Keeping His Promise (Year of the Billionaire Part 3)

by Falls, K. C.

  "Oh, how I'm going to fuck you. My cock is ready to explode on you, in you, all over you." He lunged into my pussy and suckled there as if he would draw the life from me with his urgency. My clit rose to meet him, erect and straining for the pleasure of his tongue against it.

  "Tell me what you want," he commanded and I answered him.

  "Touch me, lick me, eat me, Tristan. I want to come against your tongue." Saying the words to him, aloud, made me want to spread my legs further to him. I wanted to be exposed and vulnerable. Tristan held my pussy up against his mouth and flicked my clit back and forth as I began to move against his mouth, bucking and pushing toward what I knew would be a crashing orgasm.

  Without warning, Tristan flipped my body over onto my stomach and I felt him tie my hands behind my back. He lifted me roughly from the bed and pushed me into a chair beside the bed. He bound each of my ankles to the legs of the big armchair and I sat there, stunned and splayed out, unable to move. I watched his naked body swiftly cross to the night stand where he retrieved another cloth.

  He stood in front of me, his erect cock face level. His smile was fiendish as he took his hard member and smacked it around my cheeks and mouth. I could feel the warmth and then the coolness as he rubbed the escaping drop of moisture from the head over my skin.

  He tied the cloth around my face, gagging me. He tied it snug and I had to breathe deeply through my nose to get enough oxygen. I'm sure my eyes widened in fear. I'd never seen him this way. Even at his most dominant, he was never mean.

  "I can see your excitement," he snarled at me. "I can see your horny wetness dripping down your legs. I brought you right to the brink, didn't I?"

  I nodded bleakly. I had no idea what he was going to do next or what was expected of me.

  He opened a door and a woman walked in. A diaphanous garment swirled around her. I tried to make out the color of the transparent silk, but it seemed to be all color and no color all at once. Likewise, her hair was not brown, nor blonde or even auburn, it iridesced with every hue. She was backlit, like an angel, and her face was obscured.

  Tristan walked over to her and dropped the gown from her shoulders. I could make out the swell of a ripe, perfect bosom tapering to a tiny waist and curving out again to perfect, rounded hips. Tristan gasped at the sight of her body. All I could do was watch.

  "Here stands the most perfect of women," he said. "My beauty, my only love."

  My heart was breaking and I wanted to scream, but the gag prevented it. I could only watch as Tristan trailed kisses down her body proclaiming his love with each pass of his lips over her flesh. She said nothing. When she sighed, it sounded like music or birdsong.

  "Make me whole tonight. Complete me with your touch."

  She went to the bed and lay against the pillows where my head had been just moments before. Tristan stood over her, tight and tense in his desire and his need. His cock stood straight out from his body and it seemed bigger and fatter than it had ever been before.

  He put his head between her legs and she began to moan in her ecstasy. I tried to turn away but something, some power kept me riveted to the sight of him licking her. Every so often he would stop.

  "Stay with me forever," he'd say. Or "I'm yours until the end of time." Then he would resume his attention and she'd groan and twine her fingers through his hair. She arched against his face and screamed her climax into the darkness. I felt wetter still between my thighs and it horrified me.

  He mounted her with a tenderness I had never seen in him. He was rapt in worship of her and moved with agonizing slow thrusts that I could almost feel in my own trapped body. Involuntary tilts of my pelvis strained toward the cock that was now impaling this apparition of purity and loveliness. I watched them in tortured silence and knew without a doubt, even before he said her name, that this was the woman who'd forever haunt him. The woman to whom he compared me. The woman I could never be.

  He began to come and cried her name in his rapture. "Elsa, Elsa, oh Elsa my love . . ."

  ***

  I woke in a burning sweat. My skin was soaked. I was sticky and hot between my legs. Mortified, I shook the dream from me and whimpered against the sheet I drew up against my hot cheeks. A dream can shame you, and this one did.

  The clock said five-thirty. It was close enough to dawn for me to get up. The prospect of the dream returning motivated me out of the treacherous bed that led me to such a miserable nightmare.

  I went down to the kitchen and started the coffee. I've always hated getting up before the sun. The darkest hour was made even darker as the dream refused to leave my psyche. I kept hearing him whisper all the things I knew he had probably really said to her. The things he'd never say to me.

  Mercifully, I wasn't alone with my thoughts very long. George wandered up the stairs and Dad came down. I got busy cooking up a batch of biscuits. I knew my mother would welcome the smell of baking bread when she joined us. By the time the sun was fully up, breakfast was well underway and the dream receded into the backwaters of my mind.

  I intended to stay busy and keep my thoughts from drifting to Tristan. He had said that he'd be in touch, but I knew better than to expect it to be any time in the near future. I had made my decision and I had said the words. I couldn't take them back now and he couldn't take back the gentle but cold dismissal of my needs.

  As the day wore on, I was thankful that my sadness began to morph into anger. Anger is a lot easier to channel into productivity than sadness. I didn't want to be depressed, I wanted to take action. Since the day I met Tristan, I had allowed him to take control of my emotions. He had made all the rules and I had blithely followed them out of fear that not doing so would lose him.

  Indeed, that's exactly what happened. As my mind wrapped itself around the damage I had done, I started to forgive myself. I watched my parents cherish one another in the small things as they began their umpteenth day together. She poured him coffee, he shared a headline or two out of the morning paper. When he rose to take his plate to the sink, he picked hers up as well and gave her a little peck on the cheek. It was all very mundane.

  My mother didn't have to ask my father to be there the next morning, or the next or the next. And if she had, he would have thought it an honor to promise her anything. He would not have felt cornered or thought her needy for asking. As much as I would miss Tristan's touch and the adventure and excitement of time spent with him, I deserved as much as my mother. I deserved to expect.

  By midday, I had the want ads spread out on one end of the table and my laptop at the other. My resume was slim, but polished. There was no point now in kicking myself over blowing off those interviews to go to France with Tristan. There was a job waiting for me out there and I intended to find it.

  Three

  A week later, I wasn't nearly as optimistic. I had emailed my resume to any and all jobs that remotely fit my limited experience and my liberal arts degree. I applied to publishing houses, theaters, museums, libraries, bookstores and non-profits. In seven days, I hadn't netted a single return call.

  As a fall back, I had pounded the pavement in my neighborhood hoping to luck into a vacancy in a restaurant. I had experience as a waitress, hostess and pantry girl. Although I hoped it wouldn't come to restaurant work, I was prepared to take anything. I had let the grass grow under my feet. I was broke and had stooped to getting spending money from Mom and Dad. This was not the way I had envisioned life after Bennington.

  Dad had been talking to Tristan on the phone. My parents knew, of course, that we were no longer 'together' as if we had ever really been. They were diplomatic about it and didn't question me. But they didn't avoid him, either. My father still wanted to nail the bastards that beat him up and Tristan was the only person who seemed fully committed to seeing it through. I left it alone, it was between my Dad and Tristan.

  Plus, Archie was still hound-dogging the money trail to see if he could nail Mom's kidnapper. He was convinced that those hundred dollar bills would sur
face sooner or later and probably closer to home than any of us thought. Archie claimed to be an 'intuitive' detective. It was a word that seemed out of place in his vernacular. But he was sure that his gut feelings were as valid as any other piece of evidence in Mom's case. The police had been cooperative, but it was Archie (and thus Tristan) who was supplying the man-hours. Plenty were needed.

  We were at dinner one night about two weeks 'post Tristan' as I had come to think of it. My father mentioned that a friend of a friend had a bookshop on the upper west side that was looking for an assistant manager.

  "It's a really small place that specializes in rare books--antiques and first copies, I think he said."

  "First editions, you mean?"

  "That's it, first editions." He fished a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "All he gave me was an address. If you feel like it would interest you, why don't you check it out." He handed the paper to me. It was on Broadway, upper Westside.

  The next day I put on a nice pair of slacks with a light turtleneck and my favorite, well worn but still classy blue blazer. There was a good autumn chill in the air and I threw a wool scarf around my neck for extra color and the warmth it provided.

  The store was one of those narrow, tiny places with a classic green canvas awning stenciled boldly on the top with the word "Books" and across the apron on the front "Rare and Used Volumes". It was wedged between a florist and a dry cleaners and right across the street from Zabars. That was a great sign; I could always count on a good lunch from Zabars even if it would eat up half my paycheck.

  I could see that there was a tiny apartment over the shop and wondered if that's where the owner lived. It was certainly a very cool location. It made me a little uneasy that the bookshop was only about a dozen blocks from the Dakota. But Tristan wasn't likely to be walking the streets of his neighborhood and I put that little coincidence down to harmless.

  The wizened old man who poked his head out when the bell tinkled as I opened the door looked to be about a hundred and ten years old. He was as dusty and antique as the books lining the shelves and piled everywhere. I picked my way through the mess and introduced myself.

  Crusty as he appeared, Mr. Clemson was sharp as a tack. It didn't take me long to have enormous respect for the catalog he carried around in his head. "That's the trouble, though, you see. My head isn't going to be around forever. My grandson keeps needling me about a website and computerized records for all of my friends." He swept a gnarled hand at the stacks. The skin was yellow and fragile, like much of the paper in the room. He led me to the back of the store where, to my utter surprise, he swung open a door to an immaculate modern office about the size of a walk-in closet.

  "I've got all the stuff here, but I just can't face it. At my age, I don't want to have to learn all . . . this. I'd rather be reading." He looked at me through rheumy eyes that belonged on an aging spaniel. I wanted to pet his bald head and get him a cookie.

  I handed him my resume and pointed out the experience working the Tanglewood system and some other computer work I had done. A couple of simple websites were listed as part of my experience also.

  Mr. Clemson waved the paper away. "I'm not interested in what you've got written down on that paper, Miss Harding. Take a look around you. Tell me if you know what needs to be done and if you think you are willing and able to do it. Take all the time you need. We're not going anywhere soon."

  The way he referred to his books and himself as 'we' was charming. He rattled back into the bookshelves where he nearly disappeared, so camouflaged was he by the similarity between himself and his beloved volumes.

  An hour later, having taken a good look at the computers--state of the art--and the program manuals--straightforward and practical--I was sure I could accomplish what his grandson rightly thought should be done to move the shop into the 21st century.

  "Mr. Clemson?" I think I startled him out of a catnap. "I'm quite sure I can do what needs to be done here."

  "Miss Harding, I believe you. When can you start?"

  We discussed the details of the job. He offered me a generous salary, considering the fact that the shop couldn't possibly be making a lot of money. It wouldn't be enough to get me my own apartment for a while and the commute into Manhattan wasn't something I was looking forward to especially with winter approaching, but I was thrilled to have it.

  As I was getting ready to leave the shop I asked Mr. Clemson if he lived above the store.

  He snorted. "You must be joking! Have you taken a look at the stairs? That's a young person's apartment. It hasn't been occupied in years. I got tired of the last tenant traipsing in and out of the shop at all hours. There's no separate entrance for it, you see." He laughed. "The young pup was always arguing with me about the utilities, too. The store and the apartment are on one meter."

  "I see." I was going to go for it. A lucky day shouldn't go to waste. "Would you consider renting it to me? I could pay out of my salary. I'd never be able to claim the subway was late or get snowed in and I'd always be around." I was prattling and I knew it, but it was such an opportunity! I smiled my most charming and persuasive smile.

  Mr. Clemson tried to look stern, but I could tell instantly that he liked the idea. "It gets cleaned every so often, so it isn't knee deep in dust. But some of the furniture is older than these books. You want to take a look at it?"

  "Oh yes, Mr. Clemson. Yes, please."

  He rooted around in his roll top desk and produced an ancient key. "Help yourself," he told me.

  I sprinted up the stairs and unlocked the heavy wooden door. The tiny apartment smelled like old books, just like the shop. The living, dining and kitchen area looked out over Broadway and the bedroom and bathroom were tucked away in the back. The old oak floors creaked under my feet as I poked around. The couch could have come out of some old time gentlemen's club. The golden leather had the patina of smoke about it. With a good dose of leather conditioner, I knew it would come back to life beautifully.

  The two matching wingback chairs framed a fireplace, long converted to a gas heater, but it gave some charm to the room as did the high tin ceilings and the wonderful French windows. The kitchen area was tiny and I squealed with delight when I recognized the stove as the exact same one in Rachel Ray's kitchen on TV. The refrigerator was from the fifties also and matched the curvy lines of the Chambers stove. I figured I could rise to the challenge of appliances that were that cute.

  Every last piece wooden furniture looked terribly old and dry, but otherwise classic in form and function. The dropleaf dining table was a masterpiece of space saving straight out of the 1800's.

  A bright rug, a few pictures and a new mattress looked like just about all I would need to set up housekeeping. In the kitchen cabinets I found a complete set of pink depression glassware, old enamel bowls, iron skillets and a couple of copper pots. I was sure Mr. Clemson didn't know the treasure trove he had in there. He was lucky the last tenant didn't make off with the dishes. It was an antique hunter's dream.

  I tried to put on a poker face when I came down the stairs, but it was impossible. "I love the place! It's so perfect." I sucked in some air and braced myself. "How much will you rent it to me for?"

  He seemed to have trouble with that. "I wasn't really thinking about renting it at all. How does $500 a month sound? That would include utilities. I can't be bothered with separating the bills."

  Five. Hundred. Dollars. For a cute upper Westside apartment? It was a gift. I could easily afford that on what Mr. Clemson had offered me. I wanted to hug him. But instead I just said, "Thank you so much. You won't regret it."

  "I've already got that internet thing, but I don't know how to get that upstairs. If you want TV you'll have to do that yourself."

  "That's fine, Mr. Clemson. I can put WiFi in for next to nothing. I probably won't need cable if the internet's good. I can watch plenty on line if I want to."

  "I don't know why you'd want to watch anything with all these books here waiting to be
read."

  "You're absolutely right. I intend to take full advantage of this wonderful library." That seemed to make the old guy happy and we settled a few more details before I was on my way. I was to start in ten days which couldn't be soon enough for me.

  As I rode the subway home, I couldn't help but smile at all my fellow commuters. I had scored a wonderful job and an apartment at the same time. My commute was going to be going down a set of stairs. Sweet.

  Four

  I couldn't wait to tell my parents about the job, the apartment and darling old Mr. Clemson. On the way home from the subway stop, I used the remainder of the twenty bucks Dad had given me that morning to buy some cannoli and cream puffs. Mom, Dad and I all had a weak spot for sweets and we'd celebrate with the pastries.

  Up the stairs, two at a time, I went happily through the front door with my box of goodies and my news. I froze when I saw Tristan seated, back to me, at the dining table with Kwan, George, Hoc, Archie and my parents. I felt my knees and just about every other part of my body go rubbery. My heart, my betraying, treacherous heart, began to beat against my chest walls and I could feel the heat of a blush working its way from my ears to my neck. The golden curls over his collar made the tips of my fingers itch to touch them.

  The rational part of me wanted to run back out the door and wait in the shadows until I saw him leave. But my eyes had been starved for the sight of him. He had transformed yet another chair into a kind of throne where he elegantly draped his aristocratic frame. It wasn't a conscious thing, it was just who he was. All eyes, including mine were focused on him. He was ever comfortable in front of an audience.

  "You shouldn't taunt them," he was telling my father. "They're going to come spoiling for a fight. Let them make the first move."

  "This frightens me, Tristan," my mother said.

  "Jazzy, we've got all the angles covered. Tristan's thought of everything," my father assured her. "These guys need to be in jail and we're going to put them there."