by Cat Kelly
Her nipple popped out from between his hard lips. "Don't try to trick me, Claudia." Hands tight around her hips he pulled her away from the tile and held her front to his body. That beautiful cock was hard against her stomach, the balls pressed against her soapy vulva, the broad, sticky tip hitting her navel. He moved his hands to her ass, cupped her cheeks and forced her even tighter against him. With his fingertips he felt for the bar of soap lodged there and his warm breath brushed her brow as he chuckled. "Good, sub. Don't lose it. If you let it slip out you might lose me too. We can't allow that, can we?"
More soap melted and oozed down her thigh, tickling until she didn't know if she could stand it any longer.
As if he read her mind, Jack reached up and turned off the water. She blinked rapidly and looked up into his eyes. Please, she begged mutely.
"Shall I remove the other clamp?"
She nodded.
He did so, unscrewing it slowly. The tension did not ease. If anything it was worse. She curved her spine, pushing her needy nipple at him, but he made her wait for that too. Moving back against the opposite wall of the shower stall, he began to work his cock with one hand, letting her watch every stroke. Writhing like a hooked fish with her hands bound to the showerhead, she tried to make him see her desperation and take pity. At the sight of that tall, broad dick, her cunt tightened with want. The broad planes of his chest heaved as his breathing audibly quickened and veins stood out on the back of his hand as he pumped away. She knew how hot his skin was. She wanted those strong arms around her, needed his thighs between hers, his body pinning her to a soft bed, his mouth on hers, their sweat mingling as they...
Marianne was almost chewing through his tie now, not wanting him to come without her sitting on that cock. It was hers, damn it. Her pulse scattered like bowling pins under a strike. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears. She started to come, right where she stood, dripping under the shower.
Suddenly the soap fell from her ass again, hitting the shower floor with a wet slap this time as so much of it had worn away from her frantic clenching.
Jack paused and took his hand from his cock. To Marianne's horror and despair, he walked out of the shower, took his clothes off the floor of the bathroom and walked away. She twisted to see the bathroom door closing and shrieked through her gag.
Fierce hatred tore through her. She actually wanted to cry because he'd taken her plaything away. Pressing the side of her face to the tile, she finally managed to wriggle enough to work his tie partly free from her mouth and she spat in fury, "Come back here, you bastard!"
Suddenly the bathroom door swung open and there he was, still naked, looking angry. With a hard on like the Statue of Liberty.
She'd been about to scream Fuck me. But the words froze in her throat. He came toward her.
Oh god, what next? He couldn't delay any longer, surely.
He reached up, untied her wrists from the showerhead. Then he picked her up and she hooked her legs around his waist. With one thrust his erection impaled her and he walked with her like that back into the bedroom.
"Damn that steak. I need you now," he said. "I need to spend inside you."
Marianne clung around his neck and buried her relieved laughter in his damp shoulder.
* * * *
He'd tried to leave her and go down to supper as he'd promised, but he simply couldn't do it. Jack crawled onto the bed, with his sub still clinging around him, her pussy nursing on his cock. She kissed his neck and licked a bead of water from behind his ear.
"I knew you wouldn't leave me," she whispered, but her breath faltered and he knew she fibbed. She hadn't known until she saw him in the door and he came back for her. Now she knew and she giggled with relief. Her heartbeat thumped hard against his pectoral muscle.
"I won't leave you," he promised her firmly, lowering her to the bed beneath him and thrusting further up inside her blissful heat. "I can't." And that was the frightening truth for him. He couldn't leave her. Even bound and gagged she had power over him as no other sub ever had. Slowly he began to make love to the woman who'd driven him to new heights of desire, new lengths of desperation. He kissed her hungrily and she returned the fervor, her long legs sliding around him, stroking his flanks.
Although a warning siren blared inside his head he simply couldn't withdraw. His sub wouldn't let him.
Wait! This was wrong, all wrong. Who exactly was in control here?
"I want you," she groaned, gripping his buttocks with her hands. "All of you, Jack."
So he gave her that, pounding into her and groaning as she dug her fingernails into his straining buttocks. A moment later he felt her cunt quivering and fluttering with another climax and then he let his cum flow, filling her, claiming her completely as his.
Only later as they lay in a tangled daze on the bed, did it occur to him that she'd slipped and called him by his real name.
He didn't know what to do about it, so he left it alone. Perhaps, in the heat of the moment, she hadn't realized what she called him. He understood how that happened because he'd been tempted to say things to her that he'd never said to any woman. Fortunately the fever passed.
It was just sex, he reminded himself.
She slid her arms over his shoulders, stretching under him until he rolled onto his side.
"That better be worth more than fifty tokens," he muttered, still breathing erratically.
"You didn't award me any," she replied, pert again.
"Doms don't reward Subs with tokens. That's one of the rules."
Her lashes fluttered through the holes in her silk mask. "Oh."
"We reward subs," he whispered, "in other ways." He stroked his fingers along her thigh, up over her belly and gently tweaked her nipple.
"And what about the condom rule?"
Ah, yes. "Well, you wanted all of me," he pointed out, propping up on one elbow to look down at her.
"I did, didn't I?" She stared up at the ceiling, thoughtful.
"I assumed that was what you meant. We're not talking about anything else here....right?"
"Right."
"Ok, then." But it wasn't ok. He never usually forgot to use protection. "You are on the pill?" What the fuck had he just done? There was no excuse for it. None.
"Yep. Don't worry about that." She sat up and swung her legs off the bed.
Jack grabbed her hand. "Wait. Don't go yet."
She smiled down at him. "Time's up." She tapped the face of his wristwatch. "You had your three hours. Sir. In fact, you're over the time limit."
"I suppose you'll take tokens off for that," he grumbled.
"Just reminding you of the rules, sir."
She was right, he thought resentfully, time to go back to real life. Time for these masks to come off and the regular, everyday masks to go on. Back to the world where it mattered to them both that he was her boss and she was so much younger—not to mention smarter— than him. To where her life was just starting and his had reached a plateau with nowhere else to go, and where neither of them wanted complications.
Chapter Eleven
Do Hearts Come in Stainless Steel?
She spread the samples over his untidy bed. It didn't usually take her long to make decisions like these and she already had a good idea of the color scheme for his apartment, but she'd brought the samples with her to see how they looked in the light of various rooms. New York City was odd sometimes when it came to light. Maybe it was the height and closeness of the buildings that cast shadows at different times of day, but the sky seemed to make its own color palette that had nothing to do with the seasons or the angle of the sun.
A brittle light shone in through that wall of windows today and made her think of an early spring even though they were actually months away from it. Her mood lightened and she was actually beginning to hum as she worked around the apartment, measuring and sketching, scribbling down ideas. She'd picked out some furniture and arranged for delivery, but it would take a while as it was being cust
om upholstered. The decision was made to start with his bedroom— for reasons that were obvious, as well as very bad for her.
It was a week since Marianne's last outing to The Club. At work, when she saw her boss, everything was very professional, as it should be, as she wanted it. But inside her, Claudia was waiting and growing impatient. Like a pouting teenager wondering why he hadn't texted her again since.
She still couldn't quite believe he'd signed off on her budget for this decorating job. Her next client — if she ever had another— was likely to be a rude awakening, because Jack Marchetti was surprisingly easy and unquestioning. Of course, Mrs. Bracknell had warned her, Marchetti men were like that. In other words they threw money around without caring. Whatever he thought he was getting out of this, he was paying her very, very well.
So far he hadn't fired her, despite Christie's warnings about him learning her name.
Hey, he'd taken her white queen!
Marianne stared down at the chessboard by his bed. And then she allowed a slow, creaky smile. Straight into her trap. She moved her bishop.
Check, Sir. Now what?
The sound of sharp heels clipping across the hardwood floor below brought her abruptly out of her thoughts.
"Hello?" a high voice called out. "Anyone here?"
Marianne thought about staying very still and not answering, but that would be ridiculous and, if she was caught there, extremely embarrassing, so she grabbed her sketchpad from his pillow and walked down the spiral steps to the lower floor. "Hello?"
A tall, slender woman in skinny jeans and a hot pink peacoat trotted into view. "Oh hi! So you must be the decorator! Jimmy told me you were up here." She flipped a smooth, shiny black bob over her shoulder.
"Jimmy?"
"The concierge."
"Oh, right." She'd called him James because that was on his name badge. Apparently pink peacoat was on more intimate terms. "Yes. I'm the decorator." She offered her hand. "Marianne Miller."
"Can I just tell you how thrilled I am that Jack is finally getting this place done?"
"I can imagine."
The woman laughed. Instead of taking Marianne's hand she clutched her upper arms and performed the double-cheek air kiss. "I'm Alana, of course."
Of course? Marianne had no idea who she was, but from the inflexion she was evidently supposed to know exactly who Alana was and why she was there. A drift of expensive perfume wafted under Marianne's nose and made her sneeze.
"Gesundheit! So what are you planning? Or is it a secret? I suppose he thinks he's doing this on the sly for me. Men, they're so funny with their silly secrets!" Alana broke into more giddy laughter, flashing her fingernails, bony wrists and clattering gold bracelets through the air. "But finally he's doing something about this place and I can seriously think about moving in. That's progress! He knew I'd never think of it until he made it more habitable."
"You're moving in?" Of course, he wouldn't tell Marianne the decorator, would he?
"It's not official yet, but things are moving in the right direction and I promised him last year that if we can just get our schedules in the same time zone for once...." Alana dropped into one of the recliners. "Honestly, you have no idea how glad I am to meet you."
She wished she could say the same.
"Mrs. B told me all about you."
Again, she wished she could say the same.
"But I expected someone a little older and more..." Alana's heavily lashed brown eyes traveled down over Marianne's three-quarter length skirt and Victorian-style ankle boots, "...more sophisticated. Don't take offense."
"Oh, no. Of course."
"It's just that the interior decorators I know are rather more ...more...put together."
Marianne was aware that her own personal dress style—if it could be called that—leaned toward gothic, but from the way his girlfriend eyed her clothing choices, anyone would think they went beyond that and ventured into Halloween territory.
"Do you mind if I see your ideas? I might be able to insert a few of my own. Stamp a little of my personality on the place."
Marianne's blood ran cold. No, she wanted to shout, you may not stamp yourself on anything here. For some stupid reason it hadn't occurred to her that Jack Marchetti might have a girlfriend. Maybe, not wanting to know, she'd deliberately made no effort to find out. She vaguely remembered hearing he was married a few years ago, but she couldn't recall whether he was divorced or separated. Unlike his brother, he managed to keep his personal life out of the newspapers quite well, maintaining a level of privacy that most people didn't seem to value these days.
She cleared her throat. "Actually everything is still pretty much in the early stages of development," she muttered. "In a few more days I'll have some sketches I can show you."
"Great." Alana beamed with her blood-red lips and teeth so white the glare hurt Marianne's eyes. "You'll be using lots of neutrals, of course. Stainless steel and granite in the kitchen. For resale."
She thought about saying she'd use whatever Mr. Marchetti wanted, but she kept that to herself. Why did people think of selling right away? Why did they never just think about living? Dear god, she hated granite countertops, and the popularity of stainless steel, in her opinion, was entirely due to a highly skilled marketing campaign, certainly not for its practicality or its looks. "I hadn't planned to change all the appliances."
"What? But that ugly refrigerator has to go!"
"It's a Smeg," Marianne replied, trying to keep her voice from rising. She had a fondness for the chunky, retro refrigerator and no intention of replacing it. If she had the money she would want one herself.
"It's mint green," Alana protested with a delicate shudder. "I told him he needs stainless. Double door with a freezer cabinet on the bottom."
Marianne decided to say nothing more and clamped down hard on her tongue.
"Now, I do love a dash of pink too," his girlfriend added, bouncing a little in the recliner, apparently assured her opinions mattered and were being noted. "I don't like anything too industrial in the lounge or the bedroom. Those areas should be softer to reflect my personality."
"Pink?" Oh how badly she wanted to say, I wasn't aware this was your apartment.
"To make things pop."
And there it was. Ding, ding, ding! All the cliche cherries were up! "Pop" was another of her pet peeves. That and the trend for "changing out" and "price point". Marianne stared, wondering if the appearance of this woman was another of her brother's practical jokes. Had he hired her from Rent-A-Vacuous Bimbo?
"Of course, I don't want to completely overwhelm him, but you know what I mean. The dull browns and that awful orange vinyl dinette set just have to go. That seventies kitsch drives me crazy. He just doesn't know how to spend his money properly."
Clearly, she'd teach him how.
Alana's coal-black hair swung again as she tilted her head. "You're much younger than I expected. You can't have been in the business long."
"No. Just started."
"Ah. That's Jack for you, always looking to give someone an opportunity. Champion for the underdog." She looked Marianne up and down again and smiled, oozing condescension from every pore. "Mrs. B tells me he's asked you to put the staff Holiday party together too."
"Yep."
"That's a lot on your plate. Don't let him intimidate you."
"He doesn't."
Alana's bracelets jingled again as she ran her fingers through her perfect, glossy hair. "If he gets out of hand, just let me know. I'll take him to task. He shouldn't be loading so much on your young shoulders."
Marianne gathered her samples, shoving them back into her portfolio. "Must get back to work." She glanced at her watch. "Lunch is almost over."
"Making you work through lunch? He's keeping you busy."
"Yes." She managed a smile. "Very." You have no idea, lady.
She pulled on her shabby coat, grabbed her portfolio under one arm and made a hasty exit.
* * * *
<
br /> As soon as she got back to her office Marianne closed her door, sat at her computer and did what she should have done already. Googled Jack Marchetti. Why she hadn't done it before now she had no clue. Unless, by denying the needs of her natural inquisitive streak, she'd hoped to ignore how large a part of her thoughts he now consumed. Page after page turned up results about the Marchetti luxury stores, the family yacht, his brother, Charlie, the construction of a new branch in Dubai. And there, as she scrolled down to the bottom of the third page she found Alana on his arm at some charity gala last summer in the Hamptons.
Giacomo "Jack" Marchetti arriving with Miss Alana Shepherd, the caption read. Oddly enough, while the piece went on to say what he did, his companion was only described as the former wife of a famed plastic surgeon, who was also a notorious tax dodger, and daughter of "philanthropist" Dr. Martin Shepherd. Interesting. Apparently poor Alana was defined by the men in her life. Poor Alana? As if.
They made a beautiful, tanned, glamorous couple. She wore a long, sequined gown with linguine-thin straps—the sort of gown a woman would fall out of if she didn't possess a naturally concave chest with a perfectly unnatural pair of spherical tits bolted on. Her hair was slicked back and diamond, shoulder-duster earrings accentuated her scrawny, ballerina-type neck. Jack, of course, looked like ten billion bucks in a tuxedo, even if he wasn't smiling.
Briefly she imagined herself in the photo, superimposing her face over Alana's.
Nope. Just didn't work.
Anyway, she'd rejected his offer of a date. Shot him down really before he got out of the starting gate, so why did she care?
With a sigh Marianne clicked off the search, switching screens to the letter she'd been working on earlier. But only a few minutes later, unable to concentrate and after re-reading the same paragraph five times, she clicked back again, trawled through the search results and eventually came to a four year-old obituary for his wife. She groaned, staring at the screen, shoulders slumped. This was even worse. Had he simply been separated or divorced she could cope with that. A broken romance was one thing—she could expect that. But a dead wife was something else. It was a love affair unfinished, unresolved, never to be forgotten.