Dr. Stud

by Jess Bentley

Still, I would like the chance to give Dahlia a little bit of a hard time about it, after all her pompous security fairy tale bull. Then again, maybe she didn’t really know. But maybe August knew, and maybe he could sense that I would be completely down with this. It’s fantastic. Assuming everybody is as beautiful as Royce, I don’t see how I could ever complain.

  And assuming, of course, that baby Sophia is cool with me too.

  Yeah. Because apparently that part of the job is serious too. Yikes. Can’t forget the tiny human life I’ll be entrusted to foster.

  The bartender walks over, modestly keeping his eyes down. I suppose he sees a lot of single women in this bar, hanging out and waiting for their lovers. He probably has to use a lot of discretion.

  “Another drink, miss?” he murmurs.

  I lick my lips, surprised to note how parched I feel. Royce definitely woke something up inside me. A deep thirst.

  “Wellllllllll,” I sigh, tapping my straw against the cream-colored paper napkin, “I really shouldn’t. I mean I really shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be at a job interview upstairs in a half an hour… oh. Eighteen minutes. That was fast.”

  “I see,” he murmurs confidentially.

  “So maybe just the check?” I offer with a shrug. I’m sort of sad I’m not going to be able to have another drink. I could really use two or three or seven more.

  “No check, miss,” he smiles, still keeping his eyes averted. “You can have whatever you want here.”

  “Oh,” I inhale sharply.

  He walks away, and I’m almost certain that he is not smirking at me. I can have whatever I want? With no check?

  So he must know who I am, and that means he knows why I am here… and probably what the Worth brothers are interviewing me for.

  He’s got a hell of a lot of nerve, judging me.

  “Actually, sir?” I ask in a raised voice. “Just a quick shot of Patron, okay? One for the road.”

  “Yes, miss,” he answers right away.

  Immediately he pours out some tequila from a fancy bottle into an elegant stainless steel shaker with a few ice cubes and begins rattling it vigorously over one shoulder. He pours it into a small, decorative glass and slides it in front of me with a small plate containing thinly sliced limes and a tiny pile of pink salt.

  I don’t even care how nice this hotel is or who sees me. I lick the back of my hand, then dunk it into the salt and pop it back into my mouth. Then I shoot the tequila and finish up by putting a whole lime slice on my tongue. It burns like hell in my sore mouth, but I don’t even care.

  That’ll show him.

  “Thanks so much!” I singsong as I walk away, surprised to find that my knees are actually a little bit wobbly. I guess three ounces of hard alcohol in forty-five minutes is sort of a lot, and I might even be a little bit tipsy.

  “Miss Bunny? Miss Bunny?" I hear a voice say as I am crossing the elegant foyer toward the elevators I used earlier this morning. I glance over my shoulder and see a small, wiry older woman with a manic smile headed right for me.

  “Yoo-hoo!!” she calls out hopefully.

  “Are you looking for me?” I ask her, careful to keep my voice completely even and sober-sounding. So far, so good.

  “Mr. Worth is expecting you?”

  My hand drifts toward the elevators. “Yes, I was just going up to see him. Mr. Worth.”

  She stops when she’s about three inches away from me, then averts her eyes the same way as the bartender. What is it with these people? Is this some kind of witness protection program? Like, they won’t be able to testify against me or something?

  “Yes, certainly,” she continues conspiratorially. “May I show you to the private elevators? I’m afraid the guest elevators don’t access the West Penthouse.”

  “Oh, certainly,” I smile, confused. “It’s a good thing you stopped me. I would’ve been riding elevators all afternoon!”

  “Oh, we can’t have that!” she sighs, cupping my elbow gently and guiding me in a way that almost feels like I’m not being guided at all.

  We hustle across the foyer and around the back of the reception desk to an ornate set of doors. She opens one of the doors, and behind it is an accordion-style metal grate that leads onto vast nothingness. Immediately, I hear a metallic whirring and watch as the metal bar descends, revealing first a pair of feet in shiny shoes, then some sharply pressed trousers. When the whole elevator car is even with this floor, the man jerks the old-fashioned lever to stop it and pries the gate open.

  “Miss Bunny?” he asks me with a smile. “Shall we?”

  The woman pushes me gently toward the elevator car and I climb into it, fascinated. I’ve never seen one of these except in the movies. It must be ancient.

  The operator drags the security gate closed with a clang, then grabs the wooden handle of the control. It’s worn and shiny, looking sort of like the control of an old pirate ship or something. There are no buttons, just this man working this lever.

  The elevator shoots up quickly, rocketing toward the top floor. I place a hand against the flocked wallpaper to steady myself, appreciating the carved wooden decorations that adorn the ceiling. I’m pretty sure that’s Art Deco. I saw a movie about it once or something.

  “Here you are, Miss Bunny,” he says in a soothing voice as the elevator slows to a stop. He opens the gate for me and holds out a hand toward the vast room in front of me.

  Biting my lips together, I hold my breath and force myself to walk in. This is not like anything I’ve ever seen before, except maybe in magazines or old films. It’s dark with wood paneling and tall velvet curtains. Light comes through the two-story windows and falls on the floor in golden trapezoids.

  There are pedestals with statues and painted vases distributed artfully across the room, as well as tables of various sizes with chairs arranged around them. Along one wall, there is an oversized pool table with two red balls on top of it. And on top of the fireplace, the front half of a moose hangs, glaring hoarily out at the room.

  “This is our father’s taste in decorating,” comes a voice.

  “Yes it’s quite… impressive,” I blurt out, searching for the right word. “I feel like I’m in church, or in a movie about kings and queens of England or something.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to think,” he informs me.

  The light from the windows has me a little bit blinded, and I squint toward where his voice is coming from. As he approaches me, he seems quite familiar.

  It’s Trey. The man from first class.

  The man who… oh jeez.

  I suddenly realize I’ve been sitting in the lobby of his hotel, getting day drunk on his tab after blowing his brother. Not a big deal, considering yesterday I made him get me off under a blanket at thirty thousand feet.

  Sure. Why not.

  But as he steps into the light, he doesn’t seem embarrassed, so why should I? He smiles, his cheeks dimpling just a little bit. Not a whole lot—not like a cheerleader’s dimple. More like a manly sign of approval.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I do enjoy a glass of champagne,” I smile, referring to the complimentary drink the airline attendant tried to offer me that I was too horny to accept.

  He smiles back, his lips parting over perfect, white teeth.

  “I like where your head is at,” he says approvingly. “Let’s do that.”

  As he walks to the bar area, I notice that he seems a little bit different than he did at the airport. Airports stress everybody out, I guess. I thought that TSA lady was going to have him arrested.

  But now that he’s back in his home environment, this is a different sort of man. He walks with an animal strength, as though he’s only using 2 percent of the strength that he has. Like he could pounce into action at any time.

  He returns with two champagne glasses filled with bubbling golden liquid and hands me one.

  “Let’s get to know each other a little better, shall we?” he ask
s, pulling out a round-backed club chair for me. I sink into the antique leather, suddenly weary all the way down to my bones.

  “Ask me anything,” I quip as I draw the glass up to my nose, sniffing against the tiny bubbles that burst in my nostrils. “I’m an open book.”

  “Oh, I don’t think this has to be that kind of interview,” he sighs. “Let’s just have a conversation, if that’s all right with you? My brothers will probably ask you every question under the sun, anyway. No need for me to be redundant.”

  “Of course,” I smile, remembering how he confidently fingered my pussy, bringing me to a quick and wonderful orgasm, exactly what I needed on my first airplane ride. “I mean, I feel like we already know quite a bit about each other. I’m a very good judge of character.”

  He raises his eyebrows in a friendly challenge. The sunlight glances off the sculpted waves of his dark-blond hair. From the side, I can see his eyes are light green-gray. He looks very little like Royce, and I assume they take after different parents. I wonder if his light coloring came from his mother or father.

  “I like to think I’m a good judge of character too,” he answers. “So, are you comfortable?”

  “With the nanny… arrangement? Is that what you mean?” I ask brazenly.

  I’m happy to see his grateful smile. I can tell that’s not a question he wanted to ask directly.

  “I’m completely comfortable,” I shrug. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  “That’s good,” he nods. “I’m happy that you’re here. And was your meeting with Royce satisfactory?”

  I suddenly realize that I’m being just a little bit dumb. Of course, when he said he wanted to have a conversation he didn’t mean that he wanted to have a real conversation. He’s just talking like a rich guy with manners, of course. He means, can I blow him too?

  Well, turnabout is fair play, isn’t it?

  “I would say that I started this trip completely satisfied,” I smirk, setting my champagne flute on the table and sliding from my chair. I knee-walk slowly toward him across the thick, plush carpeting.

  “Ah, ahem... that’s wonderful to hear,” he says in a thick voice as he watches me approaching. When I finally reach him, I drag my nails across his knees, pushing them open so I can wedge myself between them.

  “Oh, you are an unusual creature,” he murmurs. His hand slides up my shoulder and cups the back of my neck.

  My pussy is instantly wet again, remembering how he treated me. Now I want to make him feel just as good. I slide my hands up his trousers and find his throbbing cock, taking it out through his fly. He slides down the chair so I can wrap my lips around it, covering him in slick saliva so that I can mouth the entire shaft.

  “Ohhhhhh, unhhhhh, my God,” he moans, bucking against my tongue.

  The soreness in my mouth goes away quickly as I set to the task of getting him as hard as he possibly can be. I cheat a little bit by using both my hands instead of deep-throating him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  I’ve got his cock in both my hands, sucking hard on the head when I hear a door open. I open one eye to see what’s going on and see… him? Also coming through the door?

  “Fuck yes... you’re gonna make me come!” he groans, plunging his cock against my mouth. I squint my eyes closed again, sure that I’m hallucinating or suddenly extremely drunk. Could he have drugged me in the champagne or something?

  But I’ve got a job to do, and I’m going to do it. I squeeze his cock against my palms, urging him to come. He obliges instantly, jamming his dick to the back of my throat and emptying himself directly into my stomach.

  “Oh, this is a pretty sight,” comes a voice from the side. I open my eyes again to see his mirror image standing over us, a wide smile on his face.

  “Trey? What’s going on?” I ask the man in the chair as his dick goes soft against his thigh. His eyes are half closed and his mouth is open.

  “That’s Brock,” the other voice says. I look up at him in alarm, then back at the nearly comatose man I just sucked off.

  “He’s… wait. Who? What’s going on here?” I ask nervously, standing up and wiping my mouth.

  The other man smiles and saunters toward the table, picking up a glass of champagne and downing half of it.

  “I’m Trey. Remember me? From the airplane?” he reiterates slowly so I can figure it out.

  The room is kind of swimming, kind of slipping back and forth like water sloshing in a bucket.

  “Of course I remember you,” I mutter.

  “And that’s my brother, Brock,” he continues. “Don’t worry. Lots of people can’t tell us apart. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed of anything!” I huff defensively.

  Trey—the real Trey—looks me up and down slowly, his nostrils flaring like he’s trying to smell me from where he stands.

  “That’s a good quality in a woman,” he says. “So, do you think I can get your name this time?”

  “It’s Bunny,” Brock sighs, half asleep in his club chair with his cock hanging out. “Her name is Bunny and I really like her. We should hire her.”

  I turn back toward Trey—the real one. He smirks amiably.

  “Well, looks like you’re winning us all over, Bunny. Now we have just got to convince Spencer to give you the papers, and we’re good to go.”

  “Really?” I choke out. The room is starting to swim and I think I’d like to take a nap on that pool table, more than just about anything.

  “Really,” he confirms. “So, you want a room? Maybe a nap? I’d love to show off the hotel a bit.”

  “You read my mind,” I confess.

  “Seems like I’m pretty good at that,” he answers.

  Chapter 6

  Trey

  As soon as I pass through the kitchen in my father’s penthouse apartment suite, I’m struck by a familiar sound. Slowing, I walk quietly into the parlor, gathering details in the dim light.

  It’s early afternoon, and the light from the tall, nearly two-story windows streaks across the room like a living presence. Compared to the walnut paneling, the contrast is striking, almost blinding.

  Oh, ho, ho! What have we here?

  Brock is sprawled out on a club chair with his fly open and his head tipped back. His mouth lolls open as he moans shamelessly. Between his legs is a kneeling woman, bent over and sucking his cock like a real champ.

  She uses both hands, twisting and pistoning them through the spit that drips down his dick. As she moves, I see her ass cheeks clenching and spreading, almost visible under that little skirt. As a matter of fact, I could probably walk right up there and take her from behind. Get the three of us going together, like the old days. Maybe she likes it in the ass, even. Maybe I could fuck her ass without ever even seeing her face.

  Suddenly she turns toward me, opening one eye with her cheeks caved in and my brother’s wet cock gleaming from between her berry-pink lips. Her eyes go wide.

  “Unnnnh….” he groans, “you’re gonna make me come!”

  I only have a few moments to process this. Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? That’s the woman from the plane, I’m certain of it. I recognize her bob haircut and those gigantic brown eyes. More importantly, I recognize that round, lithe ass. I recognize the fuck out of it.

  But in a surprising show of personal mettle, she does not stop fellating Brock just because I’m here. That is some admirable dedication to a task. I am really impressed.

  Brock comes with an animal groan, arching his back. He’ll be done in a few seconds, and I organize my thoughts. This must be the woman we’re interviewing for the nanny position. Good thing I didn’t know that on the plane; Royce would not have been cool with my fingers inside her.

  What should I say to her? Play it cool? Definitely. Tease her about it? Well, I probably don’t know her that well yet. I would hate to scare her off at this point. She has piqued my interest, for sure.

  His dick slips from her mouth with a slurp.<
br />
  “Trey?” she says to him. “What is going on here?”

  Oh, how delightful! She thinks that’s my dick in her mouth! Well, I’m touched.

  “That’s not Trey,” I correct her with a smirk. “That’s my brother, Brock.”

  It always amuses me when people get us confused for one another. Or, actually, it amuses me how they try to back out of it. We know that we are identical. We are not embarrassed about it—but it sure seems a lot of other people are.

  Brock is still blissed out and half-stupid as we all try to negotiate this awkward situation. But she is stubborn, somehow making a stab at being dignified even while my brother’s cum is drying on that pointy little chin. She stands on her wobbly legs, looking around while babbling through some inane attempts at conversation.

  I really do admire that.

  Eventually we all get put back together and I finally ask for her name.

  “It’s Bunny,” Brock answers.

  She nods to confirm, one eyebrow quirked in challenge.

  I don’t take the bait: I’m not going to tease her about her name at all. Not yet.

  “Would you like to see your room? Maybe take a nap?” I ask her. I am vividly aware that Brock would probably like to take a nap right about now. I got her room info from Royce earlier and instructions to show her around. Little did I realize it was going to be the creature from the plane, who happens to be Bunny.

  I don’t know why I find that all so wonderful, but I do.

  “You read my mind,” she smiles.

  “I’m getting pretty good at that,” I observe.

  She slips her little hand around my bicep and I guide her from the room. She’s graceful, but a little wobbly. Then again, it sounds like she’s had a vigorous day so far.

  We are going to have to work to get her stamina up.

  “This is your kitchen?” she asks in a sleepy voice.

  I look around, seeing it through fresh eyes. It’s the size of a commercial kitchen, with top-of-the-line everything. When it was built in the early 1900s, it was just this size. Large kitchens were standard protocol back then, to accommodate a large number of staff. In the 1940s, it was downsized. In the 1970s, it was restored to its original size so that the caterers could use it. The space is wonderful for parties and has a breathtaking balcony view.