Unspoken (The Prose Series Book 1)

by Sofia Tate

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Penelope asks.

  I flash her a prim and proper smile. “Never better, Mrs. Covington.”

  Filing into Mrs. Covington’s private elevator, Marisol steers me toward her. “We need to talk,” she whispers under her breath.

  “Not here,” I murmur, nodding at the other ladies in the car with us.

  Once outside on Fifth Avenue, air kisses and delicate embraces are shared among the group. A frustrated Marisol pulls me aside. “I have bad news, chica. I can’t invest in the magazine. I talked to my parents. It’s not because they’re opposed to the idea because you know they adore you, but the money is tied up for another year until I turn twenty-five.”

  Damn.

  I give her a comforting smile. “I totally understand, sweetie. I’ll figure something out.”

  Before she can reply, my father’s voice calls out behind us. “Beatrice.”

  We turn to see him walking toward us, a serious look across his face. “Hello, girls.”

  “Mr. Parker, nice to see you,” Marisol greets him.

  “Always a pleasure, dear. How are your parents?” he asks out of politeness.

  “They’re fine,” she answers, but looks back at me quizzically.

  “Dad, what you doing here?”

  “Beatrice, I need you to come with me. I’d like to show you something.”

  This is odd. “How did you know lunch was over?”

  “I called Penelope and her butler informed me. Marisol, you don’t mind, do you?”

  She slaps a fake smile across her lips. “Not at all, Mr. Parker. Beatrice, I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah, later.” I catch her giving me the “call me” gesture with her right hand behind my father’s back.

  I nod in reply to her, turning to my father. “Okay, Dad. Lead the way.”

  The elevator in the building on Madison and 73rd where the office for Park magazine is housed still creaks like it did when I was a child. Memories come flooding back when I came here with my grandpa, holding his hand so tightly, him introducing me to the staff, telling everyone how proud he was of me.

  Two decades later, the office itself has retained that musty smell, mixed with warped wood and corroding metal from the aging file cabinets. The interior hasn’t changed either. A small entryway with a window where a receptionist would greet you back in the early days of the magazine sits unused now.

  When my father and I walk through, the first person who greets us is Millie, an older woman who’s worked at the magazine since Grandpa founded it.

  “Oh my goodness. That can’t be little Beatrice!” she welcomes me warmly, her warm, rotund body enveloping me in a tight hug.

  “Hi, Millie. Not so little anymore,” I reply.

  “I can see that.” Her attention switches to my father. “Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Lovely to see you, Millie. How are you?”

  While they exchange pleasantries, I gaze around the large open space. A bank of file cabinets sits in the center, demarcating the editorial areas from the administrative side. I notice the desktop computers are older PC models, which clearly need to be updated.

  My father takes my arm. “Let’s go see Edward.”

  I follow Dad to the back of the room to the one enclosed space that serves as the editor-in-chief’s office, which position is currently filled by Edward Danbury, the son of a friend of Grandpa’s who took over from him after he passed away.

  Sitting at his desk with the door open and holding a red pencil in his hand, he is clearly editing the next issue. Dad knocks on the doorjamb, and Edward looks up from his work and smiles at us.

  “Well, hello, Parker family. This is a pleasant surprise.” He rises from his chair, coming around the desk to welcome us, giving my father a handshake and me a hug.

  “I hope we’re not disturbing you,” Dad says.

  “Oh, no, not at all. Please have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk.

  Once we all settle in, Edward leans forward. “How are you? How is Mrs. Parker?”

  “We’re all well, thank you, Edward,” Dad replies. “I brought Beatrice with me today because I thought she might want to see how the office looks now. It’s been too long since she was last here.”

  Right, Dad. That’s exactly why.

  Edward clears his throat. “Yes, well, we’re managing. It’s not like it was when your grandfather ran the magazine.” He looks over at the portrait of Grandpa hanging on the wall to the left of us. He sighs. “Times have changed. It’s hard to compete with Town & Country and other periodicals when our own computers need to be updated.”

  “Of course. That’s understandable. Quite the dilemma. Don’t you agree, Beatrice?”

  Subtle, Dad.

  I nod. “Yes, I can see that.” I clench my hands in frustration. “Would you mind if I walked around for a bit since it’s been so long since I was here?”

  Edward waves his hand at me enthusiastically. “Of course. Please. I should have a moment with your father as it is.”

  I step out, taking a lap around the space. I say hello to the assistant editors perusing over copy, the photo editor studying pictures on a computer monitor. But what draws my attention most are the framed covers of Park lining the walls like a gallery exhibit, along with shots of Grandpa smiling with various staff members.

  The last picture grabs my attention. It’s of Grandpa and me in his office, with him in his chair and me on top of the desk, smiling so widely. I think I’m about five, wearing a pink dress with white knee socks and black patent Mary Janes, my blond hair in pigtails. Grandpa is sitting back, his arms crossed, grinning at me as if to say: “Look at this kid. She’s going places.”

  Suddenly, tears form in my eyes.

  Am I, Grandpa? Would you be proud of me now?

  A touch of someone’s hand startles me. “Shall we go, sweetheart?” Dad asks.

  I wipe my eyes before I turn around to face him. “Yes. Let’s go.”

  For the first few blocks, Dad and I remain quiet. As we turn onto Park Avenue, he breaks the silence. “I hope you didn’t mind that.”

  I shake my head. “I would’ve minded less if you had warned me ahead of time.”

  “Would you have gone if I had?” he asks pointedly.

  I pause. “I don’t know. That was a guilt trip, Dad.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be, and I’m sorry if it felt that way. I just wanted to remind you of your family legacy and how much the magazine meant to your grandfather.”

  “I thought you wanted Seb to take it over one day.”

  Dad sighs. “Yes, but Seb isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to be a magazine editor, even though his family owns it. And if you and Porter—”

  I stop short, pivoting to my father. “Don’t, Dad. Just don’t. I know it’s what I have to do, but I can’t talk about it now.”

  “But, Beatrice…”

  “Not now, all right? Please. I just want to go home.”

  Silence resumes between us. The only words we utter once we get home are greetings for Isaac in the lobby and Sinclair when we walk into the apartment.

  I head straight for my room, collapsing on my bed. All I want to do is rest my eyes, but then I remember I haven’t checked Prose since yesterday.

  When I open the app, a message awaits my attention from GalwayPlayer entitled “Yes, Sir.” My mouth drops at his words as I feel myself grow wet at his fantasies of me, of what we would do together.

  I rush to my desk and reply to him, the words flowing from me so naturally as if it were a habit. And I realize it is. Sharing my fantasies with him has become my addiction.

  “Something New”

  We lie tangled together, completely spent.

  “I can't move,” I whisper.

  “I'll take that as a compliment,” you reply.

  “Please do, Sir.”

  I lean in and kiss you long and deep, then I pull bac
k. “Now I have something for you. I think you'll enjoy it.”

  I begin to disentangle myself from you.

  “Where are you going?” you ask. “I thought you couldn't move.”

  There is displeasure in your voice.

  I quickly kiss you on the lips. “Trust me, Sir. You'll enjoy this.”

  You narrow your eyebrows at me in a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

  I return to the bedroom, smacking myself on the thigh with my riding crop.

  Your eyes light up at the sight and sound of the leather hitting my flesh. “Where in the hell did you get that?”

  “From my riding lessons when I was a kid. The poor thing's been gathering dust ever since.”

  You grin wickedly at me. “I'm pleased you saved it then, baby.”

  I walk over to you and present it to you. “It even has a wrist hold for your convenience.”

  “Yes, that's very nice. Now get back on the bed,” you command me.

  I scurry onto the bed and lie down, chest facing up.

  You try out the crop, smacking it on your palm. “You're going to enjoy this,” you declare.

  “Yes, I will, Sir. As I'm sure you will as well. Do you want to bind my wrists?”

  “No, but put on your mask.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I do as I’m told and lay my head down. I'm already wet with anticipation. I take deep breaths waiting for the first touch.

  Then I feel it. The soft leather on my collarbone. You trace a trail down my chest and over my belly.

  “How do I look, Sir?”

  “Beautiful,” you reply with a deep rasp.

  I can feel you moving back to my breasts. The leather circles one nipple, growing hard and pebbled with each swirl. Then you trail to the other one as I moan from your exquisite ministrations.

  You breathe deeply. I imagine your heart is pounding inside your chest as much as mine is.

  You deliver two swift smacks to each nipple and I moan in ecstasy. I fist the sheets with my hands, my toes curling from the sensation.

  The crop moves back down my belly. I know exactly where you're heading.

  Or not.

  “Turn over. Show me your ass.”

  I quickly flip over. Oh my God, I want this so much.

  You glide the crop over my buttocks, no doubt taking in the view. I steel myself for the first smack.

  And then the leather lands on my soft flesh. I yell out from the impact.

  “Shall I do that again?” you ask.

  “Yes, please, Sir. As much as you like.”

  Each smack on my ass makes me wetter and wetter, and now my pussy is completely soaked. I need the release. I need to come so badly.

  “I love how your skin turns so pink,” you declare in admiration. “It's gorgeous.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Now get on your back, baby.”

  I flip over once more. And when I feel the leather on my pussy, I scream out, “Oh, God, yes! Please, Sir!”

  I can hear you grunt to yourself as you open my folds with the crop. “You're glistening, baby,” you remark in admiration.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Do you wish this was my cock?”

  “I always want your cock, Sir,” I confess.

  “As much as that pleases me, I'm going to make you come with this. I think you want to come, don't you, baby?”

  “Yes, Sir. Very much.”

  “Then you shall.”

  Before I can prepare myself, I sense the leather on my clit. You start to rub it back and forth over my swollen nub, and I start to writhe uncontrollably.

  I ride the leather, clenching my thighs together. “Yes, please, don't stop, Sir! That feels so good!”

  You smack my thighs. “Keep your legs open,” you command. “I want to see your pussy when you come.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I moan in reply.

  You place the leather back on my pussy and continue to rub it over and over. And then I lose all control as my orgasm washes over me. I ride the wave, screaming in release.

  My body sinks into the bed as I pant my breaths. Suddenly, I can taste leather on my lips, and then I taste myself. I lick the leather with my tongue, savoring my essence mixed in with the soft leather.

  Then I feel your body press down on the mattress as you join me. You pull me to you and kiss me hard. “That was amazing, baby.”

  “It was,” I reply breathlessly. “Thank you for that. Hands down, that was the best idea I ever had, saving that from my childhood..”

  “My good girl is also very smart,” you declare, running your fingers over my swollen lips.

  I smile back at you. “Always.”

  15

  Aiden

  Staring out the window of the suite Bea had reserved for us at the Ritz-Carlton, I watch as various boats and ferries sail across the Hudson River between Manhattan and New Jersey, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island illuminated brilliantly in the background.

  I press play again on my phone. By now, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve listened to the audio recording Bea made for me. Her moans, the moment she comes, all of those sounds make me so hard for her, desperate to sink myself inside her. Add her latest post from Prose to that, and I can hardly walk thanks to my cock turning into fucking Mt. Everest.

  I know she’s bound to ask me tonight why I told her to do that, and I’ll give her a standard answer. But the real truth is that I wanted her to see that I could be her real-life GalwayPlayer from Prose, that she doesn’t need Prose to live out her deepest fantasies. She could have me for that. Now I just need to find the right time to tell her.

  The electronic buzz of the door unlocking makes me stop listening to my phone because the woman who made that recording for me, the woman who drives me fucking mad and who makes me hard at the mere thought of her, steps through the door.

  She drops her bag on the floor and whips off her sunglasses. “Fucking FDR was backed up for miles,” she huffs. “I told the stupid driver to take the side streets, but no, he—”

  God, she’s so fucking sexy when she’s pissed off.

  Before she can utter another word, I rush over to her and grab her face, plunging my tongue into her lush mouth, which she readily accepts.

  “Mmmmm,” she moans as I keep kissing her, unable to stop. I could come from that sound alone.

  I finally pull away from her to catch my breath. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. And thank you for making sure my key was waiting for me at the front desk. Very efficient of you.”

  She smiles knowingly. “You’re welcome, Full Ride. And speaking of, what in the hell possessed you to do that yesterday? Bored at work?”

  Oh yeah, I know my Buzzy well.

  “No, smartass. I was thinking about you, that’s all. And why in the hell are we all the way down here?”

  She nods with a raised eyebrow. “That would be a ‘Yeah, right’ to your first comment. As for your question, it’s because nobody in my circle would be caught dead below 42nd Street. Nobody knows me down here.”

  I smile back at her because I knew it. That’s the reason she picked Battery Park City’s zip code when she chose her handle for Prose.

  “So why the shades?”

  “This is Manhattan, Aiden. You never know who you’ll run into.”

  “Like a reporter from Page Six about you cheating on your fake fiancé? Or is it soon-to-be fiancé? I can’t keep track of this bullshit anymore.”

  She looks down at the floor. “Aiden, please. Don’t do this. I just want it to be us now.”

  “Oh, right. Because I’m your big secret. Fucking someone from the bridge and tunnel crowd.”

  Her head snaps up, her eyes heated. “That’s not fair.”

  Fuck this. I can bring this up later. Right now, I have more pressing matters to attend to, the greatest one pressing against the fabric of my jeans.

  “Enough talking, woman,” I declare.

  She gasps as I push her
coat off her shoulders and quickly unbutton her black silk blouse, revealing a black lace bra underneath it.

  Fuck.

  I stop for a minute to just take in the irresistible vision before me.

  “You like?” she purrs, her eyes now relaxed and softened.

  “I fucking love,” I reply. “Now do the same for me.”

  Her brows narrow quizzically for a moment. I give her a hard stare, then I watch as her long, tapered fingers run up my shirt from my waist to my chest, finally unbuttoning the cotton fabric, one button at a time. She bites her bottom lip when some buttons don’t give as quickly as others.

  Fucking adorable.

  She pushes the shirt off my shoulders, pulling my undershirt over my head. Her hands move to my belt buckle, then she undoes my pants slowly as we smile at each other at the sound of metal clanking when they drop to the floor.

  Bea glances down at my briefs, then shifts her eyes back at me.

  “You’re not done yet, Buzzy.”

  She shakes her head amusedly, tugging hard on my underwear, my cock springing upright when released from its cotton confines.

  Without even asking for a prompt, she gets down on her knees, tapping my right foot so I can take off my shoe and sock, then following through with the other.

  Rising from the floor, I give her a full-blown smirk before turning toward the bed, laying myself down on it.

  She clears her throat for attention, waving her hand. “Ahem. Excuse me. Are you just going to leave me standing here?”

  My eyes roam over her, my cock hardening when I think of what I have planned for her. “Take off all your clothes,” I command her, low and roughly.

  Her soft emerald eyes harden from the tone of my voice. She swallows again in her throat, not because she is seeking attention, but from nervous anxiety.

  Her eyes never leave mine as she slips out of her black leather heels, then undoes her tweed pants, removes her black lace thong, and finally, unclasps her bra.

  She is left with nothing on but black silk stockings, those hold-up ones I’ve come to love on her.