“Trust me, I’m not that.” I barked with laughter at the very thought of it.
She scowled at me, adorable in her irritation. Not for the first time, I wondered how old she could be. There was something wonderfully child-like about her and yet she was clearly mature, refined and elegant in the way of money and years spent living idly.
“You look like something out of Michelangelo’s studio,” she retorted with a haughty tip of her chin.
I winced. “Have you seen the size of the dicks on his statues? No, duchessa, I can assure you, I’m built much more proportionally than that.”
She covered her sharp exclamation of laughter with her hand and then reclined in her seat with a little contented sigh. “I like spending time with you.”
“Most women do.” I laughed at her immediate frown and shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the truth.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” she sniffed. “I’m sure you’re a very popular chauffeur.”
It was my turn to frown. “What exactly are you implying?”
“Oh, I know the women in my sect, all bored housewives or stressed financiers and CEOs. Faced with the temptation of you in that spiffy uniform, I’m certain they are only too thrilled to tip you generously for your services.”
“Cazzo, I am not a gigolo,” I cursed, surprised how much her insinuation stung.
She pursed her lips and cocked her head. “No?”
“No.”
“I’ve offended you.”
“I’m sure a lady such as yourself hasn’t had reason to fraternize with poor boys much, but not all of us succumb to turning tricks to earn a few pounds,” I educated her between clenched teeth.
“Believe it or not, I used to be poor,” she said softly, apology threaded through her words like a pretty ribbon as she offered her gift up to me. The gift of insight into her true self, a gift I was eager to tear into with my fingers and teeth.
“You don’t smell like it,” I told her, peering into the rearview as we waited at yet another backed up traffic light.
She was quiet for a minute and I wondered what she was thinking. If she had been poor, there was no way she could misinterpret my statement. Everyone who’d experienced it knew that true poverty had an odor. It was hot like scorched pavement and sharply sweet, like overripe fruit burst open and left exposed too long in tropical heat. The heat was flavored with shame, with the anger that would crop up and hit you over the side of the head when you dared to question, how was this fair, why me, will it ever end? It was the sweetness that invades the senses though. Close to putrid, it denoted the stink of hope gone rotten.
Sometimes, I showered twice a day to rid myself of the stench I still imagined lingered deep in my pores.
“I have some keepsakes,” she murmured finally. “I don’t know why I keep them when the memories haunt me, but sometimes, when I get stuck in the mud of my past, I smell them.” Her eyes tipped up beneath painted lashes to latch onto mine. “They still smell the same, even buried deep in the heart of my walk-in closet in my multi-million pound Chelsea townhome.”
“Stink like that never goes away,” I told her even though, after what she had just shared, I knew she understood that already.
“No,” she said, even quieter, her gaze straying out the window.
We were quiet then, only the emotional swell of Chopin’s third movement sweeping through the cavernous Rolls Royce. I was disappointed that her sweet, flirty mood had sunk into post-tipsy contemplation yet I was also weirdly grateful to know that beneath the silken class and studied manners, Savannah Meyers was just as human as me.
“Sometimes, I miss it.”
“The stench?” I clarified.
“Maybe. I grew up in the poor south, in a small town like a wet spot on a map in Alabama. Sometimes, I miss the wet heat, how it stuck my clothes to my body and made everyone smell ripe in a way that was base and somehow intimate. The weather made everything bare and sultry. People passed the time fucking in long, damp grass and dunking naked and entwined in cool ponds. They escaped the heat by getting drunk on cheap clear booze and stomped out their crazy on wooden floors in dirty bars listening to George Strait. Most of my friends got pregnant too young or dropped out of high school before the ninth grade.”
She paused to drag a deep breath into her lungs and blink dazedly at whatever past she was picturing that played out outside the window.
“We were animals, basically. We didn’t think about consequences, we just lived and acted on all our impulses… That’s it. That’s what I miss.”
My mind whirred with images of Savannah on her back in green southern grass, her pale skin slick with our sweat as I beat into her clutching pussy like a beast. Savannah in my arms, hefted up against the inside of the bar bathroom door, my hand over her shouting mouth as I fucked her drunk, driven to come. The idea of this lady stripped of her varnish and bare beneath me had my dick hard as a fucking rock in my pants.
Impulsively, I flicked the indicator and pulled over onto the darkened curb beside St. Regent’s park. Savannah watched me under hooded lids but didn’t protest.
“Lift your skirt,” I told her, confident enough to be convincing without ordering.
If she didn’t want to play this game with me, now was the time to say so.
She bit the edge of her perfectly shaped lower lip then sucked it into her mouth as she deliberated. I groaned at the sight and she jerked her eyes to me, her wet lip popping out into a shiny, tempting pout.
“Lift your skirt and spread your legs for me,” I repeated and this time, it was an order.
A delicate shiver rattled her slim shoulders and for a minute, I thought she wouldn’t do it. I was basically a stranger to her. More than that, she was technically my boss, years older than me and fucking married.
It wasn’t my first time seducing a taken woman, or an older one, but there was something so fucking pure about Savannah’s class that my fingers on her skin seemed wrong, an oily handprint on a pristine pane of glass.
I held my breath as achingly slow, Savannah’s sweet thighs parted beneath the rippling silk of her dress. The fluid material rode up her thighs until the shadow apex of her thighs was visible to me.
“Wider,” I said and it came out harshly, whipping against her exposed flesh so hard she flinched then blushed brightly.
Without hesitation, she pushed her thighs farther apart with her palms on the inside of her knees. She was wearing nude color thigh highs trimmed in a thick edge of lace and attached to flimsy looking white garters.
My mouth was dry when I commanded, “Show me your breasts.”
Savannah’s throat worked rapidly as she swallowed back her unease and slowly exposed each milky breast, the fabric beneath propping them up so they were beautifully plump and high.
The desert in my mouth flooded at the thought of taking those sweet pink nipples between my teeth.
“Play with your nipples.”
Her eyes widened and she chewed almost viciously on her lip but still, she did as she was told.
My blood hummed with power, throbbing through my body in time with the string quartet in Bach’s Cello Suite No. 9.
“You like doing what I tell to you to, farfellina? A little butterfly caught in my net,” I hummed. “Would you like to make yourself come for me?”
She licked her lips and the pulse in her pale throat throbbed.
“No thinking,” I reminded her, my voice thick with the music of my homeland. “Just do as I say, Savannah.”
I waited, staring into those wet velvet blue eyes and hoping beyond hopes she’d let me play with her mind while she played with her pussy.
With a gusty sigh, she tipped her head back against the leather seats, closed her eyes and brought one of her hands from her breasts down to her sex.
“Perfect,” I purred. “Are you wet for me?”
A low whimper was her response as she dunked two elegant fingers into her wet center. I could hear the liquid sounds of her arousal as
she dipped in and out but I couldn’t get the right visual.
“Take off your underwear.”
Her eyes flew open. “Sebastian… I’m, well, I’m not as young as––”
“Take. Off. Your. Underwear.”
With her lower lip tucked between her teeth she carefully peeled her white satin panties down her legs. I held my hand out for them.
“Seb,” she breathed, part protest and part plea.
I flexed my fingers. “Give them to me.”
She leaned closer to put them in my hand, the intoxicating scent of her expensive floral perfume mingling with the heady fragrance of her pussy. I brought the wet scrap of fabric to my nose and inhaled deeply as I locked eyes with her.
Savannah’s breath stuttered through her open lips as she watched me.
“Lean back, spread those gorgeous legs and play with yourself for me.”
“You aren’t going to play with me yourself?” she questioned softly, an edge of neediness to her words that thrilled me.
“No.” I crossed my wrists over the steering wheel and relaxed back in the seat so I could watch her through the rearview mirror. “You want to be dirty again, Savvy? A woman like you, a lady with pearls and silk dresses and a chauffeur to drive you around?”
“Yes,” she hissed softly as she parted her legs wide and exposed the pink folds of her golden-haired cunt to my gaze.
My voice was in my throat when I said, “I don’t need to put my hands on you to show you what a dirty slut you can be, duchessa. Doing all the filthy things I tell you to do with your own classy hands is even better. You’re going to come all over that leather seat with only my words and your fingers taking you there.”
“Oh,” she breathed, her legs spasming at my words. “Yes.”
I didn’t tell her there was also no way I was risking my job further, a job I desperately needed, by actually touching her. At least this way, once the drink wore off and the passion faded, I could hide behind the fact that she’d technically done everything herself.
“Say my name when you come,” I told her. “Rub that clit for me and add another finger to your pussy. I want to hear how wet I make you.”
Even in the dark, I could see how her perfect pale skin was pebbled with goosebumps. I wanted to count each mogul with my tongue, taste the bitterness of her perfume at her pulse points and feel them pound viciously with her heartbeat.
I wanted to grip my cock too, jerk off violently to the erotic perfection in the back seat but I wouldn’t.
I’d lived a life that taught me early. All acts were expressions of power, denoting either an abundance or lack of clout. In this situation, la duchesa in all her ladylike faultlessness sitting in a car I was the driver of but didn’t even own, I needed to accrue all the power I could scrape together. Savannah may have been higher than me on the social scale, but between us, especially when her cunt was bared, I was the one in control.
“I’ve been wondering what you taste like,” I told her conversationally, only my words were more bass and persuasion than treble and volume. “Do you taste like sugar, sweet Savvy? Melted caramel spilled between your thighs for me to lick up?” I received a panting gasp in response as her fingers slid through the wet mess of her pussy. “Or are you salty and fresh like ocean water, like a mermaid drenched up from the sea?”
“Sebastian,” she said and the whole world seemed handed to me in that one word.
It was an offering that no man however disciplined could refuse. And I wasn’t disciplined, I was a hedonist and Savannah Meyers was quickly becoming a buffet of pleasure.
“Taste yourself,” I told her. “Take those fingers out of your sucking pussy and sink them deep between those pretty red lips.”
When she hesitated, I growled low and watched her shudder almost violently at the sound of it.
“Do it.”
She did. Her fingers trembled, slick with moisture that glowed silver in the moonlight spilling in through the tinted car windows. I held her eyes as she brought them to her parted lips then slowly slid them over her tongue and straight to the back of her mouth before closing her lips in a tight seal. I could hear the noise of her sucking, licking and swirling. My cock was so hard it felt bruised and beaten, throbbing painfully in my unforgiving trousers. I squeezed a big hand hard around it for a long beat as I watched Savannah lick her fingers clean.
“What a good little slut you are, Mrs. Meyers,” I praised her, my voice warm because I wasn’t sure how she would respond to the degradation and I wanted her to know I meant it as the most perverted kind of compliment.
Her eyes, closed to focus on her oral skills, opened to half-mast and she purred with pleasure when she said, “Thank you, Sebastian.”
“You’re welcome. Now, add another finger to that tight pussy. If you ever want to replace it with my cock, you’ll need to get used to feeling full up.”
She moaned softly, immediately returning her saliva slick fingers to her cunt. I could see her wetness glimmer on the insides of her thighs above her stockings, on the rich leather under her ass, and a dark part of me, the part born in dark alleys and seedy backrooms, wanted to force her to lick up her cum from the seat when I was finished with her.
“Would you do anything to please me, Savvy? To be my perfect, gorgeous slut?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
I studied her. She was still too lovely, too untouched by sin. I wanted her dirty, corrupted by my words until she spilled over, ugly but frank like garbage from a split bag.
“Has anyone ever played with your ass before?” I asked her.
“Oh, my goodness,” she panted, her fingers pumping faster.
I grinned darkly. “Tilt your hips, and place one of your legs up on the seat beside you so I can see all of you. Then suck on your left index finger and trace it slowly over that tight asshole.”
She did as I bid immediately, so far gone that her flush was a permanent red stain under her normally flawless white skin and her eyes were open to mere slits. I groaned loudly at the sight of her dusky rosebud as she opened herself up to me and then cursed viciously in Italian when, without hesitation, she sucked on a finger, traced it over her rim and then plunged it inside with a rumbling moan.
Her head thrust back against the seat and she squeezed her eyes tight, her features twisted into a grotesque but completely compelling look of pain edged pleasure.
“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” I taunted her softly. “You’re allowed to, Savvy. Show me what a dirty woman you can be. Imagine it’s me in that pussy, and your husband in that tight ass.”
“Fuck,” she shouted, her fingers beating into her flesh loudly, brutally.
I imagine it too, my cock inside her, rubbing against Adam Meyers snug deep in her ass, our big bodies sandwiching her between us.
Ruthlessly, I squeezed my balls through my pants so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself by coming in them.
“Imagine us sawing back and forth inside you, filling you up until you don’t even have room to breathe. Would you come for us like that, dirty duchesa? Show me how you’d come for us.”
With a hoarse shout, she came. I watched her wetness seep out over her pounding fingers, how her thighs shook and her breasts heaved. She was sweating, panting out of breath, her hair tangled into golden ropes, her clothes all in disarray, and I’d never seen Savannah Meyers so goddamn gorgeous.
“Good girl,” I muttered softly as she came down.
I gave her privacy to recover without my searing gaze even though I wanted to share that time with her, pulled her soft, slaked body into my arms and fit her warmed curves to my granite edges. Instead, I started the Rolls and pulled back onto the road to take her home. By the time we reached her flat, my dirty Savvy was gone and proper Mrs. Savannah Meyers was back in her place, ankles crossed, hands loosely clasped. Only a few tangles marred her perfection but my belly heated again knowing I’d been the one to muss her.
We made eye contact and I watched
as her flush reappeared, a flash like a warning sign, before she reined in her reaction.
“I suppose we’ll do as the British do and pretend this never happened?” I said with a small wink, even though inside something in my chest was curling up with decay.
She opened her mouth, her brow furrowed in protest but then she closed it again and sighed heavily. After looking out the window for a moment, she looked back at me and smiled sadly.
“Thank you, Sebastian,” she murmured.
I fought the urge to laugh just as hard as I fought the urge to shout in misery. Who was I to think that a man like me could steal a woman like her from an international icon like Adam fucking Meyers?
“Any time, Savvy,” I told her, my face a firm mark of charm.
She bit her lip then nodded and got out of the car. I cursed under my breath as soon as she was gone then steadied my still pounding heart with three deep breaths. I cursed again when there was a soft tap tap against my window and I looked up to see Savannah peering through.
I lowered the pane, but she was already speaking before it was even open an inch.
“I’ve already told you I’m a selfish creature and a greedy one. I take what I want when I want it and I won’t let anything stand in my way on the path to acquiring it. Well, I think you should know, I want you now, Sebastian. I want you now so badly I feel it in my blood like a dangerous drug. So, I’m warning you, I’ll find a way to have you.”
I blinked at her, completely blindsided by her speech, so it was incredibly easy for her to lean forward and press a chaste kiss to my slack lips. A kiss that seared itself like a brand into my skin so that even a minute later when she disappeared into the house, and an hour after that when I finally arrived home, and then the next morning when I woke up already on the edge of ejaculation, I felt that kiss tattooed on my mouth.
* * *
It was difficult to see through the bright lights on the stage that fell away as sheer as a cliff drop to inky blackness over the audience, but he was sitting in the front row, so he was impossible to miss even in the shadows.
Adam Meyers. Six-time nominee for an Oscar, two-time winner, with literally dozens of other accolades under his belt. Best friend to British royalty and husband to Savannah fucking Meyers.