Totlandia: The Onesies, Book 1 (Fall)
Page 2
She wrangled Dante into his pants, then started back up the hill.
She’d just arrived at the large wrought iron gates on Eleanor’s estate when she realized Dante was wet again.
Frustration rimmed her eyes with tears.
She made sure to wipe them away before entering the corner grocery store, where the shop owners knew her as Eleanor’s daughter-in-law.
Even there, appearances were everything.
11:14 a.m.
By their second mutual orgasm, Brady Pierce’s latest lover had him convinced that the best lays were married women with toddlers whose husbands were workaholics.
“You know what they say,” she whispered in his ear, “third time’s the charm. You don’t mind if I’m on top this time, do you?” Her grin was wide and naughty.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure, be my guest.”
A second later she was straddling him. She was still wet enough that she easily slid down onto him. With the practiced ease that comes with Bar Method-toned thighs, she inched up slowly, tightening around his member. Then back down…then up again…
Soon, this steady rhythm had her moaning ecstatically. Her eyes were shut tight, but he kept his open because he enjoyed watching the joy she showed in riding him. Had he been seventeen, just seeing her there poised over him, with that taut belly and those full breasts, would have had him coming again in no time. But he was a forty-two-year-old who had spent the last two decades of his life in front of a computer screen, and another decade before that on a couch, surfing too many TV channels and manipulating too many video game joysticks.
Sadly, their bouts of sex easily qualified as the most arduous workout he’d gotten in months.
At least in this position she could do all the work while he contemplated how to get what he really needed from her.
And it had nothing to do with his joystick.
Luck, nor fate, had anything to do with how they had met. He hadn’t stalked her exactly, but he had been monitoring comments to and from the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club Twitter account (@ PacHeightsMoms). She seemed to live online there. Quite frankly, he found that somewhat pitiful.
But since she was also one of the club’s officers, she was perfect for his needs.
By the end of the week his short but charming posts had caught her attention. Her responses had been formal at first, then inquisitive. A month later, he showed up at Alta Plaza Park, one of the playgrounds she frequented with her children. He had recognized her from her online photo. Initiating small talk was easy as pie. He just plopped down beside her on one of the park’s benches and pretended to be engrossed in some story on his iPad.
It took all of five minutes and one long low whistle to pique her interest as to what he was reading. He answered with the name of the classic, which, he knew by following the club’s Facebook fan page, was its book-of-the-month selection. Voila! A second later she was pontificating about its plot, characters, and still relevant social significance as if she’d written the damn thing herself.
The fact that his eyes never left her face as they discussed the book soon had her fiddling with her hair self-consciously. When he complimented her on the charm on her the necklace, she blushed. The reluctant wince she gave an hour later, as her kids pulled her off the bench demanding she make good on the fro-yo she’d promised them, left him no doubt that within a month’s time she’d be sleeping with him.
Brady wondered how many times a week she’d taken her children to the park, hoping to bump into him again. He made sure it was infrequent enough to make her miss him.
When he did show up, he didn’t exactly flirt with her. His style was to toss out a joke at his own expense, then wait for her to laugh, at which point he’d pay her a compliment, pointing out how well her kids played with their little pals, and how, when he first saw her, he thought she was an au pair because she looked much too young, not to mention toned, to be a mom.
That statement alone was catnip to her. It was the proof she longed for, that she was still attractive—perhaps even desirable—after having two kids.
It was also the day she started flirting with him. “If you give me your cell number, I’ll text you proof of my stretch marks,” she teased him.
He gave it to her and got back a full-frontal jpeg.
Not that he scrutinized it for any stretch marks. His appreciative gaze never went beyond her vajazzle.
In those early weeks it was obvious she never realized who he was, which was okay by him. Desired, in fact. Inevitably, she asked him which street he lived on. He replied that he lived at the corner of Baker and Beach.
That took her breath away. “You mean, across from the Palace of Fine Arts?”
He nodded. “I own that three-story Tuscan stucco. The one with the rooftop plaza.”
Of course she would know the house. Maybe she didn’t read Wired or Fortune, but he was sure she scrutinized every copy of Architectural Digest, especially the one six months ago in which Brady’s house had graced the cover, since it was just down the hill from her own, in the Marina district.
That was the moment she realized he wasn’t just some random guy named Brady, but Brady Pierce, the founder of AStealAtThisPrice.com, last year’s must-buy stock.
After that day, he had no doubt that part of her attraction to him was his notoriety. Still, it gave him pleasure to know that she had wanted him before she knew who he was, because it fell into his plan perfectly:
She’d have to believe that she had seduced him.
Granted, it was a strategic calculation on his part that she, like so many other stay-at-home moms, was truly lonely, despite a multitude of gal pals who were only a text away.
That the pregnancy glow, which had once warmed her marriage, had long since been scorched by the hot white realities of motherhood.
And that she was emotionally unfulfilled with her life, despite being freed from a nine-to-five tether.
Her savage eagerness during this very first tryst laid to rest any lingering doubts that she was also sexually frustrated, thanks to a husband who was either too busy or too tired to talk, let alone make love, to her.
That was where Brady came in. He’d scratch her back if she scratched his. And yet, scratching was only part of their foreplay itinerary.
For him, sex was the appetizer. The main course was still to be had.
She’s just like the heroine in that novel I read in some English Lit class, he thought. Madame Bovary. She wants some guy—any guy—to notice her in some way—
No, not just acknowledge her, but love her.
Why were all women so damn needy?
Needy, like Jade.
The thought of the wife he had dumped just eight months ago should have softened his boner. Instead, a tsunami of lust rushed through him—
Jade always did have that effect on him.
Good thing, too, because his Madame Bovary—or more appropriately, Madame Ovary—was also climaxing. This time, though, her moans were much louder. Brady must have been just as noisy because the next thing he knew the baby, who had been sleeping so soundly in the nursery, was now wailing.
They both froze mid-orgasm. Then, with a wistful sigh, Brady’s lover eased herself off him. It wasn’t that hard. A one-year-old’s cry could make any man go limp.
Especially when the kid was his.
Brady didn’t even bother to put on his boxer briefs as he stumbled out of his bedroom and into Oliver’s. His son would learn about modesty soon enough.
Or maybe not, considering his mother had been a pole dancer.
Brady took the bottle out of its warmer, shook it, then tested it on his arm before putting it in front of his son. The bottle had barely touched Oliver’s lips before the tot was sucking away at it, noisily.
To Brady, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
He didn’t know how long she’d been standing there watching them. It startled him when he heard her whisper, “My God, he’s so adorable!”
She laughed, and then ducked her head, embarrassed. “Thank goodness your wife expressed enough milk to cover him while she’s away at her mother’s.”
Brady shrugged. No way in hell was he going to tell her the baby had never been near Jade’s cosmetically inflated tits. Oliver had been on Enfamil up until two months ago.
Nor was he going to mention that Jade was long gone from their lives. Brady had the annulment pay-off receipt to prove it.
Not that Madame Ovary needed to know that. From the comments made on the club’s Facebook page, it was clear that single parents were persona non grata. If she learned that Jade was out of the picture, she wouldn’t be able to help Oliver at all, and his plan would fail.
Failure was not an option. The most important thing Brady Pierce had learned on his long and arduous climb to the pinnacle of the business world was that surrounding yourself with winners was the way you became one yourself.
Which was why, as crazy as it sounded, the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club was the first baby step on Oliver’s journey to success.
The winning combination was brains, ambition, and money. A full bank account couldn’t do it alone. Sure, his money could buy his son’s way into Harvard or MIT or Stanford. But what good would that do if the kid wasn’t motivated to learn? Before he’d dropped out himself, he had met too many guys on campus with more money than brains.
And as for having the smarts to make it once you were there, the high tech field was teeming with college dropouts who, like Brady, had willed themselves into billionaires. He’d be the first to tell you that it was a lot easier if you started with a stash of cash.
The ambition quotient was where PHM&T came in. Membership in the club would fast-track Oliver into the best private schools in the city, where he’d be challenged and learn to excel, all the way to Stanford. All the way to his owning a company on NASDAQ: something he’d start with his personal trust fund.
To ensure his son was this triple threat, Brady had sold his company and had become a stay-at-home dad.
It was why he had separated from Jade the minute he realized she could never be the kind of mother Oliver deserved.
And it was why he was sleeping with this all too desperate housewife.
Sure, the sex was great. But it was only a means to an end. Madame Ovary held the key to Oliver’s success. She sat on the acceptance committee of the PHM&T.
Time to get serious. He shifted Oliver toward her. “I can tell he’s just as head over heels about you as I am. Why not make his day and hold him?”
She rocked Oliver in her arms. As he sucked on his bottle, he stared longingly at the nipple—the left one again. So near, yet so far.
Tell me about it, guy, Brady thought. Just like your future.
He looked Madame Ovary in the eye as he flashed his patented winner’s smile. He would not blink. He had learned that trick years ago from his mentor, Steve Jobs, sometime during his first year at Apple: Stare directly at the target until they are mesmerized. Then give them the directive, the grand mission, only they can carry out.
Only this time the mission wasn’t some computer, or the latest iPhone. It was Oliver’s future. “You’re going to pull this off for him, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
She dropped her gaze to Oliver, whose eyelids fluttered as he drifted back off into sleep. “Oh honey, you know you can count on me.”
Had she been addressing him, or Oliver? Not that it mattered. When it came to the welfare of his son, Oliver and Brady were one and the same.
Always and forever.
“How can you be so sure?” he asked. “You’re only one vote on the committee. What about the other five members?”
The finger that had been stroking Oliver’s cheek now silenced Brady’s lips. “You’re just going to have to trust me.” Her laugh was anything but modest. “I know those women on the committee better than anyone.”
Mission accomplished.
With what he hoped was just enough jealousy in his voice, Brady muttered, “Aw hell! Didn’t you say you had to meet your husband and your kids at some picnic by noon? It’s almost eleven-thirty.”
The color drained from her face. “Oh my God. I’ve got to get out of here!” She pecked his cheek, handed over Oliver, and then hightailed it back into his bedroom.
He could hear her scurrying around. Rocking Oliver in his arms, he watched from the doorway as she snapped on her bra and then shoved her silk tee shirt over her head. “Damn it, I can’t find my panties—”
He shrugged. “Go commando. No one will ever know.” Least of all her husband.
The sap.
She shook her head as she yanked the bed sheets from one side to the other. “Are you crazy? What if your wife finds them?”
“She won’t. She’s out of town, remember?” Seeing the concern in his lover’s face, he forced a smile and added, “Seriously, don’t worry. I’ll hold on to them for you. Besides, it will give you a reason to drop by again.”
She rose from under the bed, waving a hot pink thong triumphantly over her head. “Found it!” Slipping them on over her hips, she added, “But I can lose it again—I mean, if you think I need an excuse to come by.”
“Never,” Brady assured her. “Hey, just think: if Oliver gets accepted, we’ll get to see a lot more of each other. You know, at club meet-ups and all.”
“Quit worrying. He’s as good as in.” She winked knowingly as she zipped her jeans. “Him, and of course Jade. Ha! I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep from clawing her eyes out. I’m already pea green with envy. But I’m the least of her worries. Some of those women are real bitches.”
Oh.
Fuck.
A pole-dancing bimbo taking play dates with a bunch of Pacific Heights yummy mommies? That is not gonna happen.
“With all her charity work I don’t know if Jade will be able to, you know, hang out all the time. Any time, really.” He chuckled to cover up his shaky voice. He prayed he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “But, hey, what about me? I’m Brady’s wingman. He’s why I sold my company in the first place. I never wanted to be one of those dads who are never around for all those important things in their kids’ lives. I’m going to coach his Little League team, and his CYO Basketball. Hell, I’m going on every school field trip and joining the PTA, too. But it all starts with PHM&T, right? Babe, I know you can make that happen.” He gave her a soulful kiss. “When we’re in public I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor.”
She shook her head playfully. “Silly boy! It’s a ‘moms and tots’ club, remember? There is one ironclad rule: no dads allowed.” Then she lifted up onto her tiptoes so she could kiss his chin. “Maybe it’s for the best. Some of those women are terrible flirts. I’d be soooo jealous.”
In other words it was Jade, not Brady, who held Oliver’s golden ticket into the club.
Brady winced at the thought that his son’s future was predicated on the actions of the ditz he’d just dumped.
He’d have to count on Jade doing the right thing.
For Oliver.
And if not for their son, then for the money Brady would pay her to act like a good mother for three mornings a week. It would cost him another fortune.
The second Madame Ovary slammed the door, Brady reached for his cellphone. He clicked through the J’s, then remembered he’d erased Jade’s number after the incident—the one where their son had almost died because she’d left him with her clueless manager while Oliver was sick with a high fever—just so she could audition for some low-budget indie film.
Brady had almost tossed Jade out the third-story window of the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit when she let it slip that the audition was for a porn flick. The only thing that saved her life was that she swore to him she had turned it down.
That was the moment he knew he could never trust her with his son, ever again.
It was also the moment he knew he had a choice: be the hottest internet entrepreneur on the planet, or the best dad in the world. If it meant calling Jade and asking—no,demanding—she do right by Oliver, then so be it.
It surprised him that he still remembered Jade’s number.
It didn’t shock him at all that it was disconnected.
That’s okay. Within an hour, someone from his private security detail would find her for him.
The thought of her still made him ache, for all the wrong reasons.
1:24 p.m.
“Ah, my boy! My perfect, sweet little boy! Where have you been all my life?”
This inevitable declaration by Eleanor Morrow Connaught never failed to draw a hearty laugh from her son, Matthew, despite the fact that she wasn’t addressing him but her grandson, Dante. It happened whenever the little boy came in view, whether it was the first time that day or like now, after he’d been roused from his nap.
Lorna’s reaction to it never changed, either: she swelled with pride, knowing that after eight years of trying so desperately, it was Dante who had finally secured for her the respect she sought from Matthew’s mother.
Matt propelled his son around the room with stiffened arms that went straight out in front of his chest. The softest landing Dante could make was always in his grandmother’s arms, where he responded to the physical and emotional warmth he found there with a gentle smile.
Bettina’s reaction was less indulgent. “Matthew, one day you’re going to drop that boy, and all hell will break loose.”
Matt shrugged. Bettina’s acerbic barbs never seemed to prick her brother’s perennially upbeat mood. “He’ll bounce…right?”
Only Art Cross, Matt’s brother-in-law, laughed at the joke that brought a chorus of groans from all the women.
“Mother, admit it: I was dropped on my head at least once, and it didn’t hurt me.”