“I sometimes wonder if things would be different if Mom were still alive.”
“Because of us?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t be down here with you at the warehouse or driving in this two-seater.” She turns and looks at the non-existent rear space covered by a wind blocker. It’s only large enough for a bag or two. No, her mother wouldn’t have been in this car with us.
“If your mother were here, we’d renovate the warehouse. Maybe turn the garage into an apartment. I could have stored the vehicles in the building next door. I own the block. Or there’s a property I’m renovating on the West side. It’s a double-wide townhome I bought that was foreclosed on. And Aston Martin has four-door sedans, or we’d drive the Maybach because I know she liked the footrests.”
“You’re saying we’d still be together?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Maybe you felt sorry for me. Like, here’s Tiny all alone. I want to make her stop crying.”
“I’m not going to tie myself to you for the rest of my life because I feel sorry for you. I fucking love you.” I try not to break the steering wheel.
“Marriages can be dissolved.”
“Not ours.” I’m growing angry. I can’t believe she thinks my proposal was fake and that if her mother were still alive, I’d have dropped her by now.
“You only got involved with me because of Richard Howe, and now you won’t even let me help you with that.”
If we weren’t on the interstate going 85 miles-per-hour, I would’ve slammed on the brakes and pulled over. “Don’t say his name,” I spit out through gritted teeth.
She lapses into silence, and we make the rest of the drive without uttering another word to each other. I drive well over the speed limit and am lucky not to get a ticket. When we arrive at the gate to the property, she finally opens her mouth.
“Is this where we drive off the cliff? Because I’m sick enough over our argument to jump into a ravine.” She touches my hand lightly, and my fury instantly drains away.
“We can jump in the sound, but I’m guessing it’s pretty cold,” I joke. We drive down the paved driveway and around the house to the garage bay. Tiny calls the whole place a monstrosity because we could fit fifteen or more city apartments inside it. But it’s the perfect place for a family.
“I’m sorry I bought up the Howe issue,” she says, making no moves to exit the car. Instead, she’s got an elbow propped on the door and is staring out toward the water. “It’s just that I feel like it’s the one thing I can do for you. I feel so useless right now. When Mom was alive, everything fit. I had a job I was good at. We lived in a shitty apartment, but it was our shitty apartment. I didn’t feel like I was stupid or had nothing to offer but now…now I feel real fucking inadequate.” She furiously wipes tears away from her face. I fight back the urge to draw her over the console and into my lap. Somehow I know that’s not the response she wants. She doesn’t want me to feel sorry for her or to comfort her, and even though I’m dying to hold her, I resist.
Taking a moment, I choose my words carefully. “Before you, I had nothing. Yes, I have a few friends. They’re great, but they don’t love me and I don’t love them. I’ve worked nearly every day with my right-hand man Louis for five years without realizing that he’s kind of a shitty human being. Worse, I was the same shitty human being. I cared about nothing but making money, and it didn’t bother me if I stepped on a few toes or hands or faces to get to the top. There’s no question that Richard Howe is a blight on humanity, but he’s meaningless now because you’re my future. Chasing down Howe doesn’t bring my mother back, nor does it bring yours back. All it can do is stifle what you and I could make together. Tiny, if I didn’t have any money, would you feel the same about me? Would you still love me?”
“Yes,” she responds without even taking a moment to think.
“Then that’s all that matters.”
Her shoulders relax as some of the tension she’s wound tight around her frame unspools. Taking a deep breath, I haul myself out of the seat and jog around to the passenger side so I can lift her out. “I thought we’d have lunch, but I’m going to need to make love to you first.”
Her response is to twine her arms and legs around me. “I’m down with that plan.”
Her stomach growls before I can take two steps toward the house.
“On second thought, how about we eat first?”
“Another good plan.” She slides down, brushing her unfettered breasts against my chest. Groaning, I pull her in for a hot, hungry kiss—which is interrupted by another grumble.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” she says with chagrin.
“Let’s feed you, then. I think I can manage to keep my hands to myself for an hour.”
“I hope not.” She grins impishly and then swings around, purposely brushing her hip against my growing erection.
Awkwardly I maneuver toward the trunk. Inside is the picnic basket, and I unhook the blanket from the custom-made insert.
“So when did you buy the car?”
“I didn’t buy it. We’re test driving it.” I transfer the basket and blanket to one hand and grab her with my other. The walk down to the shore is about a couple hundred yards. It’s a beautiful June day with a light breeze blowing up from the sea.
“They let you test drive it?”
“Yes, for the weekend.”
“That seems weird…and trusting. What if you run off with it?”
“You don’t want to buy a car you haven’t driven before. Didn’t you test out your bike first?”
She shook her head. “No, I bought it used from another courier who was moving up. She bought a Vanmoof.” Her voice sounds wistful, and I hide a grin, thinking of the packages that are sitting in one of the empty garage bays.
The sand on the beach is fairly coarse, but it’s private. Tiny toes off her tennis shoes and wades into the water. “Oh shit,” she yelps and jumps back out. “It’s cold!”
I chuckle at her surprise. “I take it you never went swimming in the sound?”
“Usually Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, or sometimes we’d hit Jacob Riis Park.”
“Never been. Should we go together sometime?” I flick the blanket out and set the basket on one edge. Inside I find two plates, two glasses, and silverware along with salami, cheese, fruit, and antipasti.
With a nose wrinkle, she shakes her head. “No. Jacob Riis is pretty shabby, and Brighton’s crowded.”
“Then maybe we could go up to Vermont. Visit the ice cream factory,” I suggest. It was something Tiny and her mother had planned to do before Sophie had fallen ill.
Tiny gives me a forlorn smile. “Maybe. I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”
“Then come and eat and tell me where we should spend our summer. It can be anywhere.”
I spread a pretzel cracker with goat cheese and a dab of jam. She wolfs it down with one bite. “Mmm. Can we take this picnic basket with us, too?”
“Of course.” With a raised eyebrow, I fend off her attempts to wrestle the knife from me. “Not today, bunny. Today you eat from my hand.” I offer her another cracker. Her teeth are a shade sharper against my fingers than necessary, but I appreciate the pinch. Always challenging me in her own way. Once she asked me what I would do when the pursuit was over. My response was sincere at the time, but not entirely truthful. She will always confront me, fight me, and test me, therefore the chase is never-ending. Even in this she looks a bit mutinous, and every bite from my hand bears a risk of deeper teeth marks being left behind.
The sad truth is, I’d like to feed her from my hand at every meal. The idea of her sustenance being totally in my control is dizzyingly erotic. But Tiny’s far too independent to allow that to happen, so I’ll take what I can get—like this meal and maybe a little bedroom play tonight. The new bed frame is made of solid mahogany with soaring posts at the four corners.
I’ve had quite a few fantasies about her being tied to tho
se posts, spread eagle and helpless underneath me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks suspiciously after swallowing down an herbed mozzarella pearl.
“You, of course.” I palm my erection lightly. “He only gets up for you.”
Her lashes sweep downward for a moment and then she glances up—almost shyly. “Is that true?”
It’s a serious question, and one she’s embarrassed to ask if her pink cheeks are anything to go by. Tiny’s sudden bout of insecurity pains me because I know it has more to do with how unsure she feels about her place in my life than her own feelings of self-worth. I bring her hand to my mouth to press a kiss against the palm and then the wrist. “Don’t ever doubt it.”
Pensively, she bites her lip and looks out onto the sea. The water is nearly still, with only the slightest breeze to mar its glassy perfection. From here, the sound looks blue and beautiful, but the glee with which Tiny had greeted the sea has been swallowed by a thoughtful melancholy. “When it was just Mom and me, the fact that I couldn’t read was no big deal. I didn’t realize until she was gone how much I depended on her to do stuff for me—like look up an address on the internet or read the news to me in the morning as I was getting ready. She helped me set up my phone and filled out all the paperwork for our apartment.”
To make it seem like the feelings she was sharing were not of too much or too little importance, I cut salami, plate cheese, and pour wine. She eats and drinks absently. “I’m just wondering if I would have made it if you hadn’t come along.”
“While I’d like to be a pompous ass and say, ‘no, you wouldn’t be able to survive without me,’ I don’t doubt you’d be fine.” I take a swallow of the white wine myself before continuing. “You have a quick mind. You’d get a job delivering again. You’d get a roommate. You’d…” The words stick in my throat. The idea that she could meet and fall in love with someone else is not something I wish to contemplate or give voice to. “You’d have made it.”
We finish the rest of the picnic, and Tiny insists on packing everything away carefully when she sees that I intended to pick up the four corners of the blanket and dump the contents into the basket. “You might break the glasses,” she protests as I gather up one side and then another.
“I doubt they cost more than a dollar to make,” I note wryly.
“Still, we might want to use them again.”
Standing back, I take the opportunity to watch her ass sway as she bends over to pick up one dish and then another. The shorts are riding high, and I can see not only her lower cheeks but the lace edges of her panties. When she reaches into the basket, the delicate crease where her inner leg joins her body winks in and then out of view. I can’t resist any longer and kneel down behind her, sliding one large hand over the curve of her succulent ass and dipping in between her legs. The denim is so short and frayed, it’s easy to slip two fingers underneath the fabric to rub against her honeyed warmth.
Her body stills under mine, and then I feel the slight press of her pussy against my hand. Without any word of acknowledgment, she continues to pack the items away. The glass plates and silverware are followed by empty jars of jam and wrappers of cheese. I hold my hand rigidly in place, and the movement of her body as she packs and rearranges creates enough friction that she’s soon lightly panting.
“Quite the workout,” I observe mildly, all the while enjoying how my fingers are getting damper by the minute.
“Yes,” she says, a tiny bit breathless. “All this cleanup is really taxing.”
Her ass moves more forcefully, and in response to her silent demand, I slide one and then another finger inside her. She pushes back as far as the constraints of the denim and lace allow. Leaning forward, I brush the hair away from her neck and place a small bite against her shoulder. She shudders. “Can you come like this?” I pump slowly, only able to reach up to the second knuckle.
“Maybe,” she moans and jerks against me.
“How about now?” I dip my other hand down the front of her shorts to press my fingers against her clit. The position draws the denim tight against my hand, as if we are bound together. “I can’t wait to lick your honey off my fingers after you come.”
She whimpers and while I can barely move either hand, she is able to work her hips and ass in minute movements, the tautness of the fabric and the steely restraint of my hands providing just enough sensation to bring her off.
The climax is small but powerful as she tenses beneath me and then throws her head back, releasing a small keening sound. Her nectar floods my palm, and I cup it to gather as much as I can. The suck of her channel against my fingers makes me groan in anticipation. Once we’re in the house, I’m going to slake every ounce of passion she’s roused in me on her tender body.
I ease out of her shorts, and she collapses on the blanket, her sides heaving lightly as she tries to catch her breath. “I hope you’re in good shape,” I gently tease, “because I’m going to be fucking you on every acre of land and in every room this weekend.”
“You’re going to have to have a lot more in your picnic basket than cheese and wine then,” she says, eyes closed.
I lick her juice off the palm of my hand. “I have plenty in my basket for you.”
She chortles softly. “I can’t tell if that’s an innuendo or not, because right now everything sounds extremely dirty.”
I manage to keep my hands off her long enough for us to make it back to the house. Dropping the basket off at the car, I tug her hand to lead her into the garage. Entering the code to raise the door, I watch her face as the bikes come into view.
“Oh my Lord,” she breathes. “Is that a Vanmoof and a Cervelo?”
“The day I saw you in SoHo there were two bikes in the window. I couldn’t figure out which one you wanted, so I bought both.”
She ducks under the garage door before it’s fully raised to see the bicycles up close. I can’t tell the difference between them. The Cervelo is lighter and, per the salesperson, corners better because it has a stiffer suspension. The Vanmoof is more elegant and more technologically advanced, with its integrated battery providing extra power via a tiny motor attached to the front wheel.
Whatever delight Tiny had shown for the car has nothing on the pure joy she is exhibiting now. Clearly her love of bikes overcomes her dislike of me spending money on her. She claps her hands to her cheeks and then runs over to jump into my arms. “Oh shit, Ian. I can’t even pretend to be mad about this. I love those freaking bikes. Thank you!” A hundred kisses are pressed all over my face. “Can we go for a ride?”
“Sure.”
We strap on helmets, and Tiny and I explore historic Southport on our new bicycles. Tiny had to raise the seat for me, and even that small task made her smile broadly. Being self-sufficient is important to her. I need to remember that and respect it.
Our weekend is idyllic. After biking, we return home to find a meal waiting for us. The house came with a caretaker’s lodge, along with an actual caretaker. I’ve continued to pay the salaries of Bruce and his daughter Venita for them to air out the house and carry out a few tasks like coordinating delivery of the bikes and bed and making sure the kitchen was stocked with food. They’d done well so far.
Tiny and I try out the new bed, christening it with her being tied to the four posters while I spend a long time testing the limits of her ability to orgasm. After three, she cries for me to bury my cock inside her, and after the fourth she starts cursing me.
I smile the whole drive home. It was a damned good time.
SEVENTEEN
“THE REPORTS YOU REQUESTED FROM Jake are on your desk. Are they related to the SunCorp acquisition?” Louis is like an excited puppy as he hovers close to the sealed envelope that contains an encrypted USB drive hand-delivered by one of Jake’s employees. Each of Jake’s clients receives his reports in this fashion. No over-the-air transmissions that could be intercepted. No printed photos or reports that could be pilfered from an envelope.
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s likely related to Howe and the Hedders, but it could be related to business.
“If you’d given me the key, I could have looked it over this weekend while you were upstate.” Was that a slight hint of reprimand in his voice? I’ll be glad when the paperwork is finally through HR so that I can fire Louis.
“I hope you didn’t work all weekend. Not getting enough rest can make you overlook important details,” I answer mildly. Gesturing for Louis to sit down across from my desk, I slice open the envelope and two USBs drop out. Curious. I plug the first one into my laptop. Then I check my phone and type in the passcode. The name on the top of the report is only slightly surprising, as are the details. Idly I wonder if I had shared some of my vendetta with Louis, if things would have gone differently and if he wouldn’t have felt the need to align himself in direct opposition. It’s all rhetorical now.
The information in the report is damning.
It merely shores up my position should any legal proceedings be initiated. I don’t need to wait for HR with this information. The summary is succinct and to the point. Jake has never been one for gilding the lily.
As I watch his fingers tap the arm of the chair, it strikes me that I simply have never trusted Louis with that kind of personal information, despite the two of us having worked together as an efficient moneymaking team for the last five years. My instincts haven’t failed me yet.
Taking Control Page 17