by Jamie Knight
Under His Suit
Love Under Lockdown, Book 16
A series of standalone quarantine romance books.
Copyright © 2020 Jamie Knight Romance.
All rights reserved.
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
Love Under Lockdown series:
1): Under Lock & Key
2): Under Lockdown
3): Under Strict Orders
4): Stuck Together
5): Under His Roof
6): Under the Hawaiian Sun
7): Under Wraps
8): Under His Care
9): Under the Sheets
10): Dating During Lockdown
11): Under His Protection
12): Locked Down with Mr. Right
13): Under His Watchful Eye
14): Below Deck
15): Under the Rancher’s Firm Hand
16): Under His Suit
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
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Sneak Peek of Under the Rancher’s Firm Hand
Books in the Love Under Lockdown Series
Chapter 1
The AirTrain whisked above stagnant streams of traffic on the Van Wyck below, carrying a few passengers traveling from JFK Airport into New York City, barreling over rows of dark Uber cars flecked with the bright yellow and green lights of regular cabs. As the modern monorail passed through the suburban sprawl of Nassau County, the sky was clear enough to allow the gleaming heights of Manhattan in the distance to bound into view.
Victoria Stadler stood with her carry-on bag at her feet, gazing out at what lay ahead with a degree of expectant mirth. A junior majoring in graphic design at the University of Wisconsin, she had been invited to NextThing.Net’s Headquarters to receive an award for a Virtual Media Design Contest she’d won for a multimedia presentation she’d been working on ever since high school.
Contest winners had reservations at the W Hotel in midtown. Tory planned to check in, have dinner and get some rest. In the morning, she and the other winners would be joining NextThing.Net’s design team for a series of interactive workshops. The next day they would recreate their presentations for the media and marketing design firm’s elite team of designers and CEOs during the day and then attend an awards ceremony in the evening.
It was her first trip to New York City without family and Tory, as she preferred to be called, had been given some warnings about men and New York City, first by her mother and then by Jude Coleman, whom she had known ever since freshman year.
She had dated him but was done with that. She found him boring and hadn’t given up her virginity to him. She wanted a real man – an older, experienced, handsome, exciting man – to be the one to take it.
At 5’8” and blonde, Tory was hard to miss. She was a robust and curvy size 14, which always seemed to draw a lot of attention to her ample bust and buttocks. Her eyes were a light blue green, her lashes practically translucent, often invisible in the afternoon sun.
Although she merely wore a pair of blue jeans, a light blue suede jacket and her favorite boots, she could feel the shameless gaze of a man whose eyes followed the slightest movement and shift of her curves as if he were deriving something essential to life merely by looking at her. This was nothing new, though; Tory was used to it.
At the Linden Blvd. Station, a driver took her bag and walked her out to his car after she found him holding up a small dry erase board, which had “V Stadler” written on it in boxy green capital letters. She felt like an important person, a successful professional woman – and this was not something she was used to.
As the car got closer to the city, Tory became excited seeing the hustle and bustle of New York City as soon as the black car emerged from the Midtown tunnel. It was late afternoon and already she could see the bars opening, happy hour signage being propped up, groups of friends laughing. In slower traffic, she’d gaze out at the confident stride and trendy heels worn by her much more fashionable peers.
At red lights, her eyes would linger upon the gestures of effective-looking successful men as they gave orders remotely to people by phone while strolling the city browsing bargains and people watching.
There had been talk of the Coronavirus back at Bascom Hall on her college’s campus. Apparently, the epidemic was spreading rapidly in New York City, making her wonder how she’d spend her free night and day before going back to Madison.
Living at home through her college years didn’t often afford her the kind of space for serious personal exploration that she’d prefer to have. There were many parties to go to on campus, but she had often preferred the solitude that allowed her to focus on her work.
In many ways, she considered the private time the trip itself presented her with as some small recompense for the years of studious pursuit and valued the prize, her hometown’s accolades and the lavish ceremony to come more than she valued getting drunk or stoned with a bunch of frat boys. She often felt out of place in college and believed that New York City would be a more fitting place for her.
Her check-in process went smoothly, and she loved the room. Careful not to mess up the sharp appearance of it, she stripped and showered. She felt completely relaxed and began to wonder if, now that she was far away from Jude, if she might meet a man worth of her many fantasies.
Enjoying the water’s warmth and fragrances of tiny products provided by the hotel, Tory closed her eyes and softly began to rub three of her fingertips between her thighs and then over the soft tiny protrusion that made her moan. She pictured the faces of some of the businessmen on the street, the power in their shoulders, the boxy squareness of male hands exploring her body.
Tory masturbated openly, completely abandoned to sheer pleasure, alone for the first time. She felt her clit become harder and wetter as she rubbed it, moaning while she wished she could finally have sex for the first time.
She pictured a tall, handsome man in a suit, who would take it off for her and let her run her hands down his chiseled chest while he kissed her. Then he would have his way with her, and she’d give up the virginity she still carried around with her like an embarrassing secret.
She regretted that she hadn’t yet met the man in real life who was worthy of it. But in her fantasies, he caressed her body while his tongue was entwined with hers. He grabbed ahold of her large ass cheeks while he played with his nipples.
Then his free hand moved down to her clit, rubbing it and making sure she was plenty ready, feeling her sticky juices running down into his hand before saying, “Yes, your little virgin pussy is so wet for me, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir,” she answered him, deferring to his experience and letting him do whatever he wanted with her. “Please take my virginity, Sir.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
Then he finally gently slid his big cock inside her dripping wet pussy. It filled her up to the brim and made her realize what s
he’d been missing in all her chaste young adult years. He thrust in and out of her while playing with her nipples, until she said his name over and over.
Since she didn’t know the name of the man who would take her virginity, in her fantasy, it was just, “Sir, sir, sir,” as she squirmed and moaned while his cock was lodged deep in her cunt, fucking her so well she wondered where he had been all her life.
In the shower in this gorgeous hotel room, Tory breathed heavily as she came one more time, hoping that soon her fantasy could come to life.
Chapter 2
The elevator door slid open silently. Harlan Dawes stepped out and put his helmet and gloves down on a narrow white buffet table nearby, unzipped his boots and took them off. This afternoon he had decided to ride the Ducati around before dinner.
The motorcycle gave him the much-needed escape from the world of monitors and sleek ergonomic furnishings of the studio. He unzipped his leather jacket and let it fall in a clump as he walked down into the sunken living room.
His 80-inch smart TV came on at his briefest insinuation. An odd-looking man spoke about tech stock futures as worldwide market symbols scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Dawes was twenty-two years old when his eccentric and beloved Uncle Kurt passed away, leaving Harlan his design magazine, Next Thing. Although Harlan had long since given up on the idea of becoming an architect, his Uncle Kurt had always supported his efforts even if Harlan was only designing websites for sneaker companies.
Sixteen years ago, when Harlan took over, it was clear to him that it was time for the small press magazine to catch up with bigger publications that transitioned to successful online presences much earlier.
When he decided to put together an in-house digital design team, it changed the business forever. Many of the marketing professionals who’d made up the magazine’s previous boutique subscribership began using Harlan’s team exclusively and recommending them internationally.
Harlan had been on the cover of Business Week at age thirty. NextThing.Net occupied the top three floors of a modern midtown building and had just landed an account that put Harlan’s team to work on revamping a popular app’s icon that had been on every iPhone’s desktop for years.
The success of recent years left him feeling challenged socially. Ideally tall, with a full head of dark hair and good bone structure, Harlan never had a problem attracting women when he was poor, but the fish in a barrel reality that wealth provided started to bore him. Certain the models, social media influencers and trust fund set were only sleeping with his status, he felt they were only women who may not necessarily have been in love with his mind.
He missed wholesome, down to earth women, like he had been known to date in high school. But his world was so different now that he wondered how he would ever find one.
Harlan worked out daily to maintain a chiseled appearance so he could be assured every woman’s compliment was at least based on something, unlike the hollow laughter and feigned enthusiasm often encountered for his personal pursuits.
Whenever he had met a woman he was attracted to, who had risen to similar status in a similar or related profession, she was as domineering and jaded as he himself felt he was. In most cases he was inspired by many of them, had hired or had been hired by some others, but it never led anywhere romantic.
An email inbox alert pinged, and Harlan sat on a sleek dark leather sofa in front of the TV so that he could examine it further.
“Open new email,” Harlan commanded his virtual assistant.
A window opened and expanded. It was the list of design contest winners, their photos and bios coming from promotions.
The sunset’s warmest hues played over the chrome and white lacquers surfaces of the surrounding furniture. Harlan stepped over to the bar and made himself drink while his smart TV read the email to him.
He may have lacked for human company and interaction these days, but at least he had technology to make his life easier.
Chapter 3
The first hours of the workshops were quite exciting. Tory learned a couple of interesting interface solutions and software hacks she couldn’t wait to try out.
As the sessions went on, she became distracted by one of the contest winners from Italy talking about the awful wave of Coronavirus deaths in Milan and other cities. Her name was Giada, and like Tory she was a junior, except that she went to school in Manhattan. She had plans to go back home to Milan and was starting to worry about it.
Another contest winner was a programmer from India named Mahira Shah.
Mahira told them about a 14-year-old Indian prodigy, Abihigya Anand, who predicted a world crippling pandemic during the previous summer.
All three young women had accommodations at the W and shared an Uber car back to the hotel after the final sessions. In the lobby they ran into Peter Pratt, the Font design winner, who was also at the W, and who joined them for dinner. The evening was cool, and together they walked along 3rd Avenue from 28th Street up to 33rd before unanimously deciding on a Sushi bar.
After dinner, Peter walked with them back to the Hotel. He had plans for the Lower West Side and rushed up to his room to change. Giada wanted to go up to her room and Skype with people overseas.
Mahira and Tory sat at the bar in the lobby and ordered cocktails. Watching people walk back and forth outside the plate glass, they talked about the spread of the disease in NYC and joked about meeting guys at the bar for one night stands. Tory was just playing along with what Mahira was saying, because she had never had a one night stand and felt she would be too nervous and scared to do so if the opportunity presented itself.
Mahira asked Tory if she’d seen Harlan Dawes in person yet.
“I don’t think so,” she said, thinking about it as Mahira scrolled through the content on her phone.
“I like these,” Mahira said, passing her the phone.
They giggled, passing back and forth publicity pics of Harlan from an interview he had given while driving a new electric sports car with a bikini-clad Estonian Supermodel getting comfortable in his lap.
“Do you think he’s playing into his image in these photos or are these photos images of him at play?” Mahira asked, then sipped her drink.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Tory told her and motioned to the bartender for another round.
Up in her room, Tory drifted off to sleep with the news on, the cacophony of the city churning beyond.
She dreamed of careening along a sinuously treacherous mountain road at sundown, graded hairpin curves, and blind slopes in a silent electric sports car.
On Harlan’s lap, she opened herself to him as much as possible, his right hand squeezing the triangle of cloth between her thighs while trying to position her solidly onto the throbbing bulge in his pants.
As the road narrowed absurdly and the sun plunged into the depths of surrounding valleys, the swimsuit began to shrink, getting smaller and tighter, working its way up between her legs, shriveling to bright swatches of cloth tightening rapidly on her huge swollen nipples.
The sports car seemed to hit a barrier or membrane of darkness, slowing it and everything else down as her orgasm expanded around her like fireworks at speed of ripples spreading in a pond. She woke up breathless, damp and still a little drunk.
She laughed a bit, flipped her pillow over to the cool dry side and went back to sleep until she finally had to wake up and get ready for the day.
***
NextThing.Net had a small auditorium, modern and modular, with clear nods to Deco or perhaps Bauhaus in the detail. Comfortable in a dark pantsuit, hair pulled away from her face in a neat French braid and her dark rimmed glasses, Tory gave her presentation as confidently as possible, hoping that no one noticed her almost caution pronunciation of multisyllabic words and exotic jargon.
Knowing that Harlan was somewhere in the darkened audience of CEOs, designers and press people distracted her with random flashes of her dream, mixed in with the look of erotic surre
nder on the supermodel’s face in the interview photos. She felt her delivery came off as somewhat spaced, but she couldn’t care less, since the prize had already been won and the day's presentation was merely a formality for NextThing.Net and the media.
Before going back to the Hotel to change for dinner and the awards ceremony, Tory went back into the modern auditorium when it was empty to take some pictures of it like that. Upon hearing voices, she was immediately silent. Harlan was speaking to a black clothing-clad assistant, with a sleek Bluetooth unit twinkling in her ear. She read something to him from a tablet while speaking to someone else.
Harlan looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week, but he was still so sexy. He wore a slim fitting dark blazer, but all other staples of business dress were absent. Under the dark jacket he wore a clingy black microfiber shirt and slim casual pants over dark laceless high tops.
Tory told herself to look away, although he was a very handsome vision to behold indeed. She absent-mindedly snapped a few images of the architecture while admiring the clear lines of his musculature, accentuated by the slim athletic fit of his clothes. Hoping not to be seen, she quietly backed out of the door, watching Harlan give orders to his assistant, who was pretty enough to be a model herself.
She wondered if he had seen her and if he was as interested in her as she was in him. But then she told herself not to be silly, and hurried up to get ready, her heart pounding and her panties damp.
Chapter 4
There was an insistent knock at Tory’s door. Mahira came in as Tory opened it, wearing a slim low-cut dress of a semi metallic fabric that caught light and refracted it. She ended the call they had been on moments earlier before completely turning around. Tory stepped closer to her to zip up the shimmery fabric then turned away herself so that Mahira could zip up her much less dramatic black dress.