Filthy Beautiful Lies

by Kendall Ryan

  In the evenings he stays up late, working in his office and all but ignores me. Does he not find me attractive? Is he gay? Were my blowjobs that bad? The wait is maddening. Is there something wrong with me that my master refuses to fuck me? The belly churning anticipation is worse than the actual event. I need to get this over with. I’d often suspected he took care of his needs during his morning shower, but I’ve never been brave enough to venture into the bathroom for confirmation.

  At first I wondered if he was waiting for me to make a move, to climb into his lap, or kiss him…but I know that’s not it. He wasn’t shy about taking what he wanted from me the first two times. He’d ordered me to my knees, undone his pants and stroked himself while I’d watched. I knew he wasn’t timid, which made this all the more confusing.

  You could cut the sexual tension between us with a knife – it’s a real and visceral need permeating the air around us. And each night I’m expected to cuddle up to a shirtless, buff, delicious smelling man, lay in his arms and be the perfect little obedient bedmate. The problem with all this? It’s fucking confusing. He’s spent a million dollars to bring me here, and I’m all too aware of the money – every time I call home, when I hear about Becca’s progress, every time I wander the various rooms of his mansion, or catch my reflection in the mirror and remember where my new designer wardrobe came from, it sends another wave of confusion rattling through me. I need to know what’s expected of me – where we stand – what this arrangement involves.

  His cock is the only part of him I clearly understand. It’s less discreet in its desires. But his mind is like a fucking maze. One I have no hope of ever solving. I’ve thought about confronting him. But in this moment – feeling his hot arousal press against me, I want something else entirely.

  A low rumble escapes his throat as he presses closer, his cock nestling in against my ass cheeks. Warm need dampens my panties, making them cling to my sensitive folds. He pushes his hips closer again, stealing my breath as I feel every hard ridge of him. His hand moves along my belly, inching its way upward and I hold my breath, wondering where it will land.

  Wishful thinking takes hold and I angle my body toward his, wanting to feel his firm hand cup my breasts, rub against my sensitive nipples. His fingers splay open and brush the underside of my breast.

  His breathing remains even and steady against the back of my neck and he’s making sleepy little noises, which only urge me on. As much as I wish I could see his face, I’m too afraid to move – too afraid it will break the spell. I consider pushing my t-shirt up out of the way to help him, craving the skin to skin contact against my breasts and nipples, but instead, I press my bottom back into his hard arousal and he releases a grunt. The sound makes all my inner muscles clench.

  "Soph?" he asks, his voice sleepy and rough.

  Oh god. He was still asleep, and now I’m mortified.

  I roll toward him and look down between us to where his cock is straining against his boxers, trying to come out and greet me.

  Just let me take care of it for goodness sake.

  I place my hand over his heart and feel its steady thump.

  "Sorry, it’s just morning wood," he says, noticing my fascination with what’s below his navel.

  "It’s okay," I whisper. "Do you…Are you…" Spit it out, Soph. My lack of experience means I have no idea how to ask for what I want. I consider dipping my hand below his waistband, taking his firm cock in my fist and stroking him. I want him to kiss me, and pin me to the bed with his big body. Instead, he continues watching me with a little crease etched between his brows. He looks at me like I'm an amusing child that he has no idea what to do with.

  "I’ll take care of it," he says, climbing from bed and leaving me wet and so turned on I could scream in frustration.

  ***

  I’m bored as shit.

  In the weeks since I moved in, I’ve developed a routine – one that bores me to tears –but at least it’s a routine. I wake mid-morning when Colton’s been gone to work for hours, have breakfast and coffee at the kitchen island while I talk to Beth – Colton’s personal chef - then I change and sit outside in the sun, curling up in one of the lounge chairs on the balcony while I read.

  Later, I either go for a swim in the pool or jog on one of the treadmills in the gym. From there, my day unravels a bit. I wander the house, take a nap, text with Becca, and basically just wait around for Colton to get home. It’s a bland existence. I want to get a job – I need something to occupy my days other than thoughts of Colton and my strange new life.

  The silver lining to all this is that Becca has been entered into the trial program and is receiving aggressive doses of medication that make her feel weak and sick but seem to be working. It’s much too early to tell if they’ll send her late stage cancer into remission, but we’re all hopeful. And while I don’t regret my decision, I have five more months to go, and I don’t think I can take another day of this complete mental and emotional boredom. I need more stimulation.

  At six o’clock, all of the household staff is gone, and I’m showered and dressed and waiting for Colton to arrive home from work. Grabbing the little LED display remote, I tap the keypad, bringing the surround-sound speakers to life and change the music to something uplifting. A jazzy, upbeat band that I’ve never heard before fills the room. I crank it up loud, craving something different, some stimulation, then pad into the kitchen in my bare feet.

  I open the door to the built-in wine cabinet that’s always a cool fifty-two degrees and pick out a bottle of white wine. The label proudly announces it’s called Naughty Girl Wine. Sounds perfect. After wrestling out the cork, I pour myself a large glass and sit down at the kitchen island to wait for my master’s arrival home.

  As absent as our physical contact has been, he dominates my days and nights. My schedule revolves around his. I’m all too aware of when he wakes and prepares for his workday, showering and moving about the room in the dim light, dropping his towel and dressing in the closet so as not to wake me. When he returns at night is the happiest time of my day. To prepare for his arrival, I shower, style my hair and apply makeup and greet him like I’m seeing a long lost friend. It’s pathetic, but it’s my life.

  I sit and sip my wine, hoping the combination of the alcohol and the jazz music spilling from the speakers will lift my mood. My stomach rumbles loudly. God, where is he? I glance at the clock. He’s later than usual. I pour myself another glass of wine and continue waiting. Dinner is ready and in the warming tray, as usual, and I can’t help peeking to see what Beth’s left us tonight. Its steamed fish garnished with fragrant orange slices, oven-roasted root vegetables and a side of creamy risotto. My mouth waters just looking at it and I steal a couple of vegetables off of each plate, being sure to keep the portions even, popping them into my mouth and chewing greedily like I’m breaking numerous international laws. The garlicky carrots and parsnips practically melt in my mouth and I steal another bite before replacing the covers on the two plates.

  After two glasses of wine, I’m slightly buzzed and grab the remote for the sound system again. This cool jazz is giving me a headache. I flip absently through the music choices, not knowing what I’m searching for until I find it. Heart thumping, booty popping hip hop fills the room and my lips curl up in a lazy smile. I take another fortifying gulp of my wine and rise from the stool I’m slumped in, suddenly needing to move. I shimmy and shake across the kitchen, rolling my hips and lip-syncing along to the lyrics.

  I dance while watching my reflection in the glass window across the room. Sticking my ass out, I give it a little shake. How could he not want this?

  "What the hell are you doing?" Colton’s deep voice rumbles behind me.

  Gah! My hand flies to my heart and I spin around, my spine instantly straightening. I meet his eyes, taking in his amused expression. My face flames fire-engine red and my mouth opens uselessly, then closes again, knowing I’ve been busted.

  Colton’s dressed like he always
is when he returns home from work. A custom tailored dark suit, light shirt and coordinating tie. Tonight the tie hangs loosely around his open shirt collar and his eyes are ringed with dark circles.

  Making a split second decision, I saunter over to him, swaying to the beat of the still pumping music and grab his tie, tugging him closer. His body brushes against mine and the awareness of his broad muscular frame and captivating scent send endorphins skittering through my blood steam. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the music, or it could just be my lack of control in my new environment, but whatever the reason, I’m feeling bold. Alive for the first time in a long time. I drag a fingertip down the length of his tie, appreciating the feel of fine silk against my skin. Colton eyes my movements, but remains completely still as his breathing grows ragged.

  Tired of being ignored, I grip his tie and work my hips back and forth in front of his lap, rolling my pelvis to the beat of the music, careful not to brush up against him, I’m just trying to show him there’s more to me than the kept little girl he treats me as.

  His amused grin falls away and his face takes on a more serious expression. His eyes drop from mine and slide lower, traveling slowly down my body. His look is ravenous and my pulse riots in my neck. The way his eyes are glued to my body is too much. The healthy dose of courage, courtesy of the half bottle of wine I’d consumed, all but evaporates, and my dancing comes to a halt.

  His hand circles my waist, his thumb grazing back and forth across my hip bone. "I never took you for a Rhianna fan," he murmurs.

  I merely nod and his hand falls away. I immediately notice its absence. Grabbing the remote, I tap the screen several times to bring the volume down to a more reasonable level.

  "Naughty Girl, huh?" Colton asks, plucking the wine bottle from the counter. "Are you drunk, Sophie?" He sends me a questioning look and I lift one eyebrow. Why do I feel like a rebellious teenager who’s broken into daddy’s liquor cabinet?

  He surprises me by bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a long swig. I watch the thick column of his throat as he swallows and little goosebumps break out across my belly. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I’ve had a hell of a day." He grabs another bottle of wine and two fresh glasses. "Come on."

  Dinner is all but forgotten – I have wine and Colton to keep me company and my boredom is temporarily at bay. Hallelujah!

  I follow him through the house, into his darkened office and out onto the deck. As soon as he slides open the glass doors, the gentle whooshing sound of the ocean welcomes us. It instantly soothes me.

  He strips off his suit jacket and removes the tie over his head, hanging both on the railing to the deck where they lightly flutter in the breeze. Colton sinks down into one of the lounge chairs and begins uncorking the bottle. I slide into the seat next to him and accept the glass of cool, crisp wine he passes me.

  It’s not as sweet as the bottle I’d opened, but subtle buttery flavors greet my palate. Mmm. I let out a tiny moan and Colton’s eyes race over to mine.

  "Care to tell me what tonight was all about?" he asks.

  "What?" I play dumb.

  "The club music – the wine, the dancing…" He lifts one dark eyebrow, his playful smirk is back.

  "What was wrong with my dancing?"

  Fighting off a smile, he clears his throat. "There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with it, sweetness. You just surprise me, is all."

  "It’s boring here all day. I’m thinking about getting a job," I say, looking over at him to check his reaction.

  "I’ve provided everything you could need. Why would you want to work?" He seems surprised.

  After paying for my sister’s care, I still have several hundred thousand dollars in the bank. And I’m living expense-free. I should enjoy it, right? Only I can’t. That’s not me. I’ve never taken a hand-out in my life. "It’s not about the money, I just need something to do – I can’t lounge around all day with the only thing to do is go shopping with Marta using your credit cards. I want something for me. A purpose." Just saying it out loud renews my decision.

  He takes another thoughtful sip of his wine, his full lips resting on the edge of the glass more distracting than it should be. "If that’s what you want. What kind of job?" he asks.

  "I don’t know. Maybe at a coffee shop, or restocking books at the library. It doesn’t matter. Just something that gets me out of the house."

  "You’re welcome to get a job, as long as you’re home in the evenings when I am."

  I nod. That sounds good to me too. I’ve come to enjoy his company at night. My boredom is isolated to the daytime hours. I didn’t enjoy sitting alone in this too big house with too many thoughts running rampant through my head. It isn’t healthy. "Thank you."

  "What did you do today?" he asks, like he usually does.

  "I read, went for a swim." I shrug and focus on my wine. I don’t want to tell him that in the hours before he gets home, I shower and get myself ready, taking extra time to blow dry my hair and put on the dark colored lingerie that Marta insisted he’d like. It’s like even my bras and panties are mocking me, whispering against my skin that he’s not interested.

  "Hey, what’s wrong?" He lifts my chin to meet his concerned gaze.

  "Nothing." I straighten my shoulders, shaking the feelings away. There’s no reason to feel rejected. If anything, I should be relieved. But if the situation were different – if I wasn’t here under these pretenses, I’d still no doubt feel rejected by his lack of interest. He’s a beautiful, charming, wealthy man. I guess it was dumb to believe that a man like him would be interested in someone like me.

  His eyes hesitantly leave mine and though I can sense he wants to press the issue further, he closes his mouth and refills my wine glass.

  "What happened at work today?" I recall him saying he’d had a rough day.

  His eyes harden and he looks out at the dark blue water, growing quiet. It occurs to me that I don’t really know what he does. He’s very private about his business. "Nothing with work, it was actually something…personal that popped up unexpectedly. I need to go to New York and take care of it."

  "New York? When?" Of course what I really want to know is what personal matter he could have in New York, since I know virtually nothing of his past.

  He shrugs. "Soon. Maybe this weekend." His tone tells me its not something he wants to discuss, though I don’t like the thought of him leaving.

  I want to get back the flirty, playful attitude that seems to have faded with my complaints about boredom and whatever personal drama had Colton frowning out at the ocean.

  "I have an idea," I announce, hopping up from my chair. "Stay here."

  He nods, and watches me retreat through the glass door.

  I jog upstairs and search through my toiletries until I find it.

  I’m slightly winded when I make it back outside and Colton’s eyes drop to see what I’ve gone to retrieve. I hold up the bottle of oil. "I thought you could use a little relaxation." I wave the massage oil temptingly in front of him and smile.

  He eyes me curiously like he’s trying to figure out my motives. It never occurred to me that he’d assume I was doing this out of obligation. It was a simple gesture – something nice you’d do for a friend, or a boyfriend when he’d had a trying day.

  "Strip," I order, pointing to his dress shirt. I won’t let him turn this into something weird.

  He complies, watching me while he unbuttons and shrugs out of the shirt. Even though I should be used to seeing him in various states of undress by now, but each time, his masculine beauty hits me full force. His toned chest and chiseled abs look positively lickable in the glowing moonlight. Focus, Sophie. Things aren’t like that between you two. I take a deep breath and motion for him to turn over and lay on his stomach. After dropping the shirt to the deck, he rolls on his lounger, lying flat for me.

  Without thinking, I straddle him, sitting right on his butt and draping one leg on either side of his hips. "
Am I too heavy?" I ask.

  "You’re fine," he says. He folds his arms under his chin, making his shoulder muscles bulge.

  Dripping some of the fragrant lavender scented oil into my hand, I rub my palms together to warm it before spreading it over his back. His frame is so broad that my small hands seem to barely make a dent in the expanse of canvas I want to cover. At first I think he’s incredibly tense and I tell him to relax.

  "I am," he mumbles.

  And then I realize he’s just rock hard with muscle. Geez. I splay my hands across his upper back, rubbing steadily. I’m unaccustomed to touching a man so intimately. His skin is smooth and lightly tanned and I love the feel of him under my hands.

  I rub my hands up his neck and into his hair, massaging his scalp and he groans. I’m all too aware of how I’m sitting perched on top of him. My center is resting against his firm backside and the seam of my shorts pressing against my cleft. I squirm the tiniest bit, trying to adjust the way I’m sitting, but it only puts additional friction between my thighs. My clit begins to throb in time with my accelerating heartbeat. Shit. I’m horny. I blame it on too much wine, too much warm male perfection underneath me.

  I rise to my feet, needing to separate myself from his tempting body. "Flip over," I tell him. I didn’t get to rub his shoulders properly in that position. I straddle him once again – this time sitting across his thighs.

  With Colton lying flat on his back, I massage his shoulders, then his firm biceps. His eyes slip closed, his mouth softens as a relaxed expression overtakes his face. I can ogle him properly in this position. And I do. From his handsome face, shadowed with a hint of dark stubble, to the thick column of his throat, down his smooth chest, the delectable grooves in his abs, to the trail of fine hair that disappears under his dress pants.