by L M Lovett
“Come on. No names. And I will keep everything you tell me private.” Ordinarily, I believe that the mark of a good leader is someone who leads so fully that there is no need for the personal. My employees don’t need to know my life story. They just need to know that I will push the company forward and keep building success.
“Well, one time I heard a serious backstory. Like Bruce Wayne type stuff. So maybe a childhood with a dark past?”
I let go and laugh heartily. I can’t help myself.
“I could see why you would think that,” I hurry on as I see Maribel start to pull back, “but my parents are actually the most shockingly well adjusted people I know. And I had a happy childhood. I grew up in the Midwest with the classic American suburban childhood.”
Already I’m sharing more than I have with other woman. I can’t stop. “I’ve always been ambitious, don’t get me wrong. My parents live at a slower pace. But even as I kid, I had to win everything. There were always supportive even when that meant giving up their weekends so I could play sports. And I suppose I’m the quintessential only child. I never liked to share. I always had to lead the games and get my way.”
“That sounds about right,” Maribel says playfully. “Are they still married?”
“Yes. They’ve been married for almost fifty years now. My dad’s still a total horn dog. It’s disgusting.” But I can’t help but have my voice lighten. In a world of broken marriages, my parents love is still going strong. Growing up, the strength of their relationship was like the sun. It was my constant, my foundation. And one of the things I’m proudest of is that my parents were able to retire early and now live a stress-free and – despite their protests – an opulent life.
“Actually, I don’t normally tell anyone else this.” I want to swear her to secrecy, but I don’t want to insult her, not after she opened up to me. “But I’m adopted.”
I see Maribel take this in. We continue walking past eucalyptus trees and redwoods, their sharp, bright scents complimenting the roaring waves. “Do you know who your birth parents are?”
“No.”
“Do you want to know –”
“No.”
We’re getting off track again. I feel antsy and on edge. I can feel that with one clumsy misstep I will be mired in darkness. I meant what I said. My parents are my rock. I can never express my gratitude fully. But if I’m being honest with myself, maybe my earliest abandonment is where the drive comes from. That despite everything, I felt like I had to perform and be the best to earn my place with them. “I‘ve made my peace with it.” That’s not entirely honest.
“Ok.” I’m relieved when I realize that Maribel picks up the cue. “Where are your parents now?”
“I’ve bought them a small island in the Caribbean. And a house in Pacifica. But they like the warmer temperature.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. Are you close?”
Unbelievable. I would have normally shut down this line of questioning ages ago, but I want her to know. “We are and we aren’t. I can hardly complain about this, but it’s hard sometimes having parents be so besotted each with other. Don’t get me wrong – I know I’m fortunate. But it just makes everything difficult. My mom always asks about grandkids. She doesn’t think I can be happy without creating a family of my own. It can be…grating at times. But yes, I love them.”
“Man, you are showing me your soft spot.”
I tense up and then realize I like her teasing me. I know that I wear the pants in the relationship. Relationship. I can’t remember the last time I used that word to describe my encounters with a woman.
“I’m surprised you don’t verbally eviscerate your mom when she asks you about kids.”
“You’d be surprised. I don’t always respond to her calls. But my parents raised me to be respectful. Plus, I do enough tearing apart people in the boardroom. And the bedroom.” Two can play this game. Her cheeks are bright pink now.
We make our way back to my house, winding our way through the cliff overlooking the ocean.
“What next?”
“Food!”
“Ok, let’s go. I know a great spot.”
“What type?”
“I would describe it as market-driven American cuisine. My favorite dish there is the flat iron tagliata.”
“Slow down there, mister. I want to show you my favorite spot. You get to pick dinner.”
I’ve never had a woman push back on me before. Well, some have tried, but they always lose. Instead of being irritated, I’m curious about what she wants to eat.
We change quickly at the house, me into my typical suit and her into skinny jeans and some slinky shirt. Well, we change quickly and then I undress her again so I can admire her lingerie. Maribel is already so much more at ease with my hands on her body. Her black lacy bottoms leave her backside completely bare.
“A lace ouvert,” she whispers when I express my total adoration for what she is wearing. She makes everything look both modest and coy.
After she sucks me off, I return the favor – teasing, lapping, and massaging her clit until she cries out with complete abandon. I decide to give Todd the day off because I want her all to myself.
We hop into my black Tesla Model S. I can see Maribel’s eyes widen as she takes in my enormous car garage.
“Do you only buy black cars?”
“Yes.”
“Why –” and Maribel stops herself. She laughs and her hand combs through my hair. She’s learning that I am a man of distinct, exacting tastes.
“What’s your dream car?” I already know she drives a beat up Honda Accord. I made a mental note to upgrade her into something safer and more fitting for her beauty.
“I’ve never given it much thought. I think of cars as something to get from point A to point B.”
“Challenge accepted. I bet I can change your mind.” And when I win the bet, I’ll get her a brand new car. Something classy and not too ostentatious.
Maribel directs me to the Mission and we pull up in front of humble storefront with windows with bars on them.
“What the hell?”
“What?”
“This place is outrageous. It looks like one health code warning from an outbreak of a disease. We aren’t going here.” I move to back out of the parking spot and without warning Maribel slips out of the car. I run out behind her, gripping her wrists roughly.
“You don’t do that.”
“I don’t mind if you punish me,” she says as she looks pleadingly through eyelashes. The tension in my body starts to plummet, replaced by another urgent need.
“I know this is out of the comfort zone. But frankly you are a bit of a snob. Your San Francisco is so narrow. When’s the last time you went somewhere that existed even ten years ago?”
“The Conservatory of Flowers.”
“No, I mean a restaurant. San Francisco is flooded with these new places that displace mom and pop shops. I just mean that you might be missing out.”
“I’m not a snob. I’m a billionaire,” I say through gritted teeth.
Her hands caress the lapel of my suit, her eyes sparkling with promise.
“This is something I need you to experience. Afterwards, we can do whatever you want.”
“You do whatever I want, whenever I want,” I say, breathing heavily.
Her eyelids flutter and I feel the comforting thudding of her pulse against my fingers. It feels good to stand like his, me towering over her, her body melding into mine.
“Please,” she begs and I relent.
Inside, the restaurant is cheerful if a bit dingy. It also smells incredible. The interior is humble in a way that I haven’t seen in ages. But it looks lovingly cared for.
An older woman steps out from the kitchen and exclaims, “¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?”
Maribel lights up. She turns to me, beaming, and starts to introduce myself. Oh fuck no. This is a total setup. My jaw clenched I reach out to
shake this woman’s hand, whoever the hell she is, and instead she pulls me into a deceptively strong hug.
I hear Maribel and woman talk some more in a mix of Spanish and English – I note that Maribel speaks Spanglish adorably – and then Maribel tugs me over to a nearby table.
“What the hell was that?”
“David, thank you.” And just like that I’m disarmed. “Marta – that’s Señora Martínez to you – has been there for me. Growing up, my mom used to take me here all the time. I haven’t been here in far too long. I think I stayed away because I didn’t want to disturb the memories. But earlier, I realized I desperately wanted to share this place and a part of my heritage with you.”
Before I can respond, Maribel starts excitedly paging through the menu. “Can I take the lead? I want you to have an amazing meal here.”
I find her enthusiasm adorable and totally disarming.
“So we should start with the coffee. That’s non negotiable. It comes in a clay pot and is flavored with cinnamon and orange peels. It’s incredible. Next, the mole amarillo, antojitos – that’s small plates, or little whims, and then the enmoladas, because mole is life.”
She’s staring at me like I’m her Christmas present. And I realize I have this goofy smile across my face.
“Oh shoot, I forgot to ask if you even like Mexican food. Technically it’s Oaxacan. Well, it’s more like Oaxacalifornia. Anyway, it’s incredible. That’s where my family is from. Oaxaca. Have you ever been? I’ve never even been to Mexico. Actually, my Spanish is terrible. But when I eat this food I feel like I’m home.”
“Maribel,” I rumble, “slow down.”
It’s cute how she wants me to be satisfied here. “I trust you.”
“You do?” Her entire body perks up and I’m shocked to feel how relaxed I feel. And hungry. Very, very hungry. In more ways than one.
The food comes out quickly and I devour it just as fast, gulping down the sweet coffee alongside it. Normally I would be at work, aggressively pounding out deals, managing my team, and barking at my secretary. Instead, I realize with a start, I haven’t even checked by phone. The spicy, savory flavors and Maribel’s eager smile are everything I need.
By the end of the meal, Marta, or Señora Martínez, has kissed me on my cheeks – multiple times – and if I’m not mistaken, squeezed my arms extremely enthusiastically.
“Señora Martínez has got the hots for me,” I tease Maribel as we walk out stuffed to the brim and totally content.
She stops me where I’m standing and then says firmly, “most people do. You’re a total sex god. I had – have – the biggest crush on you.”
I press my lips to her, reveling in her responsiveness. I don’t recoil at the repulsively couple like picture we are presented, embracing on the street, although I do tense as I realize people’s curious glances. I’m used to people staring at me – you try being a tall, smolderingly handsome billionaire – but I see people’s eyes slide over to Maribel – with her casual clothes, her bronze skin, her beat up shoes – and I tense.
I had wanted to posses her completely, to keep her tied to my home so that she would be available to do my every bidding. But I am realizing that she brightens my life so fully that I won’t be content to keep her locked away.
At the same time, we are treading off script, headed somewhere new. I’m disoriented and uncomfortable by this unexpected development.
I’ve kept most of my thoughts about work, the crisis, and my now tenuous position as a CEO. Already, I’ve shown a lack of judgment that could be the match lit to my undoing.
But more anything else, Maribel is in my mind and thoughts.
I want to protect and keep her safe. But can I let go enough to allow her to keep showing me her world too?
Fifteen
Maribel
I’m too lust drunk to keep exploring the city and showing David my haunts. He whisks me back to his home – our home? – and I admire the sight of behind the steering wheel.
I hadn’t planned on bringing him to Land’s End or even my favorite restaurant. In fact, I hadn’t visited those places in ages. My grief at my mom’s passing had dampened down my ties to everything and I had adapted by secluding myself in my apartment. It hurt too, going around to our old haunts, but more than anything I long to show David my world. I want him to dominate me and possess me fully. But I want my life to have value too.
We’ve had such as shockingly pleasant day and I don’t want to rock the boat. His hand is stroking my inner thigh and I’m so relaxed from him, our meal, and our fledgling connection.
But as we drive through the city and I see skyscrapers, I blurt out suddenly, “David, do I still have a job?”
“What?”
“I mean, am I fired?” I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“There’s no need for you to work.”
“But what am I supposed to do when you’re gone?” I had thought I felt him softening, letting himself relax his rigid rules, but now every each of his frame radiates rage.
“Maribel, you don’t work. I won’t have you in my office. I won’t have people whispering about you.”
“Because it’s so hard to believe? I know that you are out of my league.” Tears are threatening to spill down my face. I try to reign in the tears. I want him to understand that I need my life on my own terms. “I’m realizing that my life has been so small these past years and I don’t want it to shrink even more.”
“I would hardly say moving from a squalid hovel into my mansion is a downgrade,” he hisses.
I tense miserably. “That’s not what I mean.”
“I didn’t realize you felt so stifled.”
“David, stop, what’s not what I’m saying. Can you just listen, please?”
“I don’t see what there is still left to say.”
When we pull up through the long driveway, my heart is my throat. I wish I hadn’t brought the job up, but I still needed to know what my future is going to look like. I’m not a billionaire. I’m drowning in student loans and only have a small nest egg.
I’ve explained myself so poorly. But I need him to understand. And I need him to listen. To understand that I need security and trust and that it takes time for those qualities to grow. Beside, despite his words and the passionate way he worships my body, I can’t help but feel that he will tire of me. He could have anyone he pleases. How many castoff lovers does he have?
We are both icily cool as we walk into the house.
By the time I reach the kitchen I am moved by a sense of urgency. I can’t let this lie. We need to fix this now or never. He is walling himself away and I will never reach his center again.
I grab whatever I can reach of him. I yelp when he grabs me roughly and my entire body is aflame.
We are still two strangers, teetering on the brink of something, and I know that we both need this release so we can let our guard down. It was too much and we’ve moved to fast. We are back to that off kilter place, but I suddenly know, as our bodies move together, we can right this ship.
I smile at him, setting aside my worries temporarily, and ask, “can we set this aside for now?” He is so tall, handsome, and stern.
My heart constricts. My smile falters when I see his face still contorted in anger.
With a flash of insight, I realize he is angrier at himself than at me.
I see the movement of his adam’s apple, the unclenching of his jaw, and I feel a sense of déjà vu from earlier in his office when he had shut me out. I realize he is trying to let his walls come down.
I want him like this – before his walls come up. Outwardly, and always to me, he is strong, powerful, and successful. But there is a tender side to him that is a gift to me.
I’m more confident now after he buried himself so deeply inside of me yesterday. I saw how he worshipped my body too. So I wantonly press my body to his. I drape myself over him, smiling as I feel the evidence of his arousal and understanding his need to own me. We can
find ourselves out of this tenuous place – together.
“Strip,” he says tonelessly.
I eagerly do, relishing in the power that feel as his eyes narrow and his breath hitches. I let myself stand up straight and proud as his eyes roam over my body, clad only in lingerie.
This is a game we are playing, a delicate dance that could go wrong with one misstep. We are both careful and heedless of the danger.
“I won’t leave.” I won’t leave you. “I’m here. I need you.” Despite everything today, I do. The stakes feel different now.
I feel his arms pull me closer and I know that he is letting himself surrender too. I celebrate inside when I see his dimple surface.
He clears this throat. There is so much that needs to be said. But now our game has started in full.
“Turn around,” he says gruffly. “It’s time for your punishment.”
“Why,” I say, only partially pretending a whine. He smacks my ass hard and I feel my arousal deepen.
“Don’t sass me.”
He spins me around so that my breasts are pressing into the cold marble counter. I shudder from the difference of temperature as his warm, rough hands stroke my back and my ass. It’s surreal how wet I am for him already.
“Sassing me and trying to boss me around.”
He finds my wetness and chuckles in satisfaction. “I like my angel wet for me.”
“Always,” I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being. I’m wiggling my legs together and he places a warning hand against the nape of my neck. I moan.
“I’ve used your mouth and I’ve stuffed you full of my cum,” he says, adopting a teacher like voice.
My body responds.
“What’s left, Maribel?”
The word sits heavily in my mouth. I want it. But I’m scared.
He waits patiently as his thumb glides across my clit, igniting every single one of my nerve endings.
“My ass.”
He gives me a satisfied slap on my ass.
“Good girl. Smart, beautiful girl. Stay there.”
As if I needed to be told that.
I hear him pad over to a cabinet and I resist the urge to peak. I want to obey.