by Jess Bentley
Like, they’re going to ask me to take off my goddamn shoes. My goddamn, handmade, Italian leather shoes are supposed to go in a scruffy plastic bin where two hundred thousand pairs of other, lesser shoes have also been.
What the ever-loving fuck.
But, it’ll give me time to plot my revenge. I’ve got a lot of options. He could wake up with paparazzi hanging upside down outside his window to get shots of him sleeping naked across triplet prostitutes. That could be fun.
Of course, I would have to arrange for the prostitutes also, and I’m not sure I have a connection for that anymore after the last time. Royce explicitly outlawed unapproved female companionship, and he didn’t think it was funny when I procured a few conference ladies from Taiwan to “entertain” Brock until he was horny and mostly unconscious. He made it clear I was not to defy his rules again.
Without chicks, my options are limited but not impossible. I could sneak some shellfish into his dinner. Most of what he eats are those girly chopped salads anyway. He probably wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. But I guess there’s always a chance he’d actually go into anaphylactic shock and die, which makes the joke slightly less funny.
Cutting brake lines, adulterating his gas tank, flattening the tire of his racecar… Jeez. I am going to have to come up with something slightly less murderous. Maybe I should think about it another time so I can aim for funny instead of likely to get me locked up in prison for the rest of my life.
I’m assuming juries would find me less than likable if I bumped off my twin brother as revenge for taking our private jet back to Chicago without leaving me another one. People can be so petty.
He didn’t even spring for expedited boarding or anything. Brock is a fucking jerk. Even though we look the same, we sound the same, and people constantly get us mixed up for one another, he’s definitely more evil than me. Definitely. I don’t care what anybody says.
For instance, he is constantly copying my facial hair. If I get a haircut, he gets a haircut. If I get three-day stubble, he has three days’ stubble. He must have surveillance in every bathroom in our hotels. The penthouses, at least. Because somehow he always, always knows what I’m doing with the hair above my neck. And he thinks it’s hilarious to always have the same thing going.
See? Absolutely diabolical.
I practice some deep-breathing exercises that a certain actress/guru taught me, in order to relax. In for a count of three, hold it, out for a count of three. I mean, she taught them to me as a way to get me to double my load when I come. To my surprise, it kind of works.
It also is supposed to line up my theta waves or some bullshit like that. How they manage to get into my ball sack is a whole other mystery. But for right now, it’s helping me get through the security line, winding through the cattle chute like an ordinary citizen.
When I finally get up to the TSA checkpoint, I hand the agent my ticket and smile. She is short and squat, obviously worn down from a lifetime of watching her American brothers and sisters file through the line in front of her. I can only imagine her overwhelming sense of weariness and disgust. So I smile at her, hoping to brighten her day and get through this line a little faster.
“Something funny, sir?” she asks me menacingly.
I am totally confused. “Funny? No, not at all. I can barely find anything funny about this at all, um, Shawna. What a lovely name.”
Her upper lip curls like she’s snarling. Jesus. What the hell happened to this woman?
“You realize I’m authorized to detain you for any reason, sir? You realize that making threats to a federal agent is a crime?”
I hold my hands up to show that I am innocent.
“Shawna, my deepest apologies. Sincerely. I’m sorry.”
She stares at my boarding ticket like she’s looking for any possible errors she might use to kick me right out of the airport. At this point, I’ve given up hope of flirting my way out of this line. I’ll be happy to just not be arrested.
Oh, this is the most obnoxious practical joke ever. Brock is going to rue this day.
Honestly, just how allergic is he to shellfish? I mean, he probably wouldn’t die, right? It could be comedy gold.
Finally she picks up a stamp and jams it against the ink pad, then smacks the front of the boarding pass and hands it back to me without another word. She cranes her head to the side and holds up a hand with scarlet, spiky fingernails, gesturing to the person behind me.
“Next!”
“Yeah, hi, I don’t know if I have everything I need?” comes a throaty voice from a little pipsqueak of a woman. She pushes up next to me, dragging her heavy, workmanlike boots against my fine Italian loafers.
“Watch the shoes, please,” I mutter mostly to myself.
She looks up at me, startled. She’s got big brown eyes and a glossy bob that sweeps the top of her forehead. She looks like a little porcelain doll, with a distinctly sassy attitude.
“Excuse me? Aren’t you done?” she challenges me, one sable eyebrow arching imperiously.
“Sir? Do I need to call an officer to escort you?” Shawna begins to yell. She’s winding up like an air raid siren, giving me the distinct impression that this is my warning shot.
“Yes I’m done… but you need to show her your boarding pass,” I say as I back away, holding my hands up higher.
She takes a deep breath and pouts, shuffling papers in her hand. Finally she holds them all out to Shawna and shrugs helplessly at her. Shawna picks them from her hands with her long claws, jiggling one from the bunch and holding it up like it is some kind of biohazard.
“This is what you need. Boarding pass. Haven’t you ever been on an airplane before?”
“Well, no, actually,” the little brunette admits.
Shawna takes a stamp and bangs on the front of the paper immediately, shoving the entire sheaf back at her.
“Wait, is that it?” I object. “You just go ahead and stamp her pass right away? Just like that? You were not that nice to me.”
Shawna picks the radio up from her shoulder holster and holds it next to her chin menacingly. “Sir? Do we have a problem here? I am not going to ask you again.”
“Jeez, fine, no problem,” I say as I back away, heading to the next section of the line. Two more eight-foot-tall security guards give me a look like they want to piledrive me in the middle of the body scanner, just for fun. I’m not ready to die today, so I tell myself to shut up and do this.
Despite all the friends I don’t seem to be making, I do manage to make it through security. The gate is not too far away, and the flight leaves in thirty-five minutes. I suppose if Brock wanted me to also miss the flight, he’s going to be a little disappointed.
Carefully I make my way as quickly as possible down the wide hallway, careful to avoid the golf carts full of senior citizens as well as the sprawling crowds of families with small children. They tend to spread out at inconvenient times and do things like vomit or yell or erupt slushies unexpectedly. All I want at this point is to get to the gate and get in my seat. That’s it.
And here she is, coming up right behind me. The little brunette. She’s scowling, constantly glancing down at her boarding pass as she rolls her luggage behind her. I hear those heavy boots clomping on the terrazzo floor.
We finally make it to the gate with a few minutes to spare and I let her shoot in front of me. She walks right up to the open door and hands her boarding pass to the attendant, who swipes the barcode and instructs her to go through the door. As she saunters down the ramp, I can’t help but notice that loose swish in her hips as her skirt sways back and forth. She has got that nice flexibility some girls have. There’s a certain snap to her joints that makes me think about pushing her knees back to her shoulders.
There we go. That’s the sort of thing that will get my mind off Brock.
The first-class section on this plane only happens to be about half-full, and only comprises six seats in any case. Still, as soon as she checks h
er ticket and glances up at the number above the row, I know exactly where she’s headed. Right next to me.
“Here, let me put that in the overhead bin for you,” I say, coming up close behind her. She doesn’t flinch, but instead glances back over her shoulder at me, those big brown eyes innocent and inviting at the same time.
“That would be nice, thank you,” she murmurs. Her breath is like sweet coffee. Coffee with vanilla perhaps. I bet she tastes like candy.
She settles into her seat and clasps the belt over her hips obediently.
Slowly I sidle past her, watching how her eyes track across the front of my trousers. Saucy little minx, isn’t she? Just checking out my cock, just like that? Brave. I like that.
As the engines rev up, I can feel her glancing at me and past me, looking out the window at the ground crews as they get out of the way. The plane starts to back away from the gate and her fingers immediately grasp the armrests.
Amused, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. I can hear her breath coming out of her nose in short gusts and notice the white ridges of her knuckles. She’s absolutely new to this, and it’s sort of thrilling. She’s like an untested animal, thrown into a situation where it doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t seem to be totally lost, but neither is she confident. Alert.
As we taxi down the runway, the jet picks up speed. The engines blare, then roar. The woman begins to make a noise, a low groan that is both urgent and sexy at the same time.
Finally we hit the right speed and the nose of the plane tips up. Our bodies are crushed against the not-quite-luxurious seats. I sort of wish I were sharing this with her on my jet, which is twice as fast and really luxurious. That would’ve really knocked her socks off.
She glances out the window, only to see the horizon disappear as the plane takes off. She gasps and reaches out, clutching my hand with her tiny, hot fingers.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she mumbles, clearly terrified.
“It’s all right,” I chuckle. Her nails are digging against my palm. “Here, just try to relax, okay? Look at me.”
She nods stiffly, forcing her eyes to meet mine. I find myself smiling, enjoying the thrill of her fear. Not in a crazy way. Not in a serial killer way… it’s just that she seems so real right now, so unguarded and present in a way most people never are.
I have got to admit, it’s getting me really fucking hard.
Tears gather on her lower lids, reflecting tiny blue slices of sky. Her lower lip trembles and her nostrils flare with every breath.
“That’s good, that’s good,” I coach her. “We’re just talking off. Absolutely normal. You’re perfectly safe.”
She nods, refusing to stop looking into my eyes. It’s so intense to be sharing this with a stranger; I hope it doesn’t end right away. I want to see more of what this is like. Her eyes are deep as wells, dark as coffee. I bet her boyfriend or whatever enjoys gazing into those eyes, falling into them.
“Just breathe,” I tell her, pleased to see that she does as I say. “That’s good. You want to tell me your name?”
She shakes her head. She seems a little confused, mute with fear.
“Well, that’s all right,” I soothe her. “My name is Trey. You don’t have to tell me your name. We’ll only be together for an hour anyway.”
She nods, and I can hear that her breath is slowly returning to a normal rate. Still, her fingers dig into my hand, and I’m sure she’s going to leave little crescent-shaped welts, if not scabs. That’s the sort of thing that my brothers are going to see right away. Royce is not going to be very happy with me if he thinks I banged some unapproved female in DC.
“You know what, I’ve got an idea,” I suggest, reaching forward with my free hand to take the plastic wrapped blanket out of the holder. I snap it out, letting it drape over both of us as I gently disengage her claws from the flesh of my hand. I can feel it stinging and I’m certain she’s drawn blood.
“There, isn’t that nice? Nice blanket, nice and warm. You can relax now, okay?”
But she won’t stop staring at me. She’s breathing through her pursed lips, making a whooshing noise with every breath.
“If you keep that up, you are going to hyperventilate,” I tell her. “Is there anything else you can do? Something else that calms you? You have a Xanax or something?”
“Can you make me come?”
I pause, wondering for a moment if this is all part of Brock’s plan. Is she a plant? A prostitute? Did he hire her?
But the fear in her eyes is definitely genuine. The connection between us is pulsing, and that’s definitely real. If she is a hooker, she’s a great one.
“Did you say—”
“Yes,” she says quickly. “I know it sounds weird. You don’t know me, but that’s okay, right? But it relaxes me. And right now… is that too crazy? I just feel like…”
“Honey, if that’s what you need, you have come to the right place,” I smile. “You just relax and let me get you off.”
And I’ll be damned if she doesn’t just lie back in her seat, pressing the button to recline it like a pro. She tugs the blanket over her and then draws my hand to her hot little crotch. Her skirt slides up over her knees as she guides my fingers toward the pulsing, damp mound of her sex.
When the flight attendant passes us, I just shake my head at her in warning. I don’t want her crappy champagne. I don’t want her interrupting me.
My fingers slide over the damp silky fabric of her panties, my pinky tracing a line up her smooth, velvety thighs. She presses her lips together and sighs through her nose, breathing more deeply than she was before.
“That’s it, girl,” I murmur, close to her shoulder.
“No... more than that,” she complains, brushing my hand aside and jerking her panties down. When they’re almost to her knees he grabs my hand again and presses it against her swollen, slick lips. “There. Please.”
I’m hard as a rock, practically coming in my pants as I glide two fingers between her swollen lips. She is so juicy and thick, ready to be fucked. I briefly consider picking her up by the hips and jamming her onto the head of my cock, but something stops me and it isn’t Royce’s stupid fucking rules. She was so nice to give me explicit directions, I figure the least I can do is obey.
My fingers slide against her pussy, opening her up while my index finger circles the tiny pearl of her clit. She thrusts against my fingers, encouraging me to go little harder, a little faster. When I dip down toward her sweet, dark hole, she clamps her thighs around my hand.
“Not there,” she breathes with her eyes still closed. “Stay on my clit, Trey. Make me come. Do it.”
My mind is racing, but I just do what she tells me. Who is this woman? She bosses me around like she knows me or something.
Her hips grind around in circles, running counter to the motion of my finger. I feel her juices gushing, coating my fingers in her sweet nectar.
“Yes, yes,” she begins to moan. “That’s perfect. That’s exactly… unnnnnhhh!”
I am almost sorry to see her come, but completely enchanted too. I don’t want it to be over, so I try to memorize everything… The way her eyelashes flutter. The way her chin rises as her mouth opens. The urgent beating of her heart at the pit of her throat.
She jams her hands down against mine, holding me still as her back arches and her pelvis rocks. Hot, sticky wetness coats my palm. My dick jumps painfully, practically lurching toward her.
Finally she slumps, spent. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes, turning to me with a faint smile as she reaches down to pull her panties back up. She nudges my hand out of the way and smooths her skirt down like nothing ever happened.
“Thank you. I feel so much better,” she smiles through a satisfied yawn.
“My pleasure,” I tell her honestly.
Without another word, she curls her knees up in the oversized seat. A few seconds later she’s snoring sweetly, her face untroubled and relaxed.
I draw my hand up to my face to smell her, breathing deeply that secret musk she shared with a complete stranger, just like that.
What an incredible creature.
Chapter 4
Royce
Sully appears in the doorway, blocking it out almost entirely. He’s enormous, practically doorway-sized himself. He even fought MMA for a time until our attorneys talked him out of it. It would just be too easy for him to brain some poor guy and end up on the other end of a lawsuit. We are always being targeted like that. We can’t ever afford to do what we want, it seems.
“What’s up? I was about to go down for a swim. You want to race laps?”
I hop off the treadmill, wiping the back of my neck with a towel. Sully glances over the free weights, obviously tempted. There are few things he likes more than a challenge.
“Actually, I don’t really have time,” he admits sadly. “I need to be in Detroit in a couple hours.”
“I thought the deal was done?” I ask absentmindedly, punching in directions to the elliptical. Out of the corner of my eye I can see us both in the full-length mirrors along one wall. He may be younger than me, but I’m still holding together pretty well. I could take him in the swimming pool. Maybe only by half a second or two, but I’m pretty sure I could still beat him.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too. But now there’s something about views across the river toward Windsor… the casino… all that crap. I gotta go make sure everybody knows who’s in charge.”
“You’re in charge,” I remind him. “Don’t let those Canadians boss you around. They seem polite but… you know.”
He holds his hands out helplessly. For all his size and strength, he is always legitimately surprised when people want to take advantage of him. He takes it a little too personally, I think.
“Right? I mean, how far does that politeness thing go? They’re not going to take me for another half a million, I can tell you that.”
I snap the heart rate monitor onto my ear lobe and start pumping against the highest level of resistance. I know I am supposed to start out slow, but why bother? I like to just go right for it, start right in.