by Alexis Angel
And then I feel it—like taking a bowling ball to my back. I'm struck in the back and I try to turn around but my arms are pinned behind my back. Without my hands, I can't remove my ear buds or stop the music streaming through my phone, so it's impossible to hear what's going on around me. I'm screaming and thrashing my head from side to side, and the movement causes the ear bud on my right side to fall out. I can now feel a man's hot breath on my neck, "Shut up! Just shut up right now!" He's placing his hands over my mouth, muffling out my screams, and I bite down as hard as I can. It's my only option and it's instinctual. I feel the flesh of his fingers pinched between my teeth, and that's when he hits me; he hits me hard enough on my head to shut me up. I'm feeling dazed, but when I finally get a look at the man's face, I'm shocked.
"Peter?"
"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You want to humiliate me on Facebook live and then ignore all of my calls for a week? Well, I'll show you what I'm going to do about that!"
The look in his eyes is one of pure rage and a battered ego. I'm also surprised at his strength. He was never one to work out much, and I attributed his soft body to weakness, but he's stronger than I anticipated. It's shocking, really. Without saying another word, he brings his hands around my neck and squeezes. I place my hands on top of his, trying to pry them loose, but it's not working. I can feel myself running out of breath and in a tiny voice I manage to squeak, "You're hurting me, stop!"
And just when my entire world starts to fade to black, he stops. I can't believe it. I open my eyes just in time to see another man between us now. He's big—tall, muscular, and broad shouldered. He's not the kind of guy you want to fuck with, and I watch as his fist crashes into Peter's face, breaking his nose.
"If I ever see you around here again, I'll fucking kill you," he growls, clenching Peter by the collar of his shirt, and when he lets go, Peter turns around and runs, not bothering to look back.
"Are you okay?" the man asks.
As he looks down at me, I get the vague feeling that I know him from somewhere. I'm rubbing my throat and besides being emotionally rattled, I'm fine. "I want to thank you—what you did—most people wouldn't get involved, but you saved my life." When I finish talking, I look into the man's eyes again, and I realize where I know those intense icy blues from—the cab ride from the club.
"Wait… I've seen you somewhere," I say. "You're the guy who tried to steal my cab outside of the club the other night."
"It was an emergency. I don't normally jump into other people's cabs."
"Look, I appreciate your help but I have to go."
"Wait. I'd like to take you to dinner, I—"
"I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I hope you'll understand that I'm in no mood to be setting up a dinner … not after my ex-boyfriend just tried to murder me."
"Forget him. He no longer matters. Just say yes."
I look at him—his eyes the color of perfect weather, his strong, broad shoulders, and gentle smile—and even though I'm feeling bruised and frazzled, and I promised myself I'd never go out on a date with a man who frequents a place like Scorcher’s, I surprise myself and say yes.
Arsen
With a last look in the mirror I close the locker door and head out of the locker room at the New York Athletic Club. Sure, it’s filled with the same fucking fancy people that I spoke to at the Met—some of these people are still scandalized that I’m in their precious little club of theirs. But guess what? I’m now worth at least $5 billion dollars. If I want to go around joining all the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan, I have the money to buy my way in. They don’t. They’re sitting on their piles of fucking reputation and fake integrity that’s as hollow as a fucking clam shell. Probably got their house mortgaged five times over and a mountain of fucking debt. They’re probably just hoping that they die before the bill comes due so everyone will at least think they’re prosperous and dignified now. Who the fuck cares once they’re dead, right?
Well, fuck that. I told you once before when I was with Yasmine at Scorcher's and I’m telling you again. I’m always going to be fucking honest with you. You may not like what I have to say or how I say it, but I don’t give a fuck.
I hand my gym bag over to the attendant at the bar, who takes it to the cloakroom.
“I have a young lady who will be meeting me outside the Club,” I tell the maître d and he nods and proceeds to go check.
That’s right. I figured what better way to put Ashley at ease than by asking her to have a drink with me while we’re surrounded by a bunch of rich old men. Oh right. Let me clue you in on a few things. Gorgeous Stripper from Scorcher's whom I rescued a few days back—her name is Ashley Lane. Used to work at Scorcher's but literally, it was her last day working on the first day I met her. Now she works at Simulated Pleasures as a phone sex operator. She has no fucking idea who I am or the fact I own the whole fucking thing. And honestly, I’m not in any mood to tell her.
Just seeing me in the gym would've made you laugh hysterically. There I was with my tattoos squatting hundreds of pounds. Benching the weight of some people. And these ancient men, with their big egos out in the real world just stared at my physique as they walked on a treadmill. Each of them looked at me jealously. And when I went to shower, I knew all eyes were on me. Well on me, and my fucking foot long pleasure stick. It dangled from my crotch like a sex snake.
If you’re rolling your eyes at me thinking it’s fucking lazy that I invited a girl to have a drink with me at my gym, then you can fucking stop. The New York Athletic Club is more than just a fucking gym. It's got 2 bars, 3 dining rooms, a drawing room, 3 libraries, hotel rooms to spend the night, and two formal ballrooms for events.
It’s also got a swimming pool, gym, shooting range, and fucking art gallery. A fucking art gallery. So yeah, you could say that it might be a fucking nice place to take a girl on a date. Especially if it’s a private fucking club that she normally wouldn’t have admission to.
“Your lady friend is waiting in the lobby, Mr. Hawke,” the maître d informs me and I nod my head and walk out toward the foyer. Yes, I’m hurrying. Because I want to fucking see her, okay? Told you I’m honest.
And Jesus fucking Christ, this girl does not fucking disappoint. She’s standing there in a black dress that’s tight without being indecent. It ends just above the knees. She’s got stockings and black heels on. Her hair is made and she’s got makeup on and it makes her look fucking sexy.
I feel my cock twitch just by looking at her fucking gorgeous body. The way those slender legs are holding up her frame. I want to suck them one at a time until she squeals. That waist. Fuck, that ass. The dress is just tight enough to hug her curvy ass and I want to take each ass cheek in each hand and fucking squeeze them. God fucking dammit. Those fucking tits. Her dress ends in a wraparound strapless top but it showcases those marvelous tits like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
“The way you’re looking at me, its like you’ve forgotten what I look like naked,” she says to me with a smile as she walks up to me. She hesitates and I decide for her, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. I can smell her perfume. It’s intoxicating.
“It’s like seeing you for the first time,” I tell her. You notice what I did? I didn’t fucking swear. See? I can be fucking civil if I need to.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Hawke,” she tells me with a teasing smile.
“Then what about vodka?” I ask, taking her hand and walking her into the bar that I came from. “Because this place makes the best dirty martinis in New York City.”
Ashley gasps as she sees the interior. Yeah, this is how the fucking other half lives all right. The bar is fucking plush. The wood at the bar is polished to perfection.
And literally every fucking face turns to the two of us. To the son of the smut lord and the fucking gorgeous woman on his arm. Women stare at us hungrily, and their husbands look at me jealously. Fuck ‘em.
“Let’s get a table?” I ask Ashley, but I’m
not really fucking asking because I lead her over and sit her down.
“It’s a nice place,” Ashley says as she looks around. “I’m surprised.”
“Surprised that I would come here?” I ask.
“Surprised that you’re going through the effort,” she says and smiles at me. “Oh don’t get me wrong. I totally appreciate it and love the fact that we’re on a real date.”
“What the fuck would we be doing otherwise?” I ask. I’m fucking sorry but I can’t help myself.
“Fuck,” she says, and her eyes are looking right at me. I’m silent. “A part of me thought we’d get right down to that and this was some elaborate hotel so you wouldn’t have to go far.”
“I live at One57,” I tell her. “So I’m literally a block away.”
Ashley rolls her eyes. “Well that makes sense now,” she says.
“You think someone like me isn’t able to take girls on dates?” I ask a bit curious where this conversation is going.
“You stole my cab,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Coming out of a strip club. Which is all I know about you. Sorry for not expecting more out of you.”
I laugh. She smiles at me. You’re probably looking at me thinking I’ve gone fucking crazy. Laughing at what she said.
But don’t forget. I’m the one in control here. Not her. My laughing is just a sign that I’m not fucking threatened. Because I’m not.
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” I ask. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re going to say. But she said ‘fuck’ first.
“Waiting to see how you’re going to try and fuck me,” she says and leans back as the waiter brings our dirty martinis to the table. He gives her a sidelong glance, obviously hearing the last part of our exchange. Ashley smiles and twirls her hair in one finger absently.
“What do you do?” she asks me.
I raise my glass. “Steal cabs from women outside of strip clubs so I can rescue them from ex-boyfriends during the day.”
She smiles and raises her glass and we click in a toast. “Thank you for the other night,” she says to me.
“Don’t mention it,” I tell her. “I was just passing by.”
“I hope you know that it doesn’t entitle you to sleep with me or anything like that,” she says to me, staring into my eyes.
“I don’t think it entitles me to anything,” I say to her and she looks at me with curiosity. Where am I taking this, she’s probably wondering. “But I know you’re still wondering what it would be like if I fucked you.”
If I’d gotten up and whipped out my 12-inch cock and waved it around, Ashley wouldn’t be any more surprised it seems like.
“That’s what I’m wondering?” she asks me, her eyes wide.
I nod my head. “Since you got on your way over here. You’re also wondering about these tattoos you can faintly see underneath my shirt the way your eyes are moving.”
Ashley takes a sip of her martini and leans closer on the table toward me.
“What else am I thinking?” she asks, this time into a bit more of a smile. “I’m curious because you seem to know so much better than I do.”
“You’re thinking if my apartment is only a block away, how you can legitimately end up giving me an opportunity to ask you to come up,” I reply back to her, not breaking her stare.
“So you can fuck me?” she asks, pretending to make sure.
“So you can cum till you pass the fuck out,” I clarify for her.
“That good?” she asks back with an arched eyebrow.
“Even better,” I parry back to her.
She pauses for a moment. “So didn’t you just give me the opportunity to legitimately give you the chance to ask me to go to your apartment?” Ashley asks with a twinkle. “When you brought up the whole fact of bringing it up, can’t I take it?”
I smile. This was fucking easy I think to myself as I beckon the waiter and get up. But unlike most girls, this one knows what she’s doing. She might end up being quite a bit of fun.
We’ll see. Like I told her—and you—my apartment is literally a block away.
She gets out of her chair.
“Are you taking me up on my legitimate chance?” she asks with amusement. “Are we going to your apartment?”
“I figured I’d show you around,” I tell her. I know what I’m doing. I’m the one in control, remember?
“Then maybe I should do this,” she says and takes two steps over.
She reaches over and grabs my head with both hands and pulls my mouth close to hers. In a moment, I’m kissing her. Our lips part and our tongues meet as our eyes close. She massages her tongue gently over mine and I’m in heaven.
Before I know it, she’s pulled back.
“I’ll meet you outside,” she says and turns around. I watch her hips sway and her ass cheeks flex as she walks out.
Every eye in the restaurant is on me. I literally have no idea what to fucking do.
But I do know one thing though.
I’m a fucking idiot if I ever thought I was in control with this woman.
I can’t wait to find out what happens next.
Ashley
One57. I never thought I’d actually step foot into one of the most exclusive condominiums in the world. But here I am, riding in One57’s elevator, arm in arm with a drop-dead gorgeous man, Arsen Hawke. The place looks amazing, but to tell you the truth, I don’t pay much attention to it. By the time he opens the door to his apartment, there’s only one thing dominating my mind: sex. There’s something about him that tells me I’m in for quite a ride …
I step inside his apartment, and the moment I hear the door closing behind us I’m on him. I turn on my heels and press my mouth against his. Our lips touch and my soul starts to boil. It’s all it takes really—one taste of the Devil’s lips and I know I’m damned. Whatever he wants to do to me, I’m his.
I part my lips slightly, my tongue reaching for his and dancing in slow soft circles around it. His hands are on my waist, his long fingers firmly planted on my hips. We kiss in abandonment, my fingers running through his hair and disheveling it as my heart beats faster and faster. I let my hands fall down to the side of his face and I trace the hard lines of his jaw, the warmness on his skin calling to me.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he suddenly says, taking one hand to my neck and yanking on my hair, forcing my head back. I open my eyes, locking them on his, and I stop breathing for a whole second as he continues. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t even know your name when we’re done.”
Each word that leaves his lips is like opium, traveling from my ears to my brain and drowning it in numbness. I try to think of an appropriate response, but all I can do is mouth an anxious “yes.” He takes one step forward, pushing me back and pinning me against the wall. My heart is drumming so hard I half-expect it to claw its way out of my chest anytime now.
“I own you. Right now, you’re mine,” he says, leaning in and whispering in my ear, his full lips brushing against my skin. My heart rises and falls at a hurried pace, my lungs working overtime as his eyes seem to devour me. Impatient with my silence, he yanks harder on my hair, his lips turning into a hard line. “Say it.”
What the hell is going on? If any guy treated me like this in the strip club I’d have the bouncers kick his ass in the blink of an eye. Hell, I wouldn’t tolerate this from any of my past boyfriends! But, somehow, his hard eyes locked on mine, I find my brain shutting down, my unconscious hidden thoughts crawling out of their cages.
“I’m yours,” I find myself saying, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
“You are,” he grins, the way his lips curl upward makes him look even more beautiful. “And you’ll do everything I tell you to.”
“I will do everything you tell me to,” I repeat, my mouth turning dry. Of course, as my mouth goes dry, my pussy becomes wetter than it has ever been—maybe there’s some correlation there.
Still with one hand on my hair, he tak
es the other one to the hemline of my dress, the tip of his fingers brushing against the naked skin above my right knee. I feel my skin prickling as his fingers hike up my leg, gently lifting the dress in the process. The closer he gets to my pussy, the wetter I become, a wildfire of desire spreading inside of me. I almost reach for his wrist and force his hand against my pussy, but I’m so entranced by his touch I simply stand still, the perfect victim to his teasing.
Unblinking, I stare into his eyes as his fingers close in on my groins, my insides burning with anticipation. But instead of simply going for it, he simply traces the contour of my thong with his index finger, going back and forth over both my groins without actually touching my pussy. Guided by unconscious desire, I find myself bucking my hips at him, aching to feel his hand on me. The moment I do it, he takes his hand out from under my dress and yanks on my hair again.
“Stand still,” he tells me, deviousness flickering in his eyes. I nod, pursing my lips and trying to ignore my own instincts. Stand still, I repeat to myself, the words echoing inside my head. In an instant, his hand is under my dress again, his index finger gently running along the place where fabric and skin meet. He goes like that for what seems like an eternity, although it couldn’t have been more than a minute. It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re so wet your juices have soaked your underwear completely. Then he finally turns his wrist and flattens the palm of his hand over the front of my thong. I can’t help but gasp as I succumb to the pressure of his fingers on my pussy. I throw my head back and close my eyes, a sweet numbness embracing every single one of my nerve endings.
Arsen starts rubbing my pussy softly, his fingers pressed tight over my wetness. A purred moan leaves my lips as he does it, the whole world fading away around me. With a flick of his fingers he pulls my thong to the side and brushes one fingertip over my labia, his touch making my brain almost explode.