by Harley Slate
I love her on her knees like that, her head bobbing up and down. There's no reason to hurry. The three blondes aren't going to say fuck-all. There's a reason they get away with charging twelve hundred dollars for a scrap of lace‒ an actual price tag I noticed on the aquamarine panties‒ and I'm going to enjoy every lick and thrust of my rich billionaire's energetic tongue. Who knew a woman like Jessica could be so attentive?
In the end, I do come faster than I mean to, but that's perfectly fine. It's just the warm-up, and we both know it. Evidently, I require a lot of warm-up, because I've come four or five times all over her face before she pushes herself to her feet again. Her expensive trousers, once crisp, are crumpled and maybe even a tad moist in places.
“Let's get the hell out of here.” She growls the words like a full-grown mama grizzly.
“Sure, Jessica. Let's go.”
All this time, we've never left the resort complex with its restaurants, its hotel, and its shopping mall, and we still don't. Instead of heading for limo pickup, we're back on the elevator with the chandelier in it.
“What happens if peasants try to get on the elevator?” I pat the leather bench next to me to tell Jessica to sit down.
“Not a problem. The door won't come open for anybody who doesn't pass the iris scan.”
I wonder if my iris is in the system. I don't see how it could be. Not yet, anyway. I'm here only because I'm with her.
We get out on a different floor this time. It's a hotel suite, I suppose, but it's got more square footage than most mini-mansions. There are a lot of fresh flowers everywhere, most of them orchids, but a few of them highly scented roses. Jessica stops in front of a display of pink buds just coming open.
“My florist feels that roses are old-fashioned, but I like the fragrance.”
I close my eyes when I inhale. “That's something special, all right.”
Then she's lifting me in her two arms to carry me through the wide arch of a round doorway. The mattress inside is bigger than most swimming pools, and the soft white sheets are already turned down. Even the scented roses here are white. Everything's white.
She feels me tremble. “It'll be all right.” She lays me down on silk that feels softer than a whisper. Softer than her tongue. “Don't be afraid.”
“I'm not afraid. Well, a little afraid of making a mess.”
She kisses me on the forehead and then on the side of the eye. “I hope we do make a mess.”
My skirt and top are designed to come off easy, but I'm concerned about her. That expensive button-down silk blouse, those neat trousers with the invisible zipper... Suddenly, it seems like everything will take much too long. I reach up and she reaches down, and we're tearing recklessly at each other's clothes and mostly getting in each other's way. I put my teeth into it when I start unbuttoning her blouse, and the buttons mostly pop out of the buttonholes, but one of them must have been hanging on by a thread because suddenly it goes flying across the room.
She laughs and shrugs out of the silk as if it cost pennies instead of hundreds of dollars. Stands up to pull off the trousers. I discover I like watching those toned abs come into view. This is more than yoga.
“You're so firm,” I say.
And I'm so fluffy.
She runs her hands down my curvaceous sides, and then gestures toward the mirror running alongside one wall. “Look how good we look together.”
We do. Naked, natural, we look so... sexual. I can't think of another word for it. We're both sweaty and a little bit heat-flushed, and Jessica's already openly leaking. I squirm my thighs together to hide the fact that I'm dripping too, but I don't know why I think it's any big secret. She grasps my legs with both hands to pull them wide open.
“So beautiful,” she says. “So tasty.”
Like me, she has a wax job. Maybe because of the prolonged time she spent tongue-worshipping me at the lingerie shop, the very lips of her visible folds seem to be swollen with need. It's obvious how much she aches. Naturally, I expect her to get down to business pretty fast. Instead, she scrambles between my legs to grind her belly into my belly while she kisses first my face, and then my collarbone, and then down to my titties.
In Jessica's place, I'd be on fire with frustration, but she never hurries.
“I haven't paid enough attention here.” She licks my left nipple to make it poke out hard, and all those little pinpoint bumps stand up stiff. “Or here.” Then she licks my right nipple to make them match.
A shiver of pleasure zips through me all the way down to my toes.
“Oh, you like that.” Her hot breath knows exactly how to tickle its way into my cleavage. “Oh, yeah, you like that.”
I can't deny it. My hips lift, and I began to rotate my satiny-smooth mound of Venus into her equally slick mound, and I'm secretly amazed we're not instantly grinding each other to explosion. Where the fuck does she get the self-control? Do all older women possess this power, or is it just my Jessica?
“I'm in control now,” she says. “I'm taking you at my speed. My speed, not yours.”
“Yes, Jessica.” I shiver again, harder. “Yes. Oh God, yes.”
Her lips pucker down tight to suck my titties. I'm amazed at how long and hard she can pull out my nipples. Is it possible to come in my boobies? I've never heard of such a thing, but apparently it is, because I don't know another name besides “orgasm” for the intensity of the contractions working through my upper body.
“That's rare.” She's murmuring the words into my boobies, a ticklish feeling. “Not every girl can come like that.”
“Not every girl has a mouth with your talents.” My mound keeps grinding, and I honestly don't understand how much longer she can hold out. With a sudden jerk, I spread and curl my legs to grasp her around the waist. We're clit to clit, mound to mound, and this time she doesn't slow me down, this time she rotates faster and faster, and the sparks are beginning to fly between us.
We're tumbling across the bed, and then she's in the push-up position, the better to gaze into my face. “I like seeing how your face changes when I get you worked up. I like seeing the desperation in your eyes.”
“I'm fucking desperate, I'll admit to that. Please, Jessica, please. It's time. It's long past time.” Funny how I'm the one who came on her lips and tongue, and yet I'm the one begging for more. How does she know exactly how to do that?
“Keep talking.” What a smile she has.
“Take it,” I say. “I'm yours. All yours. Please, I'm so ready. Take me, fuck me. Be my first. Be my only.”
When I say it, I think I'm wide open. Wouldn't you? I've come about five times from being licked and sucked, plus I've had that crazy-ass orgasm in my boobies. Still, when she begins to tease one, two, three fingers inside of me, I can feel a genuine stretch inside of my virgin pussy. The inner muscles flex and strain, and they don't seem to be opening quite wide enough. Maybe it's the way she spins her hand. The way her fingertips have of finding certain critical nerves.
“Yes.” Her voice is a purr. “Yes. Nice and easy. Open for me. Yes.”
How‒ fucking how?‒ can Jessica Blaire be so fucking slow and easy and in control? How can she set the pace like this? I have an idea in my head that most billionaires, male or female, are self-indulgent slobs easy to lead around by their desires. Jessica isn't easy. There's nothing easy about her at all. She won't surrender to her own instincts. She won't surrender to anything.
Her entire focus is me.
“Slow and easy.” She moans from the effort, but it isn't an impatient moan. “I want this moment to last forever. I don't want it to ever end.”
“Me neither. Don't end. Never end.” I'm gasping though, and I can't help but lock my thighs more tightly around her waist. I don't want the moment to end but stretching it out like this is a kind of agony. How can it feel so good to feel so... desperate?
The walls of my pussy are too tight to accommodate more than three fingers. I can't stretch enough. That's the reality of it, o
r so I tell myself. And then I'm slick and yielding, and she's thrusting past that little barrier and she's through and I'm open and she's touching me somewhere deep in my core I've never been touched.
“You're mine,” she says. “All mine, mine, mine.”
Is that my G-spot she's hitting? I don't even know, but she's hitting something. This is nothing like the painful miserable mess I was told my first time would be. This is hot and exciting, and I can't seem to stop spasming. Not that I'd even want to stop spasming. We can both feel how the pulsing internal muscles squeeze and suck on her searching digits.
This isn't fair. This isn't enough. She's got to come with me.
My own hand is working between her legs. I don't have the confidence, I don't have the experience, but by fuck I do have the passion. The pad of my thumb strums her clitoris, spanking it again and again, while my first two fingers explore their curious way between her folds.
She's on the edge. Too long on the edge. When she moans, I know triumph. All her self-control is broken in a heartbeat. We're coming together, and I flick my eyes open so I can see it as well as feel it, and her own eyes are open, and there's a sensation like electricity that passes between us.
Magic. Fate. Destiny.
“I love you, Emily,” she says, and I wonder if she even knows she's saying it, or if the words are just spilling out. A convulsive impulse as uncontrollable as the climax itself.
I can feel the words trying to get out of my own throat, but suddenly I'm shy, suddenly I'm not sure. I'm only eighteen. And I'm in a club with a mission to catch a billionaire, not a mission to get caught myself.
You can't say the l-word that easy. It can be just a word people use. You have to play it cool.
And yet I want to say it so bad.
“I love you too.” How hard can it be?
I open my mouth, and then I close it, because I both want to say it and yet I can't.
Anyway, this moment isn't about words or a debate about words. This moment is about what we're feeling. And all I'm thinking‒ all I'm feeling‒ is the heat of the bond between us. We're sharing a moment I'll never share with another person. The first moment when I'm not a virgin anymore.
It's an intense moment, a special moment. Doesn't mean it's love. Or so I tell myself.
We're in a circle of warmth, just the two of us, and I could snuggle up into that afterglow forever, but there's a knock on the door. A pounding, really. What the ever-lasting fuck?
“Go away,” Jessica says. “My phone's turned off for a fucking reason.”
Quentin doesn't. “I'm sorry, Ms. Blaire. “It's an emergency. Mrs. Dearborn has gone missing.”
Chapter Twelve
Jessica
Quentin dangles the Hello, Kitty backpack from one finger before he sets it down on the nearest marble tabletop. The pink doesn't harmonize with his gray pinstripes, and he isn't amused about it.
“You were at my house.” Emily opens the backpack and starts pulling out cheap clothes. When she bends over the low table, the hotel's oversized terrycloth robe gaps in a distracting fashion, but I know I can't allow myself to be distracted.
“He acted on my orders,” I say. “Your mother was supposed to be safe at the cabin by now.”
Emily shakes out a cool green peasant blouse in a thin fabric designed to enhance her pretty curves. The clothes might be cheap, but they were well-chosen by somebody with a good eye. Of course, that somebody would have been Emily herself. She's hardly from a class where she can afford a personal shopper.
Sliding the blouse onto a hanger, she turns to look at me. “Your orders, huh. So did you bother to order anybody to tell her somebody was coming for her?”
“I've found it's better to deliver that kind of news in person.”
“Uh huh.”
I too am wearing a hotel robe, which doesn't enhance my personal dignity as much as I might wish. “If you're trying to say something, just say it.”
The directness of her gaze forever startles me. She may be weeks out of high school, but she's no blushing violet.
“I know my mother. If she knew Jessica Blaire's man wanted to talk to her, she'd be there. If she didn't know anybody wanted to talk to her, she could be anywhere. You get what I'm saying?”
Yeah, I get it. I didn't handle the approach to my girlfriend's mom right, and now everything's all fucked up. In my defense, I'm not usually the kind of gal who ever meets my girl's mom, so I haven't had a lot of experience in that area.
“You're right,” I say. “We fucked up. I fucked up, I gave the order. This is on me.”
“I have some men searching for her now,” Quentin says. “Considering the situation, though, I thought you'd want to be informed.”
“There's no situation,” Emily says. “She's out on a date. My mom's a party girl, in case your background checkers didn't already tell you that.”
Emily's the one who doesn't get it.
“I can't be sure of that. Somebody came for you, and if they know about you, they could easily find out about your mother.” The very thought gets my blood stirred up. I almost regret shooting the guy in the knee instead of the heart. Maybe I sent the wrong message. Maybe the message I sent said I was getting soft.
“That's ridiculous, Jessica. The guy who grabbed me was a random street creep. Anyway, you've been knowing me a couple of days, and you never even met my mother. Nobody's grabbing my mother to get back at you.”
“I can't be confident of that, and I'm not going to be happy until we've secured her.”
“Oh, boy. I'd love to see the look on my mom's face when somebody shows up to tell her they need to ‘secure’ her.” Her arms are folded over her chest, and my arms are folded over my chest. Neither of us is changing our minds.
Quentin has discreetly retreated into the suite's kitchen to let us discuss, but now he's back carrying a tray with three bottles of Coke and three bottles of Evian. There's even a plate of macaroons, although it's guaranteed nobody's going to eat them. Zero expression on his face.
“Is that your opinion, too?” I ask. “That I'm being ridiculous?”
To avoid looking at me, he neatly arranges the refreshments on the coffee table. Crisp white linen napkins, crisp white china plates. Crystal glassware. He begins pouring mineral water out of the bottles and into the tumblers. But he can evade the question only so long.
“I think it is highly unlikely that the whereabouts of Cherry Dearborn have anything to do with you, Ms. Blaire.”
Well, I'm not going to argue with either of them. I've been around the block a few times, and I've learned to trust my instincts.
“My orders stand. I'm not going to rest easy until I know Emily's mom is safe and sound.”
“Yes, Ms. Blaire.”
“Do you know who she's seeing?” I ask Emily.
“Nobody special right now. It's taking time for her to settle into the Vegas scene.”
“Is there a club or a casino where she likes to hang?”
She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “She likes an older crowd, so... in Vegas that could be anywhere.”
An older crowd.
I'm used to thinking of Emily as my innocent virgin girl, but the truth is she was brought up by a professional con artist who makes her way in life by “borrowing” money from soft-headed old fools. What did she learn from her mother about emptying besotted people's bank accounts?
I'm only forty-one. Too young to be a soft-headed old fool. Or am I just fooling myself?
The doubts hit me harder than I expected them to. Most of the time, I don't think too much about what the girl's after. I hit it and quit it, so there's nothing to think about. Some of them like it when you splash out a lot of money on them, and some of them are just there for a good time. I've been thinking Emily was something more.
Still, I can't deny she enjoys money being spent and she likes having a good time. That's just human nature.
Is that all she wants from me? Goodies and playtime? My heart sh
ouldn't twist inside my chest at the thought, but it does.
I think I remember saying something stupid in the heat of the moment, and suddenly my face gets hot in a way my face never gets. I'm too old to blush. It can't happen. I shouldn't have said what I said. It's too soon.
Quentin excuses himself, and it's the two of us alone again. Nobody drinks the mineral water or nibbles on the cookies. I glide the robe from her shoulders and down to the floor in a fluffy white puddle. She steps free, naked and unashamed, her body a little shiny.
“We should hurry,” I say.
“She's fine. We should not hurry.” She tries to copy my move. A touch to my shoulders and a tug, but my robe doesn't fall away so easily. “Tease.” She tugs again, more of a yank, and now I'm naked too.
“We need to wash up.”
She cups my right thigh, the better to frame the flushed velvet of my waxed delta of Venus. It takes so little for her to arouse me‒ a glance, a caress, the butterfly-light touch of her eyelashes fluttering against my cheek. Suddenly, I'm pushing her back against the nearest wall, the better to brace her, and she tilts her sleek pussy in my direction, and I'm grinding against her mound to mound. There's an angle I'm going for.
The perfect angle.
“Oh, fuck. You seduced me. That fast, you seduced me. You naughty, naughty little girl.”
“Mmmm, I try, Jessica sweetness. I try real hard.” She's playing me, a teasing smirk on her face. Amazing how she knows exactly what to say, what to do, to drive me abso-fucking-lutely out of my tree.
Grinding against a wall, that fast, that frantic. It's every woman's fantasy, faced with a body like hers. Except...
It's more than fantasy.
It's more than everything.
I can describe the physical sensations easily enough‒ the way her ass rotates into the wall hard enough to strip off the paint job. The way her pussy snaps right back tight around my fingers after her virgin fuck. The tightness, oh, fuck, how I could ramble on and on about her tightness.
The juices from our previous encounter are the perfect lube. I mean to go slow, but somehow I'm hammering faster and faster, and her hungry tunnel is deep-swallowing half my hand to her core.