Spy Games

by Cassandra Dee

  And as the grey light of morning drifted through the curtains of the hotel room, I cuddled the little girl closer to my chest. After the shower sex, I’d felt curiously compelled to stay, drying that beautiful body, patting those curves with a bath towel, getting Daisy wet and wanting again.

  “Please,” she begged, boobies jouncing, hips wiggling, and before I knew it, we were on her bed again, kissing ravenously, that curvy form warm and soft to my touch.

  And Daisy was gorgeous now in the first light of dawn. The brunette had swung her leg over mine proprietarily, like I belonged to her, and her ankle was hooked around mine, breasts flush up against my chest. Oh god, her breasts. I had a momentary flashback to last night, the woman riding me on top, bending over to kiss me as my dick went deep, those boobs smashed against my chest as I fucked my hips up, spurting my jism into that tiny body, hot and virile.

  Because the memory made me jerk because that was the other thing. We hadn’t used protection. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, it’s not like I’m a saint, I fuck women when the need arises. But I always, and I mean always, use protection. Fuck no, I don’t believe females when they say they’re on the pill, IUD or whatever, the rubber’s coming on, sometimes double for extra safety. But last night? I didn’t use a condom when I shot into her pussy much less when I came in her ass, and fuck, that white was all over.

  Shit, shit, what the fuck was I thinking? The woman was eighteen, fertile and ripe, her ovaries could probably sense sperm from miles away. But I consoled myself as the brunette continued to sleep peacefully against my chest. There was always the morning after pill, you could get that shit over the counter and all we had to do was drop by the local pharmacy before heading to campus. Oh yeah, I’d made more than one trip to the pharmacy during my student days, and it was probably the same cranky, bitchy old lady behind the counter, saying nothing, her eyes speaking volumes as I ordered up Plan B again.

  So I was no stranger to this shitshow and it’d be no big deal to pick something up on our way to campus. Slowly, I trailed a finger down Daisy’s tummy. It was soft, fleshy, with a tiny bulge to grab, real mass to hold onto during sex and I loved it. What would it be like to see her grow large with a baby, ripen with my child? But I slapped down the thought immediately. What the fuck was wrong with me? I’d just fucked my ward, taken her vaginal and anal cherries, and here I was dreaming about a baby? There was something seriously, seriously wrong with me. I was a messed-up motherfucker, no doubt about it.

  So I hoisted my legs over the side of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping girl. The brunette looked so peaceful, a small smile on her lips, her hair spread across the pillow in a chestnut mass. She was so … precious. So innocent still, even after everything I’d done to her last night, everything that I’d done with her, sailing the seas together, exploring the edges of desire, making her mine. And there was no turning back, I could feel it in my bones, something would be forever different between Daisy and I, our liaison changed, with more depth, more feeling, more fervor.

  But now, a shower. I snuck back into my room and blasted the spray, letting the hot water pound onto my back. Get with it, I growled to myself. You’re showing Daisy around your alma mater today, keep it real.

  But the thing is I didn’t want to keep it real. I was already falling for the girl and deep down in my heart … it felt right.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Daisy

  I’d woken up to any empty bed, no sign of Tristan except for a dent in the pillow next to me. I let out a breath, disappointed. Had he regretted what we’d done? Was it over already? After all, he’d gotten the milk without buying the cow. My head spun, the air suddenly thin. I wanted to believe that it was real, that everything between my guardian and I was true, but words rang in my head, beating down my self-esteem.

  You’re just a little girl to him, the voice sneered. Now that you’ve given it up, he’s not interested.

  So I got dressed slowly, carefully, my fingers numb even as my mind ran in circles. As I stared into the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize the girl looking back. On the one hand, externally nothing had changed. My hair was still mousy brown, freckles still dusted my cheekbones and my mouth was the same pout, peachy and ripe. But internally, I was a woman re-born. I’d been inducted into a world of power, power to make a man cry, to make him come, to make him kneel before me, and it was a newfound glory, something I’d never experienced before. And so I glared at my reflection in the mirror, giving myself another mental shake. Are you ready for this Daisy? You think you can handle him? You think you can handle an older man, a man like Tristan Marks?

  But I shut down the voices momentarily. At the very least, I figured Tristan would be nice to me for the rest of our trip. Even if he ignored me once we got back to Jersey, he’d committed to another night here upstate. And I was good enough for that right? I hated the self-doubt, the not knowing, and resolutely flattened my mouth into a line. If only things weren’t so confusing, so dizzyingly unclear.

  But as soon as I strode into the living room, every shred of doubt evaporated. Because Tristan was there, smiling, and my heart flipped before I could stop it, before I could even fully process his presence. The man was ungodly handsome, black hair swept to the side, blue eyes gleaming, dressed in jeans and a button-down.

  “Tristan, I’ve never seen you look so … casual,” I said lightly, shooting a smile his way.

  And he merely laughed.

  “Daisy, I’ve never seen you look so … sore,” he shot back, making my cheeks flame, my entire body flush. Because it was true, I was practically limping from our lovemaking last night. My movements were stiff, hips twisted out of joint, the place between my legs more than a little achy. And he knew, he could tell, his eyes like x-rays straight to my little cunt with a knowing grin.

  “Well then you better carry me during the campus tour,” I sassed back, eyes sparkling. “I hear Hudson is huge, I can’t be traipsing up and down hills, walking ten miles to see your alma mater.”

  Tristan merely smirked.

  “I can do better than that, baby girl,” he shot back. “I’ll get you a motorized wheelchair, how about that? You want to be wheeled around, see the sights like an invalid? I’ll tell the Dean you’re flat on your back because of female matters,” he cracked.

  And I merely swatted him on a big arm, face flushing again. Because it was female matters alright, just not my period. But oh god, right, my period and the lack of protection during our escapade. We hadn’t used anything last night and I had to bring it up, make sure he knew how serious this was.

  “Tristan,” I began, “about female issues. I’m not on the pill, I don’t have an IUD or anything, and we didn’t use condoms last night. Or did you?” I asked confusedly. “Maybe I missed it?”

  The big man’s eyes grew sharp, his expression sobering.

  “No, I didn’t use anything last night,” he said softly, “We didn’t use anything and yes, I came in you more than a few times. It was my fault, I should have made sure because it was your first time after all. You’re new to this,” he rumbled, cursing softly under his breath.

  And I took a deep breath.

  “I just,” I began hurriedly. “I hope you understand but it’s just not the right time for me. I mean, I’m eighteen and about to set off for college, I can’t have a baby, it’d ruin everything for me, not now, not for years,” I added.

  Tristan was merely silent for a moment, quirking his head at me, eyes thoughtful.

  “You don’t think you’d be a good mom?” he said softly, eyes giving nothing away.

  And I shook my head.

  “It’s not that, it’s that I’m not ready,” I stressed. “I’m sure if it happened I’d figure it out, but this isn’t the right time. A baby is a ton of responsibility and Tristan, I don’t even pay my own bills. You pay my bills,” I said with a meaningful look.

  That made him throw his head back and laugh, showing off that handsome smile.<
br />
  “But if there were a baby, and this is a big if, I’d pay the bills for him or her too. You didn’t think you’d do it alone, did you? That I’d leave you to fend for yourself, throw you to the wolves?” he asked, eyebrow quirked.

  And I flushed again. I guess I’d always thought of teen pregnancy as a blight to be avoided, something that happened to other girls, blowing up their lives, leaving them barefoot and pregnant, living in trailers on the edge of town. But it sounded like Tristan was hardly the man to abandon a woman he’d knocked up, leave her scrambling for cash, benefits, struggling to get by.

  I took a deep breath.

  “I just don’t think it’s me,” I said softly, breathing out slowly. “At least not right now, I’m not ready, not after one night.”

  And the big man laughed again, a growl low and deep in his throat.

  “Of course not,” he rumbled, throwing an arm around my shoulders, hugging me tight to his side. “I get it, and for now,” he continued, “we’ll get you Plan B, you can take it this morning to make sure there are no accidents. We’ll pick it up at the campus pharmacy, I’m sure co-eds are popping that stuff all the time,” he said, playfully swatting my bottom. “But we gotta be quick. I told the Dean we’d be there at eleven and after the tour, I want to take you to my favorite lunch place on campus.”

  I smiled back at him, shy suddenly.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said softly. Who knew the big man would take care of business so quickly? It was just like him to take charge, to be totally confident and in control.

  So we finished breakfast and zoomed off in the Maserati, the air light and flirtatious, laughing and teasing, throwing barbs back and forth, trading quips with Tristan’s hand on my knee like it belonged there the whole time, comfortable and casual.

  “So how’d you get into the news business?” I asked curiously.

  The big man shot me a glance.

  “My story about Clark Kent working at the Daily Planet didn’t get you?” he asked quizzically, eyebrows raised. “What, you don’t think I started out as a cub reporter and climbed the ranks?”

  I laughed then.

  “No, I believe that. What I don’t get is why you have so many tattoos. It’s hardly newsroom-appropriate, those guys usually wear button downs and khakis. Well, at least in the movies they do,” I amended, thinking about Spotlight, a movie which detailed the Boston Globe’s investigation of Catholic priests gone bad.

  But Tristan was far away mentally, and he thought carefully before answering.

  “Yeah, but my tattoos were always covered,” he said slowly. “There was nothing I couldn’t hide with a short-sleeve shirt and the khakis you keep mentioning.”

  I pulled my mouth into a droll smile, eager to change the sober tune.

  “No worries,” I said wickedly. “Dockers are for dads anyways,” I smirked.

  And the hand on my knee suddenly squeezed, this time hard.

  “Ouch!” I squirmed in the passenger seat. “Ouch ouch ouch!” I gasped, before swatting his fist away. The pain was slight, the heat from his big hand arousing, and the minute he moved off, I regretted it. Who knew I’d feel so warm, so possessed and possessive, just from his hand resting casually on my leg?

  But Tristan was determined to avoid the subject, or at least slide around it without my noticing.

  “Tattoos are something I’ve always liked,” he remarked casually, “Part of being an artist. I always saw myself as an artist when I was a reporter, you know? My words were my art, crafting them into sentences, making readers visualize the story I wanted to tell.”

  I hummed thoughtfully.

  “But Tristan you’re the head of an international conglomerate now. Do you still see yourself as an artist? Or is that long gone?” I asked, cocking my head at him. The big man was the opposite of my preconceived notions of what an artist would be like. He was dark and dangerous, always dressed to the nines in a suit, commanding billions, boss of thousands of employees, if not hundreds of thousands.

  And Tristan just shook his head ruefully.

  “I’m not an artist anymore, although I miss it sometimes,” he growled. “Back then, there were entire weeks when I ate ramen, scrambling to meet deadlines, that shit sucked for sure. But now all I do is go to meetings,” he snorted. “Sure, peoples’ lives, their careers are decided during those meetings, but yeah, I miss it sometimes,” he said a little wistfully, blue eyes shaded for a moment. “I miss being in the thick of things, affecting the way a story develops, crafting a narrative. And you know what? Sometimes I wish I could go back. Maybe that’s why I like you, baby,” he said lightly. “You remind me of my youth, with your desires, your dreams, your determination to change the world. Maybe it helps me reclaim a little slice of myself, of who I used to be.”

  And my heart thumped. This was seriously deep and I hadn’t meant to go in this direction. I’d just had some lighthearted questions about his tattoos, figuring it was just idle chitchat, and now he was telling me that I helped him reclaim a part of himself? I was silent in my seat, tongue-tied.

  “Now that I’ve made you uncomfortable,” said Tristan wryly. “Why don’t you tell me about where you’re headed? What’s new on the plate for you? What are you hoping to do in your next four years?”

  And I smiled, relieved to be moving on. Things were happening so fast that I seriously needed a week on my own just to figure things out, work them over in my head. So I smiled at him shyly.

  “I have a spiel all planned out for the Dean so that he has to admit me,” I said tongue in cheek. “Despite what my guidance counselor says, it still helps to make a good impression.”

  And the big man grew silent.

  “That’s true,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s very true. So what are you going to say?” he teased. “That you want to be a vet? That you’re going to be a public interest lawyer, saving the world?”

  And here, I grew quiet again.

  “Actually, yes,” I said quietly. “I was thinking about going to law school someday.”

  But Tristan just laughed.

  “But not for public interest, surely? Honey, you know that stuff takes the heart out of you, it’s working with the destitute, people who have few resources and even fewer options. Don’t you want an easier job? Take it from me, I work with dollars, and they’re a shit ton easier to control than people,” he said wryly.

  But I shook my head seriously.

  “I know,” I said. “But I want to do something to help older people in the United States. Have you heard of Elder Law? It’s kind of new, doesn’t get a lot of attention, but it’s growing in leaps and bounds as Baby Boomers age.”

  Tristan’s brow creased for a moment.

  “Honey, of course I’ve heard of Elder Law,” he said gently. “I knew Mrs. Astor, I watched as that shitshow unfolded from the newsroom and it was heartbreaking … for everyone, her family, her sons, her grandsons, for New York,” he said.

  And I was silent for a moment, realizing that Tristan had a front-row seat to every newsworthy item as head of his company. And what a scandal it had been, covered by a million papers, witnesses from the cream of society testifying in Family Court. Because Mrs. Astor was the Missus Astor of New York society, a grand dame celebrated for her wit, her scrappiness, her generosity as a philanthropist, and her late-in-life marriage to Vincent Astor, a curmudgeonly old geezer who left her billions upon his death.

  But it had all gone wrong when she hit 100. Suffering from dementia, Mrs. Astor’s son took advantage of the old lady, diverting countless assets while neglecting her care, leaving the socialite sitting in her own feces, unbathed, unwashed, uncared for in her penthouse apartment on Park Avenue.

  And so it had hit the courthouse and then the press. Mrs. Astor Living in Filth! The headlines screamed. Mrs. Astor Betrayed By Her Own Son! Because sadly it was true. Her closest relation had let his mother live in deplorable conditions while pilfering assets from under her nose.

  And t
his was exactly why I wanted to practice in the elder law arena. With so many Americans aging there was a cohort that was inevitably moving towards vulnerability, both physical and emotional. It wasn’t just the disintegration of aging bodies, but there were aging minds that were easily influenced, whether from dementia, depression, or sheer loneliness, having watched friends and family pass on. And I wanted to be there, to help lift these older souls, help them navigate the world in a safe and sound manner, however small my contribution might be. So I’d resolved to specialize in Elder Law with a sub-specialty in Trusts and Estates, to protect the aged and infirm to the best of my abilities.

  “I know Elder Law doesn’t seem glamorous,” I said hesitantly. “But I think I could really be of use,” I said slowly. “Most people want fancy corporate jobs, they’d probably love to get an in-house position at Marks Holdings,” I said wryly, shooting Tristan a glance. “But it’s just … I dunno, my mom passed away when I was young, so I guess I have a lot of opinions on this subject.”

  And we were silent for a moment.

  “Carolyn loved you,” rumbled Tristan quietly. “That’s why she asked me to take care of you, she wanted you to be okay and knew that I could handle the responsibility.”

  “And Mr. Marks,” I said gently, taking his hand once more. “You’ve done an amazing job. But I’m not a kid anymore, I’m a woman with my own thoughts and feelings, my own free will. It’s time to recognize that I’m an adult. Besides,” I added with a gentle smile, “the minute I turned eighteen, you were no longer my guardian.”

  A flash ran through the big man’s eyes.

  “Don’t I know it,” he said softly, his eyes hungry. “I counted the days until you turned eighteen.”

  And my body coursed with awareness of him, that big form in the driver’s seat.