Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance

by Savannah Rose

  To the best of my knowledge, however, nobody has ever wanted me dead. Oh, there were more than a dozen women or so that wanted me castrated – but to be the target in the crosshairs?

  I'm sure people had thought about it, fantasized about it, but to go through the trouble of actually trying to pull it off? Rather admirable.

  Whoever Maria was, she had balls as big as coconuts.

  I bit off a smile as I watched her image on my screen. I wondered what was going through her mind right now, nearly naked and trussed up like a turkey in my private chambers.

  Her chest was heaving, slowly. And truth be told, she had a magnificent set of tits. A pair like that would be most memorable. Very ethnic. Dark areolas on tanned skin, her nipples like mocha, save for the very, very tips. Pink and luscious. Like desserts.

  But the most striking thing about those amazing breasts was that they didn’t ring even a single bell.

  I tapped the screen. Another minute watching the lovely Maria, and my escalating erection would bust through my zipper.

  I tucked my Samsung into my slacks, and pulled the material away from my crotch. Crossed my legs, and narrowed my gaze out the window.

  Who the fuck was she?

  “Not the time for porn, partner,” Martin chirped from across the limo. He took a sip of his dry martini, and winked at me over the rim of the glass.

  “It's always time, and fuck you.”

  Martin choked a tad on his dainty little swallow. “What's the matter? Blue balls?” He took a napkin from the holder, and dabbed the corner of his mouth.

  I leaned back against the seat, and stared at him. Wondered if I should tell him. Gay men are supposed to be great confidants. Too bad Martin wasn't gay.

  “First off, I've never had a case of blue balls in my life. Second, it's always time for porn, like I said, and third...”

  Martin set his glass in the holder, his olive untouched and bloated. Martin Stiller drank three martinis a day in precise six hour intervals, and not once did he ever eat the olive. I never asked him why. I'd known him for over ten years, and not once did I ever give a shit about his olive. I was thinking about it now, though, and that bothered me.

  He waved his fingers together and cocked his head. “Third…?”

  “We need a new security company.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  Because a crazy Latina broke into my office and waved a gun in my face. Not to worry because she's tied up on my bed right now, but those two goons…. Peter and Robert, I think… never even saw her come in. I had to call them, can you fucking believe that. I had to call my own security team to tell them about a breach in security when they weren’t meant to be manning the fucking cameras.

  “Maddox..? We need a new security company because..?”

  I reached for a mineral water from the fridge. Lemon flavored. I hated lemon flavored. I unscrewed the top, took a huge swig, and began pulling the label off the bottle.

  “Because I'm unsatisfied with their service,” I said, which was a good enough reason, if you ask me. “Why don't you ever eat the olive?”

  Martin took a quick glance at his glass, specifically the olive, then back to me. “You off your game, Petersen? Because now is a really fucked up time for you to be in some sort of state.”

  “I'm good, man. Seriously. Just some stupid shit back at the office. But I’m not off my game.” I pondered on those last words for a minute. Then another minute. I dug my phone out again and tapped on my camera feed.

  “Maddox?”

  “Just a god damn minute, okay?” I growled, setting the crop square around Maria's face and zooming in. For a moment, I couldn’t decide who was prettier. Her or her tits. Not that it mattered.

  I stared at my screen again, more adamantly this time. With purpose.

  It looked like she was sleeping. Fitfully. Her head lolled to the side. Her chest rising faster and faster. Like she was in the midst of some nightmare or the other. Hmm…well, I guess she kinda was. Though, the beginning of that nightmare hadn’t quite started yet.

  Open your eyes, baby doll, I thought.

  “Maddox? Seriously, dude. We're going to be there in ten minutes, don't you think we should go over the plan? A little?”

  “I said give me a god damn minute.”

  Martin looked as if he was going to protest, then thought better of it. He'd known me for quite a long time, which meant he knew just well when to push and when to back down. He waved me off, shook his head, and went to pour another martini, not spacing them out as he usually would.

  Phoney Maria's eyelids fluttered open, and she turned her head to the other side. Then the other. Back at the ceiling, and at the camera. Perfect.

  I captured her image – just her face – because phoney Maria's picture was going to be on its way to my secretary.

  Subject line: Do You Know This Person?

  Phyllis wouldn't ask any questions. Nor would she tell lies. She was our head gal for longer than I could remember. To be kept around for that long it meant she was sharp as a tack and loyal to a fault from the get-go and remained that way throughout the years. She was also everyone's favorite pencil pusher. And she never forgot a face.

  I pulled my fingers apart, expanding the view of my lovely little office guest. Her lips were moving, and I think she was swearing at me. Yep, judging by the way her face twisted as she spoke, she was definitely swearing at me.

  She cursed, she thrashed, then threw her head back on the pillow, arched her back, and I watched in reverent desire as the muscles in her neck and shoulders strained as she fought against my...custom design.

  I tapped the lens, and captured her nearly full frontal nudity in all its toned, Spanish glory. She was captivating. Toned, and deliciously exotic. Yeah. Exotic.

  “No, wait. Fuck this,” Martin slammed the bottle of gin in its holder. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

  “So what if I am? I can multi-task.”

  “This is my rodeo, too, did you forget that? And Drixoll's nothing to fuck with.”

  “You swear too much.” I put the phone in my breast pocket. My erection was knocking on my zipper again, and I didn't want to give it any unintended encouragement by brushing up against it. “We're giving Drixoll a pat on the head, perhaps their ass, then sending them on their way.”

  “You're being too casual about this, Maddox.”

  “That's kinda the idea.”

  Martin got that look, once more. The one I knew so well, the one that said he didn't know who the hell was sitting across from him. We'd been playing good executive/bad executive for the better part of a decade, and once in a while, my disorder gave him reason to pause. We made a great team, though. And I think he liked the danger factor involved - never knowing what I was going to do, or when I was going to do it.

  Unpredictability is a fantastic character trait. It all boils down to strategy, keeping one step ahead of everybody else. Knowing what your opponent is going to do before they do it. Because life is a chess game. And I excelled at chess.

  Which is why I found phoney Maria so troubling. No one ever took me by surprise. I always knew someone's ulterior motive, the methods behind their madness. I was always four steps ahead, so why I didn't see a mad Hispanic coming for me with a gun stuck in a bucket of bleach didn't process correctly.

  And I didn't want to wait until later to interrogate her, either.

  But, what comes before pleasure is business. My business gave me all kinds of roads to pleasure.

  If I wanted to maintain those highways, I had to tend to this latest pothole that came in the form of the Drixoll Corporation – a pharmaceutical company that manufactured some of the latest and greatest medicinal remedies for all kinds of ailments both real and imagined. From diarrhea to clinical depression, skin rashes to Attention Deficit Disorder, they had the chemical anecdote for everything. They even had a best-selling concoction to help with constipation brought on by taking too many prescription drugs. While I dug the irony
, I did not dig Drixoll.

  My distaste stemmed from a purely personal standpoint. I didn't like any of the Big Pharmas. Martin knew it, our primary shareholders knew it, so when I agreed to meet with their corporate honcho, more than a few eyebrows furrowed.

  I had my reasons.

  Drixoll didn't just want a piece of our pie. They wanted to be part of the filling, so to speak. To merge under the Petersen & Stiller umbrella would be a fiscal dream come true for any company. Anyone with a subscription to the Wall Street Journal knew an alliance-in-good-standing with Petersen & Stiller would put the most return on an investment.

  Among other attributes, we were one of the few brokerages to come out of the great recession unscathed, and to this day came up first in any Google search of Most Successful Wealth Management companies. We were the alphas of the corporate pack even before Google, if you can imagine such a time. No wonder Drixoll wanted in.

  “Just swear that your fucking phone is off, Maddox. You need to keep your hands out of your pants.”

  “You need to stop telling me what to do, Martin. That’s never gone over well.”

  “Nobody tells you what to do. But Drixoll's too important for you to be… distracted, shall we say?”

  I shoved both my hands into my slacks, and smiled.

  I liked Martin. He wasn't the merciless fuck that I prided myself on being, but he was a master negotiator. If not for his squeamishness when it came to blood, he could have worked for the Pentagon, or the FBI.

  As for me, I was just the chairman, president, and CEO. For what it's worth, I didn't mind blood at all.

  Chapter Three

  MADDOX

  The limo pulled up to Foxy's on the Alley spot on the hour. Plenty of time for our power move of being five minutes late for a meeting scheduled for seven.

  Foxy's was my favorite tax write-off; my gentleman's club and restaurant, and since I was a firm believer in home-field advantage, it was the perfect venue for what I had in mind.

  We wound our way through the expansive lobby, the one I'd insisted be modeled after the Huntsman's Cove in New Zealand. It was a luxury lodge where big corporate types went on He-Man vacations, to pretend they were big game hunters and shoot things.

  There was no real challenge to the Cove's advertised hunts, as its grounds were purposely overstocked with elk and moose, bear, pheasants, fox, whatever you wanted.

  It was basically like those ponds where they stuff them full of trout, give you a pole, and when you pull one out five seconds later they take your picture and claim you're a master angler.

  All those fish want to do is get the fuck out of the water. So the Huntsman's Cove, like those ponds, was all shit and lies. They made a hell of a lot of money, though.

  I'd only been there once – at Martin's insistence, something about networking and the human element – but as soon as I found out it was male only, I was on the next flight back to the states.

  What I liked, though, was the overpowering testosterone of the place. Don't get me wrong, I'm speaking in sub-context. The thing that struck me was the primitive nature, albeit wrapped in lavish amenities. I was enthralled by the mounted heads on the walls, animal skin rugs, weapons both modern and archaic, chandeliers made of antlers. Funny, because I wasn't the outdoorsy type at all. I'd get burned at the very thought of the sun, and my idea of roughing it was slow bottle service at Maison Pic. But the Cove was Manly. Powerful. A testimony to the stronger sex, and what I saw left a lasting impression.

  So I brought it home with me.

  Martin and I headed through the bar, nodding in polite professionalism to the patrons gathered in iron-studded, red leather chairs, toward my private table out back. I liked to keep my most precious things in the back. Out of view, like hidden treasure, or a cache of weapons. Meanwhile, in another part of the city, there was a crazy Latina in the back. The back of my office suite. Just waiting.

  …waiting…

  …waiting…

  I wiped my mouth.

  “Your head on straight, partner?” Martin said just before we entered the dining suite.

  “Like an arrow, Martin. Straight like a fucking arrow.”

  He drew back the curtain, and I followed him inside. You didn't always have to be the front of the parade. The best emperors always have their lackeys ahead of them, and for a moment, I pictured Martin tossing rose petals onto the carpeting for me and my Italian loafers to trod across.

  There was only one representative seated at the table. Shanna Ryon, a drop-dead gorgeous bombshell of a natural blonde, cleavage hocked up to the ceiling, and her long legs crossed to the side. She smiled slyly when she saw me, making my entrance all the more efficient. I put on my best dominant and most patronizing smile. I knew Drixoll sent her on purpose. Someone had done their homework.

  Good on them, I thought. Better than a fat asswipe in an executive suit.

  “Ms. Ryon,” Martin said, extending his hand for the customary shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Thank you, Mister Stiller. And you as well.” She flashed her blue eyes up and down, scoping out my goods. “Mister Petersen? Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she held out her hand.

  I was in the process of returning the gesture, when my phone went off.

  Normally I'd ignore it. Normally I could ignore it, but this was Phyllis' ring tone. Phyllis didn’t call for no reason. And seeing as I had given her an assignment, I needed to hear what she had to say.

  “And yours as well,” I said, pulling the phone from my pocket. “Pardon me for just a moment?”

  “Of course.” She smiled again, though the disappointment behind the smile was clear to see.

  Martin glared at me, making it very obvious he would have liked nothing more than to see my head on the wall, right in between the moose and the ten point elk.

  “Thank you,” I said, slipped back outside the suite, and answered the call. My palm was sweating, just a little. “Alright Phyllis. Shoot.”

  Phyllis cleared her throat, and I could hear her tapping her pen on her paper pad. It was a nervous habit of hers, one she did when she was about to be the bearer of bad news.

  “You're not going to like this, Mister Petersen,” she said.

  I wasn't a shoot-the-messenger type of guy. There was no point to it. But when Phyllis admitted she couldn't remember seeing the girl before, a strange stab of nerves rolled through my gut. She was supposed to know. Or at least have a vague fucking idea.

  Phyllis could remember my conquests sometimes better than I could. They were all on file. And it was a big, big file.

  A man in my position had to be very, very careful. All things considered, any woman who wanted to be my special lady friend was required to sign a contract. Non-disclosure agreements.

  I would be damned if I was going to set myself up to become another Bill Cosby, or Charlie Sheen, any celebrity asshole stupid enough to think they could get away with the shit they pulled. Not that I was anything like them.

  The women I rolled around with were willing to do anything I wanted, because the money they smelled was worth it.

  I'm sure a solid percentage of them all fantasized about being The One.

  The one to change me.

  The one to chain me.

  The one to get me to see the error of my ways.

  The one who got me to settle down to be a worthy husband and wonderful father.

  It cost me more than a few pretty fucking pennies to keep their mouths shut, but it was worth it. My addiction demanded it. And I loved my addiction.

  Should those lady friends spill one word of what transpired between us, all the lovely zeros at the end of their bank accounts would disappear. Confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt the one constant in the universe:

  Money talks.

  It buys happiness. And despite what all the morons in the soul-mate club want you to believe, it is everything. You can take it with you. And being the root of all evil is not a bad thing.

  What
it couldn't do was tell me who the crazy Latina chick was. There was only one person that could divulge that information, and she was back at my office. A tad indisposed, yet, she'd asked for it the minute she stuck that gun in my face.

  I tapped the phone on my hand. Thinking. What I needed to do was get my ass into the dining suite and take care of business.

  What I wanted to do, however, was something entirely different.

  I returned to the dining suite, and put on the best poker face I had at my disposal.

  “I appreciate your patience,” I said, taking a seat across from Ms. Ryon, and smoothing my tie.

  “Everything alright, Mister Petersen?”

  “Couldn't be better. What do you think of the catch and release philosophy, Ms. Ryon?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Catch and release. You know. Catch a fish, admire the fish, let the fish go. What are your thoughts?”

  Martin wanted to interrupt. Wanted to ask a question, or perhaps multiple questions.

  He adjusted himself, moving his weight from one cheek to the other, and did what he was supposed to do. Kept his damn mouth shut.

  “Oh. Well, I can't say I've ever really fished before, but –”

  “You don't have to have fished, Ms. Ryon. It's a simple enough question. Based on ethics and humanity, what do you think of the catch and release method?”

  Ryon cast her eyes to Martin, who offered a pleasant grin. Deep down inside, he was thinking about punching me in the nose at the next available opportunity.

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought, to be honest. But I suppose that yes, it seems like the proper thing to do.”

  “Which is why you wouldn't make a good fisherman. Fisher person, if you'd rather. Which is also why I'm going to say 'no' to your proposal.” I took the wine list from the center of the table, opened it, and glanced at the array of wide selections. Since when did we start importing from Ontario?