Forbidden: A Blakely After Dark Novella (The Forbidden Series)

by Kira Blakely

  “I think I’m all done here,” she says, “unless you need me for anything else.”

  Unless you need me for anything else.

  I imagine myself buried inside her mouth, her hair loose and wild in my lap, my load pulsing down her throat in hot rushes of relief. She knows I’m hard right now. Is she trying to suggest something, or is my brain so full of testosterone, I can’t think straight anymore?

  “Nothing,” I croak. “I guess you’ll be with your family this Thanksgiving, like everyone else.”

  “That’s the plan,” Ella answers brightly. “The rest of us will be at home, eating turkey and bickering about politics, while you’re on your Mystery Island.”

  My jaw clenches and I wonder how much Rex seriously told her. The identities of the partygoers at Mystique Island are confidential. It’s the kind of thing that could never ruin a billionaire... but it could certainly create an unnecessary ripple in the Twittersphere.

  “Rex doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I assure her, reaching out and smoothing one flyaway wisp from her bun. Her chin tilts up responsively. A submissive. I knew it. Not recoiling from my touch but bending to it. I remove my hand and her eyelashes flutter like she’s waking from a daydream. “There’s no Mystery Island. Just a timeshare at Sandals. I carry a lot of stress in my shoulders, and it helps. Jamaica this year,” I lie.

  “I wish I could come with you.” Her eyes have never looked bigger.

  You can. You can come with me right now.

  “You don’t mean that,” I assure her. “Everyone needs to be with family.”

  “I’ve been in this office seventy hours a week for four months,” she answers me. “Sometimes it feels like this is home.”

  I bite my tongue from extending an invitation to Mystique Island to her. I want to be inside her, between her legs, to the hilt... but I know I just need to get into someone. It isn’t her. She’s just a beautiful woman, always bending over in front of me. That’s all. But she’s not my type, and bringing her on an extravagant sexcapade would only break her heart in the long run.

  Mystique Island is very selective, anyway. I couldn’t just bring her, even if I wanted to. They run STD screenings and pregnancy tests and everything.

  “Maybe next year,” I tell her, even though I know I’m lying. “I’ll bring you back a souvenir, though. What do you want?”

  She gazes back at me and says nothing.

  “Anything your heart desires,” I add.

  She sighs and answers, “Sand in a bottle. Sand from Jamaica.”

  I wink at her, feeling generous. I will bring her back sand from Mystique Island. It’s the least I can do. Ella is such a good girl for me, and I do work her hard. “You got it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Howell,” she says. “See you next week.”

  I watch her walk out, suddenly famished.

  Chapter 2

  Ella

  It’s in my purse throughout the work day. It’s in my purse as I ride the subway home. Only when I’m safely behind closed doors do I dig it out and dare smooth my hand over the rich golden envelope. Embossed in diamantes is my name: ISABELLA PETIT.

  Everything is perfect, just like I imagined that it would be.

  You are cordially invited to join us for Thanksgiving Dinner on Mystique Island. Masks will be required at all times during the course of your stay over the weekend. All clothing, food, and accommodations will be provided for you. Welcome to the sexiest event of your life.

  If Rainier—Mr. Howell, I correct myself—knew about this, he would certainly blame Rex McKenzie, his partner... and the one who told me about these parties. In spite of the fact that I’m reserved solely for Mr. Howell’s needs, Mr. McKenzie—”Rex,” he’s constantly reminding me to call him—finds reasons to visit my desk every day. And on a day in late September, that reason was to ask if I had ever heard of Mystique Island.

  “Of course, you haven’t,” he said, and furnished me with this envelope. He pressed a single finger to his lips, implying that this was our secret.

  “What is it?” I asked, inspecting the envelope. I remained seated, and I held the envelope in my lap, now understanding its nature. “I don’t think this is... appropriate.”

  “Don’t think,” Rex whispered back. “Just come. This is Mystique Island.” Rex had told me that the island was a favorite getaway of his… and also of Mr. Howell’s.

  I knew it was a sex party because I had to get all kinds of screenings and start taking birth control to get clearance, which I learned when I called to RSVP. Let me say that I’m not the kind of girl to do this kind of thing... I’m still a virgin. A workaholic. A nerd.

  But I did it. I got all the tests. I started taking the pill. And I RSVP’d.

  But not for Rex.

  Mr. Howell isn’t the only one who won’t settle for anything less than the best.

  He’s the one I want.

  And his shitty lie about going to Sandals Jamaica was what tore it for me. There was no way a man like Mr. Howell would be caught dead at a mediocre second-honeymoon destination.

  Mr. Howell is... perfection personified. From the black hair that is never out-of-place, always combed into an Ivy League side part, down to his cufflinks, down to his manicured fingertips and muscled body, trained rigorously in everything from boxing to yoga. Mr. Howell is perfection. He only drives luxurious foreign cars. He only wears tailored, designer suits. He would never settle for a resort that brings throngs of middle-class workers onto its beach.

  My fingertips hum with adrenaline at the thought of him, so sleek and powerful, like a jaguar made into a man. I’ve been masturbating furiously for weeks now, picturing what a fucking scepter his cock must be, thinking about how the women he beds must always come their brains out before he lets himself go. He’s a workaholic, too. He can’t hide that kindred streak from me. I know his brutal spirit must transfer into the bedroom. So far, I haven’t seen him with any women, though—and I’m glad for that. I would be lime-green Jell-O if I had to see that.

  I unfasten all the pins and shake down crimped chestnut hair onto my shoulders. I unbutton my blouse. The constrictive shapewear I always have on makes my cleavage intense but it also makes me look flat. I slip out of my skirt next and then wiggle loose from the airtight slip. My ass and tits bounce into full gear immediately. Every time.

  I’m so excited to begin my trip, but there isn’t really much I can pack. The resort will handle my clothes and I’ll be masked the entire time. I can at least pack some different perfumes, though.

  I flounce to the bathroom, feeling like a jiggly hourglass. My body has always been out-of-control with its curves, and I never got a moment’s rest before I discovered slim wear. Men would cat-call me no matter where I was or what I was doing. I could be at the doctor’s office with a head cold and someone would ask me to back that ass up.

  I gaze at my body in the bathroom mirror. Without the control-top panty hose and the minimizing bra, I’m almost a new woman. I pull off my glasses and shake out my mane, playing with the idea of being someone else this weekend.

  The kind of girl who would slip on a mask and attend an anonymous sex party.

  I prop a foot up on the sink and let my knee fall a little, exposing my shaven, pink gash in the mirror. I trail my fingers sweetly up and down my smooth trim, licking my lips at the thought of finally letting go.

  After Rex gave me the invitation, I thought about it long and hard. He would be there, and he would be looking for me, hopeful that I had submitted to all the tests and gone through with it. Why else make sure that I was invited? What else could an invitation like that possibly say?

  But Rex won’t recognize me like this. I can barely recognize myself like this.

  It’s an exclusive party, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. That was the explanation I received when I called the booking headquarters, before I sent off all my test results. That sealed it for me. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to
do.

  And the only thing I want to do is Rainier Howell. I won’t settle for anyone else. There’s no way that any other man will speak to me the way he does. I crave him late into the night. I crave him on a damn near poetic level. The thought of him makes my pussy open up like a flower in the sunlight. He woke me up from a long sexual slumber, but now I am awake.

  Wide awake.

  My fingers play over my pussy, idle and exploratory. I close my eyes and allow my head to fall back as I imagine Rainier Howell, so gruff and yet polished, so surly and broad, flicking open his cufflinks. Shrugging off his suit jacket. I’ve never seen his bare chest before and I imagine how it must feel so smooth and chiseled beneath a woman’s hands—my hands. And what about his cock? I bet that’s smooth and chiseled, too…

  My middle finger finds the tingling nub of my clitoris and works it. I remember bending over his desk today, and how he stood behind me, watching. That was hot. Now we’re back there again and he leans over me this time. I feel his hardness press into my ass. God, he’s always hard when we’re together. I hunch over my own hand and grate up and down, going harder. Faster. His hand binds my skirt up around my thighs as his thick finger slithers between my wet pussy lips. My eyes roll back. I want his fingers grinding on my clit. I want to hear his pants unzip, to feel the hot skin of his iron cock between my thighs... against my wet, waiting pussy. Oh, god, he called me a naughty girl today. He said he could teach me a lesson.

  My thighs tremble and I fold down onto the bathroom tile, on hands and knees now, forgetting everything else. Just thinking about Rainier’s palm flashing down onto my ass. Just thinking about Rainier seething and shuddering as he pumps into me. Thinking about how his voice sounds when he comes. How his cum feels. I want him in me bare. I want to ruin my career at Howell & McKenzie. I don’t care. I want him to fill me up and leave me on the desk to dry out again.

  The image of his cock getting harder and thicker, harder and thicker until it pops, is what sends me spiraling over the edge. My hips press high into the air and quake with orgasm. My own clear juice tracks down my thighs, desperate to be penetrated. When I think about him, I get so wet that it can ruin my clothes. I’ll wear a panty liner to work just to make sure that I don’t end up with a pussy-shaped wet spot on the back of my skirt.

  I climb into the shower and wrench the faucet, filling the stall with hot water and steam. I lay and open my thighs, letting the water clean me off. With a sigh, my head falls back and my muscles loosen. I’d better emotionally prepare myself for the last step between myself and Mystique Island: calling my parents to let them know that I’m missing Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll tell them that I have to.

  “Mr. Howell is making me,” I’ll say... and it’ll be true.

  Because I can’t go on like this, feeling as if my sex is going to explode any minute. I see the tent his erection is always making in his pants. I see the tantalizing shape of his prick through the fabric. I know that he wants me, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he won’t admit it to himself. And he’s going to have me. No one else on that island will lay a finger on me until after Rainier Howell has his fill, and I have mine.

  He’s going to be the first man to ever slide between my lips and break me open. He’s going to be the only one good enough to turn me out.

  Chapter 3

  Rainier

  My secret haven gleams beneath the Caribbean sun, as far as the eye can see. In every direction sprawls white sand beaches, deep blue sea, jungle, and villas. My private jet departed from the Mystique Island airstrip not long ago, and my valet leads me to a customized suite with a deep in-ground Jacuzzi and beams for aerial yoga. The place is truly perfect. The owner of the island—a global power player by the name of di Reyes, they say—goes above and beyond to provide perfection to perfectionists.

  I’ve actually never met the man myself, though I’ve heard that he is always watching from the shadows. Enjoying the show.

  I head inside and shower and change, refreshing myself from the day of travel. My mask is provided, along with a tailored suit from one of my favorite designers, free of charge. The monthly dues are astronomical, but completely worth it. You get back everything you pay and so much more. Stepping from the shower with beads of hot water still tracing down my torso, I towel off and change into the suit on my bed. The shirt is a rich, silky blue, contrasting with my onyx hair and bronze skin like the designer was given a picture of me first. I shave and slap cologne onto my jaw and neck.

  Finally, I’m ready for the mask. It doesn’t hide as much of my face as I would like. The mask scoops down around my cheekbones, barely disguising the structure of my face, and my eyes are fully exposed. My mouth is fully exposed.

  Of course, it has to be. There’s plenty of things to see. And plenty of things to eat.

  My valet returns to the villa and wishes to guide me to the Thanksgiving banquet, but I turn him away. I’ve been coming to Mystique Island for eight years now. I know my way around. Their main event is always held at the same massive beach house.

  As I stroll toward the Mystique mansion, I pass a threesome in the sand, then multiple random couples in a halo around the entrance.

  In some ways, perhaps I’ve been emotionally stunted by all this, but I can’t regret the mind-blowing things I’ve seen and done here. I don’t know any woman wild and unpredictable enough to satisfy me as much as a thousand would.

  The beach house is decorated seasonally, and I traipse along a walk lined by pumpkins and husks of corn. How quaint. I have to appreciate di Reyes’ attention to detail. The owner must be a festive type, because he’s always throwing holiday celebrations. I have to wonder what will be on my plate this Thanksgiving. Definitely going to be hotter than a turkey.

  A familiar male voice calls out from behind me. “Rainier!”

  I twist as Rex McKenzie slaps an open palm on my shoulder, beaming. Rex and I are much alike. Both well-moneyed alphas, both built with dark hair. But there is a difference in Rex. Where I believe in excellence, he gets more through persistence. He’s not as strong as I am, either—emotionally, I mean. Physically, he’s not as handsome, either—but he certainly does try. And I have to say, as a look, it works. At least, it works for me.

  “You mean Mr. H,” I remind him. We’re supposed to be anonymous here. The glamour is ruined if the girl I’m riding suddenly asks me for an internship.

  “Right, right.” Rex laughs and releases my shoulder. “Excited to be back for another year.” This is only Rex’s second year on Mystique Island. Last year, he went nuts. He told me he was going to try to make sure to get some invitees and try to take them for himself. That’s a rather selfish way to see the island, but there’s no talking to Rex when he wants something. His emotional weakness keeps him from any growth.

  The doors stand open at the top of the pathway, and we cross the threshold, into a warm atmosphere bubbling with chatter, mostly amongst men in masks. Where are the women?

  Wait. I see them.

  Nude, masked women stretch across the long, wide banquet table. Some lie on their stomachs and some on their backs. Some have their legs stretched open already, some kneel on their knees with their asses in the air. It’s a smorgasbord and dozens of men are already lined up or seated there, burying their mouths on whatever hole is exposed, then moving on to another.

  “Thirsty, gentlemen?” a waiter wonders, extending a platter of champagne flutes toward us.

  “Insatiably,” Rex replies, rubbing his hands together and pushing past the waiter, toward the bar of women.

  “Excuse my partner,” I tell the waiter, clapping him on the shoulder and bowing slightly to show respect. “He’s new.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter says. I bid him a good night and step by.

  Near the end of the table, I see one plate no one is devouring. I can’t imagine why. Her ass is amazingly fleshy, pillowed out beneath her hips, and her breasts are plump and firm. I’ve never seen a more natural curve in my lif
e. Her hair is a wild and loose brunette, and her lips are distinctly bare of lipstick, like she yearns to be kissed as well as fucked. She wears nothing but sequined black pumps and a sequined black mask.

  My cock springs to attention and I make a bee-line for this neglected honeypot. Finally, I can drown all my anxieties in some stranger’s tight, wet pussy, and stop nearly assaulting my poor assistant.

  I saunter over to the waiting woman, her wide, gossamer thighs cocked in the air, her pussy unopened. She lies next to a dark-haired woman who is also unattended, eyes closed, legs up, waiting. The other women on the table are otherwise in various stages of sex. One is having her ass eaten and doesn’t notice me at all, nor does her partner. One is being furiously ridden by a man whose pants are still fully on. Another is eating out his plate.

  “Don’t bother with that one,” the last man grunts from between a blonde’s thighs. His tongue fans eagerly over her clam and she whimpers and writhes.

  My eyes shift to the busty brunette. I don’t even see the unattended woman beside her. I want to feel her naked lips on mine. I want my fingers in that hair.

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask him, not giving his opinion much credence. My hand goes to the buckle on my belt. My hard dick presses against my zipper, ready. And the brunette is wet. I can see her lips shimmering, and I haven’t even spread them open yet. Someone needs to get on her now.

  “She won’t let anyone touch her.” I almost can’t hear his words as he grinds his face on snatch. “Too scared. You should just go home, sweetheart.” He stands, opens his pants, and slides his erection into the blonde with no preamble at all, just pounding away instantly. “This ain’t the place for a meek type,” he pants.

  The brunette’s throat bobs as she swallows heavily and I lean closer still. I reach out and skate my fingers along her kneecap. She steels herself against my touch, as if it’s too much to bear. “Is that right?” I ask her, peering down at the beautiful woman in the mask. That delicate jaw and those pouty raw lips... For the first time in eight years, I want to slide off an invitee’s mask and learn more. “Are you scared?” My fingers travel down her smooth thigh and her legs crack open obediently for me. An intense rush of blood straightens and lengthens my cock. The brunette presses her lips together, then releases them again.