To the Fall

by Prescott Lane

  She’s an only child, raised by her ex-Marine father. Apparently, the man takes the Marine motto, Semper Fi, very seriously. Sutton was home schooled, and it seems her upbringing makes Guantanamo Bay look like a resort.

  The time passes quickly. She skips the top floor on her way to the rooftop pool area. “It’s closed right now,” she says. “We need to resurface the pool and do a lot of other things.”

  She’s right. It’s a complete mess, but it has a great view. “This has a lot of potential,” I say, sidestepping some cracks. “A bar over here would be great. Block the view of that other building, so the view of the city becomes the focus.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. I was thinking a swim-up bar.”

  I tilt my head. “Maybe, but that screams more island resort to me.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “You should think about getting a cover for the pool, too, so you can transform the space for receptions and parties. Maybe put a dance floor over it for weddings.” She pulls out her phone and starts to write herself notes. “You’ve got a much better view than my hotel does, so you have to use it.”

  “But the money. . .”

  “That’s always an issue, but this kind of space sells your hotel to party-goers, conventions, weddings. It will make you more money in the long run than perfectly cooked scallops in the restaurant. Although if you get that handled, the restaurant becomes the caterer for all the rooftop events.”

  “I still don’t know why you would help me. I plan to run you out of business,” she says, laughing.

  “Like I told you. I can remember what it was like starting out and having a shit-hole hotel to turn around. I admire someone who takes that on.”

  “You might be the only one.”

  “You only need one admirer,” I say, seeing her skin blush. “Show me the rest.”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “What’s on the top floor?” I ask.

  “Luxury suites,” she says, still blushing. “But we just started on them. They’re not even close to being done.”

  “Show me one,” I say, placing my hand at the small of her back to guide her to the elevator.

  “Um, okay,” she says, releasing my hand. She uses her keycard to access the floor. We step outside the elevator to four sets of double doors and turn to the corner suite. She pauses, asking, “Do you really not know what I’m doing to these rooms?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Because people are talking.”

  “I told you I haven’t been spying on you. What’s the big deal?” I ask. “Aren’t they just fancier hotel rooms?”

  “But they’re not,” she says, opening the door wide.

  My mouth hits the floor.

  “They’re playrooms,” she says. “Or they will be when they’re done.”

  I look around. The room is under construction, but I get the idea. The mirror on the ceiling and the four-post bed with built-in restraints are big ass clues. She points to some artist renderings of the complete suites hanging on the wall. Then there’s the sex swing, the spreader bar, the stripper pole all nestled among the fine linens and custom features. It’s a sexual playground. “All four rooms will be like this?” I ask.

  “Yes, and they all come with a dresser full of new toys that are gifts for the guests to take with them. Kind of like a mini-bar, but of toys.”

  She holds out a catalog for me to take a peek—floggers, whips, butt plugs, vibrators, gags, blindfolds. Anything you can dream of.

  To say this is a complete mind fuck is an understatement. Yes, this is sexy and hot, but it’s also smart and savvy. And I respect the hell out of her for it. Why didn’t I think of this?

  “Please don’t look at me like that,” she says firmly. “This is why I didn’t want to show you. Now you think I’m some kind of nympho.”

  “I happen to like nymphos,” I say, flashing her a grin as she laughs.

  “Seriously, please don’t judge me,” she says. “I needed to save the hotel, and this was the way to do it.”

  This isn’t a lifestyle for her. This is solely a business decision. “How is this saving the hotel?” I ask. “A huge percentage of hotel guests are married couples or . . .”

  “Exactly,” she says. “Married couples with kids and small houses who can’t exactly have a sex swing hanging around. They can have a drawer maybe. This gives them the chance to come and explore some different things safely and privately.”

  “So not by the hour?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No. All these suites have a waiting list already. Almost all are married couples.”

  I look around the room again. This woman has completely surprised me. That doesn’t often happen. Maybe I’ve been picking the wrong women? Because I don’t know that I’ve ever been more turned on in my life, and it’s not just the decor. It’s her—her dirty, clever, genius mind. The way she thinks is a major aphrodisiac. “You’re telling me the average couple knows how to use a spreader bar and nipple clamps?”

  “You seem to know what they are,” she says, cocking her chin up with a smirk. “And if they don’t, we help them out with manuals and videos that explain things. We’re also going to have a sort of sex barista on staff. We’ll call her our kinksta. She’ll come in and do demos for couples.”

  “You’re kidding.” She shakes her head. I glance around the room again. Everything is open, even the oversize tub is in the middle of the room. I look back at Sutton, who’s looking at her feet. Slowly, I tilt her chin up. “This is genius. You’ve capitalized on an untouched market. This is going to be huge.”

  The smile on her face is priceless. I can tell my opinion means a lot to her. “All the regular rooms on lower floors have the sex dressers, too, but they’re locked up,” she admits, blushing. “I just didn’t show you those before.”

  I capture her in my arms. “Naughty girl.”

  “But I’m really not, Pierce. Despite what these rooms look like. I’m a good girl. You should know that.”

  “You can be a good girl and still enjoy a room like this,” I say, pulling her tighter.

  She pulls away. “I could, but only with the right person. Someone I love and trust.”

  She walks toward the door and waits for me to follow her before locking it. I take her hand again. She looks up at me with those big blue eyes, and I can’t help myself, leaning over and brushing my lips to hers. No tongue, no pinning her against the wall, no ripping her clothes off—just one little kiss. Our first.

  I’m two days into the no sex thing and not about to screw it up again, but then her breath catches, her skin warms. It’s hard not to push further. I affect her. I can’t just stop. I’m a greedy man when it comes to Sutton. There’s never been a woman I couldn’t get enough of, but with the first touch of her lips, I know that just changed.

  I lean back down, and this time she meets my mouth, gently, a slight hesitation as her lips part, her breath mingling with mine. It’s slow, mesmerizing. Everything from the feel of her hair to the taste of her tongue burns into my skin.

  Her hand goes to my chest, forcing distance between our bodies. She meant it when she said she’s a good girl. She looks down at her fingers on my chest. “I can feel your heart beating,” she whispers.

  No doubt she can. My heart is thundering in my chest, not used to restraint. I place my hand over hers and lean forward to capture her lips, when her stomach makes the most horrifying sound.

  “Of course,” she says, lowering her head to my chest, mortified. “I swear I’m not usually so embarrassing.”

  I chuckle. “You’re hungry. We missed lunch. How about I take you out to dinner?”

  She glances down at her watch, her eyes wide. “It’s three thirty already?”

  “Well, it’s early for dinner, but we could . . .”

  “Um, maybe I could catch up with you later. I’ve got somewhere to be at four,” she says, reaching to tap the elevator button.

  “Sure,�
�� I say, noticing she’s suddenly turned a bit anxious, watching the buttons light up one by one. She looks nervous as hell as we step into the elevator. I’m not sure what’s going on. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Her eyes dart to mine. “No, why would you ask that?”

  “Look, if you’re seeing someone, just tell me—so I can get rid of him.”

  She smiles that beautiful smile of hers. “I told you I’m a good girl. I wouldn’t cheat.”

  The doors open, and we walk out into the lobby. Slipping my arms around her waist, I play with her ponytail. “That’s very good to hear because,” I say, leaning down into her neck and whispering, “you’re all mine.”

  She shivers, grabbing my shirt collar and pulling me to her mouth hard. She might be a good girl, but I can tell she has a naughty side. This is a very good girl, indeed.

  “Sutton?” a voice booms through the entire lobby.

  She pulls away like she’s been shocked, wiping her mouth with her fingers. “Dad?”

  Dad? Holy hell, this explains why she’s nervous. This is worse than a boyfriend.

  She hugs the man whose eyes are boring into me like I just took his daughter’s virtue. She steps back to my side. “Daddy, this is Pierce Kingston.”

  I shake his hand. He has the traditional high and tight Marine haircut, and looks like he’s standing at attention, but mostly, he looks like he’d like to see me on the receiving end of a military-grade rifle. “Nice to meet you,” I say throwing a “sir” on at the end for good measure.

  He just gives me a nod, turning his eyes to Sutton and saying, “We’re going to be late for vigil Mass.”

  Obviously, this is a weekly tradition with her father, but she looks like she’d much rather stay with me. “I think I’ll go in the morning,” Sutton says.

  “The deal is, you live under my roof, and we attend Mass together,” her father says.

  My mom had a similar rule when I was a kid, but Sutton’s in her twenties. Turning to Sutton, I ask, “You still live at home?”

  “I moved back to save money for the hotel,” she says quietly. “Can I call you after, Pierce? I’d still like to go to dinner with you.”

  “Do you not attend Mass?” her father asks me.

  Well, hell! New Orleans is mostly Catholic, so much so we even named the combination of onions, celery, and bell pepper, which are the basis of many Cajun dishes, the “trinity.” I was raised Catholic and received the sacraments as a child, but I don’t practice. I’m pretty sure I’ll burst into flames as soon as I cross the threshold.

  “Dad,” Sutton says, “Pierce owns a hotel, too. I’m sure he’s very busy . . .”

  “Too busy for God?” he asks.

  “Of course not, sir,” I say firmly. “But I don’t want to intrude on your special time with your daughter.”

  Checkmate, hard ass. Sutton almost laughs out loud.

  “Isn’t that nice,” her father says, a twinkle of evil in his eyes, “but you must come with us.”

  Sutton looks up at me, her eyes telling me that I don’t have to do this.

  “We better get going. Wouldn’t want to be late,” I say.

  *

  The Catholic Church in New Orleans is like Starbucks. It seems there’s one on every corner, some famous like St. Louis Cathedral and others known only to those who live in their neighborhood. Some seem as old as the city itself. You can’t take a tour of New Orleans and not pass the Old Ursuline Convent or Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar, both established in the seventeen hundreds. So basically, this town is built on Bibles and booze.

  Surprisingly, I don’t combust upon entering the church or when taking communion. But I’m about to combust from the boner in my pants. Don’t judge me. So I have a raging hard-on in church, shoot me. Thank God, it’s almost over.

  Sutton crosses her legs in the church pew. It’s innocent enough, but her skirt raises just a tad. I place my hand on her thigh, high enough that I can feel the heat between her legs. Not at all appropriate for church, but if Mary had legs like Sutton, Joseph would be copping a feel in the temple, too.

  A little squeeze, a gentle caress with my thumb, and I swear she audibly moans. She places her hand on top of mine, stopping me. I lift her hand to my lips. She smiles, but her father doesn’t. The man is glaring at me.

  I release her hand and place my arm around her, pulling her closer to my side, then give her a little grin. She looks down, blushing, but her eyes dart right back up, shocked by the boner in my pants. I just give her a little shrug, and she giggles.

  I’ve never been so thankful for anything to be over in my whole life. We exit the church, and Sutton stands right in front of me, blocking her father from seeing my bulge, but that puts her ass right in front of me. I inch forward until I’m touching her as they make small talk. Her ass pushes back just slightly. She’s a naughty girl in a good girl mask—the best kind of girl.

  Sutton kisses her father on the cheek. “Have a good night.”

  “I’ll wait up for you,” her father says.

  I feel Sutton’s body shift. “I might stay at the hotel, Dad, so don’t wait up.”

  Clearly, she’s irritated at him. Irritated enough to stay the night with me? I have twenty-eight days to go on my diet. I have to be strong, but I’m only two days in. I could start over easily enough. I’ve done it before.

  “Does he know about those rooms?” her father asks.

  She exhales. “Daddy, please!”

  I pull Sutton to my hip. “I think your daughter is brilliant. I think she is saving a wonderful old building and restoring a landmark.”

  He doesn’t dignify me with a response, but turns to his daughter. “Not too late.”

  She hugs him, and we start down the sidewalk. She waits until we round the corner then releases my hand. “I’m sorry about all that. I know he’s intense.”

  “He always like that?” I ask.

  She nods. “Pretty much. Only child. It’s always been just me and him. What about your parents?”

  “My mom and dad are both dead,” I say flatly.

  Her hands fly over her mouth. “Oh, Pierce, I didn’t know.”

  “It’s fine. Tawny’s the only real family I’ve got.” I give her a very brief history of my parents’ affair, and my crappy living situation growing up.

  “I’m sorry.” She reaches for my face, giving me a little kiss. “Thank you for what you said back there. Do you really think I’m brilliant?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, I do. And beautiful, and funny, and sexy.” Her skin is so red, but she pushes her body into mine.

  “And starving,” she says, smiling up at me.

  I kiss the tip of her nose and take her hand. “Okay, what’s it going to be? Galatorie’s? Antoine’s? Emeril’s?”

  “Pizza,” she says, hopping up and down a little. “And soda, none of that diet stuff.”

  “Are you sure? Because I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

  “I’m a simple girl,” she says. “I don’t think there’s anything better than eating takeout at home in my pajamas.”

  “I can think of a lot of things better,” I say, giving her a naughty smile.

  She playfully slaps me. “I’m talking about dinner.”

  I capture her in my arms. “My house? We can order pizza.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I frankly can’t believe she agreed to come to my house. Either she really trusts me, or she really trusts herself. I’m not sure which. I order pizza and pick it up on the way to my place, so she won’t have to wait any longer to eat. I’m starving, too.

  Pulling through the gate in front of my home, the gas lanterns light the way. I probably worked on this place as much as I have The Kingston. It was a wreck when I bought it, but slowly it’s come back to life.

  Sutton leans forward, her hands on the dash of my car. “The hotel must do well.”

  “I do alright.”

  “Modesty doesn’t suit you,” she says.

  Chuck
ling, I say, “You should follow my advice about your hotel, then.”

  I park the car and get her door, holding the pizza in one hand and my keys in the other. She takes the pizza from me and takes a big whiff. “It smells so good.”

  I lead her inside, straight to the kitchen island, where I always eat. The life of a bachelor, I guess. Eating pizza in the dining room—a room I’ve hardly stepped foot in—doesn’t seem to fit the occasion. Besides, Sutton said she likes simple things.

  She glances around, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Does she not like the gray cabinets or marble countertops? Granted, that wasn’t a practical decision for a kitchen, but it’s not like I’ve got kids to stain anything.

  “I’ll show you around later, but first, eat,” I say. It comes out bossy, like an order. Two seconds in my house, on my turf, and I’ve already turned into my dominant bedroom personality, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She lifts the lid on the pizza box and picks up a slice, not waiting for a plate, napkin, or anything. Her eyes roll back slightly, and she licks her lips.

  Damn, I’m in big trouble with my diet.

  Reaching into the cabinet, I grab two plastic cups. Every New Orleanian has them. In fact, we live to catch these during Mardi Gras season. Catching plastic Mardi Gras cups at parades is like catching gold. Second guessing my cup decision, I put them back and grab two actual glasses. I pour her a glass of soda and get plates and napkins for us. By the time I sit down, she’s on her second slice.

  “I figured I’ve already bumped into you, had food dropped on me, and made weird body noises, so pigging out on the pizza shouldn’t be embarrassing.”

  “You don’t need to be embarrassed with me,” I say, taking two slices and placing them on top of one another, then biting off a huge mouthful.

  She busts out laughing and pecks me on the lips, my mouth still full of food. “And the plastic cup would have been just fine,” she says.

  This is so different from anything I’d ever done before. I don’t usually just hang out at home with my girlfriends, but I have no urge to go to the bar, to attend the latest art gallery opening, or charity event. This is much better. Of course, I always knew where those evenings would end up—in my bed, but I have no idea where this night is going.