KING: A Daddy's Best Friend Romance

by Jess Bentley

  “Yes, the money,” I sigh vaguely, letting my head tip back toward his shoulder.

  “I thought you decided not to do anything with the money.”

  “Yes, but it is my money,” I say. “I just hadn’t decided yet, is all…”

  “Okay, no more talking now,” he growls, sliding a finger into me from behind and making me gasp.

  My breath hitches in my throat. I want to say something to continue the conversation, but my physical need blows that all away. I wonder for just a moment if I'm letting go of control again, letting someone else tell me what to do with my life. Even if he has my best interest at heart, shouldn't I be in control of my own destiny?

  But that thought dissolves under the swarm of kisses that he places against my neck and he's turning me, pulling me to him, dragging us both down onto the carpet. And then I can only think of one thing, just one thing as he pushes my knees apart and he's back inside me, owning me, making me beg him to crush the breath out of me.

  Just one thought.

  King.

  16

  Raleigh

  When I arrive back at our flat, she is standing just beyond the foyer wearing the dress I had delivered. It cascades from her shoulders in a waterfall of crystals and shimmering silver mesh. She pivots slightly to the left and the right, her elbows held out from her sides.

  “If you keep looking at me like that, we won't leave the flat,” I warn her.

  “It's beautiful,” she sighs. “I almost couldn't believe it when I opened the box. How did you find this? Did you have it made for me or something?”

  I glide toward her, already imagining pulling the dress off. I can almost feel the crystals under my fingertips, the way that they would nip at my skin as I undressed her. I could have her naked in four seconds. I would be a shame to shred a $12,000 dress, but some things are worth doing.

  “Remember that little shop? The Rodarte?”

  She nods slowly. A small curl of hair dislodges itself from her updo and bounces prettily against her forehead.

  “Are you saying they remembered me? My size and everything?”

  “You made quite an impression on them.”

  As she's breathing, I can see the pale shadow under her nipples as they move beneath the fabric. It's extremely distracting.

  “We should be going,” I grunt, aware that it's early but afraid of what I will do if we delay anymore.

  She picks up a beaded handbag off the side table. “Where are we going?”

  She turns her back to me so that I can fasten the vintage mink stole over her creamy, narrow shoulders. The scent of her perfume wafts into my mouth and again I feel that surge of ravenous hunger building inside me. I vow to get her through the event as quickly as possible and then get her somewhere we can be alone.

  “Just a work thing, darling.”

  Her shoulders slump slightly beneath my hands. “A work thing?”

  She pivots to face me and raises her eyes toward mine. What was she expecting?

  “Yes, Little Girl, a work thing. That's what I do. I work. Promise me to be on your best behavior.”

  She smirks, sucking her lower lip between her teeth and biting it because she's knows I'm enchanted by her. By now she knows everything: how I watch her. How I want her. How everything in my life has been reorganized to revolve around her.

  “One day, I'll be taking you to my ‘work thing,’” she says with a frown. “I’ll keep you on a leash and trot you around the outside like a little pony. Will that be all right with you?”

  “Oh really, is that so?” I counter. “Mr. King is nobody's pony.”

  “No?” she pouts, her lower lip gleaming with wetness. “Not even for me?”

  “All right, all right, that's enough of that,” I chide her gently. She allows me to direct her with my fingertips toward the door and I adjust my still-throbbing cock in my pants, silently promising it that we will have satisfaction before the night is over.

  But she is pleased, I can tell, when the car lets us out in front of the glass pyramid of the Louvre. The entire patio glitters, lit from within by a million tiny lights. Being Paris, of course everyone is decked out like a fairytale. And yet, I've got the fairytale Princess right here on my arm, so what could go wrong?

  She didn't talk much on the way over, though, so I'm grateful to see that her eyes are alight with curiosity and expectation. I feel all eyes upon us as we slowly promenade around the perimeter of the gathering, taking its measure before diving in for the few business contacts I have to communicate with before we can leave.

  The ladies are fine and beautiful, of course, and the gentlemen all in natty, bespoke suits and the occasional conversation piece like a walking cane or cigarette on a long, tortoiseshell holder. Jordan grips my hand tightly, walking with a graceful, practiced gait but allowing just that bit of tension in her fingers to let me know how excited she really is.

  It pleases me so much to see that she is ready and able to hold court here now. There were weeks where she flinched as soon as anyone turned around, expecting them to do the worst thing, to say something vulgar. After what Kelsey did to her, how could I blame her? But she's finally starting to blossom and come into her own personality. The confident, courageous beauty I know she really is. The side that Kelsey stole from her.

  “King,” comes a voice. I turn to locate the origin and see a face I don't immediately recognize. Then I realize I had encountered him briefly during a deal that went sideways. Well, it went sideways for him. I got the best of it, of course. That's business.

  I hold out my hand and he shakes it, perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary. “Mr. Maillot, isn't it?” I ask.

  He nods curtly, apparently annoyed that I'm pretending not to remember him.

  “Nice to see you again,” he practically snarls. The reddening folds of his jowls shake over the top of his starched collar. His eyes flicker toward Jordan blandly then spark with interest. I see his lips part slightly, his breath rancid as his mouth curls into a sneer.

  “What have we here?” he asks, his voice oily and impertinent.

  I want to take Jordan by the hand and drag her behind me to shield her from the implication that is plain in his expression. He knows her. But by the way she stiffens and draws herself even more regal and upright, I could tell she already knows it too. She knows, and she's prepared to do battle.

  “Ma cheri, would you mind getting me a glass of champagne?” I murmur, turning so that she has to look up at me. I want her attention on me, not on him, and not dwelling in the past.

  “We have met before,” Maillot says, his upper lip retracting to display his narrow, widely spaced teeth.

  “I'm sure we haven't,” Jordan says smoothly.

  While I'm proud of her grace under pressure, I can't fight the urge to protect her any longer. My hand circles just above her elbow and I begin to draw her away.

  “Pardon us, Maillot, I see someone we need to talk with —”

  “— of course you do!” Maillot blurts triumphantly. “And I must say, congratulations on your… acquisition! I'll be seeing you, my dear.”

  I doubt that very much, I promise him silently as I drag Jordan away. Her tiny kitten heels scrape along the slate tiles.

  “King, wait,” she objects. “I can't run that fast… What are you doing?”

  I find a barrier and I pull her behind it. Then to cover my outburst, I lace my fingers behind her neck and pull her up, pressing her tight against me, perhaps tightly enough she can't breathe.

  But her mouth is pliant and welcoming, her taste as sweet as ever as my tongue traces the seam of her lips.

  “There is something I have to tell you, darling,” I whisper against her mouth.

  I have to. I know that I have to tell her.

  “Tell me anything,” she sighs into my mouth, yielding to me utterly.

  But the need is too great. The feeling of her long, supple limbs under the thin fabric of the dress is too much for me. I can feel p
re-cum dribbling from the tip of my cock as I hold her there, and I'm going to ruin my slacks if I don't take care of that.

  “Just a moment,” I grunt and circle her in my arms.

  Along the shadowed back wall is a small bathroom, probably reserved for docents and other knowledgeable personnel. I find the door unlocked and fling it open, dragging us both inside. It's a single stall with a porcelain sink and small commode. But it will do.

  I don't even turn on the light switch, just lean down to tug the hem of her dress over her hips and then grab her ass in both hands and lift her onto the edge of the sink.

  “You're not wearing any panties,” I growl into her neck as my fingers slide against her shaved, slick furrow. She's already swollen and open for me, wanting me.

  “I was hoping we would do this,” she moans as her hands fumble against the front of my trousers. As soon as those long, soft fingers wrap around my heavy, throbbing cock, I can feel it pulse. I am seconds away from coming already as she tugs at my length, letting her palm slide along the slippery pre-come that covers the head.

  “I need to fuck you, Jordan. I need you right now!”

  She nods in the darkness, biting and licking a hot trail along the side of my neck. My trousers fall to the floor and tangle around my ankles as I enter her quickly, taking her all at once, bottoming out against her soft, shaved pussy. Immediately I am hammering into her as her wet sheath clasps against me like a mouth, sucking the life out of me, drawing the orgasm right out of me.

  I was right. I begin to come immediately in bouts. It splashes against the porcelain as it flows back out of her with every wet, overflowing thrust. She mewls and bites my neck, shuddering hard as she climaxes, her fingers clawing against my shoulders.

  Moments later, we emerge from the small bathroom, adjusting our black-tie finery around us. A few of the partygoers are standing outside the door and give us sidelong, knowing glances. But nobody judges. This is Paris, after all.

  17

  Jordan

  Leaning over the wrought iron balcony railing, I rest my chin on my fingers and stare into the crowd below. People walk by in a hurry or slowly, smoking or not smoking, holding hands or not holding hands. It seems like gigantic dogs are the new trend this year. Everyone has to have one: malamutes, huskies, chows with their alien-blue tongues curling out to cover their smiles.

  I could get a dog, I think. I think a dog would really enjoy some of our finer furnishings. But just to be different, I'll get a little one. A Chihuahua… no, a miniature pinscher. Min-pins are just the cutest little things, like the elf version of Dobermans.

  The corner bakery is situated just so that the updraft brings me a delightful waft of yeasty smells every few minutes. I wish I could eat bread all day. That would definitely be a way to pass the hours.

  I am just about to go in and rearrange some dining room chairs again for the fifteenth time when I see a lady with hair the color of a copper drum. It shines so brilliantly that even from way up here, I am momentarily entranced.

  A redhead? I wonder if I could look that fabulous as a redhead. And maybe so many people wouldn't recognize me anymore.

  It doesn't take long before I'm sitting in the bathroom with the box of hair dye in my hand, trying to find the English language directions on this huge sheet of paper that seems to fold out for yards and yards.

  I mix up the batch and squirt the chemicals all over my head, knotting it on top with a duckbill clip and then carefully walking around the flat for thirty minutes without getting any on R’s prized stuff. I can just imagine what he would say if he came home and found a big coppery splotch in the middle of his big, white throw rug. He'd be incensed. He’d probably punish me, I think, and squirm a little.

  After it's all washed out, dried, and falling in a fringe in front of my face, I just stare at it for a while. Why didn't I ever do this before? I look amazing as a redhead. It curls over one eye like Jessica Rabbit, bouncing under my chin in a cute little curl. A couple swipes of auburn-tinted eyebrow pencil and I look brand-new. Reborn.

  And reborn with a little bit of sass, I comment silently. I give myself a couple of hip-pops in the long mirror and shake out my hair, pantomiming a coquettish, come-hither laugh. I can't wait for R to get a load of this.

  I hear a knock at the door and wonder if he's forgotten his key, practically skipping to open it for him,

  “Oh, um, —”

  It's not him. I rock back in confusion. “Mr. Maillot?”

  The portly, sneering little man we met at the Louvre looks me up and down slowly as he stands in the doorway. I can see his fingers moving inside his trouser pockets.

  “How did you get up here? Didn’t the doorman…”

  He waves his hands, cutting me off. “Are you alone?” he interrupts impertinently.

  I cross my arms in front of me, barring his entry into the flat. He is apparently unimpressed, just shoves past me and looks around like he owns the place, like he belongs here. He cranes his neck to peer into the kitchen, and then into the bedroom.

  “Monsieur King is not here?”

  “He will be home any minute!” I lie. I'm not entirely sure how I can have this man ejected from my flat. 911? Is that it even a thing here?

  He stops in the middle of the dining room, then pulls out a chair and drops his wide bottom into it. His legs fall open at the knee, leaving his crotch thrust in my direction as though daring me to look at it. I swallow my disgust and avert my eyes.

  “Oh, Mr. King. Always getting the best of things, isn't he?”

  “Yes, well, he'll be home shortly. He's bringing me lunch,” I inform him. I mentally catalog the heavy objects in the room that I might be able to use to bash his head in, given the chance. I'm not especially strong, but I'm not especially forgiving either. One false move…

  “You know, it's funny,” he begins, “I expected you to recognize me too. Isn't that droll? I mean, of course you wouldn't… But for a moment, was a little offended you didn't!”

  He chuckles as though I am supposed to know what he's talking about. I get myself a glass of water from the kitchen and sip at it, watching him over the top rim. I don't offer him anything.

  “Yes, well,” he begins again, his tone clipped and businesslike. “I'm here to make you an offer, as I'm sure you know.”

  He is sure I know? I wonder. What am I missing?

  “I will pay you double,” he enunciates, nodding proudly at the end as though he said something very impressive.

  I can't help it; I begin to get curious. I say, “Double?”

  He waves his fingers in the air in front of his wet-looking eyes. “I will pay you double whatever he's paying you.”

  My mouth drops open. “He's not —”

  “— fine, triple!”

  “I think you should be leaving, Mr. Maillot,” I inform him. I set my water glass down on the countertop and hold my hand back in the direction he came. “Now.”

  “Oh come now,” he rolls his eyes. “You can't be standing on propriety, can you? I mean, it is preposterous! You don't have to sell your loyalty, ma cheri. Loyalty should cost extra.”

  My hands tremble with rage and I ball them into fists.

  “Or, can it be that you're enjoying this? His little… obsession? Come now, Jordan. A woman in your position shouldn't be so sentimental.”

  “I will call the police!”

  “Though I can see why he would be so fond of you, ma cheri,” Maillot continues, his eyes going distant as though remembering something quite fondly. “The first time that I saw you, I was astounded. It seemed so natural, it was like coming upon a nymph in the wood, you know? Like a fairytale!”

  “Leave!”

  “And you seemed so honest! Like you really didn't know! I really had no idea that men all over the world were convincing themselves that you were their precious little secret, their little ingenue.”

  I snatch my purse, zipping it open and searching for my cell phone, rummaging around to the bott
om. Where the hell is it?

  "But King, he is a man of action, isn't he? He turned his obsession into reality. I can respect that.”

  I gape at him, not understanding. His jowls vibrate as he nods, settling back into place like a Jell-O mold that's been shaken vigorously.

  “What are you talking about? King?”

  The foyer door opens again and R strides through, his eyes flashing, the doorman standing apologetically behind him.

  R's on a mission and he barrels past me toward the dining room. Maillot rises from his chair so quickly it falls over behind him and he stumbles to the side, staggering toward the back of the table to keep it between him and King.

  “Maillot!” he bellows. “This is outrageous!”

  Maillot’s hands go up.

  “Fine! Fine!” he cries out, his voice suddenly girlish and afraid. “But you didn't think she would just be yours alone, did you? She belongs to everyone. I have every right to ask!”

  R lunges for him, but Maillot bolts for the front door, running as fast as his stubby legs will take him out of the flat. The doorman closes the door firmly behind him.

  Striding toward me, R’s eyes flicker over me. “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you in any way? I'll kill him!”

  I can barely breathe. The flat seems to be collapsing on top of me.

  “You knew!? All this time…”

  He winces, squinting his eyes closed. “Jordan, let me explain something —”

  “I don't want to hear a word!” I shudder, somehow forming the words around breath that seems too insubstantial to make words. I'm suffocating. I'm drowning.

  “All this time… you knew? You never told me. You never said a word.”

  He stares at me for a long time and I can finally understand now why he was so willing to protect me. Why he never even questioned my motives, my sincerity. Because he knew.

  He was one of them.

  “I'm leaving,” I announce, shaking my red hair out of my eyes and pushing it behind my ear with my fingers. “And I never want to see you again.”