by Holly Hart
What? “Excuse me?”
Jack smirks. “Thought we’d stop by the 7-11 on the way back, grab a water.”
Oh. Right. Thirsty, not...thirsty. “Sounds good.”
We wander back through Manhattan as the sun climbs above the towers. Jack keeps brushing up against me, fingertips skimming my thigh, arm jostling mine. He stops at a crosswalk to pick a milkweed puff out of my hair. Trails a fingertip down my spine, all the way to the crack of my ass, in full view of the city.
Before I know it, we’re home, and he’s backing me into the elevator. Crowding me against the wall. He plants his forearms on either side of my head, boxing me in.
“Gotcha.”
“So you do.” I tilt my head back to look him in the eye. He takes that as an invitation for a kiss. We stumble out of the elevator locked at the lips. Somehow, he swipes his keycard without looking, and we’re pushing each other over the threshold, fighting with each other’s clothes. I’ve got his shirt bunched up over his pecs; he’s got his hand down my shorts.
I pull away, just enough to breathe. “Wait—wait! Where’s Starkey?”
“Don’t worry. He won’t come out.” Jack grips the hem of my shirt with both hands and tears it at the seam. It falls open, and he shoves it off my shoulders. “Been wanting to do this since you grabbed my cock at that party.” He bites me, nipping and tugging at my nipple right through my bra. “This, too.” He thrusts a hand between my legs and pinches my clit, just hard enough to shoot a spike of arousal through my gut. It’s intense, almost too much, and my knees nearly buckle.
Jack lifts me by the hips like I’m nothing. I lock my legs around his waist. His cock is standing up, rubbing against me in a way that’s positively obscene. I can’t help but squirm against it, wanting more sensation.
“Shameless....”
I feel cool glass at my back. He’s brought me to the observatory. I’m pressed to the window, shirtless and wanton, and he’s lowering me to my feet. Dropping to his knees in front of me. Tugging down my shorts and panties with his teeth.
“Stop! Stop....” My bare ass is on display, squished against the glass.
Jack gets up slow, one huge hand gliding up my side. “That really what you want?”
No. No, it isn’t.
“Fuck me.”
He digs his fingers into my hair, like he did the first time we met. It’s sweaty and tangled. My scalp burns as he twists his hand. “Yeah? Right here?”
“Right here.” I draw a harsh gasp as he starts working my slit, fingers delving rudely between my lips. “Give me every inch.”
He pulls back, considering. “I don’t know... Think you’ve earned it?”
Oh, you dirty....
He plunges two fingers inside me, thumb circling my clit. I moan and buck against him, needing more.
“Just...just...just.... Ah!” He hooks his fingers just so, and I arch in his arms, head knocking on the window. “Fucking tease!”
“Going to insult me now?” Jack’s smirking, amused. He’s loving this. I can feel it. His fingers slow down, dragging in and out so I can feel every inch. I jerk my hips, grinding against him. It’s good, but it’s not enough. I need more. I need all of him.
He slides his fingers out all the way. Turns me around, so I’m looking out over the city. I close my eyes, like if I can’t see them, they can’t see me. Probably can’t, this high up—not from the street, anyway. But people have windows. Telescopes, even. I should know: there’s one not two feet from me.
I hear him licking his fingers. Filthy.... His other hand’s exploring my body, slow and languid, pinching here, cupping there. Trailing feather-soft touches everywhere but where I want them. I rub my thighs together, trying to feel something.
“Desperate, are we?”
I bite my tongue on an indignant “Fuck off!” He probably would, just to mess with me. “Might’ve been a while.”
“Oh, yeah?” His hand creeps back up my leg. He drags his fingers through the wetness slicked down one thigh. I tremble, barely holding still. “Put your palms to the glass.”
I do it.
Jack bites me again, on the back of my neck. He licks and kisses his way down my spine as his hand starts moving again. I rock against it, helpless to stop myself. His fingertips are just the right kind of rough. I could lose myself in that texture.
“Whole city’s going to see my name on your lips,” he tells me. His breath tickles my skin. “They’ll all know you’re mine.”
I bite my lip hard. I’m not screaming his name.
“Let me hear you.” He’s doing something wicked with his fingers, alternating between rough pressure and gentle caresses. I can’t get enough: every time I reach that edge, he pulls back unerringly, like he knows.
I moan for him. I don’t care. I just want to come.
“Louder.” He thrusts his fingers inside, three of them this time. I yelp and collapse against the window. It’s not painful, but the stretch, the friction... It’s overwhelming. He’s not even fucking me yet, and I feel filled to the brim.
“Yes!”
He presses up against me, letting me feel the weight of him, that solid mass at my back. His heart’s beating faster. His cock’s heavy and throbbing against my hip. But it’s his voice that sends me over the edge, that all-over rumble that seems to come from everywhere at once, setting my body alight. I don’t even hear what he says—not over my own voice, screaming his name.
He holds me as I come down from my high, one soothing hand stroking my hair. “Well, that was the most fun I’ve had in a while.”
Was? “Wait—you’re done?”
Jack kisses the back of my head. “Think I could use a shower, don’t you?”
He’s just going to leave me like this, all...half-fucked and horny as hell?
I take a deep breath. Can’t let him feel my frustration. He’d like that too much. Turn it into a sport, like as not. “Now that you mention it....” I peel away from the window, shrugging him off. “You smell like a sneaker after the Boston Marathon.” I wrinkle my nose.
“Yeah, well... You smell like sex.”
I can’t dispute that. I step out of my panties and walk away with all the dignity I can muster.
“The window’s mirrored, by the way. You’re safe, during the day. But at night....”
I laugh and keep walking, like I knew all along.
20
Jack
It barely takes three strokes to finish myself off in the shower. If she only knew how close I came to letting her have her way! That round ass, those small, firm tits... I could’ve eaten her alive. I stay under the spray till the steam gets too much. Even so, my cock’s still twitching as I towel myself dry—at the thought of her accent this time. Erik was right: it is hot. Especially when she forgets where she is, lets it bust out for real.
Next time, I’ll let her blow me. Maybe while she sits on my face.
I shake my head. Eleven hundred hours. Time to come back to earth.
I plop down in front of my computer, still in my towel. I don’t have to be anywhere for an hour. I should use this time wisely: answer e-mails. Check budget reports. But first....
Monitors one through seven show empty rooms. Monitor eight’s Starkey’s suite. He’s stretched out on that sad old recliner of his, playing chess on his laptop. Eating Skittles straight from the bag. Classy. I click over to Stella. She’s on her computer too. Writing something. I zoom in, reading over her shoulder.
He swore the water was warm, so I jumped right in. Should have known better. I sank like a stone, stunned by the cold. It wasn’t till my feet hit the bottom and the stirred-up silt started to block out the sky that I
She stops there and stares at the screen. Writer’s block, maybe.
Whatever she’s writing, it’s clearly not about me. A journal, maybe. Or fiction. None of my business.
I keep watching anyway, but she doesn’t write anything else. Pretty soon, a new window pops up. Erik’s Facetiming me.
&nbs
p; “Yeah?”
“Nice shirt, man.”
I flex my pecs at him. “Whatever. What do you want?”
“Just checking in. How’s things with Stella?”
Nosy fucker. “Good. Friendly. Took her out running.”
Erik whistles. “True love, huh?”
“Right. How’s Alicia?”
“Bouncy and delicious.” He does an exaggerated leer. “Licked ice cream off her—”
“O-kay!” I roll my eyes. “Is that why you called? ‘Cause there’s numbers for that, buck ninety-nine a minute.”
Erik leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “No. I talked to Magnus. He told me about the party.”
Fuck. Didn’t think he noticed. I only spaced out for a moment—and barely, at that. “Listen, I—”
“He said she knew everyone. And you let her loose, to conspire, to...well, who knows what went on? What were you thinking?”
Oh. That. I school my expression into something blank. “Same thing Magnus was thinking, letting Mary wander off with her sorority sisters—and for much more than an hour. Almost the whole night.” I frown. “What’s she going to say? Anything bad for us is disastrous for her.”
Erik doesn’t look mollified. “Didn’t know about Mary. But she’s not the dangerous one. Her friends are students and socialites. Stella’s are people. With connections.”
“Which makes her less likely to talk.”
“How do you figure?”
“If she did come for the story, she’ll want to break it herself. Watching it spread across town before she gets her teeth into it would be her worst nightmare. At most, she’ll ask questions, and where’ll that get her?”
“Nowhere. I suppose.”
“Quit worrying. I have her under control.”
“See that you do. And find a goddamn shirt. Your nipples are staring at me.”
I snort and hang up. Stella’s not by her computer any more. I close the window without looking for her. Spying on her suddenly feels wrong. Starkey’ll catch her if she steps out of line. I don’t need to peek at her personal life...even if she did try to peek at mine. At least twice, that I know of.
Curiosity’s never been good for me. Didn’t like what I heard by the water tanks, either, the night I caught Magnus and Erik fleeing the burning factory. Didn’t like that at all. They’d tried to smother the smell of explosives with—fuck, I don’t know. Goat shit and cologne, maybe. It was....
“Get out of the open! Starkey’s gonna see you!”
I pull myself back from the brink. No. Not going there. Not this time. It’s been a perfectly good day.
I’d be over this by now if I didn’t have to keep them around. Starkey’s fine—none of this is on him. Erik and Magnus, though—Nagler, Katrina, the rest of them....
I stand up suddenly enough to topple my chair. I need to get out of here. Get some air. Maybe a drink. And—shit! I scramble out my watch. Eleven thirty-eight. I’m late. I’m never late.
I’m halfway to the door before I realize I never did put on clothes.
21
Stella
It’s worse than I thought, the weekly inspection. So much worse. Starkey leaves nothing untouched. He checks the mattress and box-spring for slits and hidey-holes. Runs his fingers along the carpet’s edge, in search of loose staples. He shakes out my clothes and flips through my books—including the ones in the bathroom. My blood runs cold: only at the last second did it occur to me to wait. I could’ve scribbled everything in there.
I’m numb as I hand over my purse. Starkey rummages like a ferret, pulling the lining out to check for tears. He finds a butterscotch in the inner pocket.
“Mind if I have this?”
I huff and shrug—fine! Go ahead! He pops it into his mouth.
It wouldn’t be hard to poison him, if I truly bore him any malice. Or slip him laxative chocolates. Candy-coated grasshoppers.
Old soldier. Doing his job. It’s getting harder and harder to keep that in mind as he thumbs through my phone. There’s not much to find, but I’ve been texting Alicia a lot. He actually snickers, reading our chat log. Probably the part about how she spent her entire first day making Erik’s staff rearrange his furniture. Like ‘The Sims’ IRL, she said.
He goes through my laptop, too. I watch him rifle through my e-mails, my blog drafts, my trash. He finds my book, mutters something like “too long,” and e-mails it to himself for later. The fucking gall! He even opens a blank Word file and hits Command-V—in case I’m hiding my dastardly plan in my clipboard, I guess. Because that’s a thing people do.
He’s thorough, that’s for sure. But he doesn’t inspect my person. I could...what? Stuff the book down my pants? No—roll up a couple of pages and slide them into the underwire compartments of my bra? I’ve heard of women sneaking things into prisons that way: letters, cigarettes...blades pried out of disposable razors.
Ridiculous.
I glance around when he’s gone, peering into every corner. There has to be somewhere he didn’t look. He got the toilet tank, the window seat cushions, the underside of every drawer. He went through the birdcage, changing the food, the water, the papers. Every lamp, every vase, every....
The sink. He didn’t check the pipes under either of the sinks, or the shower drain. I could probably stuff a Baggie of paper down there, and fish it back up easily enough. The rest of the week, I could keep it with me. And pray there’s no such thing as a surprise cell toss in this prison drama.
There’s a 7-11 bag in my fridge, with two iced coffees still in it. I grab one of the coffees and the receipt, stuffing it into my pocket. I can save that to write on, without anyone wondering where it went. If I can’t... If I can’t, I was finished before I started.
I crack open the coffee and flop down on the bed like I haven’t a care in the world.
Jack picks me up for dinner at eight. By that time, I’ve scribbled everything I’ve learned on the back of my receipt. It isn’t much: I’ve still got an inch of space left, and I only bought five things. Still, it’s a start, and there’s plenty of time.
I sneak the receipt into my purse at the restaurant, while Jack’s telling me about his childhood dream of being a farmer.
“Why a farmer?” I shift in my seat to cover the sound of my purse clicking shut.
“I liked the smell of cornfields.”
“Just that?”
“Pretty much—I was five. What do you expect?”
“I wanted to be the first female Pope.”
He muffles a laugh behind his dinner roll. “You even Catholic?”
“Not really.” I could tell him how I grew up on the skirts of the Vatican, dreaming of the glittering wealth just that side of the Castel Sant’Angelo—and resenting it just as much. But he’s clearly done a background check. Probably Google Earthed my childhood home. He can put two and two together for himself.
“Oh—almost forgot! Got you these.” Jack digs in his pocket and comes up with a bag of butterscotch candy. “Saw Starkey snatch yours—I’ll talk to him.”
“No need. He’s, uh....” Special? Unique? A fucking kleptomaniac?
“Ha—no need to tell me. He was my CO, back at Blakemoor. He’d sit across from you in the mess tent, and before he’d even started his dinner, he’d be picking on yours.”
“I know, eh? What is that?”
“Magnus thinks—.” His face falls a little—at the thought of Magnus? I file that away: another thread to pick at. “Magnus thinks it’s because he’s the youngest of eight. Had to fight for every scrap.”
“What I don’t get is how he’s so skinny.” I take a bite of avocado. “He must have the metabolism of a hummingbird.”
“I’ll tell him that next time he eats my fries. He’ll love being compared to a tiny, angry bird.”
We share a laugh over that. I let a comfortable lull settle in for a while before changing the subject. “So the three of you—you, Erik, and Magnus—you known each other all your lives
?”
Jack’s brows draw together. I’ll have to tread carefully. “Not all our lives, no.” He twirls some pasta around his fork. It falls off. For a moment, I think he’s said all he’s going to, but he takes a long drink of water and picks up the thread. “Erik and Magnus knew each other from school—from pretty early, I think. But the three of us didn’t hook up till summer camp. Which you already knew.”
“It was in your GQ interview.” I look down at my plate, as if to hide a blush. “I read the whole thing. It didn’t say, though—how’d all three of you end up at Blakemoor?”
He slices his knife through his noodles till they’re short enough to scoop up like Kraft Dinner. “It’s not what you’re probably thinking. It wasn’t like...something we all discussed. Erik got recruited. He was kind of a star in the air force. Magnus followed him. And when I got out of the marines, well, we’d all kept in touch over Facebook. It was always in the back of my mind. For if nothing else worked out.”
“Nothing else did?”
Jack gives me a narrow look. “Going back to civilian life’s...not what you think it’s going to be.” He flags down a waiter. Points at his glass. “Could I get a top-up?” The waiter nods and glides off. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Well, I’m an asshole. Moving on....
Jack laughs at my too-hot-for-BeeBee stories, and even tells a couple of his own, but the easy companionship’s gone. There’s a charge to the atmosphere, a black tension between us. He looks at me from under lowered brows, and I’m not sure if he’s thinking of fucking me over the table or stabbing me under it. When he feeds me a bite of tiramisu, his fork pricks my tongue—not painfully, but deliberately.
This could be another game. Maybe I’m supposed to dig my nails into the back of his hand, tread on his toe under the table. And then we’ll go home, and he’ll “punish” me in the way I’ve been wishing he would. But I don’t know him well enough to risk finding out. If I’m wrong....
He leans forward abruptly, hand covering mine. “You’re nervous. No: afraid.”
I could deny it, but there’s no way he can’t feel the pounding of my pulse. I’m quaking like a Chihuahua, all the way to my fingertips. “You’ve got stormclouds over your head.”