by Madison Faye
A little tattoo of two cherries.
“It’s two cherries! Isn’t that cute?” Amy gushes.
Fuck. Me. Fuck fuck fuck…
Kendall goes to playful swat Amy’s hand away. But she missed, and suddenly, her hand connects with mine. The unexpected slap sends her iced coffee that I’m still holding dropping to the stone patio. The plastic cup cracks and shatters, and black iced coffee and ice cubes going splashing and skittering everywhere, including all over my jeans and the bottom of my dress shirt.
Kendall gasps, her hands flying to her mouth.
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry, Mr. B! I’m—ohmygod, I’m so—”
“It’s fine,” I say, or mumble, I’m not really sure which. The world spins, and it feels like every one of my senses is operating through a gauzy film.
“Shit,” Kendall grabs her pool towel, whirling back to dab at my shirt, but I’m just numbly shaking my head.
“It’s fine,” I say again, my tongue like lead as I turn.
“Spare shirt.” I mumble, walking like a zombie for the pool house. It’s closer than then house, and besides there being a washing machine in there, I keep a spare business wardrobe there as well.
“Just gonna grab a spare shirt.”
The words fall like bricks from my mouth as I turn, numb, and somehow stumble my way away from them, towards the pool house.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
It’s Kendall. Her—the girl—my girl. The one I’ve bought. The one I’m supposed to meet in a few hours at my penthouse in the city in order to fuck her senseless for the very first time. The one who’s virginity belongs to me, is Kendall. Fucking. Shaw.
I’ve stroked my cock to her. I’ve watched her undress. I’ve watched her touch her little pussy under her panties until she soaked them through with her cum. I’ve lusted after her. And fuck me, I’ve bought her for the night, tonight.
Her date. Fucking I’m her date.
My pulse roars in my ears as I stumble into the pool house, slamming the door shut squeezing my eyes closed.
Oh, this is officially fucked up. This is very, very, very fucked up, on so many damn levels I can actually feel it in my gut, twisting like a knife. I groan, shrugging my jacket off and then yanking my coffee-stained shirt open and peeling it off as well.
So royally fucked up. And what’s even more fucked up?
…I’m hard a steel.
I’m panting, muscles bunched and shoulders heaving with breath, when suddenly, the door crashes open behind me.
“Mr. B, I am so fucking sorry. Can you please let me take care of the dry clean—”
I turn, shirtless, and our eyes lock. But then, mine drop to her hip again, my gaze zeroing in on the little cherries inked there. And hers? Well, her eyes drop too… right to the crest on my ribs.
…She’s seen it before.
She saw it on our webcam chat, when I was shirtless with my cock out, stroking my thickness as she played with her little pussy for me under her messy panties.
And just like lightning, it hits her just like it’s already hit me. I watch her words falter. I watch her face drain of color. I watch her lips fall open and her eyes go wide as saucers.
“Oh fuck…” We both say it at the same fucking time, the words tumble from both of our mouths together. Our eyes slide back up, locking, and suddenly, I know I’m fucked.
Fucked, lost, and hard.
…And it’s all for her.
Chapter 2
Kendall
How is this even possible?
My mind goes blank, my heart racing and jumping into my throat so fast that I feel like it might actually defy science and medicine and leap right out of my mouth. My mouth which is totally dry and hanging open in abject horror.
How is this possible? Of course, it’s possible. I put my freaking virginity up for sale on a private, exclusive website for wealthy men of means. Did I ever, in a million fucking years, imagine one of them would be Marshall freaking Bane?
Fuck no. But here we are, and I swear, my heart’s about to break my teeth on its way out of my mouth.
My eyes drop back to his bare chest—his insanely chiseled, muscled, not-a-freaking-ounce-of-fat-on-him chest. I mean are you kidding me? There are guys half his age who would kill for a body like that. My eyes slip lower, to his ribs, and when I see it again, I feel a hot flush tease through me.
I know that symbol. It’s the mark of the club—The Red Society… the place where I went to sell my damn v-card to a rich guy. And through their exclusive website, I did sell it—to a man who I only ever saw from the lips down. A man with tailor-fit shirts that came unbuttoned easy on camera. A man with a perfect, sculpted body. A man with a tattoo of the crest of the club on his right-side ribs. A man who had me strip for him, and who sent shivers down my spine when he told me to come for him. A man with a cock so big that I actually went numb for a second the first time he pulled it out. A man who’s supposed to take my virginity, tonight.
…A man who I’ve known since I was five.
My best friend’s dad. My neighbor. I sold my virginity to Marshall fucking Bane.
Part of me wants to scream at myself. I want to be furious with myself for not knowing who he was. But then, how the hell would I have? I’ve seen Mr. Bane shirtless before, but I guess not for a few years—during which time, he must have gotten the new ink. And in our video chatting, he always just unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall open across his perfect chest and rippling abs. It never came off entirely, which is why I never saw the tattoos on his bicep and shoulder which I know I would have recognized.
…Believe me, over the years, I have spent a lot of time examining Mr. Bane’s body. From a distance. Through sunglasses. When I knew he wasn’t paying attention. Because the thing is, if money wasn’t a problem? If my life was like everyone I know thinks it is, and not actually falling apart from the inside out? I mean if that were the case, forget selling my virginity to Mr. Bane. I’d freaking give it to him.
Because Marshall Bane is a god. He was my first crush—the first man to ever give me butterflies before I even knew what the feeling was. He was the first man to make my pulse race, and my skin prickle, and my body… react. Tall, built, gorgeous. A body like Thor, and a James Bond smile that does all sorts of things to a girl if she’s not careful and stares at it too long. And that voice.
Fuck me, that voice.
His voice alone could get me pregnant; I swear. The bottom line is, I’ve lusted after Amy’s dad—feeling like shit about it too—for years. I’ve fantasized. I’ve daydreamed. I’ve woken up soaking and aching for him from fever dreams. Marshall Bane was the first man I ever thought about when I touched myself. He’s the one I pretended I was kissing when I kissed other boys. He’s the man I was prepared to close my eyes and imagine tonight, when I met with the man who’d bought what I was selling.
…Except, that man is him. I want to believe it’s statistically impossible, but here we are. And we both know it. He’s seen the tattoo on my bikini line, and I wonder for a moment if part of me knew the second his face darkened seeing it outside. But now, face to face, both of us eyeing each other’s tattoos and knowing the truth, there’s no hiding from it any longer.
Slowly, Marshall shakes his head.
“What the fuck, Kendall!” He hisses, his jaw tightening as a shadow crosses darkly across his face.
“I—Mr. Bane—”
“What the fuck were you doing on that website?!” He spits. It’s not anger in his eyes. It’s more like… shock. A touch of fear. A dash of concern, and a whole cup of lust.
I shiver, heat teasing through me. But I focus, glaring at him right back.
“Me? What were you doing on that website?!” I spit right back.
Marshall glares back, his jaw tight.
“You know damn well,” he growls lowly.
“And so you’re angry at me?”.
“I’m an adult, Kendall!” he roars.
“So am I!”
/>
“Barely!” his voice booms across the small divide between us, and I panic, worrying that Amy might hear us.
“She’s inside.” He growls lowly as he answers my fears as if reading my freaking mind. “And you are barely an adult.”
Marshall’s shoulders heave, his muscles clenching and rippling before my eyes as I stand there trembling, unsure if I’m terrified, mortified, or very turned on. Or maybe all three.
“And are you fucking insane?” he hisses, his eyes narrowing at me. “The fuck are you doing selling yourself?!”
I wince, and he shakes his head, his shoulder loosening slightly.
“Jesus Christ, Kendall. You parents have loads of money.”
And here we are, to the crux of the whole problem. See, my parents had money. Had—past tense. My dad died when I was young, when we still lived in Manhattan. But when he was alive, he was this high-powered Wall Street wiz, putting away a fortune before a bad heart took him when I was five. That’s when we moved out here to wealthy, snobby Greenwich. A few years later, my mom hooked up with Tony, my stepdad. And that big fortune my dad basically died for?
Well, it’s been bleeding ever since.
Because aside from being an asshole and kind of a creep, Tony does one other thing really well: lose money on bad investments. Tony fancies himself an “entrepreneur,” and his specially is bars and nightclubs. And since he and my mom got married, he’s opened, spent a fortune on, and then lost five of them. I knew it was bad. I knew things were just… different around the house. No new cars. No new clothes for my mom. The twice weekly flower deliveries stopped. But I kept my head down, applied to Stanford, and got in.
And then, I found out we were broke. No, not broke. Broke would be better than what we really were, which was in a bottomless pit of debt.
“You don’t know what you’re taking about,” I say quietly.
Marshall scowls, turning and looking away. “Does Amy know?”
I blink. “Know what?”
He turns back, his eyes narrowing at me. “About your little stunt online. About selling your—”
“No!” I blanche, shaking my head. “God no!”
No, my best friend doesn’t know that I went on a weird, private website for wealthy, powerful men in order to sell my virginity to one of them to pay for college. There are some things you don’t even share with your best friend.
I swallow, shivering as I force myself to meet his steely gaze.
God is he hot. It’s making this even harder. As if it wasn’t already a nightmare that I put my v-card for sale online, only for it to be bought by my best friend’s dad. It has to be my best friend’s dad who is insanely good looking, who I’ve crushed on for as long as I was even remotely aware of what a crush was.
“What…” I trail off, biting my lip. “What now?” I whisper.
Marshall frowns.
“Now? Now you go to your fucking room, and we never speak about this again.”
Something clicks inside of me. I know I should just leave it. I know he’s right, and that the best, or only way out of this is to just pretend it never happened, somehow get through this summer without dying of embarrassment, and then go off to college.
…Somehow. Which might be tough without money.
But there’s something in his tone that digs into me. Something “send me to my room” that almost insinuates that this is my fault. Like somehow this is all on me, and it has nothing to do with him being on a website like that, belonging to a club like that, spending and insane amount of money on a young girl’s virginity. And when I think of it like that, something snaps.
“No,” I snap, folding my arms over my chest.
Marshall’s jaw tightens, his blue eyes blazing into my own baby blues.
“I said go to your room, Kendall.”
I sneer at him. “And I said no.”
There’s growl low in his throat, and I gasp as he suddenly marches across the room, storming right into me. And with a gasp, I step back against the wall behind me, pulse racing, skin tingling, and body aching for him as he rumbles right into me. Heat flames across his face, and when his hands press to the wall on either side of me, pinning me there, I can feel my core tightening.
“Kendall.”
“Marshall,” I toss back. I watch his jaw tick, his eyes blazing something fierce right into mine. And suddenly, I realize it was a mistake letting him get this close to me. Because Marshall Bane, looming over me, his rock-hard body inches from pressing against mine, his masculine scent utterly intoxicating, and those gorgeous blue eyes blazing right into me, is a recipe for my being totally, utterly, and undeniably wet.
My nipples strain against my tank top, and as my breath catches, I tremble under his gaze.
“Go to your room,” he growls.
I laugh. “Excuse me?”
Marshall’s jaw tightens. “Go to your damn room. You’re grounded for the summer.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re not my dad,” I spit. “And let’s be clear. You bought a girl’s virginity. A young, barely legal—”
“You said you were twenty.”
“I lied.”
Marshall’s jaw clenches again.
“No shit.”
There’s a thickness to the air—a heat that pulses through the room. And I swear, he moves closer. I can feel him inching closer, the power of him pulsing over me like teasing waves, making my skin tingle and my core tighten. Making me squeeze my thighs tight together and shiver at the forbidden heat that pools between them.
He moves even closer, and when I feel the heat of him against my skin and smell the masculine scent of him invading my senses, it’s everything I can do to hold back the moan. Because right now, this isn’t just the mystery man from online who I sold my v-card too. This is Marshall Bane—totally gorgeous, totally forbidden, totally has-had-me-twisted-up-tangled-up-and-aching-for-him for years Marshall Bane.
Mr. Bane. My best friend’s dad.
My eyes dart to his lips, and they’re so close to mine that I can smell the mint on his breath and feel the heat of it against my own. My mouth trembles, my body tightens, bracing and aching for him to close the distance and just take what he’s already paid for.
Like I said, when it comes to Mr. Bane? I’d have given him my virginity. Any. Damn. Time. He. Wants.
He moves closer, my breath catches, and a hot, teasing ache tingles through every inch of my body. I close my eyes, my lips come together, I lean into him…
“Go to your room, Kendall.”
I blink, and suddenly, the moment’s shattered. I open my eyes to see Marshal backing away from me, his face pale, his eyes blue fire as he slowly shakes his head.
“We’re never speaking of this again.”
“I think we should talk—”
“And I don’t think we should, or will,” he growls. He swallows thickly, and when his eyes drop from my face to slowly tease down over my bra-less tank top, and down further to my tiny bikini bottoms, and then all the way down my legs before teasing right back over me, a throb of heat pulses through me.
Marshall blinks, yanking his eyes away from me, grabbing his shirt, and storming past me, right out the door.
Chapter 3
Marshall
The ice clinks in my glass—my third since coming up here. I pause my pacing just long enough to raise the glass to my lips, taking a deep pull of the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat before I start to pace again—back and forth across my bedroom floor by the windows.
I’m on edge—pulsing, throbbing. I’m twitchy for fuck’s sake, like there’s an energy in me that’s roaring to explode free of me. Part of it—a huge part of it, is the bomb that just detonated in the very middle of my life—the cold, heart-stopping realization that my fantasy girl, the one I was to take to bed tonight and take for the very first time, isn’t actually a mystery girl at all.
…She’s the fucking eighteen-year-old from down the street who I watched grow up.
But I already know that’s bullshit.
This isn’t some market drop to counter. This isn’t a competitor getting a drop on new information before me or trying to headhunt my talent. This is just bigger than all of that shit. This matters more and has more gravity. And then of course, the other problem is that I can’t fucking think straight. And a big part of that is that I was supposed to be getting laid right now. I glance at the clock and grimace.
Right now, I was supposed to be in the city, laying back on the couch in my condo watching “Cherry Pie” peel her panties off for me. I was supposed to be spreading those pretty thighs and sinking every inch of my cock into that untouched, tight little cunt as she moaned for me. Instead? I’m pacing my room like a shut-in, slamming bourbon and trying to find something to dig into with this that might solve the problem.
But I’m coming up short.
Tonight—this whole thing with buying a girl’s virginity like that—it was all something new. I’ve been involved in The Society for years, but it was always other things that caught my fancy. Gambling on things most people don’t gamble on. The bareknuckle fights. A sprinkling of depravity here and there. Live sex shows, perhaps. But never anything more than watching. Even if I’ve been single—and happily so—basically since Amy was born
Karen, my ex-wife, ran off when Amy was barely six months old. One day she was here, and the next, she was just gone—off to find a guy who’d already “made it,” since I was still building my chops fresh out of the Navy. But then of course, I did make it. And I made it big. And of course, with the wealth came Karen, suddenly back and looking to “make amends” and “give it another shot.” And the thing is, if it’d just been about me, I might have had some sympathy. I wouldn’t have taken her back, but I’d have at least given a shit, even if it was just a little. But she hadn’t just left me. She’d left Amy, and that was over the line for me.