by Madison Faye
CHERRY PIE
MADISON FAYE
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Also by Madison Faye
Mailing List
About the Author
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2019 Madison Faye
Cover: Coverlüv
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Prologue
Marshall
It could be said that I lead a double life. Two faces, one man. Two sides to a coin.
On the one side, there’s the me most of the world knows and sees. Father, entrepreneur, provider. Hedge fund manager. Retired Navy Lieutenant. Divorcé. They see a man with wealth—not the flamboyant, obnoxious kind with neon cars and an Instagram-catered lifestyle of yachts and women, but real, sizable wealth.
They see a man who’ll stop at nothing to get you favorable returns on your investment in his hedge fund, one of the top five hedge funds in all of New York City. They see a man who still drives his daughter to school, when she lets him. A man who enjoys swimming and running to keep in the same shape at forty-two that he was in at half that age.
He lives in the very moneyed Greenwich, Connecticut, thirty-five miles north of Manhattan. He sits on the board of directors of three charities, two museums, the Metropolitan Opera House, and two green energy startups.
And then, there’s the other side of me. I won’t say it’s my “dark” side, because that sounds cliché. But maybe it is. It’s the side of me that hungers for the primal—for the illicit. For the rush of the forbidden. It’s a side of me a man of my means can afford to indulge, too. Hence the luxury condo I keep on Central Park West. Hence the membership to La Société Rouge, a very exclusive, very secret, very fucking expensive underground club for men like me.
The rest of the world knows nothing about this darker side of me. Not Amy, my daughter. Not my employees. Not the other board members. No one. None of them knows or even really understands that a man like me, living in the world I live in, with the sort of billion-dollar decisions hanging above my head, needs to disappear into the shadows sometimes. That’s where The Society comes in.
There, I can blend as faceless no-one. Masks are optional, but you can be damn sure I wear mine. A man can do… well, just about anything at The Society. Women, drugs, drink, blood-sport. Whatever you crave, it can be made possible for you. Me? I stick to a few vices: the underground fights they host, and drink.
What can I say, I have a taste for ludicrously expensive bourbon.
The drugs I want nothing to do with. And as for women? Well, I’ve watched, when there are shows. But that’s it. I’m aware of my situation, being wealthier than a god, in the shape of a college guy, and single—divorced, actually, for the last seventeen years. And yet, I don’t really chase that. There are women, of course. And I’ve dated here and there, but nothing’s ever stuck. And of course, there are women for, well, more casual, short-term relationships at The Society, but it’s never interested me.
…That is, until a week ago. A week ago, when I broke.
A week ago, there was an auction. Not live, but online, though a private website The Society operates. I’d heard of them before and rolled my eyes at them. And yet this time, for whatever reason, I logged on. In my dark wood and steel industrial chic condo overlooking Central Park, bourbon in hand, shirt undone, I’d opened the auction on my laptop.
…And I’d seen her. Well, from the lips down.
She looked young, though the site listed her as twenty. Young, stunningly gorgeous, and sexy as fuck even though there was this air of total innocence about her. Blonde hair, full, pouty lips, a body made for sin. A body made for me. One look, and something broke in me. A switch flipped. A gear turned. A spark went off, and the fire was lit.
Beautiful, tempting as original sin, and for sale.
The starting bid was $250,000. And the prize?
Her virginity.
No face. No name. Just the website screen name of “Cherry Pie”. The name made more sense later, when I won.
Oh, I bid. And I kept bidding in the ensuing online silent auction, until for a million dollars, she, and her innocence, were mine.
I’d never paid for a woman before. I’d never even dreamed of it. And yet, with her, it didn’t feel like I was paying for her. It felt like I was paying a fee to keep her safe. To keep her mine. To keep that innocence out the hands of any other man. I fucking wanted her, make no mistake. But the price was half desire, and half the need to protect, in a caveman way.
Well, a caveman with an Amex Black card and a limitless bank account.
Later, when we video chatted in silence—only typing, no talking—I figured out the “Cherry Pie” nickname cheekily came from the tiny little cherry tattoo on her hip, right in the little crease of her thigh, barely covered by the edge of her little white lace panties. That’s all I saw—just her from the mouth down, in that matching bra and panties, somehow looking both confidently sexy as hell and innocently nervous at the same time.
I knew it was wrong. I knew it was fucked up.
…I buried that.
We chatted, and my hunger for her grew. She swung those lithe little hips for me and teased me with little flashes of her ass. She gasped quietly, her teeth biting and raking across her bottom lip and her cheeks blushing when I took my thick cock out. Her fingers trembled when she slid them under her panties, touching herself for me.
Coming for me.
I know it’s wrong. I know it’s fucked up. And the man the rest of the world knows would be appalled at the very idea of a girl selling her virginity to a rich man online.
…But the other part of me? The darker side, the hungry side—the hidden side that no one else knows?
Well that man doesn’t give a fuck.
I bought her virginity. I watched her come for me, that little cherry tattoo rippling on her skin as her body writhed for me. And tonight, I’m going to collect it all.
Tonight, she’s going to be mine.
Chapter 1
Marshall
The steam from the shower curls around me as I step onto the heated marble floor of the bathroom. I grab a towel, loosely drying my short, dark hair, then my face before wrapping it around my muscled waist. The mirror is designed to not get steamy, and I stand before it, my blue eyes darting over myself before I allow myself a smug grin.
I’m proud of having taken care of myself. I’m proud to be in better shape than most men half my age. The Navy drilled discipline into me. Life as a private citizen in the financial sector made me hone that. And now, running one of the most successful and profitable hedge funds in history, that dedication and discipline is what gives me my edge.
“Vain little fuck,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head and grinning as I tear my eyes away and start to get ready. I grab my shaving kit and lather up, dragging the blade over my jaw as the ambient heat of the bathroom slowly dries my body. The ink on the bicep and shoulder of my left arm is old—some from way back when I was a young cadet. Some from later. More from when Amy was born. But it’s the re
latively new ink on my right-side ribs that catches my eye for a moment. It’s the crest of La Société Rouge, which I got a few years ago, when I became a member.
Seeing it gives me pause. Seeing it sends a pulse of heat through me about tonight.
Tonight, I have plans. A lot of weekends, especially since Amy turned eighteen and started preparing herself to go to college after the summer’s over, I have plans that involve going into the city. But tonight, it’s different.
Tonight, I’m going in for her.
…For Cherry.
We’ve still never talked. I think it’s maybe more fun that way, for both of us. At first, after the auction, I felt off about what I’d done. I questioned my moral compass, or if I was drinking too much. But then, she’d messaged me again through the site. We’d started text-chatting again through the video chat, and whatever reservations I’d had shattered.
Blonde, beautiful, young, untouched, and all mine. And tonight, I’m truly going to make her mine. It’s like nothing I’ve ever done before, and I may still have some reservations. But when my phone goes off as I’m shaving, I glance down, and I grin.
…I also get hard.
It’s my throwaway phone—the number known only to her. She’s using a burner too—I’ve had it run and traced, and I know it’s not a real phone. And when it buzzes and the image pops up on the screen, I growl. It’s a snapshot of her thumb hooked into a lacy pair of black panties, tugging them down just enough to give me the most teasing little flash of hip, of smooth, bare mons stopping just shy of her pussy, of the crease of her thigh, and of course, of her tattoo. The message that accompanies it is a flirty “getting excited for tonight,” followed by a winky-kissy-fucking-whatever emoji. For a second, I’m very starkly reminded just how fucking young this girl is—barely older than Amy. But I shake it away.
She’s old enough.
My cock pulses as I think about what I’ll do first. Taste her, perhaps. Maybe have her strip for me. Tell her to get on her knees with her ass in the air for me.
I nick myself with the razor, and I growl as droplet of blood beads. I glare at it, finishing with the rest of my jaw before rinsing and drying off. A quick tissue dab and the blood is stopped.
There’s the sound of a car in the driveway, and I finish final glances in the mirror before I start to head downstairs. The car would be Amy and her best friend Kendall, coming back from grabbing Kendall’s stuff at her house down the street. Kendall Shaw has been Amy’s closest friend and partner in crime since they were kids. They’re both off to college in a few months—Amy to Northwestern, like her old man, and Kendall to Stanford.
Needless to say, they’re no dummies.
To help ease the coming separation, and since Kendall’s mom and stepdad are going to be traveling all summer, I offered to have Kendall stay with us all summer. I mean, it’s just Amy and I in a fucking fourteen-thousand square foot house. I’m fairly confidence we have the room. That and Kendall’s a really good kid. Kind, gracious, smart as a whip, and funny. Which is even more impressive if you’ve ever met her pushover of a mother and her skeezeball of a stepfather.
I can hear the girls giggling it up downstairs, so I finish getting ready in the bathroom, and then it’s off to my wardrobe to change. Dark jeans, a white button up, Armani jacket, Cartier watch, and a very, very hard cock at the anticipation of what’s to come later tonight in the city.
Namely, Cherry, on my cock.
I jog down the stairs, spotting Kendall’s bags in the foyer by the side door, and then following the trail of destruction back through the house, into the kitchen. Two discarded Starbucks iced-coffee cups sit on the counter—almond milk, one sugar for Amy, and regular black with a smudge of pink lipstick on the straw for Kendall. There’s giggling from outside, and I grab the two coffees, taking swig from Amy’s as I head back through the kitchen, out to the back door that leads out to the pool.
“Hey, dad!”
“Hey, pumpkin.”
I smile as Amy pokes her head around from the lounge chair facing the pool she’s sitting in. An instant later, Kendall’s long blonde locks tumble into view as she swivels her head around as well.
“Hey Mr. B!”
I grin. “Mr. B.” is our compromise. Kendall won’t call me Marshall, because I guess it’s weird to call your friends’ parents by their first names. And I think “Mr. Bane” is entirely too formal for having known her since she was five. So, Mr. B it is.
“Pack enough for two months, Kendall?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “Dad.”
I stick my tongue out at her as I step out onto the back patio. Amy whistles.
“Well well well! Guess someone’s going out tonight!”
This time, it’s me who rolls my eyes at her.
“Just a work thing in the city, calm down.”
“Well, it looks like you’re dressed up to get lucky.”
Kendall snorts, blushing bright red. I just roll my eyes again.
“Calm down, kiddo.”
Amy sighs. “I’m allowed to be worried about you, dad. It’s not healthy to be single this long.”
“And who says I’m single?”
The girls eye each other before giggling all over again.
“Har har. Here. I’m assuming you still want these seeing as you haven’t sucked the cup dry.”
I gesture with the coffees as I step over towards the two of them.
“Thanks.”
Amy jumps up in her jean shorts and t-shirt, snagging her coffee from my hands.
“So, what are you two up to toni—”
Kendall gets up, and my fucking mouth goes a little numb.
Fuck. Me.
My jaw tightens as the lithe little blonde uncoils herself from the pool chair and stands on her coltish long legs, toned from track and swim team. And Jesus Christ, she’s wearing tiny army green bikini bottoms that tie at the sides, and a slinky tank top that barely falls over them. My jaw tightens even more, and I force my eyes to stay level and appropriate, all the while shaking my head at myself.
Don’t be a fucking creep.
I’d be lying if I said Kendall isn’t, well, gorgeous. It’s fucked up, and all sorts of wrong to even put her in that context, seeing as I’ve watched her grow up. But basic biology is basic biology. And stripped of social niceties and decorum, I’m just a red-blooded man, looking at a fucking stunning girl who makes that red blood goddamn boil.
But I shake it away, clearing my throat and doing my damnedest to pretend little Kendall Shaw hasn’t grown up in a very, very distracting way.
“Uh, what are you girls doing tonight?” I grumble out, clearing my throat again.
Amy beams wickedly.
“Well, we were going to have a Party of Five marathon, but someone decided to go ahead and get themselves a date, in the city.”
Amy wags her brows at a very blushing Kendall, who quickly drops her gaze to the ground as she’s pokes at a tuft of grass sprouting through a crack in the paver stones with her bare foot.
“It’s nothing, Amy,” she mumbles, blushing furiously. “It’s just this… this thing.”
“Yeah, a date.” Amy snorts. “She met him online.”
Kendall groans and I chuckle, shaking my head. And yet, for whatever fucked up reason, on the inside, there’s a flash of… fuck, what is that. Fury? Worse, jealousy? The idea of Kendall going off into New York all by herself, all blonde and innocent and waifish—basically prey—to meet some prick she met online makes my blood run hot.
“Do you know this guy, Kendall?”
There’s more of an edge to my voice than I intend, and I clear my throat as I take a sip of my iced coffee to wet my mouth. Shit. Not my iced coffee. Kendall’s, which I’m still holding. I can taste the fruitiness of that very pink lipstick she’s wearing from the straw, and something hot burns inside of me before I shake it away.
Get. A. Fucking. Hold of yourself.
“It’s really fine, Mr. B. He’s a nice guy.�
�
I nod, swelling the numbness in the back of my throat. “I’m sure he is. You need a ride or anything? I’m going in soon myself.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and there’s a little flash of something there before she blushes and shakes her head.
“Oh, no, thanks. That’s okay. I’m just going to take the train later.”
“You sure?”
She nods.
“Right, well, you guys order dinner before Kendall leaves if you want, I’m going to—”
I’m turning, I think to finally hand Kendall her iced coffee, when suddenly, I see it. It’s the sun that does it. A cloud moves out of the way, and suddenly, the rays shine through and right into Amy and Kendall’s faces. Amy turns away from the glare, but Kendall quickly brings a hand up to shade her eyes. And that’s what does it. Her tank top rides up, and maybe they way she’s stretches pulls her bikini bottoms down just a tiny bit. But whatever it is, for one half a second, I see it.
It.
And then, it’s gone.
…But it’s not really gone. Not when I know what I saw.
“What. Is. That.”
There’s a coldness to my voice, and my head suddenly feels like it’s swimming. It’s like the air gets thinner. I try and tell myself to be reasonable. That there’s not a chance in hell that I saw what I think I just saw. That I’m just worked up about tonight, and half-hard, and just horny.
…Because there’s no fucking way I really just saw that, on Kendall.
Amy’s brows shoot up, and she grins widely.
“Oh! Shit!”
“Language!”
She ignores my tone and beams at me. “Wait, you haven’t seen it yet?” She grins at Kendall, who turns red.
“Kendall got a tattoo!”
“Show me.”
My voice is edged, icy. Broken.
Kendal stammers. “Amy, he doesn’t want to see—”
But Amy reaches out, and before her friend can stop her, she yanks up Kendall’s tank top. And suddenly, the floor drops out from under me. Because suddenly, I’m looking right at a small, tiny little tattoo on Kendall Shaw’s inner hip, right by the edge of her bikini bottoms.