Debt

by Nina G. Jones

  His scars. Remembering them softens my feelings for him again. He’s not only expressing that angry sexual domination — there is something else. I felt him flinch under my kisses, and I remember how he took me in the kitchen to make his pain stop.

  He told me in the alleyway of Cuddy’s that he doesn’t want to feel. He hates me. I think it’s because I make him feel.

  Why do I do this to myself? Despite this man making it a point to dehumanize me, I continue to seek humanity in him.

  There’s something that happens when I am with Tax. I don’t have to be so perfect, or have all the answers. Everyone thinks of me as the person who has it all together. When my mother died, I was so concerned with appearing perfect, that I hardly even mentioned to my friends that she was sick. I have always maintained an aura of stability, afraid to be seen as vulnerable. But I know I need someone who breaks me and allows me to be weak. Tax gives me no other option. With Tax, I can be a broken mess. Just as I force Tax to feel, he forces me to embrace my flawed nature. To be perfect requires a shutting down of extremes. I can’t be too excited, or emotional, or sexual. And that means a life of internal monotony. When I am with Tax, I am an imperfect mess, and no longer shut down anything. I become a live wire. As much as I hate it for being true, I am my most honest self when I am with him. His domineering aura takes up all the air in a room, suffocating pretense.

  I close my eyes and try to evict thoughts of Tax from my head. Romanticizing our relationship isn’t healthy, even if it’s my way of coping with the lack of control. What we have isn’t even a relationship, it is a crooked business agreement. He doesn’t care about how I feel, and I need to start doing the same.

  I enter the ballroom and spot Laney with a few of the others, picking up their name tags from a long table. These events have the most interesting mix of people: adult film stars, producers, manufacturers, website owners. Tonight, though, this ball is specifically geared towards the physical product side of the industry. There will still be plenty of crossover, since many actors have toy lines or license their image, but we try to pretend at this particular event that we sell something other than sex. People dress up, they drink champagne, they talk about industry trends. One might look in and think we are at a medical convention or something. Okay, that’s a lie, we are much hotter, and even at the black tie events, people dress far sexier.

  Tonight, I have on a fire-red dress with a cross-over halter top and a low back. It stops a few inches above my knees. I leave my hair loose, but press in a few long curls here and there for some volume. I top off the look with black strappy heels that have a gold chain detail on the ankle strap. A few members of the group go to the bar for drinks, but Laney and I head over to our table. I don’t even want to look at a glass of wine for the next month.

  Laney and I take our seats, and she tells me about her afternoon at the pool. I listen attentively, happy to hear her spirits are finally up from her split with Luke. I laugh at the joy in her big green eyes as she tells me about all the hot male porn stars sunbathing in their tiny swim trunks. Laney’s bubbly mannerisms when she’s in a good mood serve as an endless source of entertainment.

  When there is a break in the conversation, I use the moment alone with her to bring up her hotel booking snafu. I prefer to correct employees in person, since tone can be misinterpreted in text.

  “By the way, imagine my surprise when—”

  Laney’s bright eyes suddenly shift. She looks up and over my shoulder, and squeezes my thigh.

  “Hold that thought. Don’t turn yet, but there is a guy whose babies I would have tonight. Without question. Calgon take me away.”

  I laugh and freeze. “Okay, okay. Is it safe to turn?”

  “Yes—no—wait! Oh my god, oh my god. Act normal, I think he’s coming over here. Act casual,” she says, sitting up and tucking some hair behind her ear.

  “What? He’s coming over here?” I ask, tensing in reaction to Laney’s nervous excitement.

  “Shhh!” she says, which means he’s in earshot.

  A familiar heavy hand rests on my shoulder and musky hints of vanilla and pine hit my nose. Oh fuck.

  I spin around to look up at an impeccably dressed Tax, wearing a pale greyish-blue suit. How very Miami of him. I swallow hard, trying to reactivate my salivary glands.

  I know this asshole is in no way interested in current sales trends for handheld vibrators, so what he is doing here?

  “Mr. Draconi,” I say, rising to my feet. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I thought I should make an effort to learn more about the industry I am investing in.”

  I glance over to Laney, who apparently doesn’t realize her mouth is completely agape, and make my introduction.

  “This is my executive assistant, Laney Pulaski. Laney, this is Tax Draconi, the owner of Draconi Corp, the new owners of Alea. They maintain a relatively silent role, but he and I do meet from time to time.” Tax fights to keep his lips from curling.

  Laney stands tall, puffing out her chest and sticking her hand out for a shake. “Yes, we’ve spoken on the phone, I believe, when I first scheduled your morning meetings. So very nice to meet you, Mr. Draconi.” Her cheeks blush. I silently smile at the fact that she just told me she would have her boss’s babies.

  “It looks like they’re getting started,” I say, relieved that I have some time to reflect on what the hell is going on.

  The lights dim, and everyone takes their seats. There is a hushed round of introductions as the other Alea staff members arrive at the table.

  Someone steps to the podium and welcomes us all, and makes some statements about the industry, but I can’t focus on a single word. I look straight ahead, pretending that Tax’s presence isn’t stifling. I’m afraid if I look in his direction, everyone will instantly know we are fucking. Worlds colliding again. And I notice a pattern: while it’s Tax who tells me I mean nothing to him, it is he who keeps initiating contact outside of the conference room.

  My eyes dart in his direction, trying to gauge his facial expression without giving myself away. He seems to be looking ahead too, but it’s hard to tell.

  The host introduces the first speaker, who makes his way to the podium to light applause. Under the clattering of hands, a warm palm rests on my knee under the table. I become rigid and overcome with indignation. How dare he do this in front of my employees? He’s taken everything, and now he wants to risk me losing the respect of my coworkers? I fidget, and his massive hand clamps down on my thigh, making me lock up again.

  Electricity shoots up my leg in response to his commanding touch. I lick my lips and continue to look straight ahead, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of my discomfort.

  Looking ahead at the stage, he leans in and whispers: “I came all the way from Milwaukee to see you, and this is the response I get?”

  My chest sinks as I let out a uncomfortable sigh. He came to see me? I know, no shit, but he didn’t say to fuck me, or something crude like that. He came to see me. His grip on my thigh softens and my muscles relax in response. The tips of his fingers trail up my inner thigh as warmth blooms between my legs. I lean forward to create the illusion that I am enthralled by the latest cock ring numbers, and as I do, his fingertips make it to my mound, lightly fanning against the fabric of my underwear.

  He leans in, still looking ahead and whispers “so wet for me.” As if on command, heat soaks my panties.

  I exaggeratedly nod my head as if he has just made some insightful comment about the speaker’s topic. He adds pressure and begins to stroke my clit through the lace, making it hard for me to keep my calm exterior. God, I want him. I don’t care about anything right now other than the raging heat he inspires.

  His touch ignites my body with arousal, and I begin to morph from disciplined president of Alea-Mia, into dirty, begging, sex slave Mia, wanting nothing more than for the man beside me to bend me over and take me. I believe Tax gets more than what he bargained for when I reach
under the table cloth and put a hand on his bulge. He breaks his character and looks over at me, while I stare ahead and grin. His cock begins to swell in my hand and he leans in, “Mia, you are my perfect little slut.”

  I let out a gust of air that gets Laney’s attention. Shit. “Mr. Draconi wants to discuss some matters with me,” I say rolling my eyes, as if he is such an inconvenience. “We are going to step out for a bit.”

  I lean back to Tax. “I’m leaving to the hotel bar. I assume you might need a few minutes before you stand.” I rise confidently, exiting with a sway in my hips.

  Stone Sour – Wicked Game

  I nurse a seltzer at the bar as minutes pass with no appearance from Tax. Waves of heat and cool throb all over my body as I stress over his whereabouts. Is there another bar? No. Did he change his mind?

  Just as my doubts begin to take over, I get a text:

  Go to our room.

  Our room? Of course, he’s the one who got the penthouse. The thought hadn’t initially crossed my mind since Tax doesn’t really exist in the real world, save for one cameo. I certainly didn’t think he thought enough of me to take a flight down to Miami. I text Laney to tell her the meeting is turning out to be more serious than I thought, and ride the elevator up to the top floor.

  I enter the room with my keycard. Not a single light is on, highlighting the light-speckled nighttime views of Miami hundreds of feet below.

  “Tax?” I call out.

  My skin tingles, like I am watching that part of a scary movie when the girl slowly opens a door into a dark room and her doomed fate. “Tax, I know you’re here.”

  I gasp when I see his tall silhouette in the shadows of the living room. I watch him in silence for a few beats.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. He knows I don’t just mean the penthouse.

  He walks up to me, his gait measured. But when he steps closer to me, light glows against his features and the darkness no longer hides his passion.

  He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me in forcefully, the tips of my toes barely make contact with the floor as I land against his hard chest. “I’m here because I dream about you, the taste of your pussy, your moans, your cries, the way you beg for me...”

  I instantly become wet as his warm breath, spiced with just a hint of brandy, caresses the shell of my ear.

  “Because as soon as I leave after having you, I want you again. And then even when I have that, it’s not enough. When I see another man look at you the way I do, I want to kill him. I want to swallow you. I want to consume you. I want to possess you. I want you.” His other hand reaches around and cradles the nape of my neck. It feels so small in his grasp, like he could snap it with the jerk of his wrist. His lips brush against my collarbone as he whispers the last words with a rasp: “I want more.”

  The room goes silent. Our breaths, heavy with want, are the only sound. I swear he can feel my heartbeat as it threatens to purge itself from my chest.

  Then there is an eruption. Tax turns me away and presses me against the glass of the penthouse windows to face the sparkling vista below.

  The sounds of fabric rustling dominate the quiet as he wrestles off his suit jacket, and buttons rain on the floor as he rips off his shirt. Then his body pushes up against my back side. He slides his hand down between my legs. “This...” The other grabs a breast. “This...is mine.”

  I shake my head up and down. My mind spins with mild vertigo as the view of the several hundred foot drop threatens me.

  “Tell me, Mia. Tell me it’s mine.”

  “It’s yours,” I moan shakily.

  “Say my name.”

  “It’s yours, Tax.”

  He thrusts his hips into my backside, his dense cock teasing me with its power.

  “Fuck, Mia,” he says, clenching my hair and burying his face into its scent. “I want to damage you. I want to ruin you for anyone else.”

  “You already have,” I mewl, arching my neck to receive him. Tax yanks up my dress past my hips and slides his hand down the front of my thong. “Your cunt is so fucking wet.” He slides two fingers in, curling them, building more tension inside of me. I moan and gyrate my hips against his cock as his fingers fuck me possessively. “Only for me,” he says.

  “Only for you,” I repeat back in surrender. He slides his wet fingers against my lips and without a command, I lap on them. His lips join mine as together we taste my arousal from his fingers.

  “You taste so fucking good. I love when the smell of your pussy stays on my mouth. It makes me hard again as soon as I leave you.”

  I curve harder against his cock. Tax has done dirty talk, really dirty, but this...it’s clear I am not just some interchangeable tool, he wants me. When he dreams, he tastes me, he smells me, he feels me just like I do him. He pulls the fabric of the halter top to the valley of my breasts, exposing them to the cold sting of the glass.

  His bites against my shoulder assure me that whatever he feels towards me is still raw and undeveloped. He is still an animal of a man, a brute who shows his affections through conquering. His warm hand contrasts with the cold of the window as he grabs a handful of my breast, kneading the meat until he arrives at the peak and tugs on the nipple with his fingertips. I let out a husky moan from deep within my chest.

  I can’t wait any longer, I need him inside of me. I need him to put out the burn that spreads through every cell of my body, destroying the Mia who existed before Tax.

  “Fuck me, Tax,” I beg, reaching behind me and rubbing my hand against his own display of need.

  In one swooping motion, Tax pulls the dress over my head. He kneels, grabs the thin strings of my thong, and looks up at me while sliding them off. He grabs one of my ankles and bends my leg at the knee, tugging at the ankle strap of my shoe with his teeth. I watch him over my shoulder, thriving on the thrill of Tax below me.

  “You taunt me with these. When you wear your little tank tops, your tight jeans, your skirts. It’s like you’re trying to break my will.” His teeth sharply snap at the smooth flesh of my ass, followed by his hands rubbing smoothing circles along its curves.

  I purr at his words, because there is some truth in them. I never see him, but I have always suspected he watches me. Maybe not always, but at times, I can feel his eyes on me, as if the desire is so strong it sends out a beacon. There is security in his constant gaze, I feel wanted, adored, possessed. And yes, I often dress hoping he’ll see me and want to rip off every last piece of clothing from my body.

  I stand naked except for my heels, just as I have done so many times in the office. Though when he spins me to face him this time, I don’t feel alone. His upper body is naked too, the ridges of his muscles highlighted by the shadows in the penthouse, the snakes on his neck heave in harmony with his chest. The slashes all over his torso remind me of his pain, and trigger my instinct to make him feel better the only way he allows.

  He presses his bare body against mine, warmth against warmth, flesh against flesh, for the first time. His teeth graze and tug, his lips suck, his tongue tastes.

  “Fuck me, Tax. Please.”

  “Mia...” he moans, pressing his cock onto my belly. “Beg.”

  “Please,” I whisper breathlessly into his ear. “I need you inside of me. I need you.”

  And my confession, that this is becoming more than desire, it’s becoming part of my identity, the fabric of who I am, sets him off. Tax unbuckles his pants, his belt buckle clinking against the tile as it hits the floor. He pulls himself out of his boxer briefs, stroking up and down my creamy entrance.

  “Tax...” I whimper, thrusting my hips against him. What more can I do? He wants me, he wants me so bad, but he still teases. “Fuck me...” I plead, tugging on his neck tat with my teeth.

  “No, Mia. You’re gonna fuck me tonight.” He grabs two hunks of my ass and tears me from the ground. I wrap my arms and legs around him and he brings us to a sofa, seating himself beneath me.

  “Fuck my face. Fuck m
y face the way I fuck you.”

  My pussy throbs with need, and I am eager to relieve the mounting tension. I straddle his shoulders as he leans back, and softly lower myself onto his face. His dark eyes stare back at me, full of sexual energy and power, daring me. Even though I am on top, this is his doing. His mouth latches onto my pussy, like one of the venomous snakes on his neck tat, and he plunges his tongue deep inside of me. My hips thrust against his face, he groans as I call out his name like a desperate prayer.

  “God, Tax,” I gasp out. “Fuck!”

  His tongue swirls along my hypersensitive clit. My hips sway on his face with abandon. “Goddammit!” I draw deep breaths of air, like I’m drowning in lust. His hands grasp the meaty flesh of my ass and dig in painfully, sending a shot of energy through me. I fuck his face hard, as if his tongue were a cock. My juices soak my thighs like Tax is biting into a ripe piece of fruit. With no shame, I loudly suck for air, as my pent-up desire explodes all over his mouth. I grab my breasts, my hands too small to palm them the way Tax does, but I mold them anyway, their softness contrasting the harshness of my grinding. Grinding. Fucking. Creaming. Thrusting. Tax’s warm mouth drinks me, reveling in my juices. He grunts like a starving man consuming a feast.

  My clit pulsates in shockwaves that ripple throughout my body, alternating between waves of euphoria and numbness, like my being is overloaded on desire. I grip my fingers through his hair and I ride his face like a raging bull rider until the intense ripples die down.

  My core tingles with the aftershocks of Tax’s work, but this isn’t over. Still sensitive from coming, he guides me down onto his solid cock and I let out a choked cry of pleasure. His dick fills me, hitting so deep into my womb, it borders on pain. The full head of his cock rubs against the sensitive spot inside of me, like our parts were designed to fit perfectly.

  I look right into Tax’s hooded eyes, the way he has ingrained in me, but his are not on mine. Instead I watch him bite his lip, still glowing with my wetness, as he admires my body with a look of ownership. His hands run up my torso and each one grabs a breast, squeezing so that each nipple puffs up. He glides his wet lips along the tips, and I melt underneath the sensation.