He let out a long breathy sigh. “Oh, Princess, must I do everything for you?”
I remained paralyzed as he lifted my tank top over my head and yanked down my running shorts. He stepped back and studied me, his full lips tightening and his eyes narrowing as if they were scrutinizing every fine detail. While it was hot as hell in my unairconditioned apartment, a chill ran through me. Maybe he didn’t like what he saw. The impassive expression on his face was unreadable.
And then that dazzling, dimpled smile broke loose. “You are even more beautiful than I imagined.”
Another shiver shot through me. Had he been fantasizing what I looked like without my clothes on?
He grabbed my hand and led me into the shower. Holding me tightly next to him, he yanked the elastic off my ponytail, allowing my wavy chestnut hair to fall to the middle of my back. The water poured forcefully on both of us, soaking us to the bone. Finding my shampoo, he squirted a few drops on my head and started massaging my scalp as he flutter kissed my face. I closed my eyes. It felt good. So good. He let the pounding water wash off all the soap before applying the conditioner.
“Oh, baby, you smell so good.” His face nuzzled the nape of my neck and his hands cupped my buttocks. “And you’ve got a great ass too.”
“Thanks,” I moaned as I felt a hand move between my inner thighs. I was soaking wet there too, though not exactly from the shower. He began to massage the tender folds of my skin, gently then harder. Breathy pants escaped my mouth as the opening tucked inside the folds ached for his entry.
With his other hand, he led my hand down to his erection, spreading my fingers around the hot, wet column of flesh. He moved my hand up and down, letting go once he knew I knew what to do. He arched his back and moaned, “Oh baby, that feels so good.” My reward was the insane pleasure that pulsed between my legs as he began to massage my clit.
“Oh, Saarah, your clit is like a velvety rosebud,” he murmured, his voice all breathy.
I threw my head back, channeling my ecstasy into the ecstasy I was giving him. He slipped a bar of soap into my free hand.
“Now wash my cock, baby. All over.”
Another command. Holding his heavy balls in my palm, I ran the bar of soap up and down his long thick shaft from the root to the crown, instinctively applying pressure. When I got to the bulbous tip, I circled the soap around its circumference and heard him moan again with pleasure.
“Now just use your hand.” Letting the soap fall to my feet, I slid my hand along the soapy, slippery shaft, surprised how easily it glided across its length. I picked up my pace, squeezing harder. I could feel his member growing harder and bigger in my palm. Down below between my thighs, his fingers pressed firmly against my bud, coaxing it to explode in full bloom.
My breathing turned ragged and so did his. The tension between my legs was mounting, rapidly heading toward the unbearable.
“Do you want to come with me inside you?” He rolled his tongue inside my ear, the strangely erotic sound bringing even more pleasure to where I felt it most.
“Yes!” It was a cry of desperation.
Expecting him to press me against the tiled back wall and insert the tip of his cock inside me, I was surprised when he yanked the shower curtain open and stepped out. Turning off the water, he lifted me out and carried me, dripping with desire, to my bedroom. He threw me on the bed and then climbed onto it.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered, his eyes ablaze.
I parted my legs and steepled my knees. Meeting my hungry gaze, he thrust his hard, glorious member inside me. Oh God! He filled me! My fingers raked his wet hair as the still soapy shaft moved effortlessly inside me, each thrust coming harder than the one before. Choo choo choo choo. Choo choo choo choo. He was chugging inside me, picking up speed. The friction of his bullet train along my tracks of flesh was sending sparks flying everywhere. There was no getting off the tracks, no stopping. He was a runaway train inside me. Digging my nails into the flesh on his back, I screamed with pleasure from this erotic thrill ride. And then the train lurched forward, slamming into my vaginal wall. I exploded with a fireworks display, and I heard the conductor cry out my name. The wall, a dam, came tumbling down, and my own river of cum seeped into his.
Holy shit! I had just fucked Trainman in my railroad apartment.
For several minutes, he just lay splayed on my body, his head nuzzled into the crook of my neck. “Oh Saarah, Saarah, Saarah,” he murmured.
He was a train wreck, and I was pretty damaged too. But in a good way. A very good way.
Finally, he rolled off me and slid off the bed. My eyes stayed fixed on his beautiful body, shimmering with sweat. I was surprised that his dick was still erect.
“I’m starving,” he growled. “Do you have anything to eat?”
Other than my pussy (not Jo-Jo), the only thing I could offer him was Ramen noodles. I wasn’t even sure if still had any since I hadn’t been to Gristedes since last Sunday. I gritted my teeth, my face silently saying uh-oh.
He caught my expression and winked. “Don’t worry. I’m not that picky.”
Ha! From the man who ate lobster and drank fine French wine.
Wrapping the leopard sheet around me like a toga, I led the way to the kitchen. There were still a few packs of the noodles left. While I boiled water, Ari explored the apartment. When I brought a steaming bowl of the noodles and chopsticks into the small living room, he was staring at the large photograph above the couch. His back was facing me. God, what a great ass he had! Something else captured my attention. For the first time, I noticed a six-inch raised scar that ran down his right shoulder blade. The one imperfection on his otherwise perfect body. I wondered how he’d gotten it, but this was not the time to ask.
“So you’re into Josephine Baker,” he said.
“Not really. I sublet this place from a Broadway dancer. He’s away on tour.”
“Josephine was a great beauty. Like you.”
The bowl of soup almost slipped from my hand as I lowered it to the vintage trunk that also served as a dining table. Me, a great beauty? In the eyes of this god?
He moved a few feet and studied another portrait. A small oil painting of a little girl with long pigtails and big soulful brown eyes. The only object in this apartment that was mine.
“Is that a portrait of you?”
“Yes, my mother painted it when I was six years old. She’s an artist.”
Striding my way, Ari said, “There’s deepness and determination in those eyes.”
I didn’t know quite what to say.
“Are you an artist too? I’ve seen you sketching many times while waiting for the train.”
A shiver traveled down my spine. How long had he been watching me? More than six months?
“You were always weeping. What were you sketching?”
“Mostly images of my mom when she was younger so that I can remember her healthy and beautiful.” Sadness swept over me knowing that she might never be that way again. And that she might not be around next year at this time if she didn’t receive treatments. As much as I wanted to share my mother’s plight with this handsome billionaire standing next to me, I refrained. He’d probably just think I was after his money, which I wasn’t.
“You’re talented. They’re very good.”
“Thanks.”
Unknowingly or not, he had just revealed that he’d leafed through my sketchpad while I was dozing on the train. I wanted to be mad at him but couldn’t. There was compassion and sincerity in his voice.
“What were those other weird things in your sketchpad?”
“Ideas for toys.”
Ari arched his thick eyebrows. “Toys?”
I smiled. “I want to be a toy designer when I ‘grow up.’ I’ve always been into toys.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” he retorted with a suspicious smile.
Not quite sure what he meant by that, I reminded him that I had brought him something to eat.
Ar
i stretched his neck to peer at the steaming contents. “So, Saarah, what do we have here?”
“Ramen noodles,” I said, putting on a brave Suzy-homemaker face.
He grinned. “Hmm. I haven’t these since I was in college.” Lifting the bowl and chopsticks off the trunk, he sank into the couch, his back against an armrest and his long legs crisscrossed. His engorged dick and balls now rested on his folded ankles.
I surveyed the room, wondering where I should sit. In addition to the couch, there were two funky armchairs facing the trunk.
“Sit here,” growled Trainman, gesturing to the cushion next to him. “I want to look at you while I eat.”
Hesitantly, I joined him, mimicking his cross-legged pose. With his free hand, he yanked down my makeshift toga, exposing my breasts. “Much better,” he smiled as he handed me the mug.
I watched as Ari dipped his chopsticks into the bowl and expertly lifted the noodles to his parted lips. Obviously, he had mastered eating them in college. As he slurped them off the wooden sticks, I was very aware of the tingling inside me. How could a man eating ramen noodles be turning me on?
“Open your mouth,” ordered Trainman.
With his chopsticks, he lifted another portion of noodles and dangled them above me.
“Eat.”
I tilted my head back and slurped the noodles. Ari ran his deft fingers along my neck, stroking that one sensitive spot right below my chin that drove me crazy and added to the pleasure I was feeling in my groin.
“Your neck is so long and graceful,” he said, his voice deep and sexy. “Like a ballerina’s.”
I swallowed hard. It was hard to eat when this gorgeous beast was still turning me on.
We continued this little game of eating and feeding until the bowl was emptied.
Ari placed the bowl back on the trunk, then placed his hands firmly on my shoulders. A somber expression washed over his face.
“Saarah, I haven’t fucked someone in bed for almost three years.”
His words shocked me. I was sure he was someone who jumped from one supermodel’s bed to another. “I don’t believe you,” I countered, the image of the beautiful redhead filling my head.
“It’s true. While I’m certainly not lacking sex, it’s been that long since I’ve come in any woman’s bed. Or mine—at least with a woman.”
“Why?” I gazed at him, wide-eyed with curiosity.
“I’ve had to be protective of my son. I’ve raised him as a single parent since he was three.”
“Doesn’t your wife, I mean ex-wife, have joint custody?” I asked, glad that I’d quickly corrected myself.
“I have sole custody of him.” Rage filled his eyes. “I paid my ex a shitload of money to stay away from him. And from me.”
The anger in Ari’s eyes grew fierce, his features hardening into a wall that almost stopped me from asking any more questions.
Bravely, I asked, “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” His voice was gruff. “The last thing I heard she was fucking her brains out in Europe.”
Before I could probe further, he said, “Here’s the deal.” His voice became business-like. “If we continue to see each other, you must know that I will never spend the night with you here as I must go home for my son. He suffers from bad dreams, and I need to be there for him.”
As much as his words unnerved me, I respected them and admired his love for his child. I had grown up with a loving single parent myself. In all the eighteen years I’d lived with her, my mother had never brought a man home, fearing he would disrupt our magical bond. Or that he would break her heart as did my hippy musician father when he abandoned her. With the advent of the Internet, she was able to trace him… only to discover he’d died all alone from a drug overdose.
Ari continued, bringing me back to the moment. “And you shall never spend the night with me. In my bed. The last thing my son needs is to be confused by another woman. Or hurt.”
Obviously, there was a lot he was not telling me about his ex. My curiosity was piqued, but a little voice in my head told me not to go there… yet.
He paused. “One last thing. Don’t count on any kind of long-term relationship. You need to understand that… because I like you.”
For some reason, this part of the deal made me shudder inwardly. It was some form of rejection before I was even rejected. But I knew on his part, it was a defense mechanism; he was afraid of having a relationship, afraid of commitment, afraid of being hurt again. Before I could respond, the unexpected, loud sound of the buzzer startled me. I jumped up from the couch. Shit! Who could be here? Lauren again? The Grim Reaper? The redhead? My heart beat as fast as the vibrations below in a place called “there.”
“It must be Andre,” said Ari, rising from the couch.
“Andre?”
“My driver. I asked him to bring me some clean clothes.”
Hmm. So he had this all plotted out. I wanted to be mad at him, but instead I cracked a wry smile. Wrapping my leopard toga once again around my breasts, I pushed the intercom button, allowing Andre to enter the building.
Shortly afterward, there was a loud knock at my door. I peered through the peephole and recognized the uniformed driver from last night. I opened the door half way
“These are for Mr. Golden.” His voice was strangely soft and melodic for such a big man. “I will be waiting for him downstairs.” Before departing, he handed me two bags through the opening. Both were labeled Barneys.
I returned to the couch and handed Ari the bags. He reached into the smaller of the two. I watched in awe as he slipped a brand new pair of designer jeans over his bare ass and managed to zip up the fly despite the large package between his thighs. The jeans hung perfectly on his narrow hips, like they were custom made for him. A crisp, oversized blue and white striped collarless shirt completed the ensemble; he left it open, exposing the golden cream of his taut chest, and let the tails hang loose over his jeans. Damn, he looked sexy!
“The other bag is for you,” he said.
“I can’t keep taking presents from you,” I stammered.
“Stop it. I’m going to buy you the entire third floor of Barneys if you don’t open what’s inside.”
“Is that a threat?” I asked playfully.
“No. It’s an order. Open the packages, Saarah.”
The sexy, languorous way he said my name totally unraveled me. I reached inside the bag and removed the smaller of the two boxes. Fumbling, I lifted the lid. Another pair of stilettos. These shiny red strappy sandals. Prada.
“I enjoy seeing your toes. They bring back fond memories.”
I felt myself turning as red as the shoes. My sex was blushing too.
“Now open the other box.”
Both hands reached inside the bag and removed the large box. I felt the giddy excitement of a little girl getting a birthday present. I lifted the top lid and unfolded the layers of tissue paper inside. Gasp! Before my eyes was an exquisite floral halter dress. Prada again. Size 6. I remembered seeing this dress in one of Lauren’s Vogues and gasping at the price. $4,000! I held it up and admired it. The strappy red stilettos matched the cabbage patch roses perfectly.
“I want you to wear these this evening.”
I gazed at him, cocking my head like a puzzled puppy.
“Today is my son’s sixth birthday. I am throwing him a small, informal birthday party at my apartment with just my family. I would like you to attend.”
I suppose that was an order too. He padded toward the hallway and returned wearing his tennis shoes. He glanced down at his watch, a gold Rolex, and knitted his brows.
“I’ve got to go. I promised my son I’d take him to see Spiderman this afternoon and then go to Dylan’s Candy Bar.”
“Where do you live?” I asked, squeaking out the words.
“l001 Park Avenue. Andre will pick you up at 5:30. Please meet him downstairs.” He paused. “And please don’t wear any underwear.”
I gazed at him sheepishly.
He smirked. “Don’t worry. My mother and my sister will be there. And, of course, my son. It’s highly unlikely I will be doing any kind of exploration. But I would like to use my imagination.”
1001 Park Avenue was located on the northeast corner of Eighty-Fourth Street and Park. It was one of those majestic pre-war buildings with a forest green awning. After Andre helped me out the limo, a doorman promptly greeted me.
“I’m here to see Mr. Golden,” I said.
“You must be Ms. Greene. He’s expecting you.” The doorman gave me a quick once over and a saucy grin. I wondered how many of Ari’s women he had met.
He swung open the front door to the building and ushered me into an elegant lobby of creamy marble, rich brown leather furniture, oriental rugs, gilded sconces, and pedestals holding elaborate floral arrangements. What attracted my attention most was the magnificent coffered ceiling. Having studied architecture as part of my course work at RISD, I had an appreciation of the handcrafted details.
“Mr. Golden’s apartment is on the top floor.” The penthouse! “The elevator is to your right.”
Holding the Barneys’ bag that now contained a birthday present for Ari’s son, I headed toward the elevator, acutely aware of the clicking sound my sharp heels made on the polished marble floor. I pushed the UP button, and the gilded door slid open to an elegant interior, with rich wood paneling and polished handrails. My heart was pounding, and my fingers trembled as I pushed the button for the penthouse. I was nervous about seeing Ari again and meeting his family. Only yesterday, he was a stranger on a train.
The door slid opened again. Exiting the elevator, I found myself standing in the middle of an elegant marble foyer that must have stretched fifty feet. It was lined with large abstract paintings, pedestals with crystal vases of white roses and lilies, and arches. Holy shit! The elevator led right into his apartment. A thin, coffee-skinned woman wearing a black and white aproned-uniform immediately appeared from one of the arches.
“Hola, you must be Señorita Greene. I am Luisa. Señor Golden has been looking forward to your visit. Follow me, por favor.”
Strangers on a Train I Page 6