by Marni Mann
The easiness had ended there.
I lifted my hand, closed my fist, and held it inches in front of the door. All my nerves, all my apprehension—I needed to leave them on the cement slab I stood on. I needed to find my confidence and use it.
“We’re almost there,” I whispered for Dean but mostly for me.
I pulled my hand up to the back of my head to check the knot. It was tightly secured. I felt Dean’s and his was fine, too. I was just stalling; I knew that.
I took several deep breaths and held my fist in front of the door.
“Home?”
As ridiculous as he sounded, I almost needed to hear that. Somehow, it eased some of my anxiety. It made me want to laugh even though there was nothing funny about what I was going to do.
This was where my life would really change.
This was where I would officially cross the line.
Once I stepped through this door, I couldn’t take anything back. I couldn’t ask for a redo.
I would have to accept my fate.
And I would.
I did.
I banged twice—two soft knocks and then two hard ones.
Ten
Beard
As I stepped out of the shower, I wiped myself off and dropped the towel onto the floor. Then, I walked into the bedroom, standing in front of my suitcase that held just enough clothes for three days. I could stay a little longer, but Shank and Diego really needed my help. The prison was at capacity. We’d flown in three sweepers, and still, we could probably use two more. There was a wait-list now, and it was at least twenty people deep. Once someone was killed, their cell would be filled in less than twelve hours. Our pilots were working almost full-time with all the trips they made back and forth to the States.
Business was good. Real fucking good.
And I was in Miami, not Venezuela.
That shit didn’t make any sense.
Neither did my attraction to Layla, the sole reason I was here. I knew our meeting was going to end with a massive set of blue balls and a stop at the strip club on the way home so that Lefty could suck my cum out.
But, hell, that didn’t stop me from putting on a pair of black jeans and a T-shirt, tying up my boots and slipping some leather bands around my wrists. Back in the bathroom, I covered my shaved head with some oil and sprayed on a little cologne. My wallet went into my pocket, the chain that hung from it slapping against my thigh as I walked to the elevator.
“Your key,” the valet guy said when I got outside, handing it to me. “We kept your car parked right in front, just like you’d asked, sir.”
I took the oval key and climbed into the driver’s seat, holding a fifty out the window. Once he took the money, I shifted into drive and took off.
The plane had landed in Miami at a little past eight. That had been the earliest I could get in because it was coming from Rhode Island with two inmates on board. With having to check in to the hotel and shower, I’d just told Layla I’d meet her at her place. I didn’t want her to have to stick around her office this late.
But, fuck, that wasn’t where I wanted to have our meeting because it meant that, every second I was there, I’d be thinking about the stripper eating Layla’s pussy on the balcony. And how good her wet cunt had looked. And the sound of those goddamn moans.
And screams.
Shit.
I pulled into the circular driveway in front of her building and parked in the visitor section. The same doorman was on as last time, taking my name and calling up to Layla to confirm my visit.
When he tried to stick his hand inside the elevator to hit the floor number, I said, “I got it,” and slammed my finger on the button.
Layla was the one to answer the door, not the stripper. She was dressed even more relaxed than before. Her long hair was wet, and it dripped over her bare arms. Jeans covered her legs, a tank top over her tits. There wasn’t anything on her feet.
Diego got fucking hard over feet—the way they smelled, how they felt on his skin. He liked to lick between the toes and paint them.
Not me.
But, hell, I couldn’t deny how pretty Layla’s were. They were so small and delicate, her toenails painted black—my favorite color.
She wasn’t a pink girl.
I loved that about her.
“Come in,” she said. “I have all the paperwork ready.”
She turned and gave me a full view of her ass. I stared at it while I shut the door and followed her into the living room. Papers and folders covered her kitchen table along with two glasses and a bottle of champagne on ice.
I sat in one of the chairs, and she placed a small stack of sheets in front of me.
“I’ll open the bottle while you read,” she said.
The spot I had picked to sit in was closest to the champagne, so she stood next to me as she unscrewed the wire around the top of the bottle. Every time she moved, I’d get more of her smell. And, Jesus, it was quite a scent. Coconut and mango. Maybe even some pineapple.
It was like an island.
My island.
I needed some fucking screams.
I shook my head, trying to stop my dick from responding to that thought, and I scanned the first and second sheets. Using one of the pens on the table, I circled a few of the items I wanted to negotiate with Panig during our meeting tomorrow.
“Three-quarters of a million?” I asked when I got to the fifth page.
This was the one that outlined the details of the condo I’d be purchasing from him. The corner unit he had chosen for me was on the twenty-eighth floor with beach and city views and three bedrooms and three bathrooms in almost two thousand square feet. There was a list of finishes that would be used and the price if I wanted to upgrade any of them.
She poured some champagne into each of the glasses and set one in front of me. “Too high?”
I’d done my research. I knew the cost per square footage on South Beach. The finishes he had included were considered upgrades in most buildings. I was getting a hell of a deal. But I should be, considering how much cash I was loaning him.
“We can do better,” I told her.
“Tell me what you want to pay, and I’ll try to make it happen.”
“Seven hundred. I want two parking spots, not one. And I want to design the master bathroom myself because this”—I held up the sheet that showed the blueprints—“isn’t going to work.”
She lifted her glass from the table, staying in the same spot right next to me. “I’ll do the best I can.”
She smiled, and I wanted to lick it from her lips, the same way I had sucked her cum off the stripper’s fingers.
“Make a list of all your other requests and highlight the changes you want in the contract, and we’ll discuss everything with Panig tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked out the sliding glass door to her balcony. It only took a little imagination to see the outline of her body pushing into the banister with the stripper’s face in her cunt.
So fucking sexy.
So fucking perfect.
Now, my dick was hard. Again. And this champagne was way too dry for my taste. The only thing I wanted to do with it was pour it over Layla’s body and use my tongue to rub it into her skin.
But she wouldn’t want that. She’d rather have a strap-on shoved up her pussy than have my cock anywhere near it.
“We’re going to be neighbors soon,” she said.
I looked back at the table, noticing she had taken a seat across from me.
“I hope you’ll come here when you need to borrow a cup of sugar,” she continued.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who needs sugar?”
I realized what I’d said and laughed. But, shit, it was the truth. I didn’t bake, and I wasn’t hard up for pussy.
I just couldn’t get my dick inside the hole I really wanted.
Her smile returned. “I just mean, I hope I’ll still get to see you
even if we aren’t working on a deal together.”
If we signed the contract tomorrow, my business with Layla would be done, and I’d be dealing with Panig from here on out. I could always give her more money to invest. But, if things ended after this transaction, professionally, would I call her to hang out? Probably not. I wasn’t looking for more friends, especially not the kind I wanted to fuck.
“I’m sure we’ll run into each other once I move in,” I said.
“I’d like that.”
“Have you pitched Panig’s building to all your clients?”
She shook her head, playing with the section of hair that rested over her left tit. “No. You’re the first one. You’re also the first to come to my condo and to move so close. And…” Her skin started to flush. “And to watch my girlfriend tongue-fuck me on our balcony. I’m…” Her eyes dropped toward the table.
She was embarrassed.
“Layla, you don’t have to be ashamed of what happened.”
“I do, Beard.” She finally looked at me again. “You’re my client. I shouldn’t have acted that way, and I shouldn’t have allowed it to go that far. I want you to be able to trust me—not just with your financial needs, but also with making the right decisions—and that was a serious lack of judgment on my part. I promise, it won’t happen again.” Her voice was stern but conflicted.
I knew she’d enjoyed me watching her. I had seen that on her face, and I’d heard it in her moans. She was giving me an apology because she thought I needed one to maintain our professional relationship.
She was so fucking wrong.
“Layla, it’s all good.”
As she relaxed, her arms fell to the table, and they pushed her chest up, so the tops of her tits poked out of the edge of the tank top. I wanted to grip my hands around them and eat my way across them.
“I liked what I saw,” I said. “It changes nothing between us.”
That was a lie. It’d changed something, and that was my need to have her.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Stop worrying.”
She walked over and lifted the bottle of champagne off the table, pouring some into her glass. “Can I get you something else to drink? I didn’t realize you weren’t a fan of the bubbly.”
Her nipples were less than a foot from my face, poking through the thin fabric of her shirt, like they were trying to reach for my teeth.
Jesus, fuck.
I stood, shifting the waist of my jeans to hide how hard I was. With my other hand, I picked up the champagne and downed it. “Nah, it’s fine. Where’s your bathroom at?”
I couldn’t think about anything besides shooting my load all over those perfect tits. With the kind of need pulsing through me, it wasn’t safe for me to be around her. It wouldn’t be safe until I got off and calmed down a little.
“Third door on the left.”
I took in more of her island scent as I moved around her and headed for the hallway. A few paces before I reached the bathroom, I heard a moan. The sound came from the only door on the right. As I got closer, I recognized the voice.
It was the stripper.
I leaned my shoulder into the doorframe and slowly peeked in. The stripper was lying on a bed, her knees bent, her toes digging into the mattress. She was naked, and one of her fingers was deep inside her pussy.
“Yesss,” she hissed. “Oh God, yes.”
There was just enough light to see the wetness on her hand and on the inside of her thighs. It was fucking hot—and she was hot. But she wasn’t the person I wanted to see on that bed.
“Beard, I’m so sorry,” Layla whispered from behind me. “She knew you were coming over, and—”
I turned around, my hands automatically grabbing Layla’s waist. I expected her to take a step back, to wiggle out of my grip. She didn’t do either.
“Go join her.”
“What?”
“Go join her,” I growled.
“But this isn’t—”
“What you planned for? I know. But I just stared at your girlfriend pounding her finger into her pussy, and the first thought that came to my mind was, I wish it were Layla on that bed, and I wish that finger were my cock.”
I saw the effect of my words on her face. It was the reason I dipped my head down to speak, so she could feel my breath on her ear.
“Fuck those plans, Layla. Fuck whatever you hoped would happen. We’re here, and this is what’s happening. Go join her.” I moved my mouth even closer. “Now.”
More heat rose over her cheeks, but there was so much hunger in her eyes, too.
“Since the last time you were here, she’s been talking about you a lot,” she said. “She likes you.”
I ran a hand over my beard.
This shit was tricky.
I knew the stripper liked cock. I’d felt that from the moment I met her. But I didn’t know if I should call that out.
“She likes you better,” I answered.
Her head tilted back just slightly, showing me the sexiness of her neck, and she laughed. “That is true.”
When her head straightened, she glanced down. My stare stayed on her mouth. Those fucking lips were so seductive.
“But…she likes you. And she wants you to touch her.”
My hands returned to her waist, all my fingers now clutching the hell out of her. It was so hard to keep them there. They wanted to be on her tits, brushing my thumbs over her nipples, squeezing just the very ends.
“She’s not the one I want to touch.”
“Beard—”
“I know. You don’t have to say it.”
“No, you don’t know.” She scrunched my T-shirt into her palm and used it to pull me closer. “I’m here again, and I shouldn’t be—for several reasons.”
“Whatever those reasons are, they don’t matter.”
“They do.” She looked around my shoulder to take a quick glance at the stripper. “I love her.”
“I’m not asking you to stop.” I took my hands off her hips, hoping it would help her think. “And I’m not saying we won’t do business together anymore. I’ve told you, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She let go of my shirt and lifted one of my hands. She then traced around my wrist, down my finger, and across my nail. Her touch was so gentle. I wasn’t used to that. I was used to spanking ass and thrusting into tight holes.
But soft?
Shit.
I’d forgotten what that felt like.
“What do you want me to do with it?”
Her eyes told me she knew I was asking about my finger, the same one she was tickling.
I watched her think about my question. Hell, I could even see the war inside her head.
“I want you to touch her with it.”
“Where?”
I knew where. I just needed to hear her say it. Then, later tonight, when I got in the shower and fisted my cock, I’d hear her repeating it over and over in my mind.
“Between her legs.”
“Layla—”
“It’s for me, Beard.” She squeezed my knuckle, circling around it like it was the tightest cunt. “Every second this is on her, you’ll be doing it for me. But I want her to be the one feeling it.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to watch.”
I didn’t want to be inside the stripper’s cunt before I got inside Layla’s. I was only going to do this because she had asked so nicely, because I knew it would turn her on. And because I hoped, whenever Layla looked at her girlfriend’s pussy, she’d see my hand and want it for herself.
But that wasn’t enough.
If I was going to do this for her, I needed something in return.
“Only if you touch your pussy for me.”
I stared at her while she considered my demand. Conflict filled her face again. She was used to being in control—at work, at home. And then there was me, a mix of both, telling her what the fuck to do.
&
nbsp; “Layla, if I’m going to touch your girlfriend’s cunt, then you’re going to touch your pussy for me, and I’m going to watch every inch of that finger slide in and out of it. Now, go lie on that bed with her.”
“Okay.”
She caved. Just like that. No fight, no counteroffer.
“Beard,” the stripper said as I followed Layla past the doorway, “come here.”
I didn’t take any clothes off as I knelt next to the stripper, and I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be the one getting touched tonight. It wasn’t time for that just yet. I simply reached down between the stripper’s legs and ran a finger over her clit.
Both women groaned.
“Move faster, Layla.”
She stood on the other side of the bed, removing her jeans and panties. Her eyes were on my hand, watching when I touched the stripper.
“I want you right here.” I used my other hand to point to the spot next to the stripper. “Now.”
Within a few seconds, Layla was on her back, her cunt staring up at me, her fingers just where I wanted them.
“I missed you, baby,” the stripper said to Layla.
She leaned over and kissed Layla, and it was so fucking sexy. To show how much I liked it, I pinched her clit and rolled it between my flesh.
“Ah,” the stripper moaned against Layla’s mouth, both of them glaring at me.
“Layla, I want you to do everything I’m doing to her. Got it?”
I spread the stripper’s legs and moved in between them, gripping her thighs to yank her closer to me. The new position gave me a better view of Layla and the way she was touching herself.
“Yes,” Layla breathed.
I slid two fingers into the stripper’s hole and rubbed my palm over her clit. She moaned instantly, guiding her hips up and down, like I was a fucking dildo.
I didn’t stop her.
Because the truth was, I didn’t give a shit about what she was doing. This was all about Layla. The stripper could ride this out on her own if she wanted. I just had to make sure Layla was doing exactly what I needed her to. That, while she was on this bed, she was pumping that hole like my cock would. That, when she came, she would remember it. That she would see it every time she closed her eyes. And that, the next time I was with her, she would reach for my dick instead of my T-shirt.