by Roxy Reid
“A private jet?” I cry in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head. “You’re a Banks now, Ella. Time to live large.”
“I’m a Banks for now,” I remind him playfully.
He grins and rolls his eyes. “So we definitely gotta make the next twelve months count.” He runs his hands gently up my thighs, stopping at the barrier of my robe. “Starting with the next … four minutes.”
A small shiver goes up my spine as he begins stroking the sensitive skin on my thighs, his thumb rubbing in tantalizing small circles. “Is this okay?” he asks, his voice a husky whisper. When I nod, his hands travel farther up, the tips of his fingers disappearing under the hem of my robe. “How about this?”
My breathing has gone rather shallow and I can’t seem to speak, so I nod again and drain my glass, setting it down on the counter behind me. He keeps getting closer and closer, and I’m incredibly aware of the proximity of our lower halves. We’re wandering into dangerous territory, and if I don’t shut it down soon we’ll reach the point of no return.
However …
Part of me, a part which is getting more dominant by the second, doesn’t want to stop him. From what I remember of our first night together—god, that feels like a lifetime ago now!—Max is a very, very good lover. And like he said, it is our wedding night …
By now the tie on my robe has come loose, and Max pushes it open, revealing my sassy little white slip. I can see goosebumps rise on the skin at the top of my breasts as his hands slide from my thighs to my hips and then up to caress my waist. He’s very close to me now, so close I can smell the faint musk of the leather coat he wore out and the sticky sweet scent of whisky from his Manhattan.
I want him to kiss me.
There, I admit it.
But he’s teasing me. He wants me to ask for it, but I don’t want to give him that satisfaction. He’s going to have to work for it, too.
“You have amazing breasts,” he whispers, unabashedly staring at them. My nipples are standing firmly at attention, visible through the semi-sheer fabric.
Touch them, I want to say, but I bite my lip.
Slowly, he raises a hand and slips his index finger under the strap of my slip. My flesh tingles where he touches me as he gently slides the strap off my shoulder. The bodice of the slip puckers but my full breast prevents it from sliding off completely, and Max lets out an appreciative breath at the sight. “God,” he mutters.
I squirm in my seat. I can’t help it! His lip curls when he notices, and he goes to take a step back. “What was it you said last night?” he asks. “Patience, grasshopper.”
Oh, hell no. That’s it.
I grab him by his belt and pull him to me, and we collide in almost every sense of the word. His pelvis against mine, his chest pressing against my breasts, his mouth hot on mine, our tongues intertwining. His hands are everywhere but I want them on my breasts, so I put them there, and moan into his mouth as his fingers pinch and mould and tease through the flimsy fabric of my slip.
He then buries his hands in my thick hair and gently pulls my face away from his. My lips feel bruised and puffy, but I don’t care. I stare up at him, panting, wanting to whimper in protest.
“Shall we find somewhere more comfortable?” he asks breathlessly, staring into my eyes. His eyes are brown, I notice for the first time. A brown so dark it’s almost black, but this close up I can see the ring of color around the pupils. The overhead kitchen is caught in his chestnut hair, igniting it with sparks of gold. And then there’s his wide mouth, lips still wet from kissing me.
I nod.
He lifts me bodily, and suddenly. I let out a yelp in surprise, which quickly turns to a laugh as I wrap my legs around his waist and let him carry me down the hall.
He puts me down outside the door to his room and shoots me a calculating grin. “Gotta do this right, wifey,” he says with a wink. Before I can respond he scoops me back up, this time princess-style with my legs bent over one of his arms. I shriek and cling to him as he carries me over the threshold into his bedroom, which I’ve never set foot in until now. I don’t really have time to take in my surroundings, though, because he falls onto the bed with me in his arms, spreading me out beneath him, my hair a cloud of curls under my head.
He slides his body up mine and it isn’t long before we’re kissing again, all mirth from his lifting me forgotten. He’s impatient, now, and he pulls the slip off my head in one swift motion, baring me completely save for the matching lacy white thong that’s part of the set. He groans when he sees this, and the sound makes me squirm.
“Your turn,” I breathe before he can continue, and his eyes flick towards me in surprise. Bracing myself, I grab him and roll, pushing us both until I come to rest on top of him, straddling his hips with my thighs.
He chuckles as I begin unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the smooth plains of his chest underneath, while his hands rub and squeeze my hips. “I love this,” he growls, grabbing a particularly meaty handful of hip. “I love your body.” He emphasizes this by giving my bum a firm smack.
I gasp, but don’t give up on his shirt, spreading it open once I’ve finally undone the last button. His torso ripples with lean muscle, and a smattering of fine hairs and freckles decorate his breastplate. The freckles, I discover, continue over his shoulders and down his upper arms. It’s surprisingly adorable, and leaning down I set upon kissing them, with particular attention to his neck and the hollow of his throat. He tilts his head back and sighs as his hands run up and down my bare back.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he gasps, and then chuckles. “As usual.”
“Shh,” I hiss, my fingers working at his belt.
He moves, and in one swift motion I’m on my back again, with Max’s mouth moving fervently against mine. His fingertips dust over my navel, my hips, my thighs—and then finally, finally, press gently against my most tender spot.
I gasp, feeling my back arch under me, wanting more. His ministrations start gentle but quickly gain traction, and I can feel myself coming undone already. My hips move of their own accord, gently rocking with his fingers. My lips part and small noises come from me without my control.
“Just like that,” I pant. “I’m getting close.”
And he stops.
I whine in protest, but he sits up on his knees and undoes the rest of his belt, grinning down at me, his pupils dilated with lust. “Drawer,” he says breathlessly, nodding to the nightstand next to his bed.
I reach to open it and pull out a long sleeve of condoms. I tear one off and rip the packaging open, then hand him the small rubber circle. He has relieved himself of his pants, and pauses for a moment, still on his knees, looking down at me. My chest heaves as a sense of restlessness overcomes me.
“Do it,” I command impatiently.
“Do what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. One hand lazily strokes himself through his briefs.
I reach for him, knocking his hand aside, and seize the object of my desire, eliciting a surprised grunt from him. “Fuck me,” I whisper.
He moves quickly, shedding his underwear in one swift motion, and I barely have time to process how big he is before he’s rolling the condom on and climbing back on top of me. That’s a detail I don’t remember from our first night together—perhaps because I hadn’t seen it properly—but I do remember feeling full and having my mind blown.
Max seems determined to do the same thing again. He brushes against my entrance, rubbing among the slickness down there, and I moan—loudly. The noise has an immediate effect on him and he pushes in all at once, grunting and gasping with me as he fills me completely.
“Max,” I breathe as he remains still for a moment, letting everything adjust. “Fuck.”
When he starts moving, I lose my mind. Moans escape me with every thrust in, and as he picks up speed I nearly leave my body. We become frantic, rocking with each-other, the bed shaking beneath us as he plows into me almost desperately. My finger
s struggle to find purchase on his back, his skin slippery with sweat. I can feel my climax building again, and I know it will be colossal if he keeps this up.
He pulls out suddenly and I gasp in surprise and protest. He slides a hand under my bum and flips me over onto my stomach, and lowers part of his weight on top of me. Pinned now between him and the bed, I’m more aware than ever that I am completely in his control, and it drives me wild.
It’s not long before he’s sliding into me again, and I press my legs together and squeeze him for all I’m worth. He lets out a long, growling moan as I begin rocking back against him, gritting my teeth in determination. He thought I was driving him crazy before!
He grasps my bum and stills my movements, sliding almost all the way out before pushing back in forcefully. I cry out, and it’s the loudest I’ve been so far. This evidently pushes him towards the edge, because he starts fucking me as hard as he can. I’m screaming, unaware of anything except for the feeling of his cock stretching me and filling me, pushing me closer to oblivion with every powerful thrust.
“Max,” I gasp, feeling the sensation start to close around me, “I’m so close. I’m gonna—!”
I scream as it happens, the waves rolling over me and through me, my legs shuddering with each undulation. Somewhere behind me I’m aware of Max’s climbing breaths until he lets out a low growl and presses into me once, twice—and then he’s releasing, too, surrendering to me with a trembling denouement.
We collapse next to each-other, exhausted, sweaty bodies heaving with exertion. He finds my hand and holds it up to his mouth, kissing each of my fingers.
“I don’t think it’s our wedding day anymore,” he whispers with a chuckle.
I giggle as well, rolling into his side and nuzzling his neck. “I don’t think it is, either.”
He puts his arms around me, and I delight in the feel of our naked bodies pressed against each-other. It isn’t long before his breathing becomes shallow, and I find myself drifting off to the sound of it, snuggled safely in the arms of my new husband.
For now, the little voice in my head reminds me cynically. I tell the voice to fuck off for the night.
8
Max
Paris, as usual, smells like cigarettes and espresso everywhere. My fingers start twitching as soon as we land. The last time I had a cigarette was in Paris about a year ago, and the smell combined with muscle memory is killing me. For all intents and purposes, I “quit” when I became head of Banks Industries, at my father’s insistence that a CEO who slowly kills himself isn’t exactly the best image. This doesn’t mean I don’t sneak the occasional cancer stick, and when in Paris …
We’re cozied up on the patio of a little cafe near the Pont d’Avignon, Ella sipping espresso out of a tiny cup, me savoring my first cigarette in a year. I can see Ella wrinkling her nose out of the corner of my eye, but she’s either too shy to say anything or too focused on taking in the sights around her to let my cigarette bring her down.
It’s been kind of nice to travel with someone who isn’t used to traveling. Everything is new and exciting for her, and her eagerness has rubbed off on me. I can’t remember the last time I was excited to come to Paris, but she’s making me see it in a whole new light. We haven’t even really seen much of it yet—we went straight to the hotel from the airport and have now just popped out for some light refreshments before turning in for an early night. The meeting is first thing tomorrow morning and Ella has planned a whole afternoon of sight-seeing for afterwards, so we want to get our beauty sleep.
“The Notre Dame is still closed,” she says dejectedly, flipping through a tourism brochure. “But we can still go see the outside, at least. Whatever isn’t covered in scaffolding.”
“Sounds good,” I say, stubbing out the last of my cigarette. “Fancy a trip up the Tour Eiffel?”
She giggles. “Actually, a lot of travel websites recommend going up the Montparnasse Tower since it’s the tallest building in Paris, and then you can actually see the Eiffel Tower in the view.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Well, that we can definitely do,” I tell her. “Our meeting is at Montparnasse tomorrow.”
Her mouth falls open. “It is?”
“Montparnasse is occupied by the National Architects Council,” I explain, delighting in her surprise. “Sorry, I thought you knew that.”
She slaps a hand across her face. “I did, a long time ago. I didn’t put two and two together! Well, this is convenient. We can climb to the top after our meeting!”
“Sure thing, wifey,” I say with a wry smile, enjoying her playful eye-roll at the use of my new favorite endearment for her.
“I’d also love to visit the Louvre.” She goes back to her brochure, which I notice has colorful sticky notes marking things she wants to see.
I shrug. “The Louvre is a bit overrated, if you ask me,” I tell her. “But of course we can go if you want.”
“Overrated?” she gasps. “The Mona Lisa is in there! And Winged Victory!”
“Yeah, and hundreds and hundreds of people who are only there to take selfies with the artwork,” I retort with an eye-roll of my own. “If we go, we should go early before the swarms get there.”
She chuckles and nods. “Sure, works for me.”
We make our way back to our hotel, a classic Parisian boutique Maison at which we of course have the executive suite. French doors lead to a balcony with a spectacular view of the Seine and l’Arc de Triomphe, complete with the sounds of honking and squealing brakes from the latter.
I step out onto the balcony with a couple of cocktails for us and join Ella at the railing. “It’s so beautiful here,” she says wistfully, accepting her drink and taking a refreshing sip. “Everything is so old. Every building, every brick has a story. This hotel was originally a family home in the sixteenth century! It’s blowing my mind a little. America is such a baby in comparison,” she adds with a laugh.
I lean against the railing next to her and shoot her a rueful grin. “I guess I’ve been here so often the novelty has worn off a bit,” I admit. “It’s nice being here with you. It makes Paris exciting again.” I take her hand and kiss her finger with the rings on it. We settled on simple wedding bands, but I did buy her a different engagement ring, one more to her taste.
“Tomorrow’s going to be amazing,” she says enthusiastically, smiling back at me. “I’ve been preparing for this meeting. Well, as much as I can since you told me about it last night,” she adds.
I follow her back into the suite, one eyebrow raised. “You really didn’t need to prep anything,” I tell her. “My dad’s gonna run the meeting. We’re just kind of there for him to bounce ideas off of in case he gets stuck. His memory isn’t what it used to be, although he’d never admit it. Unless it’s about things I’ve done, of course.” I grimace. “He keeps a catalogue of my misdeeds in there somewhere, I’m sure.”
“I didn’t do much, really,” she says, finding her notebook and flipping it open to the right page. She passes it to me shyly. “What do you think?”
Her notes, written in her perfect cursive, are simple and to the point, but what catches my eye are some comments she has written below some of my father’s presentation points themselves. Each question my father has asked in regard to infrastructure and sustainability, she has answered. Each potential pinch point Father has highlighted, she has at least three solutions to put on the table. It’s as though she’s five steps ahead of my father on everything, and at least three ahead of me.
“This is amazing,” I tell her, pulling her to me and kissing her temple. “How did you manage to do this on the plane?”
Her cheeks light up with a delightful shade of pink. “I’ve actually been working on it since I started at the company,” she admits. “I’ve been trying to familiarize myself with ongoing projects, and I saw the Paris file on the network and … you don’t think your dad will be pissed, do you?” she asks suddenly, a look of dread crossing her face.
I shake my head. “I’d keep these in your back pocket and make it seem like they’re his ideas if he needs help. He won’t be pissed that you’ve done the work, but he will be if you one-up him in front of his most important client.”
She nods. “Gotcha.”
Curious about what other genius this notebook holds, I go to flip the page, ignoring her half-hearted attempt to stop me. Most pages are covered in notes she took while training, with the occasional to-do list for tasks I assigned to her. But every now and then a page will be covered in architectural sketches in various stages of completion. I flip the notebook to the beginning, eager to see more.
“It’s just doodles, really,” she protests modestly, but her cheeks still hold a touch of color.
“These are not doodles,” I assure her, taking in a beautiful full-color sketch of a baroque-style brick building she drew on the first page of her notebook. “They’re incredible.”
She can’t help but smiling. “Well, that is the best one,” she admits, looking over my shoulder. “You really think they’re good?”
“Trust me, I don’t throw around compliments lightly when it comes to the business,” I tell her with a wink. “You’re really good at this, Ella. You should show my father,” I add. “Not at the meeting obviously, but when we get back to New York. You shouldn’t just be a PA, not with the work you’re capable of.”
She sits on the edge of the bed next to me and sighs. “You sure you’re not just saying that cuz I’m your wife?”
I laugh and put an arm around her, pulling her into my side. “How do I convince you I’m dead serious?”
She buries her face in my shoulder. “Okay, okay,” she chuckles. “I believe you. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I kiss the top of her head. “So what do you think for tonight? Room service? Or do you want to go out somewhere to eat?”
As she looks at me, a new expression crosses her face. “Room service, I think,” she says slowly as a mischievous grin crosses her face. She runs her fingers deliberately up my arm. “And I think I know what I want for my main course.”
