by Holly Hart
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 snoring 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 –”
98
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.
A bouncer stands at the entrance. I slow, expecting to have to hand over ID – and realize that I’ve been such an idiot. When it comes to drinking with Robbie, or my other friends, my age is no big deal. No one in Brooklyn cares about serving underage kids – and when you grow up homeless, alcohol isn’t exactly a big deal.
Charlie gives me a questioning stare and tugs me along. “What are you waiting for?” He asks.
“Good evening, Mr. Thorne,” the suited bouncer says. He lifts up a small velvet rope and lets us through without so much as a word of complaint.
“Nothing,” I say, half-stumbling by Charlie’s side.
My heart thuds in my chest.
I feel like I’m being so rebellious: as if I’m pulling off the heist of the century, not heading to a fancy society event on the arm of one of New York’s wealthiest men. I’m such an idiot. I should have realized that no one would’ve stopped me – but this isn’t my life. I don’t know the rules here. I don’t know how this rarefied world works.
A concerned look flickers across Charlie’s face. He hides it quickly, and winks at me. “Don’t be nervous,” he says. “Trust me; no one here’s going to have a problem with you.”
“How do you know?”
A smile breaks on his face. “Because they all want my money, that’s how,” he says. “And they sure won’t get it by insulting my wife…”
I’m still processing that sentence when Charlie starts walking again: his wife. That’s what I am, and no matter how I got here – I need to act like it. I haven’t met many, but I doubt that billionaire’s wives act like nervous little schoolgirls.
We walk through a small, but beautiful garden. Thousands upon thousands of tea lights flicker everywhere: hidden in the bushes; ringing each section of the grass. My expensive Italian heels click against the asphalt path.
“Charlie,” I mutter quietly.
My eyes dart from person-to-person as we thread our way through a group of people my date appears to know. They all greet him.
“Yes… Honey?” he replies. I can’t be certain, but I think he deliberately raises his voice.
I elbow him. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Do we have a story?”
“– a story?”
“Yeah, you know. Like how we met. Have we been on holiday together? What’s our favorite show on Netflix –?”
Charlie’s eyebrow wiggles upward: “Netflix?”
The question rocks me backwards. For the first time, I truly feel like Charlie and I are from entirely different worlds. “You can’t be serious?”
The corners of his lips kick upward. “I’m just playing with you, girl,” he says. “Of course I know what Netflix is.”
A whoosh of breath escapes my lips. It’s more than just Charlie’s joke: it’s everything. A wave of nerves overcomes me. I cling to Charlie’s arm. “Well, I didn’t know,” I mutter. “For all I know you fly the actors in and –”
Charlie’s face wrinkles in feigned confusion. “Doesn’t everyone? How do you meet the actors if you don’t?”
“Shurrup,” I groan. “You’re not as funny as you think, you know that?”
Charlie shrugs. “That’s cool,” he says. “As long as I’m as funny as I look, I’ll manage.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “What’s our story?”
Charlie grins. It’s a wicked, mischievous smile that makes my heart sink. “You tell me,” he says. “Let’s play a game: anything you say, I’ve got to go along with.”
I shake my head. “No. That’s a terrible idea. You want this whole thing to unravel? I’m no good at thinking on my feet.”
“Are you sure about that?” Charlie replies. “Sure didn’t seem to stop you deciding that we were married…”
“Are you going to hold that over me for the rest of my life?” I say.
“As long as you’re my wife: at least,” he admits. “Wouldn’t you?”
I stop dead. This is too unsettling. We’re acting like a couple who’ve loved each other for years – not known each other for days, yet Charlie doesn’t know the truth. He doesn’t know that I’m only here because I’m after his money.
It doesn’t matter why I need it – just that I do.
“Fine,” I grimace, covering the momentary pause. “You made your bed, now you’ll have to lie in it.”
Charlie’s eyes rake my body. If I wondered whether he was checking me out before, now I know for sure. The heat of his stare travels from my heels up the slit that runs down the side of my dress, and lingers at my plunging neckline, before finally meeting my eyes.
“That’s the plan,” he growls.
The sound of Charlie’s voice and the masculine certainty of his stare combine to send a shiver running up my spine. My inner thighs tingle, too, and I clamp my legs together to stifle the sensation.
We walk inside. The ballroom is vaulted; arched ceilings soar up above us. I know it isn’t cool to stare, but I can’t help myself. The room is dazzling. It’s laid out for at least a hundred and fifty people, and a fifteen-piece band is playing at the far end.
A waiter hands me a glass of champagne, and I sip at it greedily. Like I said, I’m no stranger to alcohol. Maybe that isn’t right, and it’s definitely not legal, but that’
s just the way it is. When you’re trying to keep warm on the streets of the Big Apple in mid-February, anyone trying to take the fifth of vodka out of my hands had better bring a knife…
“Like it?” Charlie asks as he leads me through the sea of people. Some are dressed for dinner, just like we are, but most are servers.
I nod. “Are we early?” I ask.
“A little,” Charlie allows. “I’ve got a few things I need to sort out, first.”
I don’t ask why. My eyes linger on some signage for the Pediatric Cancer Fund. “I’ve never heard of this charity,” I say.
“You wouldn’t have,” Charlie says. “That’s the whole point. We don’t advertise. Every penny we raise goes to the kids.”
I arch my eyebrow; “every penny?” I say pointedly.
“Every one, Penny,” Charlie says. He smiles to himself – pleased with his play on words.
“Then what about tonight?” I ask. “It seems like renting out a place like this must cost a whole heap of cash. Shouldn’t that go to the kids as well?”
I’m spoiling for a fight. I can sense it. I don’t want to be a bitch – I really don’t – but sometimes I feel like that side of me is lingering just underneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity to escape. I look around this room and I see obscene wealth. I see rich people buying their way to an untroubled night’s sleep.
I don’t see charity, I see people playing at being generous.
“Every penny,” Charlie repeats. “You got to spend money to make money,” he says. “It’s just the way the world works.”
“You couldn’t just donate it instead?” I reply. “Or is it not the same if people don’t see you doing it…”
Charlie’s gray eyes flash with a glimmer of hurt. However, he hides it quickly. “Maybe you’re right, Penny,” he says. “Maybe there are better ways of doing it. But you see all this?” He gestures around the spectacular ballroom.
I nod.
“I’m paying for it. Every… penny,” he adds, unable to help himself. “And I’ve invited anyone who’s anyone in New York. You know there are more billionaires per square foot in this city than anywhere else on the planet?”