by Tijan
God, his body is magic. His abs ripple and flex as I take him in my mouth.
“Motherfucker.” He shoves his hands in my hair. Bane is very good at controlling his dirty mouth unless we’re having sex. “You always look so good with my cock in your mouth. Even with this fucked-up makeup on.”
I try to smile, but my mouth is pretty full.
Bancroft’s expression grows serious as I stop playing around and start sucking in earnest. His hands stay in my hair, guiding, stroking my cheek, telling me how much he loves my pretty, sexy mouth.
He eases me off after he comes, his blissed-out expression quickly morphing as his eyebrow rises. He sweeps his finger under my bottom lip, and then does it again, his mouth turning down at the corner. He nabs a paper towel and wets it under the tap. “Jesus. It looks like you blew a unicorn.”
I motion to his cock, then use the counter to pull myself up. “So does that mean it looks like you fucked a unicorn?”
“I feel like I need to retract the whole unicorn statement, because I really don’t want that image in my head before we have sex.” He wipes at my mouth, gently at first, then more vigorously. “This isn’t coming off.”
“I just need makeup remover. We can worry about it later.” I grab his tie and try to get him to kiss me, but he turns his head.
“Oh, fuck no. You look hot and that blow job was incredible, but that lipstick has got to go before anything else happens.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re really ruining the spontaneity of this, you know.”
He gives me the eye and crosses his arms over his naked chest. It would be effective if his half-limp cock wasn’t hanging out of his pants, covered in purple-pink lipstick smears and glitter.
“It wasn’t a problem when my lips were wrapped around your cock,” I point out.
Said cock twitches like he can hear us and would like to give some input. I gesture to his penis. “I think he agrees.”
“I think you need to see what I’m talking about. It’s pretty distracting right now, and when I’m inside you, like I plan to be very soon, I’d like to able to kiss you without feeling like I’m in some whacked-out sci-fi movie.”
“Fairies are fantasy, not sci-fi.”
Now it’s Bancroft’s turn to roll his eyes. He spins me around, tears my wings off, and pulls me back into his chest.
I know what’s coming. He’s going to take me to the bathroom so I can get this lipstick off. I’m pretty sure he’s overreacting. Bancroft likes to show off just how strong he is and picking me up like I’m an oversized doll and toting me around is one of his favorite pastimes. Okay. That’s untrue, sex is probably one of his favorite pastimes. But I actually quite enjoy throwing down the stubborn card just so he’ll pull this move on me.
Except he doesn’t wrap an arm around my waist and carry me away. Instead he cups me, fingers pressing against my clit through the unfortunate barrier of shorts and panties. He slides his hand farther back. Oh my God, what is he—and then he lifts me up. By my crotch.
“Seriously, Bane?” I cross my arms over my chest.
It does nothing to deter him. In fact, his left palm finds my right breast, presumably to make me more secure. And honestly, the way his palm presses against my clit is rather enticing. As I result, I don’t struggle to walk my own ass to the bathroom.
He uses his shoulder to turn on the light. He’s slow to set me down in front of the vanity, and even when my feet hit the floor, he doesn’t move his hand away. Either one. Although the one between my legs shifts, and the pressure to my clit becomes more direct and purposeful.
“See the problem?” Bancroft’s mouth is right beside my ear, lips brushing my cheek.
I’ve been so caught up in sensation, and the anticipation of what’s coming, that I almost miss the issue. “Oh, wow.” My eyes go comically wide, which with the current eye makeup makes me look rather demonic. Purple-pink lipstick and glitter are smeared all over my chin. It appears I’m a bit of a sloppy dick sucker.
While I get to work on the lipstick smear removal, Bancroft makes a show of getting naked behind me. He’s about to start on clothing removal for me, but I clear my throat, looking pointedly at his black socks.
“I’ll get to those when I’m not standing on a tile floor.”
He hates cold feet almost as much as I loathe socks during sex.
“You should probably do the same to your unicorn horn.” I toss a pad soaked in makeup remover at him and he stands beside me at sink, rubbing it up and down his quickly hardening cock, swiping away glitter and the purple-pink lip prints and smears. After a minute of rubbing and three new cosmetic removal pads apiece it’s better, but I still have all sorts of glitter stuck to my face, and there’s a very distinct pink hue to my chin.
“Do you want me to take off the eye makeup, too?”
“No. Leave it.” Bancroft yanks my panties and shorts down my legs.
“Because it’ll take too long and you’re impatient?”
“That and it’s hot.” He slips his finger between my legs and any snarky comment dies. “Come on, naughty fairy, I’m hungry and you’ve got exactly what I’m starving for.”
* * *
Two days later I’m sitting in the lobby of the Concord hotel, waiting for Amie. I’m pretty much glitter-free, although I swear there’s still a pink tint to my chin, and I haven’t needed lipstick at all for the past couple of days.
Bancroft hasn’t tried very hard to remove the remaining purple-pink streaks from his dick, proudly wearing the remnant of my lipstick smears. Not that anyone other than me is going to see it, but he seems to think it’s rather funny.
Anyway, the purpose of lunch with Amie today is twofold: we must sample their appetizer selection for the Halloween soirée, and any excuse to hang out in the middle of the week is a good one.
It’s already one in the afternoon, but I’ve only been awake for little more than an hour. My performance schedule means I don’t go to bed at regular hours and I sleep late. Amie, on the other hand, has likely been up for at least seven, if not eight hours. Since five forty-five, I’ve received at least fifteen text messages with thoughts on this party we’ve been given the go-ahead to plan. My fun Halloween get-together is turning into a huge deal. I hadn’t fully considered the implications of what this would become if we were given access to things like the Inception Ballroom, and Armstrong’s apparently endless pocketbook.
Yesterday we were officially given the green light, which means Amie’s already in full-on party planning mode. While the soirée—the official, pretentious label given to this event—is still weeks away, we honestly don’t have a lot of time to get things organized. Typically these events take months of planning. Or so I’m being told by Amie, whose messages have grown increasingly frantic and detailed in the past two hours, but stopped suddenly just over an hour ago.
While I wait for her to arrive, I send messages to Bancroft. Well, not so much messages as emoticon vegetables illustrating what I plan to do to him when I get home from my performance tonight. Often I’m going to bed just as he’s starting his day. It’s been quite an adjustment for both of us. But Bancroft has learned how to appreciate being woken at five in the morning by my vagina alarm most days of the week.
I don’t hear back from him right away, which means he’s probably in a meeting. I check the time. It’s after one. It’s very unusual for Amie to be late for a lunch date. She’s typically waiting for me.
Less than a minute later she comes bustling into the lobby. She’s carrying her purse and a gym bag. Windblown hair frames her face, which is also atypical. Not her face—that’s gorgeous—but her unkempt hair. Amie is usually very polished, and more so since she started dating Armstrong.
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” She drops her gym bag and comes in for a hug.
“It’s fine.” I give her a squeeze. “Is everything okay?”
She releases me from her death grip and adjusts her skirt and blouse as she explains. “I th
ought I could fit in a yoga session and still be here on time, but two of the showers weren’t working and there’s this woman who always hogs the mirror after the lunch classes, which I don’t understand since she doesn’t even work up a sweat.” She swoops down to reclaim her bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she nearly takes out a woman carrying her Chihuahua in her purse. The tiny dog expresses its displeasure in yippy barks, scaring her owner and several people close by, including Amie, who skitters behind me.
“What’s up with you? Did you do too many wheatgrass shooters this morning?”
“I’ve been up since two. I couldn’t sleep last night. I think I may have overdone it on espresso shots this morning. I honestly thought the extra yoga session would help calm me down. Maybe I should’ve done cardio instead.”
Amie is a big fan of yoga and running. She goes a minimum of four times a week. While it’s great that she likes to stay active, I think she might be going overboard these days, although maybe it’s her way of managing stress. When I’m stressed I wash a lot of dishes and eat a lot of takeout. Since moving in with Bancroft I’ve developed new stress management techniques that often include his penis. I’ve found it has a one hundred percent effectiveness rate in stress reduction. At least temporarily.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Amie’s always been an early riser. She’s one of those people who can get only four hours and still look fresh the next morning. If I get less than eight the bags under my eyes are so big I can fit the entire contents of my closet in them.
“Thinking about the party.” She slips her arms through mine and we head for the restaurant where Bancroft has made us a reservation for lunch.
As we pass a mirrored wall Amie grimaces and pats her hair. “I’m going to have to do something about this before I go back to work this afternoon.”
“You look great.”
“I’m having dinner with Gwendolyn tonight. She wants to talk about the guest list for the wedding again. I’ll definitely need to fix myself up before I see her.”
“As long as it’s not the kind of fix-up she seems to be fond of.” Armstrong’s mother’s face doesn’t typically move apart from her lips. It’s a little unnerving how infrequently she blinks, to be honest.
“She suggested I go for a Botox treatment a month before the wedding.”
I snort. “What could you possibly need Botoxed?”
“She says I make this face when I’m nervous and it’s creating lines in my forehead. Armstrong said it’s not a bad idea. I’m only twenty-five and I don’t want wrinkles yet.”
I really have to bite my tongue against the scathing comments just itching to fly. In all the years we’ve been friends, Amie has never been this concerned about her appearance. She works for one of New York’s leading fashion magazines, and they perpetuate the “you’re not good enough” ideal at every turn. Buy this cream, use this technique. Fix yourself. How to be prettier, sexier, a better wife, a better girlfriend, a better lover. I think she might be brainwashed.
Obviously her soon-to-be mother-in-law is exacerbating Amie’s newly developed insecurities. In fact, I think this entire wedding is pushing her insecurities. Broaching the subject without upsetting her is impossible, though. I tried in the beginning, but soon learned it wasn’t worth the stress it seemed to cause her.
“You don’t have wrinkles, Amie.”
“It’s sort of preventative, isn’t it?”
God. I really hate how uncertain she sounds. “If you mean it prevents you from having facial expressions, I guess. Besides, I’ve read some studies about that stuff. Apparently if you can’t make the facial expression, you can’t experience the emotion attached to it, which might explain why Gwendolyn is such an insufferable bi—”
Amie’s nails dig into my arm. Hard. Hard enough to nearly cut the skin. I stop before I’m able to finish the sentence, assuming my mouth is the issue.
“Oh, sugar snap peas,” Amie mutters under her breath.
Seriously. Even her dirty mouth has disappeared in the past six months. Along with almost everything fun about her. Okay. That’s untrue. When it’s just her and me it’s fine. She’s still fun to be around, but add her fiancé to the mix and it’s like he sucks all the awesome out of the room, and her.
I follow her wide-eyed gaze. Speak of the insufferable bitch. Gwendolyn is sitting across from Meredith Mills—my boyfriend’s mother. They’re sisters. How Meredith and Gwendolyn can be related and so very, very different is beyond me.
Bancroft’s mother—everyone calls her Mimi—is probably one of the sweetest women I’ve ever met. Is she concerned with unnecessary, ridiculous things like plastic surgery and highbrow gossip? Of course. But it’s not her fault, that’s the environment she was raised in. At least she’s nice about it, and she can make fun of herself. Gwendolyn, on the other hand, believes she’s one step down from royalty and that everyone should kiss her feet and offer to wipe her ass.
Before I can turn us around, Mimi raises her hand in a wave, beckoning us over. I survey the table at our approach. It appears they’ve already eaten. Thank God. I don’t mind lunch with Mimi, but if I have to spend an entire lunch hour with the insufferable bitch I’ll need alcohol to survive. Lots of it. Enough to make me dance on top of a bar. Topless.
Mimi pushes away from the table and daintily places her napkin beside her mostly empty plate. “Ruby! It’s so lovely to see you!” She hugs me and Amie in greeting while Gwendolyn remains seated. Both Amie and I are forced to bend and air kiss her since she refuses to get up.
Of course Gwendolyn has to make a comment about Amie’s gym bag and her slightly disheveled appearance, while Mimi tells me how pretty I look.
“We’re just finishing lunch, but come join us.” Mimi doesn’t even have to summon anyone. Two servers appear out of thin air with extra chairs and we’re quickly seated. “I was hoping I’d see you today. Harrison informed me we’ll be hosting a soirée here at the end of the month. It’s such a fabulous idea. Have you decided on a theme?”
“We’re just in the planning stages,” I say quickly.
If there’s one thing I know about Meredith Mills, it’s that she loves a good party. Bancroft only introduced me to his family a little over two months ago, and in that time I’ve attended at least four dinner parties at the Mills mansion. Each time, Bancroft and I have snuck away for a quick screw in a different room. We were almost caught once. That was super fun.
“Well that’s perfect, isn’t it, Gwennie? We can help you plan!”
“Now isn’t the best time. We have an appointment in fifteen minutes at the spa, remember, Mimi?” Gwennie checks her watch. I assume she’s frowning, but it’s hard to tell since only a slight lip twitch results.
“Oh right! Silly me. Well why don’t we plan another lunch for later this week?”
“If we’re planning a party we’ll need more than an hour,” Gwendolyn cuts in.
“That’s true.” Mimi taps her lip. “We should have dinner, then. Maybe next Monday since that would work best for you, right, dear?”
“Mondays are usually okay.” I look to Amie, searchingly. Planning a party with Mimi will be fun, but I’m not sure if that’ll be the case if Armstrong’s mother is involved.
Amie checks her calendar. “Monday would definitely work.”
“It’s settled. Monday dinner at our place. We’ll invite all the boys so Harrison doesn’t get bored and try to interfere,” Mimi says with a smile.
Awesome. Another evening spent in the company of Armstrong. I can’t wait.
Chapter 4: Orgasmless
Amie
Mimi offers another round of hugs once we’ve set the time for dinner. Gwendolyn isn’t pleased that they’re going to be late for their appointment and Mimi reminds her that she owns the damn hotel, they can be late if they want.
As soon as we’re alone, I wilt like a flower under a heat lamp.
“I wonder if they could inject her with a new personality the next time she goes in fo
r a Botox touch-up,” Ruby mutters once they’re out of earshot.
I sip my Perrier and sigh. I’ve wondered the same thing on many occasions. “You know, I keep thinking she’s going to warm up to me eventually, but it never seems to happen.”
“I don’t think she can warm up to anyone. How she managed to procreate is truly a mystery.” Ruby picks up the appetizer assortment menu the server has left for us.
We’re trying a little of everything so we can narrow the menu down to something reasonable. Well, Ruby will try everything. I’m on a very strict eating regime because the wedding is coming.
“I don’t want to think about what procreating looks like with her.”
“I imagine it isn’t much different than what she looks like most of the time, except she’d be naked.” Ruby takes a sip of her mimosa. It looks delicious.
“Or maybe not. Maybe she just wears crotchless panties so Fredrick can get up in there without inconveniencing her,” I whisper.
Ruby snort-giggles and smiles. “Oh my God. Can you even imagine?” She grows serious again. “I really don’t get it, though. Everyone loves you.”
Everyone except for Armstrong’s mother, anyway. “Armstrong thinks she feels threatened because I’m taking him away from her, but I think she just doesn’t like me. It seems like the harder I try, the worse she gets.”
“So you’ve talked to him about it then?”
“I’ve tried. He doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal, but we spend so much time with his family. I just want her to like me.”
Since Armstrong has a very close relationship with his mother, I have an unreasonable level of perfection to live up to in her eyes. It’s difficult to see Bancroft’s mother with Ruby. It’s clear she genuinely likes Ruby, and that Ruby likes her as well. In fact, his family acts as though the sun rises and sets for Ruby. I don’t need Gwendolyn to worship me, I just want to have the kind of relationship with my mother-in-law that doesn’t involve excessive anxiety. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to make that happen.