private contact numbers from his pocket. Maybe he could salvage that night for the next. Warner slipped his number inside her bronze purse and returned it to her. And similar to her hand, he didn’t want to let go of her bag, either. He didn’t have a choice, though. Red wasn’t his to keep. Not yet.
Her arms extended, ready to catch—and leave. “Your future wife is determined.”
“We’re not engaged anymore.”
Red’s tone had chilled, eyes stoned, face mannequin-esque. “Maybe you two can get back together and work it out before the kid arrives.” She lowered her voice. “Hopefully she’ll quit smoking before the baby is born.”
“I’d like to explain everything to you tomorrow. Please. I put my card in your—”
Raising her hand, Red cut him short. “I left crazy back home.” Her once-captivated eyes unlocked from his with disinterest. “I sure as hell have no interest in your St. Barth’s drama.”
Red never looked back at him. She didn’t acknowledge her Big Daddy when leaving.
He kept his eyes on Red as she turned the corner. Her russet hair cast a black veil over her perfect face in the night. Her tuberose scent lingered behind, as if to say, ‘I should be in your arms tonight.’
“Honey bunny!”
“Rielle…”
“I’ve missed you terribly.” Reeking of gin, she extended her arms for capture.
“Congratulations.”
She cocked her head and twisted her featureless face. “For what, honey?”
“You’ve always possessed such a gift—” He didn’t finish. He was too busy staring at his hands. They were bleeding from the amber-colored glass embedded in his palm. Warner hadn’t even noticed until then. Taking a handkerchief from his pants pocket, he dislodged the bits from his skin then wrapped his hand tight to stop the bleeding.
Intoxicated, she slurred, “I have many gifts, sugar. So do you.” Rielle hurled her desperation on him.
Warner held Rielle by her shoulders, dodging her hot breath. After meeting such a wonderful woman as Red, this contact created an instant sour pucker in his throat. Hatred, he tasted hatred. Lowering his head to meet her at eye-level, he informed her, “What I was going to say was you have such a gift for ruining the best moments in my life.” It hurt him to say that to the woman he once thought he loved. From the outside, Rielle was still beautiful, but who she was inside made her ugly to him.
“What?” Rielle stepped back. Her eyes narrowed into black
slits, trying to sober in hopes she’d heard him wrong.
He advanced with reassurance. “Get the hell out of my life and away from me for good.”
“Warner, honey.” She tried to stand tall.
“I have to hand it to you. Being a bitch at your level requires enormous energy.”
Whack! Rielle’s pink nails tore across his face. “How dare you! I fly down to this floating French sand dune to see you, and this is how I’m greeted?”
Blood spotted his white shirt from her scrape. “I told you I never want to see you again.” He wiped his cheek.
“I’m still hoping we can…” Her face darkened, appearing less attractive to him than ever. She stared at his crotch and argued, “Pity to waste such a beautiful horse dick.”
“You’ve run empty on tricks. No more trying to seduce the men in my family. No more fake pregnancies. No more scams.”
She swung her other hand.
Ready to snap her in half, he gripped her wrist midair. He wouldn’t, though. A gentleman didn’t. “Move on to another billionaire group or try a few millionaires. The Truman’s can’t take another iota of you.”
Rielle screamed for him to reason with her. She wanted her job back at the foundation and for everything to return to how it once was. He refused. Infuriated, she spit in his face.
You bitch. Warner didn’t care what she spewed or spit. He didn’t deserve her abuse. He should never have been subjected to the cruelty she’d given him or the pain she’d caused him.
The night Rielle had run into Sheldon’s arms in her typical cry for attention, Warner was co-hosting a fundraiser and cocktail party. The lavish affair took place at the private residence of Manhattan’s mayor. Mixed with his parents, brother, and friends, he campaigned to secure funds for a new development, South Street Seaport Resort & Spa. Adjacent to the financial district, the new condominium-resort-spa community featured Brooklyn Bridge views.
Truman Enterprises’ banks had required a high percentage presold before the residential spa and resort could break ground. With his attention divided, he’d suggested, “Rielle, it may be best if you stayed home tonight.” She’d demanded his undivided attention and couldn’t stand it when he talked to anyone else for more than a second, even if for business.
