by Zelda Reed
“Open your legs,” Neal says and I part my knees.
He steps in-between them and I lean forward, pressing my mouth just below his belly button, my chin rubbing against his dark trail of hair. I can smell him from here, his musk thick between his legs, surrounding his hard cock that juts out of his briefs, hanging inches away from my breasts.
His hands are in my hair again, fingers running through the strands, before he pushes my head down. He leads me to his clothed cock, my mouth sliding against it through the fabric of his briefs. A low groan brews in his stomach, the vibrations soft against my head as I press kisses up and down his cock. He pushes his hips against me, needing more than the gentle touch of my lips. I release my tongue and lick a wet trail up from the tip of his cock to the base, feeling his balls beneath his briefs, desperate to taste him instead of cotton.
Neal grabs my hands and brings them to the waistband of his briefs, my fingers instantly curling around it, pushing them down until his cock is released. The smell of him grows in my nostrils and my eyes slip close, drowning in his musky scent. Thick, manly and solely Neal.
He doesn’t have to direct me to slide his cock in my mouth, the head passing my lips as I gently suck. Another moan builds in his chest as he watches me, licking the underside of his cock before I pull off. I wrap my hand around the base, generously licking every inch, his cock thick and circumcised, long and pink, glistening in the low light of the room as I take him back into my mouth. I suck in as much as I can, seventy-five percent of the way there, when my hands take over. Stroking up and down, I twist my head to the side, humming lowly as Neal throws his head back.
He pushes my hair out of my face. Our eyes meet and he grins, my hands cupping his balls.
“Oh, fuck, just like that,” he says.
My mouth pulls from his cock with a pop, diving in to lick his balls. He thrusts his hips into the touch, his cock against my cheek, pre-cum spreading across my skin. It makes me feel reckless and dirty, like the sort of girl who picks up strangers in bars. I’ve become the woman who picks up strangers at my father’s repass. Handsome strangers with large cocks and deep moans, who pull away from me so he can fully step out of his briefs.
Neal’s gorgeous with his clothes on but off, he stands in front of me like a god. Broad shoulders and chest above a set of tight abs. He’s sporting the dangerous “v” on his hips that drive all women wild. His cock stands proud and erect between his legs. He’s perfection in physical form and I need him to fuck me.
He lays down beside me, legs spread as he lazily strokes his cock. “Please tell me you have a condom,” he says.
I shake my head. “I didn’t think I would end up in bed with anyone.”
His hand tightens around his cock. “I’m clean.”
“Me too,” I say, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. “And I’m on birth control.”
Neal’s thumb slides across the head of his cock, his muscles tightening as a soft moan passes through his lips. “Whatever you want to do,” he says, locking his eyes with mine.
I know I should be the safe, responsible girl I was in college. No sex with condoms, I don’t care if I’m on birth control! But there’s something about Neal that keeps me tied to my hotel room.
I toss my leg over his hips, hovering over him as he removes his hand from his cock. “We’re good,” I say, planting my ass on him, another groan building in his chest. Slowly, I rock back and forth, my ass and my clothed clit rubbing against him. I plant my hands on his chest for leverage. “I’m gonna ride you until you come inside me.”
We kiss, my back curved as his hands run down my spine, towards my underwear, towards my ass. He grabs two handfuls and squeezes, shoving me against him, his pre-cum staining my panties. We share small, steady moans between our tongues and lips, pleasure building in the pit of my stomach like a wet heat.
Neal slides his hands beneath my underwear, palms sliding over my bare ass as my hips rock against him, my clit pulsating with every move. I can get off like this, frotting against him like a teenage girl afraid of too much contact, too much skin on skin.
“Take your panties off,” he says, breathless.
He twists his fingers in the thin band, forcing them over my ass and down my thighs. I push myself to my hands, hovering over him as he hooks them past my knees. I kick them off, pressing my mouth back against Neal’s as my hand wraps around the base of his cock.
It’s like riding a horse, that’s what Suzanne used to say about fucking. If you don’t have sex for a while that’s okay, because it’s like riding a horse, you hop on and it all comes back to you. The last time I had sex was over a year ago, but I have the moves burned into my brain: align his cock with your hole, spread your legs wider, lower your hips, bite back a moan, sink down and breathe.
The second he’s inside me, Neal releases a growl. Deep and animalistic, it makes the blond hairs on my arms stand up. Hands back on his chest, I push myself to a seated position, breasts heaving in time with my breaths as I lift up and down, up and down. His cock stretches me open, filling me up as I rock my hips and tilt my head back, a slow string of moans falling from my lips.
His hands grab my breasts, thumbs encircling my nipples, as I move my hips a little faster. He pinches my right nipple and I laugh, my ass slapping against his balls.
I ride him until I feel an unstoppable heat build between my legs and, licking my hand, I press my fingers against my clit to relieve the pressure.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Neal says, pushing himself to a seated position, my knees grinding into the mattress as our chests press together, our mouths, inches apart, and my clit rubbing against his stomach.
I bounce up and down on his cock, the movement easier now, my hands gripping his shoulders as I go. The friction remains between my clit and his torso, waves of pleasure building like a growing tide. His gaze flickers between my parted lips, my closed eyes and my breasts, happily jiggling along, level with his mouth. I feel his lips wrap around my nipple and another moan carelessly flies from my throat.
We fuck like that, his hands gripping my ass, until it’s all too much. The feeling of his cock, the heat of the room, his mouth against my breasts.
“I’m gonna cum.”
My entire body quivers as my hands find his hair, dark strands wrapping around my fingers as I pull his face into my chest and ride out my orgasm. He comes soon after, his hot stream filling me up, his moans muffled in my breasts.
For a few moments we remain wrapped up in one another. Sweaty, sticky, fucked out.
I’m the first to move. I sway my hips towards the bathroom, closing the door as I clean myself up. I try to be quick about it, a few seconds on the toilet and two minutes in the shower. I’m standing at the sink, surveying the light bruises on my neck when I hear it: the hotel door opening and closing shut.
“Neal?” No response.
I stick my head out the bathroom door, the smell of us assaulting my nostrils but there’s no sign of Neal. He’s thrown on his clothes and left.
Quickly, I tug on my dress and rush into the hall, hoping to find him waiting for the elevator but he isn’t there either.
Neal Dietrich has fucked me and dashed.
That fucking asshole.
Nine
It’s difficult not to feel betrayed. I’ve only known Neal for a handful of hours, but I felt a connection to him, which was shattered when he ran out on me.
I’m sure I could find his contact information on the internet, but when I wake up the next morning I decide it isn’t worth it. I needed a good fuck before I went back to Baltimore and I got it.
No strings. No complications. Except why does my heart feel mildly broken?
______
My father’s attorney operates out of his Lincoln Park brownstone, three stories tall with a charming red door and two dogs calmly sleeping out front. His wife answers the door in a bright yellow apron, a glass of lemonade ready in hand
. She hands it to me and ushers me inside with a warm hand on my back, pulling me into a hug.
“I’m so sorry, dearie,” she says, her breath moving through my hair.
She leads me into the dining room, a tight space filled with a long brown table. Gina, Ashleigh, Darlene, a man I don’t recognize, and Martin Simmons – my father’s longtime assistant – are already seated, spaced out far apart from one another, around the table. Gina and I make eye contact. I give her a small smile but she looks away. She’s pissed I walked out of my father’s repass without so much as a word and refused to answer her text messages. I take a seat near the head of the table, a seat away from Martin, and for the first time I feel guilty.
The lawyer, Donald, enters a moment later, drink in hand, glasses hanging around his neck. It’s the beginning of summer but he’s wearing a tweed suit, chocolate brown, with a button down, black tie, and brown sweater beneath his jacket. He looks uncomfortable and very, very hot.
“Do you want me to turn on the air, dear?” asks his wife, sticking her head in the room.
He waves her away. “No, no, it’s fine.” In front of him sits a thick manila envelope. He pries it open slowly, all of us watching, our shoulders hunched towards him in interest. He sets a piece of paper on top before he folds his hands and addresses us. “What you should know is this ‘reading of the will business’ isn’t very customary at all.”
The man I don’t know, large and Italian, says, “That’s not true. You see it all the time in uh, movies.”
“Movies. Make believe. My point exactly.” Donald takes a drink. “But Julian, as all of you know, had a flair for the dramatic so here we are. The formal reading of his will. Before we start,” he looks around the table, “would everyone mind introducing themselves?”
We go around the table, spitting out our names. The man I don’t know is Fabian Moretti.
Donald glances at the paper in front of him. “You’re all mostly accounted for, so let’s get started.”
Fabian receives a sizeable chunk of change for his “charity”, money that Martin will wire him by Wednesday. After Martin nods in acknowledgment, Fabian stands and leaves. Martin receives my father’s car, a vintage Aston Martin that remains in perfect condition, in a garage in Evanston. Darlene and Gina and my mother (I try not to look shocked) receive a sizeable chunk of money, not enough to live off of, but enough to send Gina into a small fit of tears, her fingers wiping at her cheeks before she makes prayer-like hands and says, “Thank you, god.” Ashleigh receives a three-year scholarship to DePaul, on the condition that she remains a Biology major and doesn’t transfer to “something useless”.
“And you, Miss Wheeler,” Donald says, running his finger down the list. “Will receive the remaining funds in your father’s combined accounts. A total of two-point-seven million dollars.” The women in the room turn to glare at me. Her? The girl who couldn’t love him less? “You will also receive Mr. Wheeler’s Gold Club membership card, giving you access to the most exclusive society in Chicago, and ownership of Mr. Wheeler’s condominium and half his stock portfolio, with mentorship by Mr. Simmons.”
Martin nods. “You can pick up the keys at the office on Monday.”
My hands, lazily resting in my lap, begin to tremble under the sharp gaze of the women around me. Darlene’s burning a hole in the side of my face as Gina and Ashleigh, across from me, bite their bottom lips to keep from lashing out. I don’t have to read their minds to know what they’re thinking. He left all of that to that ungrateful little bitch? The girl who ran around for years, telling anyone who would listen that I hated him; the girl who had to be dragged to his funeral; the girl who left his repass early to fuck a complete stranger who didn’t even stay to say goodbye.
“Do you…do you have a bathroom?” I ask Donald.
He nods. “Upstairs and to your right.”
It takes all of me to remain composed, exiting the dining room. Through the floorboards of the second floor I can hear Donald’s wife in the kitchen, singingly softly along with the radio, pots and pans clamoring in the sink. I close the bathroom door behind me, sliding the lock into place before I lower the lid on the toilet and take a seat.
It all comes rushing out of me: an uncontrollable sob that starts out like a pitter-patter of rain but monsoons into a full blown attack. The palms of my hands press into my eyes, trying to keep the tears from ruining my make-up but it’s no use. Black eyeliner stains my hands as it runs down my cheeks, my mouth twisting open as my shoulders shake.
My sanity, my rock-hard understanding of my father is shattered. In a handful of seconds he’s transformed from the heartless, cold man I always knew him to be, to complex and misunderstood. A man who knew nothing about having a daughter, but loved me enough to leave me almost his whole life.
I don’t know how long I’m in there but a knock on the door drags me out. It’s Donald’s wife, “Just seeing if you’re alright.”
I can’t fix my make-up, so I clean it all off. Bare-faced, I head back to the dining room where the sound of a new voice pushes my shoulders back and tightens my jaw.
He wouldn’t.
Rounding the corner, I spot him. Neal. Lounging in the dining room chair on the other side of Martin. The two converse quietly, the women sitting restlessly around the table, Ashleigh’s cheeks stained with new tears, Darlene on her phone, Gina’s eyes darting between Donald and Neal.
I carefully step into the room. Neal meets my eyes. The corner of his mouth quirks into a grin. Instinctively, my eyes narrow.
“Ah,” Donald says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Now that Miss Wheeler is back we can continue.”
Neal’s eyes remain on my profile as I take my seat, pointedly avoiding his gaze.
“One last thing,” Donald says. He takes another drink. “Mr. Wheeler leaves control of his business, J.M. Wheeler, to Mr. Neal Dietrich,” Donald looks at Neal, “an arrangement, I understand to be months in the making?”
Neal nods. “Four months to be exact.”
My head snaps in his direction. Neal raises an eyebrow as if to say, what’s the big deal?
A wave of sickness brews in my stomach as my mother’s words loop in my head: never trust men like your father.
Ten
Ashleigh’s the first to leave.
The six of us gather in an awkward cluster in Donald’s foyer, Darlene periodically checking her phone, desperately seeking the right time to politely filter out. Gina nervously chews on her thumbnail as her eyes dart between Martin, Neal, and Donald, the three men conversing about my father’s wealth and legacy and how it’s all in good hands.
The severity of it hasn’t hit me yet. The fact that hours ago I was a struggling – but content – teacher making thirty-five thousand a year. Despite my father bestowing upon me more money than I ever dreamed, I can’t shake that pesky envious feeling, biting at my ear lobe. He never paid for my tuition, what makes Ashleigh so fucking special?
Darlene spits out a forced laugh, loud enough to disrupt their conversation. “I think I’m gonna head out,” she says. Then to Donald, “I’ll have my lawyers get in contact to finalize everything.”
Gina drops her thumb from her mouth. “I’ll walk you out.”
Without the two of them, I can’t stand to be in the same room as Neal, his eyes glossing over me after every few sentences, begging me to look at him, but I won’t. Liars are rarely worth a second glance. You can’t trust a word that comes out of their mouth and it’s exhausting, keeping up with the stories they spin.
What stings more than him fucking me and leaving, is he lied about knowing my father, a man who attempts to redeem himself in death, but alive was someone I couldn’t stand. I can’t imagine the type of man Neal must really be for my father to trust him with his business.
Silently, I follow Gina and Darlene out the front door. On the porch, Darlene turns to us, her smile tight and small.
“Well, what do you know,
” she says, throwing up her hands.
“Yeah,” Gina says, thumb back in her mouth. “Makes you think, huh?”
They were talking about my father, in their roundabout way, the resentment between them too thick for an actual conversation.
Darlene nods. “It does.” Then to me, “I know I said it yesterday but again, I’m so sorry.”
A part of me wants to scoff. Darlene was there when my father went weeks without speaking to me. She was the one shoving me out the house when he tired of my presence. She knows there’s nothing to be sorry about. With the money my father left me, he’s more useful to me dead.
“Me too,” I say.
“Well then,” Darlene says, turning around.
Gina and I watch her walk to the end of the block, then turn left as she heads towards Broadway. In a few seconds she’ll hail down a cab, fingers tapping against her phone as she directs him to her hotel. She’ll spend a night out with her husband and son, paying for dinner as they bask in the knowledge that a large lump sum of money is coming and all she had to do was deal with my father for a few years.
“I guess that’s my cue,” Gina mumbles the second Darlene disappears. She takes a step off the porch.
“Wait,” I say. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Gina places her hands on her hips. “Yeah, you should be. What did I say about your father, huh?” She waits for an answer. I shrug. “Jesus. That he loves – he loved - you. I know he never really showed it but,” she waves her hand, “that’s how most men are. They’re all cold and angry but deep down they have a good heart.”
The combative fourteen year old step-child in me flares up for a moment. He was an asshole, I want to shout, this doesn’t make up for shit, but I bite my tongue and nod. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry for not listening to you.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Where’d you go yesterday, anyway?”
“Back to the hotel. I just needed to get out of there.”