Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  Instead of flinging my arms around him, I greet him with a curt nod, which he briskly returns while quickly wrapping up his call—no doubt hanging up on the person on the other end while they are still speaking. No smiles, no words, and only fleeting eye contact. Looks like we’re in for a fun night. He motions toward the car, and I climb in—sitting as far away from him on the back seat as possible—and stare out at the dusky beauty of this glorious city.

  The car pulls away from the sidewalk and wends its way into the early evening traffic. Much like my fascination with Arlo, I’ll never get over the majesty of Paris, and I’m pretty sure that however well I get to know it, the city will never lose its mystique for me. We seem to be going the scenic route back to the hotel, taking in all the sights on the way. Not that I’m complaining—I’m not exactly in a hurry to get back, considering the tension between us.

  We pull up outside the hotel and exit the car in silence. I should have known it was a mistake to agree to spend these few days with Arlo, given our history. This “thing” between us—whatever it is—has been a real roller coaster, and it’s only been a few months. That’s damning in itself.

  As I start walking, Arlo suddenly grabs me by the wrist, turning sharply to face me, and pulling me to his chest. The sudden maneuver catches me off guard, and I stumble, almost losing my balance. He steadies me, drawing me closer, speaking into my hair.

  “I’ll always be here to catch you, remember that.”

  I nod mutely.

  He cradles my cheeks in his huge hands, and tilts my head back, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

  “I’m sorry I was mad with you before. Let’s not fight. You know I can be an asshole sometimes, but I’m over it now. Are you?”

  I nod again. “Yeah, I’m sorry too. I know that you were just trying to do something nice, and I threw it in your face. The whole money thing makes me uncomfortable, but that’s no excuse for behaving like a brat.” It’s true, I am sorry that I made him feel bad for a simple gesture.

  “It shouldn’t make you feel uncomfortable—money’s just money. It doesn’t mean anything, and as long as everyone remembers that, it’s not an issue. People will always mean more to me than money, that’s for damn sure. Especially the people I love.” The way he looks at me speaks a thousand words.

  Well, shit. Any residual tension between us melts away. I rise on tiptoe to bring my lips to his. As soon as they touch, the familiar frisson of electricity runs through my body, and I break out in goose bumps. Looks like that’s never not going to be a thing between us. He fists my hair in his hands and supports my head, allowing him to kiss me harder. Damn, that’s good.

  My eyes flutter closed, and I feel like I could stay like this forever, even though we’re in the middle of the public thoroughfare, and despite my fantasies to the contrary, PDAs have never really been my thing. Even less so when the chance of the PDA ending up all over the media is as high as it is with Arlo.

  Even so, it’s Arlo who’s the first to pull back, leaving me very much wanting more. Although I’m not cold, I find myself trembling slightly against him.

  “Let’s go upstairs and freshen up—I’ve booked us a table at the restaurant here. The food is great, and you’ll love the views. C’mon.”

  “Um, okay, but I’ve still got nothing to wear, remember?” Damn. I should have asked Sid to stop somewhere on the way home, but I was too busy being pissed off at Arlo to remember. Probably serves me right. Karma’s a bitch.

  “Oh yeah, that. I guess we’ll have to try and hook something up.”

  I don’t see how that’s going to happen, unless he’s going to make like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and sew us matching outfits from the heavy drapes in the suite. I decide I’ve been snappy enough for one day, and keep that comedic gem to myself.

  When we get upstairs, I start to head toward the master bedroom where Arlo and I have been sleeping (or more accurately, dozing between frenetic screwing sessions), but he grabs me by the wrists and leads me to one of the other bedrooms instead, saying, “Come here a minute.”

  We’ve been so “busy” the whole time that I haven’t been anywhere in the suite except the lounge, our bedroom, and the en suite bathroom, so I figure maybe he wants us to christen every single room—no surface left unfucked on, or something. As we step inside, he flicks on the light, and it becomes clear that sex isn’t what’s on his mind, for once. Well, not directly, anyway.

  The room looks like a smaller version of the personal shopping salon at the department store, with all the clothes I tried on earlier (and the ones I didn’t), hung up on portable rails around the walls. It’s not only clothes though; there are shoes, bags, and lingerie as well. Plus I see that my toiletries from the other hotel have also miraculously made an appearance. Now I know why we drove the long way home.

  “Arlo,” I sigh, “what’s all this?”

  “I would have thought that would be pretty obvious,” he deadpans.

  “Yeah, of course I can see it’s the clothes from earlier. What I mean is why are they here, when we agreed—”

  “We didn’t agree anything. I backed down because I knew if we carried on, I’d probably say something to really piss you off, and I’m trying my best not to be a prick. But then once I was out of the room, I started to think about it all again, and thought, Fuck it. I’m no Richard Gere, and you’re no Julia Roberts. Our situation is nothing like that, so why the hell should I feel bad about wanting to buy my girl a few things?

  “I can’t get enough of just looking at you, and you tried on some seriously sexy shit today that I really want to see you wear again. Like, I totally considered asking Nadine to leave so I could work off my hard on there and then, you looked so fuckable.” He licks his lips lasciviously.

  He’s got that look in his eyes—the one that means that he’s got only one thing on his mind. He stalks toward me, so I retreat.

  “Arlo, I can’t, it’s too much.”

  “You can, and it isn’t. Anyway, it’s already done….” He shrugs, trailing off as he gestures around the room.

  “Besides, we have a dinner reservation, and you don’t have anything to wear apart from the clothes on your back, so…?”

  He quirks his eyebrow at me, and I have the whole slap versus screw thing going on in my head. It’s the eternal struggle of life with Arlo. #thestruggleisreal

  I take a look around the room and know he bought all this stuff with the best of intentions, so although having someone spend this kind of money on me doesn’t sit well, and probably never will, I accept that it’s more my issue than his. I sigh, knowing I’ve lost this battle—both with him, and with myself.

  “Okay, okay, you win this time, Mr. Jones, but don’t think I’ll always be this much of a pushover.” I run my hands through my thick curls and look up at Arlo. “So obviously I’m not going to dinner in ripped jeans and sneakers, but how dressy should I need go? Are we talking non-ripped jeans and fuck-me heels, or the full updo and little black dress?”

  “Definitely little black dress.” He licks his lips suggestively. “It’s pretty serious fine dining. Plus, I really wanna see you in one of these dresses.”

  “’Alright, I’m on it.”

  I flash him a winning smile, and he gives me one in return that is devastatingly boyish and vulnerable. My heart breaks a little bit just looking at him, though I’m not sure why. As I reach up to kiss him, my heart is racing. What’s with that? It’s a sweet, chaste kiss, and I pull back, ending it almost before it’s begun.

  “Now, out! Let me get dressed in peace or else we’ll never make it to dinner.”

  I place my hand on his chest and push him toward the door.

  As he leaves, I turn to the rails of clothes in disbelief. I’m still kind of mad at him on one hand, but on the other, I’m totally overwhelmed by the gesture, and by the sumptuous clothes in front of me. There are so many gorgeous things to choose from, but I know what I’m going to wear pretty much right away.
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  A simple black dress stands out from the rest. It’s made of pure, delicate silk and trimmed with the merest hint of fine lace. After a quick shower and hair wash, I try it on and find that the bias-cut slip fits me like a glove, hugging me in all the right places—so well in fact, that it seems like it was made for me. It has fine spaghetti straps and is super low cut—scooping suggestively at the back to reveal the two little dimples at the top of my butt. It will be impossible to wear underwear without it showing, so I decide to forego both bra and panties. Sometimes having tiny tits has its advantages.

  I choose a sky-high pair of red-soled black pumps, and a slate-gray wrap draped elbow to elbow, low across my back to complete the look. It’s just the right side of classy and sexy as hell, and so far from something I would ever normally wear, that I know that Arlo is going to love it. He said he wanted girly, and he’s going to get it in spades tonight.

  Although I don’t do it often, I do love wearing heels. There’s something so automatically sexy about your posture and silhouette when you’re wearing them, that’s just not there when you’re bumming around in kicks. Add the fact that I’m not wearing a scrap of underwear, and I feel like a total femme fatale.

  I wrestle my thick, damp, unruly curls up into my go-to simple updo, leaving a few tendrils hanging loose, and lament my hard-to-manage hair. I love it, but sometimes I wish it were easier to look after. I’ve learned how to make the best of it, but I’ll never be one of those girls who can just “wash and go.” My bed hair doesn’t look sexily disheveled, it looks like I’ve been dragged backward through a barnyard, or spent a night sleeping on a park bench. Let’s not mention the years spent forcing it into ballet buns. I certainly don’t miss that!

  I sashay out of the room toward the master bedroom to look for Arlo, intent on knocking him dead. I find him standing in front of the mirror, straightening his tie. Clearly he has also had a delivery. Umm… wow! The sight of him takes my breath away. I literally can’t breathe, let alone speak. Dayum! He’s head-to-toe in black, wearing a suit that outlines his broad shoulders and toned chest, tapering a little at his trim hips. I just love the way the black shirt makes the brightly colored tatts on his hands and neck seem even more prominent. He has a bit of stubble going on too, which along with his thick, dark, artfully disheveled hair ups the bad-boy factor a notch.

  I cannot take my eyes off him. My mind can’t help but race forward to how that stubble’s going to feel brushing back and forth across my pussy. I suck in a breath sharply at the images and feelings the thought conjures up. The sound alerts Arlo to my presence, and our eyes meet in the mirror. It’s the most meaningful look I’ve ever shared with anyone—laden with so much unsaid stuff. Fuck. I’m in deep with this guy.

  Arlo breaks the spell by smiling almost imperceptibly at my reflection, and then turning to face me.

  “Fuck me sideways.” He blows out a rapid breath. “You look…. No, you are out of this world. That dress, those shoes, your hair. Everything. Mind-blowing.” I think I may have literally blown his mind.

  “Let’s go. If we stay here much longer, we definitely won’t make it to dinner. In fact, I don’t think we’ll leave the room again with you looking like that.”

  As I pivot on my heel to head to the door, I’m startled by Arlo’s loud outburst.

  “Jesus Christ!” he pretty much yells.

  “What?” I’m worried that there’s some kind of sudden emergency, like a spider about to pounce on me, or something equally horrifying.

  “The dress. You in the dress. The dress on you. I thought the front was unbelievable, but then I saw the back. Are you trying to give me a coronary, woman? There’s no way I’m going to be able to get through dinner with the image of your back swimming through my mind.” He groans wearily.

  “For God’s sake, Arlo, I thought something serious had happened!”

  “Have you looked in the mirror, Tog? Something serious has happened. You in that motherfucking dress. It’s no joke.”

  I slap his arm jokingly. “Don’t be facetious, Arlo, you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do.” He pulls me to him and begins placing tiny kisses on my neck and shoulders. “But I’m a sucker for your back.”

  He’s kissing my back all over now, trying to coax my dress down over my shoulders.

  “Arlo, stop.” I hope that he can hear in my voice that I’m serious. “Let’s go to dinner, I’m starving.”

  I’m looking forward to this meal. I googled the restaurant while I was changing, and found out it’s one of the most critically acclaimed in Paris, and therefore the world.

  He mutters under his breath. “Fine, let’s go, but how a person as tiny as you can put away so much food is beyond me.”

  On the elevator ride down to the restaurant, Arlo places his hand on the small of my back under the wrap, caressing the area just above the low dip of the dress. It’s a gentle, yet deeply arousing touch. I find myself checking him out in the mirrored walls. It takes a whole lot of willpower and the promise of an outstanding meal to stop me from pressing the penthouse button and sending us straight back to the suite to finish what he’s started.

  I need a moment to steady myself as we exit, taking a few deep breaths to help me calm down. Arlo steps forward and whispers huskily, “Are you okay there, London, or is there something I can help you with?” His tone is both seductive and teasing; his hand edges down my back and comes to rest on my butt. He’s playing games with me—it’s another slap-or-screw moment. Maybe I could combine both.

  He leads me across the lobby.

  Sometimes when I’m wandering the streets with Arlo in incognito mode, I can almost forget that he is who he is. What a difference his appearance makes—now that he looks like a male model, it’s a different story. A flurry of activity ripples through the room as we make our way across to a second bank of elevators, and up to the restaurant. Nobody approaches us, but I can feel people pretending not to notice him while furtively glancing our way. I’m pretty sure a few people surreptitiously take photos also. I can hardly blame them—I can’t keep my eyes off him myself. The only difference is that I’m fairly certain he wants me to stare at him.

  Arlo is such a pro at dealing with the attention that most of the time it rolls over him like water off a duck’s back. I suppose it’s been his normal for so long that he doesn’t know any different these days. I, on the other hand, know and absolutely prefer different. I struggle with being ogled, even if it’s only people trying to look around or over me in order to get a glimpse of Arlo.

  As we enter the restaurant, we’re warmly greeted by the maître d’, who signals for our waiter to show us to our table. It turns out that the “table” is a private dining room, adjacent to the main room. It’s sumptuously decorated, and this is far and away the most high-end restaurant I’ve been to. The china, napery, cutlery, and furniture are clearly of top quality, and it’s all exquisite. As Arlo promised, the views of Paris by night are breathtaking, too.

  Once we’re seated, the waiter brings the menus and wine list—giving the wine list only to Arlo. How old-school. Not that I mind, as I don’t really know that much about wine, anyway. I’m happy for Arlo to order on my behalf. Then I open the menu and realize it’s written entirely in French, so decide to devolve the responsibility for the food to him as well. He seems in a hurry to order and decides on the degustation menu with matched drinks. The whole meal will be a surprise, which I’m kind of excited about. As long as there’s a delicious chocolate dessert to round it off, I’ll be happy.

  As soon as the waiter leaves the room, Arlo gets up and comes across to my side of the table. He stands behind my chair and leans down to speak in my ear. Just the feel of his breath gently brushing against my skin stokes my arousal. I squirm in my seat, hoping that Arlo can’t tell how hot I am for him.

  “Let’s split for a minute, I need to talk to you.”

  We only just arrived, why does he want to leave already?

  “Um
m… right. Okay?”

  I look around the room, wondering why he can’t speak to me here, given that we’re alone. Surely that’s the point of private dining? That and the fact that there’s nobody here to stare, or bother us for photos. Arlo takes me by the hand, pulling me toward a door I hadn’t even noticed before. He pushes it open, revealing that it leads to another, much smaller room.

  In front of us, there’s a wall-mounted mirror, sitting above a beautiful antique dresser that has just about every perfume known to man neatly laid out on the top. Next to it is a built-in sink. A stunning Louis XIV armchair rests against one wall, and there’s a door in the remaining wall. Piped music plays through speakers. Slowly it dawns on me that this is a powder room, and the second door leads to a bathroom. As the realization sets in, I turn to Arlo to ask him why we’re here, but he beats me to it.

  Dragging the heavy chair in front of the door we entered via, he speaks huskily.

  “I don’t want to talk. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to make it through a meal with you sitting there looking good enough to eat, and me knowing that you’re buck naked under that dress. Not gonna happen.”

  He shakes his head resolutely. It’s clear he’s made up his mind on this issue.

  Hearing his words makes me instantly wet, and as he turns to pull me to him, I’m putty in his hands. He has me out of my dress, and naked except for my heels in record time, while he remains fully clothed. I feel exposed, but empowered at the same time, and decide to put my confidence to good use.

  “Come here.” I beckon.

  “What?” I can hear the surprise in his voice.

  “You heard me. Come. Here.” I gently pull him by his tie, leading him to the chair he pushed up against the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhhh…,” I whisper, bringing my finger to my lips. “Sit.” I motion toward the chair.

  “London?”