Mixing business with pleasure was a sure-fire way to disaster, and this situation proved exactly why. It messed with your psyche; you turned from a sensible human being into marshmallow pathetic. She pondered adding a new policy: not drinking alcohol at lunch with the girls…yeah, yeah, yeah… and how long would that last? They would go on strike.
Visiting the loo for the second tart-up of the day ate up the final fifteen minutes of waiting before Franco’s driver arrived. The ladder in her tights from her big toe had crept up the back of her leg. She stripped them off and abandoned them in the loo bin, wishing she hadn’t been too lazy to shave her legs that morning. She also wished she’d put something a little more sexy on than a boring black office shirtdress. It was buttoned down the front and belted in at the waist like a sack of potatoes. But when staggering around her wardrobe in the dark that morning, how was she to know that she was going to be meeting up with the Italian stallion again?
Waiting in reception, not able to stop fidgeting with nerves, she checked herself in a walled mirror.
“Hmmm, not too bad,” she muttered to herself.
She undid the bottom two buttons of the dress, to show a little leg, then a third to show a little more.
“That should help a little bit.”
She turned and looked back over her shoulder to check how big her ass looked in the black sack dress. Not great. She should never have spent her childhood on the back of a horse. She blamed the hours of bashing up and down in a saddle for the large spread of mass that was her ass.
Mrs B was watching, she nudged Tracey, her fellow receptionist.
“There, I told you, that football man is sending his driver for her,” she whispered.
“You sure, Mrs B? That Franco Rossellini is a bit of a hottie, it would be like meeting Ian Botham for you… or that cricketer who won that ballroom dancing thing… you know, a sex god of the cricket world,” whispered Tracey, who at twenty-one often had to patiently correct her elder work colleague on what was ‘in’ and what was not. She assumed Mrs B had got it muddled. Who was lucky enough to meet Franco ‘The Bossellini’? Certainly not Miss Warr, she was pretty but not supermodel material, and a little overweight, her ass looked huge in that dress. She wanted to suggest to Tara that she open one of her top buttons, show a bit of cleavage, take the attention away from the ass; instead she just smiled sweetly at her.
“You look lovely Miss Warr.”
Tara was grateful the support, although knew it wasn’t true.
Michael was prompt at 6 pm. He pulled up outside and tooted his horn. Tara took a deep breath and went out to meet him. The car had a soothing effect on her as it manoeuvred smoothly through the rush-hour streets. Classical music, air-conditioning, the smell of leather all helped to calm her nerves. She felt safe, cocooned; not wanting the journey to end.
They drove without talking. Michael was aloof but polite; she didn’t push it. She normally chatted with everyone, but feared that he and Franco may have laughed about her antics at the shoot. She flushed red with the thought of it.
Peering through the tinted windows, she tried to get her bearings. She recognized that they were in the tourist-trendy Kings Road, Chelsea. They turned off into a small side street that, in all her years of living in London, she hadn’t noticed before. That was the beauty of this city, no matter how well you thought you knew it, it would always surprise you with something new. They pulled up to imposing black electric gates above which towered a block of newly built apartments. The gates opened, the car slid down a ramp into the darkness of a private underground car park.
Michael pulled up outside an entrance marked ‘Penthouse Lift’, jumped out and opened Tara’s passenger door. He keyed in a code to call the lift and informed her that Mr Rossellini would be waiting for her on the top floor. He jumped back into the car and drove off, leaving her alone in the cold, dark concrete basement.
The lift doors opened, making her jump. She stepped in and pressed the Penthouse button. The lift was soft and welcoming, with thick cream carpet on the floor and two of the walls, the third wall was a mirror. Two seascape paintings and a mini-chandelier gave it a homely touch… add a mini-sofa and I could live in here!
A final check on her reflection, and she did up that third button, deciding it looked a bit tarty, too much leg showing, trying too hard. The lift pulled to a stop, the doors jerked open to a cream marbled hallway.
Franco was leaning on the wall opposite, waiting for her, all business-like; welcome, come this way, would you like a drink? She followed him into a vast bright living space. Taken aback, she stood for a moment taking in the high arched ceilings, marbled floors, and beautiful panoramic windows that stretched floor to ceiling the length of the apartment. The majestic city of London stretched out before her; it was beautiful.
He’d obviously just moved in, the decorators had not finished yet. Two scruffy old sofas and matching armchair sat in the middle of the room, completely out of place but hugely comfortable. They hugged a magazine-covered coffee table. Large pictures wrapped in brown paper leaned in ordered piles against various walls, waiting to be hung. An enormous television screen took over a wall, a top-of-the-range, in-your-face hi-fi system spread out beneath it; CDs (mainly classical, she noticed) littered the floor around its base.
The open plan kitchen was in the process of being fitted out, but the basics seemed connected up - fridge, microwave, coffee machine, kettle. Workmen’s tools were stacked neatly in a corner, their owners gone home for the day.
“Excuse the mess, I’m moving in… well, I’ve been here for a while, but I’m trying to make it mine, if you know what I mean… can’t seem to decide on anything yet.”
“It’s beautiful!” she gasped, walking around the huge space. “I love it, look at those windows; we are so high up here, what a view. You must take your time creating this space; it’s priceless, so much light.”
She’d gotten carried away with the beauty of the flat and was chatting too much. She had to remind herself what she was doing there. Plopping down on the sofa, she shut up. He offered her a drink. Having seen the bottle of red wine opened in the kitchen, she asked for a glass of red. Silently he poured two glasses and sat beside her, rather too close for comfort. He looked delicious… just for a change… how can someone be SO bloody beautiful all the time? It’s grossly unfair.
“How long have you been here?” she started politely.
He was having none of it.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked, leaning back on the sofa, surveying her, waiting patiently.
She mimicked his body language and relaxed back into the sofa, realising what she was doing (mirroring body movement was a dead giveaway of fancying someone) she bolted back upright, pretending to smooth down her dress over her crossed legs. He’d noted her legs. She had cute, downy, blonde hairs on her thighs.
She gulped some of the heady red wine and took a deep breath.
“Sporjakk, the shoot, I hear you have agreed to do more but have stipulations. What are they?”
“As I’m sure you have been told. I’m interested in doing more, but only if the same team is involved.”
He watched her face, reading her like a hawk.
He continued.
“To fit in with my schedule, the shoot will have to coincide with my holiday, which will mean filming at my home in Italy, within the next ten days, before pre-season training starts. There are other financial clauses in the agreement to be discussed, but I assume you’re not interested in those.”
He was very sure of himself, confident, and articulate. She was surprised for a footballer. It occurred to her that he could have got his agent to meet with her.
“By the same team, you mean Seb, the photographer, and his crew?”
“Yes, and yourself, you produced it.”
“But I will not be able to work on this project, Mr Rossellini, I will be on holiday. Sorry. Seb will handle it; he’s great, as you know.”
&
nbsp; “You are in the shot, you are the model,” he said firmly.
“But it’s only the back of my head, anyone can do that. Look, to be honest, if my bosses find out it is me, they may not be too pleased. I may lose my job for having the audacity to change the script and put myself up as a model without their agreement. You can find another model with a wig or use the original girl, whatever, I really cannot work on this, and I’m here to ask you to, please, let your agreement pass on that point. I’m sure you understand,” she pleaded.
“No you, no show, Miss Warr! As you said before, I’m the star here; I can ask for what I want, and enjoy it, I think you said,” he grinned salaciously at her, obviously referring to their meeting in the Gents.
She was stunned. Here she was begging him to let her off the hook and the little arrogant dick couldn’t give a damn. He just saw her as a cheap fuck.
“What do you mean by that remark? I assure you, Mr Rossellini, whatever happened in that studio was a one-off. I could lose my job and you couldn’t give a toss, what kind of a selfish pig are you? I wouldn’t work with you again for all the tea in China, you’re an arrogant little shit.”
She jumped up, purposefully showing more leg than necessary… take that, see what you won’t be getting, and marched to the lift.
She pushed the call button on the shiny gold panel. Fuming with anger, she noticed she still had the glass of red in her hand, knocking it back in two large gulps; she put the empty glass on the floor.
Franco sighed, jumped up from the sofa and moved in close behind her, leaning in, he whispered in a soft tone.
“I deserved that. I guess I was testing you. To be honest, I need you to be in the shoot, I couldn’t do it without you.”
Jaw set tight, she stared straight ahead at the lift doors, willing them to open. No answer… he tried some more.
“You saw the shots, they’re great, I normally hate this camera stuff. They want a look I can’t give them on my own. I need to follow your lead. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your bosses, can’t we work something out? Please Miss Warr, Tara…,” he pleaded. “They need never know, the photographer will keep quiet, we could have just a small crew and keep the whole thing private,” he grabbed her arm, trying to get her to listen, she shook it off vehemently.
“Go stuff yourself, find some other tart to play with. I have better things to do than baby-sit some drama queen who won’t sit for the camera. What the hell are you doing this shoot for anyway? You have enough money to last you a lifetime. It’s a power trip for you footy boys, more fame, more money, more women, faster car. Grow up, you can’t take it with you,” she spat, praying for the trundling lift to move faster; she wanted out of there.
Blushing with the effects of red wine and the heat of her anger, she blew her fringe out of her eyes, cooling her hot face.
He flinched, taking a deep breath trying to remain calm, he spoke in a low voice to the back of her defiant head.
“For your information, I’m not earning from this job, my entire fee goes to a children’s charity. But, you’re quite right Miss Warr, I don’t need this hassle, they can stuff the job. I’ll call my agent now, he can tell them.”
Spinning on his heel, he started back to the sofa.
“What coward gets someone else to do his dirty work, not big enough to tell them yourself, eh?,” Tara goaded, still wanting to hurt him.
“Typical bloody footballer, dick-brain-dead mummy’s boy, can’t wipe your own overrated blinged-up ass. £55 million, huh, you’re having a laugh, who moved the decimal point a few places… what bunch of plonkers agreed that fee?… all you do is kick a ball in the mud for God’s sake!”
She hadn’t expected the charity link, it made her heart lurch, but mid-argument she was too proud to back down. She should shut up… now…. where’s the bloody lift?
Thankfully a bell announced its arrival, the doors finally opened. Tara stepped inside and repeatedly pressed the ‘Ground’ button, in the vain hope that it would speed things up. She’d said too much and wanted to get out of there fast.
Her knifed words hit home. Incensed, he turned to see her disappear into the lift. … how dare she, the mouthy cow, that’s it… Franco’s infamous cool, calm demeanour cracked.
The lift doors began to close, with the speed for which he was paid so handsomely, he jumped inside just as they sliced shut behind him. She yelped with shock as he landed in front of her, falling back against the mirrored wall of the suddenly very small space.
“What the…,” her words were cut.
He pushed her hard against the wall and thrust his angry vein-bursting face into hers. Memories of their first meeting stirred through her. His hand slid up around her neck to grab her jaw, forcing her to face him.
“You are a stupid bitch, you think you know it all, think you’re so clever,” he hissed spit on her face. “You want me to tell them, right, I will… we will both go to the agency guys… now… you’re coming with me… capiche?”
They were too close, his body on hers, her skin warm to his touch.
Her shoulders and chest tensed, puffed out like a proud stallion; ‘just try it’ written all over her face, she was not scared of him.
The airless lift was stifling; he couldn’t breathe. God, he wanted her.
He groaned and slammed his mouth onto hers, pushing his tongue between her lips. She wouldn’t open up. Putting up a fight, she twisted her head from side to side to get away from him; her hands grabbed at forearms, pushing him off.
“Get off me, you arrogant little shit…go find yourself another tart. I made this mistake last time…”
Not listening, he moved his mouth to her neck, her Achilles’ heel, smothering it with kisses. His soft warm tongue traced saliva trails, tickling cold under his hot breath. Her senses ignored resolve; it didn’t take long. Her head lolled back, with a defeated low groan she remembered the photo shoot, the delicious feel, smell, taste of him. She wanted to let go.
Why did she always end up being a complete slut with him? Her anger flipped to lust as his tongue hit the gusset moistening zone on her neck… oh shit, here we go again… she was pathetic.
The lift, forgotten, jolted into action and started its descent. With one hand holding her against the wall (he needn’t have worried, she wasn’t going anywhere), Franco spun around, reached out, and hit the emergency stop button, it grumbled to a standstill.
Turning back, confident he had her full attention, he released his grip, dropped his hands to his hips and calmly watched her, reading her flushed face. She stared defiantly back, brushed the hair from her face, and tried to get her breathing under control, willing the tell-tale panting to settle.
Grinning at her efforts to look composed, he raised a cheeky questioning eyebrow that said, “well, do you want it?”
Urrgh, he was so bloody sexy, it was beyond her. What the hell. With a resigned sigh, she looked him in the eye and nodded.
That’s all he needed, his hands and mouth were everywhere. She joined in pulling at his shirt, groaning under her breath as she opened it to reveal his hard chest.
“What is this, unfinished business?” she asked between kisses.
He was done with talking. Spreading his legs, he leaned forward and cornered her against the wall. His mouth ate her; his fingers slid her dress up her bare thigh. With a small groan her head rocked back, his magical hands, manoeuvred across her body, leaving goose bumps in their wake. Her senses followed his fingers, as they softly traced the line of her hips to the curve of her ass. She gasped as he cupped her cheek and yanked her to him.
“Hey, maybe not best here,” she whispered. “We are in a public lift, for heaven’s sake, someone can catch us!” he ignored her.
“There’s a perfectly presentable bed in your apartment, I am sure we could use that,” he ignored her.
His hand then followed the line of her g-string down between her legs.
“Or your sofa?… your kitchen table?… sideboard?… fr
idge, anything,” she was laughing at his urgency, he took no notice.
He cupped her pubic bone and roughly squeezed, pulling her into him, he owned her. Her body jumped with the sensation of his touch.
“Oh shit…” she gave up.
She was going over the edge, it had been so long since she’d been touched there. Pleasure shot through her as he firmly rubbed the palm of his hand backward and forward against her clit. A horny tingling rush swept through her body, driving her crazy. She didn’t care if the world and his wife arrived at that moment, she was his rag doll.
Yanking the dress to her waist, he bent down and sucked hard on a nipple, biting through material. She let out a small squeal, a mixture of pleasure and pain, lifted his face, kissed him, and whispered.
“Here, let me help you.”
Undoing the top buttons of her dress, she revealed a black lace bra. She slid the lace down beneath her breasts and eased the mounds up and out of the cups; they jutted skywards over the underwire with a ‘begging to be kissed’ look. Holding the back of his neck, she pushed his smiling face into the soft warm flesh. He groaned with pleasure as he rubbed his face between the mounds, kissing, licking, flicking his tongue over hard nipples. She arched her back, catlike, loving the worship.
Bending to kiss the top of his head, she reached down to his crotch and slowly began to rub backwards and forwards over the hard ridge in his jeans. She giggled with excitement as she felt him grow; he was huge…. this was going to be inside her soon!
It was too much for him; he had intended to make her wait but couldn’t hold it, his fit-to-burst cock was straining like a jacketed mental patient.
“I’m going to come if you keep that up,” he breathed into her tits.
She increased the pressure, rubbing and squeezing, tickling his balls, pushing him to the edge.
Bending, her mouth close to his ear, in a low, barely audible voice she ordered, “take your woman… now.”
The Penance List Page 10