His Sword

by Holly Hart

  “Of course I do, Charlie. I love that little girl like she’s my own, you know that. I know you’re hurting, but trust me – I’m not going to let anything happen to her. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I mutter. “I do trust you, Harps. You’re the best.”

  “I know,” she says.

  The elevator dings.

  “I gotta go,” I say. I kill the call.

  The elevator doors slide open. Penny flinches when she sees me waiting for her. “You don’t need to do that, you know,” she says. She speaks quietly as though she knows – or at least feels – she’s on uncertain ground.

  “Do what?”

  “Wait for me.” Penny spreads her arms and spins. I can’t resist getting a good view of her ass in those tight jeans. “This place is big, but even I’m not going to get lost.”

  I agree, guiltily jerking my eyes back up to Penny’s face. The eleven year age gap makes me feel creepy, but Penny’s one hell of a looker. And after all, she is my wife. Still – I’m breaking that rule. The one that says half your age plus seven’s okay.

  But I don’t care.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Penny says. She bites her lip – just a fraction – just enough that my eyes dart to that in turn.

  I feel like the gears in my brain have stopped turning. They are stuck, not working. I know that I need to be smarter than this – I’m no fool. Like Harper says, a hundred women have tried to fuck me for my money, and a hundred have failed. But then, none of them ever looked like Penny. Don’t get me wrong, they were all drop dead gorgeous – bombshells in their own right.

  But Penny’s different. There’s something about her – the hesitation, the innocence. She’s winding me up. She’s making me ache. I need her like I’ve never needed a woman before. The worst bit is that I know I can’t have her.

  If she’s after my money, the dumbest thing I could do would be put a baby in her belly.

  “It’s nothing,” I croak. “Just…”

  I take a step forward. It’s like I’m being yanked toward Penny by a rope attached to my cock. Her eyes narrow. I think she’d take a step back if she could, but there are only the closed elevator doors behind her.

  I reach up, and brush an imaginary piece of fluff of Penny’s chin. “There,” I say, “it’s gone.”

  I let out a deep breath, trying to disguise it. It’s hard; and that’s not the only thing that is. Penny’s getting me worked up, and I don’t think she knows it. Either that, or she’s one hell of an actress.

  “I could have done it myself,” she says. Her jaw clenches with determination.

  My mind’s still swimming, still drunk. I wonder what Penny would do if I kissed her right now? Kiss me back, or turn away?

  “We’ve got somewhere to be tonight,” I say.

  I take a step back, then another. I need to be away from Penny, and those pouting red lips, and her perfect red hair. I can’t be anywhere near her perfume. It’s exciting, electric, and drawing me in.

  “What do you mean?” She says. “Like a date?”

  I shake my head. Would you like that?

  “No: a charity ball.”

  “I thought we were supposed to be lying low,” Penny says. Her cheeks redden slightly. “You know; keeping out of the public eye?”

  “I wish,” I say. “No – if we’re going to pretend to be married, it’s got to be right out there in public. There’s no point in doing this if we hide it.”

  Penny bites her lip. God, it’s sexy when she does that. “I guess.”

  “I don’t like these things either,” I say. “But beggars can’t be choosers. It’ll be fine. We can hang out at the back of the room. Together,” I add. Why did I say that?

  Penny nods. “Okay. But I’ll need –”

  “– an outfit?” I smile. “No need. I’ve already sorted that out.”

  “How do you know my –”

  “– measurements?” I finish again. Girl, I’ve been eyeballing your measurements all day.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say instead. “I had someone go out shopping for you.”

  That seems to steal the breath from Penny’s lungs. “Oh.”

  I glance down at my wrist. “Everything’s in your room. Shall we meet here in – say – two hours? Is that enough time?”

  “I guess so,” Penny says again. She seems strangely restrained – she has been like this ever since she stepped out of the elevator. I wonder where she’s been. She doesn’t seem like the same feisty girl she was when we first met. The girl who lied about being my wife before she even met me.

  “Perfect,” I reply. “And Penny – smile. It’ll be fun.”

  I step out of the shower. Steam billows around me like smoke from a burning house. Condensation soups the mirrors. I’m lost in another world. My skin is flushed from the heat of the jets of water.

  I walk, naked, not bothering to towel myself off. As I move, a cool breeze runs down my spine. Goosebumps stand tall on my skin.

  If I thought the shower might have cleared my head, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The heat has fired me up. As I rest my head against the cool tile, I see Penny’s face written on the inside of my eyelids. I see her lips kissing me, wandering down my skin, leaving a trail of red lipstick all the way down.

  My cock throbs.

  It’s hard to describe the sensation. I’ve slept with women since Tilly’s mom left: beautiful women; women who turned heads when they walked into a room; but not one made me feel like Penny does.

  Maybe it’s because Penny is a contradiction.

  She’s the only woman I’ve ever lusted for, who I simply cannot have.

  Penny’s a forbidden love. She’s the apple that Eve eats in the Garden of Eden. The second I taste those lips, I’ll be lost. I already know it.

  I need to do something to stop myself. Penny has invaded my mind like a disease. I need the cure. I’m sure I know what it is.

  I walk into my bedroom in a daze. The room is sparse. One wall is glass, and looks down on Central Park hundreds of feet below. My bed is set low, sinking to the floor. The sheets are light, gray and silk. I topple onto them.

  The wispy material tickles my skin. If I close my eyes, I can mistake it for Penny’s touch. I feel her fingernails whispering across my chest, and her fingers running through my hair. My cock grows. I feel it stiffen.

  The very tip kisses the soft mattress below. I twitch. The breath is stolen from my lungs. In the world I’m lost in, the touch might as well be Penny’s lips meeting my skin. My hands dances lower. I drag it across my naked chest. The heat from the shower mixes with the heat of my blood and the heat from my loins and builds to a burning crescendo.

  I picture Penny.

  Naked.

  Pressed up against the glass wall like she was yesterday – except this time she’s naked as the day she was born. Her perfect, pert tits rise and fall with her breath. It happens quickly – she’s panting. Her cheeks are flushed, her pussy glistens with wetness.

  “You want me, don’t you?” This imaginary Penny asks.

  The words are stuck in my mouth. Of course I want her. I want to stride towards her, press her up against the glass. I want to fuck her right there and then: with all of New York looking at us from down below. I want helicopters taking pictures of Penny’s perfect ass; I want pictures of my rigid cock printed in the Post and the Times, and whatever other rags want to report on it.

  My cock twitches. I can’t take it anymore. My fingers close around it, making a fist. Even the slightest touch is enough to make my manhood stiffen in my fingers.

  I pause.

  I don’t do this – masturbate – I mean. I’ve never needed to. A man’s sex drive is like a car’s engine. Some people have old, beaten up jalopies. They can’t get it up without popping pills. Some have rally cars – strong and dependable, they’ll keep chugging, but it’s uninspiring – the kind of men who will keep pumping into you, even if it hurts. Then topple over and start snorin
g the second they are done.

  I’m a goddamn sports car. I’m a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and an Aston Martin – all wrapped up in one.

  The thing about sports cars, though, is that you don’t drive them very often. It’s a waste.

  So I channel my sexual urges into other avenues. Some men waste their entire lives chasing tail in dive bars. Some never get a piece of ass at all. They make me sick.

  My engine drives me on. It built Thorne Enterprises. It made me worth more than every other man in this filthy city. Masturbating is a waste. I’m not like the Pope; I’m not saying it’s a sin to waste my seed. There’s plenty more where that comes from. Pardon the pun.

  No, the crime’s wasting my energy. Some men waste their entire lives away whacking their meat in front of the laptop. That’s not me. Why would I watch porn when million-dollar girls chase after me like I’m Brad Pitt?

  But I don’t need porn. Not when Penny is painted inside my eyelids. Not when I see her as clear as if she was standing in front of me. Not when my finger’s attached to my cock, not when the pleasure starts to build. The breath deepens in my chest. I tip my head back, biting my lip. The pain adds to the pleasure.

  My hand isn’t 1% of how good Penny would feel. I need to taste her, to feel her tightness around me.

  I groan. The orgasm overtakes me. It feels like a vice tightening around my balls, an overwhelming urge being satisfied. My breath catches in my throat. A sticky heat spurts from my cock.

  I grab a towel discarded on the floor and clean myself. I have that feeling – the same one every man does the second after he orgasms.

  Disgust.

  Not at Penny, but at my weakness. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I resist this woman who’s entered my life? Why can’t I stop myself, even though I know she’s a danger to everything I’ve built?

  She might ruin me, and I can’t seem to bring myself to care. Oh, I might pretend I do – but I don’t, not really. I could have found a thousand other ways to deal with that moment in my office. I could have told the woman from CPS I has never seen Penny before in my life: and I wouldn’t be lying. I could’ve had her dragged out by security.

  But I didn’t.

  The second I saw her, I knew I had to have her. Even if she’s my downfall – I know I’m going to have to taste her at least once. Because even now, just seconds after coming, I feel that same relentless urge building between my legs.

  It won’t go until I give my body what it needs. Until I give it Penny.

  I stand up. My eyes fall upon the Patek Philippe watch lying on my nightstand. For some reason, the advertising slogan crosses my mind: “You never own a Patek Philippe. You just take care of it for the next generation.”

  I snort. “Bullshit,” I grunt. It’s just a marketing slogan. It’s Goddamn genius, I’ll give them that – but it’s still just marketing. I lace the watch around my wrist. I’ve got half an hour to get ready before it’s time to go.

  The time seems to speed by. I pull a wardrobe open. It’s stacked with five thousand dollar Brioni suits. I reach in and grab a tuxedo, and throw it aside, grimacing with distaste. I do it again and again, until a small pile of rumpled clothing which costs more than most houses lies on the floor beneath me.

  I pull out the last. In truth, it’s no different to the mountain lying by my feet. I won’t admit this myself, but I’m nervous. I want to impress Penny. I feel like a high schooler taking their crush to prom. I want to look my best – to blow this girl away.

  “Fuck it,” I growl. “You’ll do.”

  The Italian wool clings to my body. I check myself out once in the mirror, but don’t let myself get too carried away. It looks good, I know it does. It looks like an expensive, tailored suit, on an expensive, tailored body.

  Here’s the thing; no one’s looking at a man’s suit; not at these fancy charity events. We’re just there to make our ladies look a million dollars.

  I don’t know what Ella picked out for Penny. My lips tighten into a smirk. I almost wouldn’t put it past the old girl to have bought a frumpy old dress – floral print maybe, just to make her disapproval known.

  Almost.

  Truth is the old girl’s way too professional for that.

  I told her to get my girl something hot, but in hindsight, maybe that was a bad move. Penny will probably be wearing a Frog that looks like it’s come out of the 1950s…

  I check my watch again. It’s time.

  I leave my bedroom, and stride through the carpeted halls of my apartment. It’s strangely quiet without Tilly, but for once she’s not the only girl on my mind.

  I reach Penny’s bedroom. I’m about to open the door, when I pause. My heart is beating. I feel it starting in my chest. I wipe my palms on my suit pants, even though they are already dry as a bone. I swallow hard and knock.

  There’s a pause, then: “come in.”

  I push Penny’s bedroom door open. I take a step forward – and then I stop dead. The breath from my lungs escapes with hurricane force.

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “You look –”

  Chapter Seven

  Penny

  “– incredible,” Charlie whispers.

  He just stands there, open-mouthed. I can’t tell if he really means it, or if he’s just playing with me. I’ve never been good at reading men, and Charlie Thorne is no exception. In fact, he might be the most inscrutable man I’ve ever met.

  His icy gray eyes flash, advertising his powerful intellect. Every time I see that look on his face, I start to question everything I’m doing. If I was going to pick a man to con, why did he have to be one of New York’s most intelligent men – as well as one of her most eligible bachelors..?

  I bite my lip and turn away, hiding behind my main of red hair. “Stop messing around,” I mutter.

  Charlie clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. “I tell it like it is.”

  “Can you do me a favor?” I ask. I’m looking at the wall so I don’t have to look at my husband. My husband! I only caught a glimpse of him as he walked in, and I have to admit that he looks unbelievable. His evening attire clings to his body as though it was sculpted for him and him alone.

  I have no doubt that it was.

  The material hides everything, and yet leaves nothing to the imagination. I can almost pick out each of the individual ridges on Charlie’s abs. His shoulders are marked out like a man carved from stone, or smelted out of iron.

  “Sure,” Charlie breathes. “I’m at your service.”

  If only.

  If Charlie Thorne really was at my service, if he would do anything I asked of him, then that would change things considerably. I know precisely what I’d request – just not exactly in what order.

  I would ask for money to pay for my father’s treatment. I would also ask for the touch of his fingers on my naked skin. I lick my lips, and try to hide from the image that thought conjures. As for the order …

  “Can you do me up?” I say. “I can’t reach.”

  Charlie’s leather soles whisper against the thick cream carpet as he walks toward me without another word. I don’t realize he’s arrived until I feel his hand touch where my hip kinks into my waist. It settles there, light, like a man’s touch on a first date.

  I shut my eyes.

  Even though this is all a charade, I can’t help but regret that we’ll never have a first date. We’ll never have a first kiss. We’ll never have –

  “There, how’s that?” Charlie asks. His breath kisses the back of my neck, and sends a couple of my long red hairs dancing through the air.

  “Perfect, thank you,” I whisper. I wait for Charlie to lift his fingers from me – from my hip, and where his right hand now rests, just beneath my neck – but he doesn’t.

  I shiver.

  “What?” I asked. “What are you looking at?”

  Charlie turns away. It’s a quick, jerking movement. It’s almost as though he’s afraid he’s been caught.

  “Nothing,
” he says. “I’m just – just surprised this is what Ella picked out.”

  “Miss Casey bought this?” I squealed, spinning on my bare feet.

  Charlie shrugs. A wide grin splits his cheeks. “Sure did. I guess the old girl’s got style.”

  I sit down on the guest bed. As I do so, I kick out at Charlie. I look up at him, pouting. “And what if she hadn’t? What if she’d –”

  Charlie dances away from my ill-aimed blow. I miss him with feet of air between us. He’s so light on his feet. I wonder if he was a gymnast as a kid, or if he played football. I bet he was a quarterback, if he did. He’s got that easy balance, that almost predator-like grace.

  He glances down at his watch. “Are you done?” He winks. “I can’t wait around for you all night.”

  I grimace, slipping on a pair of Valentino heels that are miraculously my size. I’m more of a Footlocker girl, ordinarily. Not out of choice, but because that’s all I can afford: even that just barely.

  “Then let’s go,” I say. I stand up and stick out my arm. I’m just doing what I’ve seen in a thousand movies, but somehow it feels right.

  Charlie loops his arm through mine, and leads me gently to the elevator. He presses the button, and the doors slide open. We step inside.

  As the doors hiss closed behind us, I can’t help but feel that everything feels right: too right.

  Charlie’s chauffeur driven car pulls to a halt outside the ballroom. I blink. It’s like the whole journey passed by me in a daze.

  “Where are we?” I ask as I step out of the car.

  “Guastavino’s, on 59th,” Charlie replies. “Ever been?”

  I disguise a laugh. Clearly Charlie Thorne knows very little about me. Fancy charity balls are definitely not my scene.

  “Oh, it’s gorgeous,” I say.

  I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, looking up to the ballroom’s glittering façade. The ballroom is built out of beautiful nineteen twenty stone, and fronted by delicate, green-painted metal work.

  The sky overhead is dark and light floods through the huge glass windows. Just looking at it, I know that I’ve never been to a place like this in my entire life.