Masterson In Love

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  I trust her.

  As much as I can trust anyone.

  Sure, I gave her a little shit for this Thursday "on," Friday "off" idea of hers. And I may have spanked her ass a little extra hard that night, but all in all, I gave her what she asked for. I always do. It's just that when I gave it to her, I didn't realize how much it was going to fuck with me in the coming weeks and months.

  No wonder men run from commitment. From love. Especially men like me. This shit is hard. It definitely ain't easy. It's hard to control, and I'm used to making the rules. I want Elizabeth by my side every second of the day, and not because I don't trust her or because I don't trust all the assholes out there (which I sure as fuck don't), but because I like how I feel when I'm with her. I smile when she's with me. I relax. And I spend a great deal of time actually contemplating things that I can do to make sure that I hear that infectious laugh of hers again and again. All of that is scary territory for someone like me. I've never had a healthy relationship with a woman in my life. Well maybe Juliette and Jade, but they're different.

  Other people in my life can see Elizabeth's effect on me too. In fact I might have to dock Jade's pay if she mentions one more time just how much of a pussy I become when Elizabeth is in the vicinity.

  "Maybe we should talk about this when Elizabeth comes home. Since she'll hopefully be arriving with both of your balls in her handbag."

  That's what the little devil said to me two days ago when I was giving her the third degree about a vendor issue at the club. I swear I'd fire Jade's ass some days if I didn't think the Kings would shoot me in the nuts for it, especially Cam.

  Speaking of Cam, the dance between he and Jade is actually starting to get pretty sickening. I wish he'd just man the fuck up and finally claim the shrimp. I'm not entirely sure why he hasn't yet, nor will I ever probably know. It's not like the two of us talk about our innermost feelings over pints of ice cream, while brushing each other's hair. That's for pussies. Although that's what I'm pretty close to becoming any damn way.

  "What are you looking at, Duchess?" I slide behind Elizabeth on the floor and sit directly behind her with my legs in a V formation. She slides back farther and leans into my embrace.

  "The sunset. The lights. Everything is so beautiful from up here, Roman. I'll never get sick of it."

  "Sounds like you may be ready to see this view every night," I suggest closely by her ear. "I know I am," I say referring to her beautiful ass and not the skyline. "You're dying to move in here with me aren't you?"

  Very smooth, asshat.

  Yeah, I'm definitely a butter soft punk. Actually asking a woman to move in with me? No really, that was more like begging. I think I'm even actually trying to pull some sort of badly executed Jedi mind trick on her, so that she'll think she came up with the idea on her own. I'm so ridiculous right now. I don't even recognize myself sometimes. This thing with Elizabeth is mind-bending. It's making me think things, say things, and do things that I normally would have never considered. Especially now that I've allowed Joseph to get in my head.

  Lately we've been debating over that uber confident, smart-ass, dick she hired. Just his name alone, Blake, is enough to make me want to slap him. I think he was the name of a character on some nighttime soap my mother use to watch in the 80s. That's not a real man's name.

  Being able to read people swiftly and accurately is a skill, and I've been paid a lot of money to be able to size people up quickly. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. That's why I knew almost immediately upon meeting him that Blake wasn't a hustler or someone trying to take advantage of Elizabeth. That would have been too easy. That's someone I know how to handle. Unfortunately this guy is ten times worse.

  First of all he's totally legit. Not a hustler or a scammer. Second, he's a pretty boy. A lot like that swimmer friend of Elizabeth's, Jagger, that used to have a hard on for her. No battle scars. No tats. No edges to him. Third, he's also smart. He uses words that I've never heard of half of the time, and he definitely knows his coder shit. Yet something about that squeaky clean motherfucker rubs me the wrong way.

  On paper he's everything a woman like Elizabeth should be with. She bragged the other day to her girlfriend Tiny over the phone that he graduated from some university with honors and had worked for some major tech company in New York. Maybe she said all of that for Tiny's benefit, but she sounded majorly impressed.

  He's also helping her create ideas for her business that are making her practically cream her panties. Ideas that I can't help her with. I know how to shake somebody down or pistol-whip their asses, but not how to code. I don't know shit about computers except for how to buy them. Cam kind of speaks his language, but according to him the work that they both do is very different. Blake helps Elizabeth "build code." Cam's specialty is "hacking code."

  This Blake prick also knows a lot of shit. Useless but fascinating shit. He could probably go on that game show Jeopardy and win. He's traveled outside the United States several times, and not to the tourist traps where I've vacationed, but places that are less traveled. More "authentic" according to Elizabeth.

  I'm going to be honest and admit that roughing it in a third world South American country or back packing across a snow capped European mountainside is not my idea of relaxation. I like the beach, I like to sail, I like to gamble, and I like to fucking party. I'll make no excuses for that. That's what normal motherfuckers like to do on vacation. But Elizabeth seems to be quite fascinated with all of this prick's stories about how he barely made it out of a Peruvian bar with his life or how extraordinarily kind the people of Hallstatt, Austria are.

  Fuck me.

  When does this asshole have time to work? Just hearing the level of excitement in her voice when she listens to his stories makes me want to kick Mr. Perfect straight in his nuts.

  Don't get me wrong. I'm so fucking happy that Elizabeth has found someone that will help her take her School Bucks dream to the next level. It's what she wants. It's what she deserves. She's worked so hard for this, and if this pain in the ass can help her get there, then I'm all for it, but I'm not stupid either. I know that I need to keep a very close eye on him, because as non-threatening as he may appear to be, something tells me that he knows just how perfect he is for Elizabeth too.

  One look at me, scarred, covered in ink, rough around the edges, not knowing shit about making apps or code or whatever the fuck he does. One long sideways glance from him, and I can tell that he thinks he knows me. That I'm some sort of uneducated, unrefined, low life with new money.

  Not good enough for her.

  Not smart enough for her.

  One look at me, and he thinks I'm a temporary fixture.

  A fetish.

  A phase.

  I know that's exactly what he's thinking. I've met hundreds of guys like him. That's why after shaking his hand for the first and only time, I felt it. I felt in my gut that he is just biding his time. Plotting and planning on how to steal Elizabeth away from the likes of someone like me. To save her from herself. From me.

  Funny thing is I don't blame him.

  Sneaky little motherfucker.

  8

  Roman

  Elizabeth giggles reservedly as if she's walking on eggshells with me. Bringing up the topic of living with me, is probably the likely cause, but it's almost as if I can't stop the bullshit pouring out of my mouth. My need to claim her permanently is driving me to say and do really stupid things. Things she may not be ready for.

  I'm not sure if Elizabeth's noticed, but her ass and hips are spreading. She looks even more delicious and more fuckable than the night we met, and I'm taking full credit for that. Definitely due to a mixture of high calorie restaurant eating and the pounding I'm putting on her pussy on a regular basis.

  Last night I dreamed about tatting her ass with two words: "Masterson Made," because while it was a beautiful piece of art when we met, it's only gotten better since I've gotten my hands on it. The dream was crystal
clear. One word per ass cheek in one of those elegant script fonts. I woke up grinning and stiff as a board.

  I'm definitely fucking losing it.

  "We have the perfect arrangement already." She annunciates each word carefully. Like she's speaking to the village idiot and needs to slow it down so that I'll understand. I'll tell you what I don't understand. What I refuse to understand. And that's her use of the word arrangement.

  What the fuck?

  I hate that word. It sounds temporary. As if at any moment during our arrangement that she can just get up and walk away. Like I would ever let that shit happen. She's my ultimate addiction. My absolute fix. And just like a meth head, I'll do whatever I need to do to make sure that I can always get my drug of choice. I'll kill a motherfucker for it.

  "This is an arrangement is it?" I growl as I skillfully tweak both of her nipples. I know I'll have her full attention once I start this, and maybe she'll start to see the error of her ways.

  She takes another quick sip of her wine and places the glass carefully down on the floor beside us, pushing it slowly away from our bodies. Then she raises her arms up and behind her and locks her hands behind my head, chest poking out, giving me full access to her tits.

  "An arrangement of the best kind."

  She purrs like a kitten, and I growl in response like her lion king. My need to claim her now and forever grows and twines within me inch by inch like a wild weed threatening to choke me from the inside out.

  "You still plan on leaving tonight?" I ask with more bite to my voice than I intended, as my hand gently wraps around her throat.

  Ownership.

  Mine.

  "Mmm-huh."

  Part of our new bullshit agreement is that Elizabeth gives me all of her on Thursdays, and I do mean every inch, but then she gets to leave and wake up in her own house alone on Fridays.

  One of the reasons for this absurd arrangement is because according to her she likes to wake up at home, so that she can start working early with Blake a.k.a the Sneaky Motherfucker, and then later goes out for ladies night a.k.a. clubbing, bar hopping, or both with the Glamazon.

  Needless to say I'm starting to hate fucking Fridays.

  Just the thought of all the eyes that are probably on Elizabeth drinking, twirling, and laughing every Friday night is making me seriously consider shutting this whole dumb plan down. Dictator style. But the kinder, gentler Roman a.k.a. The Pussy is going to try influencing her decisions by way of a tried and true method.

  Fucking her to the point of exhaustion.

  I pinch and roll her left nipple, the sensitive one, with a little extra pressure. Teasing her this way is one of the only things keeping me from doing what I really want to do, which is tying her ass to my bed and keeping her here for the entire weekend.

  "You sure you want to leave?" I ask in a teasing voice. I'm starting to despise some of the drivel that comes out of my mouth. It's pretty pathetic. I've resorted to begging.

  "We had a deal, Roman Masterson," he says as she arches her back into me farther. "Why are you acting like I enjoy leaving you?"

  "If you don't like it, then don't do it." I say as I continue to knead her breasts.

  Elizabeth grabs my hands to stop them from their devilish mission, turns around to face me, and looks me straight in the eyes.

  "Because I could stay in this beautiful apartment, under you, every single day of the year. I could get lost in you Roman, and we both know that is not good for either of us. We both have businesses to run. We both have other relationships to nurture. We have lives outside of each other."

  "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I have one client and no relationships I give a fuck about but this one."

  You are my life.

  Elizabeth smiles brightly. "You have one very high maintenance client, a very popular club to manage, and several friends who you definitely care about and who are used to seeing you everyday. You have a lot of stuff to nurture."

  "I know what I have. Don't really need an inventory check from you." I pout like the little bitch I'm becoming.

  "Don't be like that."

  She moves in closer to me, naked, glowing, and wrapping her arms around my neck. She thinks cuddling like this is going to make me agree to anything she says, when all it's doing is making me angrier than I already was, because she's still leaving. Well making me angry and making my cock jump to full attention.

  "Be like what?" I ask.

  "A grump."

  "If I'm a grump, it's your fault."

  "My fault? It's been months that we've been together now, and I feel like for most of it, we haven't come up for air. I'm just trying to make sure we don't get sick of each other."

  "Do you actually believe that shit, or is that the Glamazon talking?"

  Elizabeth turns up her lips. She doesn't like me insinuating that she doesn't have a mind of her own. Either that or she hates when I speak negatively about her friend. Probably a bit of both.

  "Sloan doesn't tell me how to feel, Roman. Contrary to what you may think, I do have a mind of my own and not just for computers and books. I've got plenty of common sense too. While I haven't been in many relationships, I do know that couples who see each other as much as we do run the risk of getting sick and tired of each other."

  There's a rise to her voice as she fusses at me. She's trying emphatically to make her point. It's cute. Makes me want to kiss her mouth really hard, but that wouldn't solve shit right now.

  "Are you sick of me?" I ask.

  "Obviously not."

  "Exactly, and I will never get sick of your beautiful ass either." I grab her chin. "Not possible, baby."

  "I'm still leaving." Her eyes look down and away from mine. This is stupid. Her body is telling me that she doesn't want to go, but she's fighting this for some reason.

  "The Glamazon is always looking for dick," I blurt out.

  Her head pops up. "What's that got to do with me?"

  "Men are going to think that you are too. Why else would you be hanging out at bars every Friday night? You know the saying. Birds of a feather. That's what they're going to think."

  "I have no control over what your species thinks."

  "You're drinking, partying, shaking your ass in something tight, and you think that's not sending a certain signal to a man? It's not like you two are staying home and watching a chick flick marathon."

  "So what? I'm not supposed to ever go out again as long as you and I are together?"

  As long? There she goes again with all of that temporary fucking language.

  "You can go out with me. We'll dance. We'll drink. I'll even let the Glamazon tag along if you want. If you remember, I do own the hottest club in the city."

  When the Kings and I left Joseph, he gave me The Lotus as a parting gift. It was the club with the most potential at the time, and now it is one of the highest grossing clubs in the metropolitan area. And we're not just killing it on money nights, but on off nights like Tuesdays and Wednesdays too.

  Cutter just about peed in his pants when hip-hop artist Drake stopped by the night after the city's annual Mayor's music festival. He easily blew five grand on bottle service and tipped the waitresses really well. But the real bonus was the after effects of him visiting the club. People heard he had been there, which of course makes them hope and pray that he may come again, which in turn makes The Lotus seem all the more exclusive. The result? A line down the street.

  "Is everything all right with you?" she asks reservedly.

  Damn, she really thinks I'm crazy now. It's official. I've crossed into a place I'd only thought I'd heard about.

  Pussy. Whipped. Ville.

  "Yeah, Duchess. Everything is fine. Come here."

  I pull her in for a kiss. It starts off slow and Rated PG. Soft pecks on the corners of her mouth. A lick across her lips that encourages her to part them for me. Then I plunge my tongue deep inside of her mouth and languidly caress the inside of her mouth. It's a leisurely, sexy
dance of our lips, tongues and hands. It makes me want to do more and get Rated R with her real fast, but I've decided to change my course of action. I need to salvage what little dignity I have left.

  I pull away from our kiss and order her to, "stand up." She already knows from my tone of voice that this will play out nicely for her if she just takes my instruction without resistance.

  "Now go walk over there and stand in front of the mirror, and don't say a word. I know you're itching to say something smart."

  I have a massive but sleek, silver metallic framed, floor mirror that leans against a wall in my living room. It was one of my first purchases when I moved into this place a few years ago.

  I give Elizabeth a minute to walk over to the mirror and stand quietly staring at herself. She's fidgeting and totally uncomfortable. It's not that she doesn't have self-confidence, she does, but I find that most women have a problem staring at themselves nude in a mirror for an extended amount of time. Eventually they start spotting shit that they don't like or want to look at. All you have to do is closely follow the direction of their eyes and watch where they linger. It's a very quick and easy way to learn about a woman's insecurities.

  I rise up and walk behind her. I tower over her so much I could easily rest my chin on the top of her head. I begin to run my hands down the side of her head, stroking her hair. I lift a few locks of her hair with my palm and gently sniff them. Like jasmine and sunshine.

  "Cup your breasts," I order.

  She complies albeit with some hesitation.

  "Look at yourself in the mirror while you do it. Look straight ahead. If it's difficult for you then look at me in the mirror."

  She looks up at me.

  "Do I make you happy, Elizabeth?"

  My hands begin to run down the slope of her shoulders and then continue to travel down to the dip of her waist.

  "Yes," she answers with hooded eyes.

  "Eyes open. Put them on me or yourself, but they need to stay open."

  Her eyes pop back open, but her pupils are dilated. She wants me just as much as I want her.