by Ava Lore
"Your tits look amazing," he said.
Fucking wow. "That's it?" I asked him. "That's all you have to say?"
An expression of genuine surprise crossed his face. "What do you want me to say?" he asked.
I threw my hands in the air. "I don't know!" I cried. "Something! Anything!"
"I did say something," he told me. "I said your tits look amazing."
Never before in my life had I wanted to slap someone more. "And that's all you have to say about it?"
He squinted down at the terrible photos of us in our private moments. "I wish they'd got a shot of my ass," he said. "It's pretty great, too."
Exasperated, I stamped my foot. "Really?"
"Well, there's nothing else to really do about it other than make the best of it," he said.
I was feeling less and less good about this with each thing that fell out of his mouth. "I thought you might want to sue them or... or something."
"Why would I do that?" he asked me. "This is free publicity. I'll be on the receiving end of many back-slaps the next time I attend a business function."
"Yeah?" I said. "Well Katy couldn't even look me in the eye when I came in here," I told him. "It's different for me."
That seemed to have an effect. A frown shadowed his eyes. "Katy?" he said. "Really?" He pursed his lips and thought about this. "Do you want me to fire her?"
"What? No!" I'm not that vindictive. "I just... I feel totally humiliated. You might not have any friends or family, but I do, and the next time I see them this is all they're going to be thinking about."
"I have a family," Anton said. His voice faltered slightly, and I realized I'd touched a nerve. I tried to wave it away.
"It doesn't matter. Didn't you think about what could happen when you chose those places to fuck?"
For a long moment, Anton stared at me. His green eyes, so startling and brilliant in his handsome face, were thoughtful. "No," he said at last. "No, I didn't. And you're right. I should have."
Slightly mollified, I crossed my arms. "Yeah... well... think about it next time."
He smiled at that. To my surprise, he pushed back from his desk and stood up. "I can't guarantee that," he told me. He rounded his desk, his smooth, predatory gait calling to something primal in me. I was such a sucker.
"Why can't you guarantee that?" I asked him. He drew close, looming over me, and I was reminded of our very first encounter here in this office, when he seduced me. He hadn't made me come, only touched me, stoking a fire inside that was so violent and out of control that I had to quench it myself the moment I was alone. Even now, just thinking about it, I was turned on.
I didn't want to be. I wanted to think rationally and calmly, but it felt like the moment Anton had entered my life that my reason had taken a flying leap off a cliff. And I liked it. I really didn't like how much I liked it.
I was losing myself in Anton.
Glittering green eyes stared down at me. "I'm sorry, Felicia," he said. "I will do my best in the future to remember the potential consequences of acting on my, ah, more exhibitionist impulses." He extended a hand, running his fingers down my cheek. I gazed up at him, uncertain what to say, wanting only to fall into his arms. It would be easy to do so. A strong man is hard to resist.
He leaned down and kissed me, stealing my breath. His mouth was hot and soft, but undemanding. Gently he nibbled and massaged my lips with his. My body heated at the tenderness in his kiss, reveling in the feeling of his arms as they circled around me. Large, warm hands traveled up and down my back, cupping my ass, tracing my spine. His body met mine, soft against hard, and I was melting against him.
He pulled away for a moment, cradling my head in his hand. His eyes, desire-drugged, explored my face, as though looking for something there. "You make me forget myself, Felicia," he whispered.
"Oh," I said. Inexplicably, tears stung my eyes, but he was already kissing me again, obscuring whatever sweet, soft revelation I was about to uncover with the magic of his touch, and I closed my eyes.
His body moved against mine and he broke away again, planting kisses against my throat, his hands smoothing over my breasts, circling my ribcage, as if he could hold all of me in the palms of his hands. My own fingers tangled in his rich, dark hair, and I couldn't help but sigh as he lowered himself to the floor, kneeling before me.
I was wearing a skirt again, a heavy wool thing, and again I wore no panties. I was so thoroughly his that I didn't even think about it now. I was so trained to want his touch that I almost never wore jeans any more. The realization sent a tiny spark of apprehension through me, but then Anton ran his fingertips lightly up the backs of my thighs and I pushed it away, unwilling to examine it.
Slowly, he lifted the hem of my skirt and planted a warm, chaste kiss on my mound, letting the skirt fall over his head as he moved his hands to my ass cheeks and began to massage them in an insistent rhythm. The rhythm of sex, of thrusting. I moaned as his tongue escaped his mouth and dipped into the delta of my thighs, hot and wet against the nub of my clit. He took up a soft, relentless pattern, thrusting his tongue over my clit where it hid, mashed between my closed legs, until my knees weakened and I parted for him.
Pressure on my hips had me backing up into his desk, and he lifted me up until I sat on the edge. Parting my thighs with the palms of his hands, he exposed me to the cool air, my soaking pussy quivering with the sudden change in temperature.
"Lean back," he instructed. I did so, placing my palms flat on the desk behind me as he spread the lips of my pussy with one hand.
I watched as he studied my inner folds, almost clinically, but the darkening of his eyes told me all I needed to know. If I reached one foot down, I would find an erection as hard as a rock in his trousers.
"You are beautiful," he said then, breaking the tense anticipation of the moment. Placing one long, lean finger on my clit, he traced small, slow circles around it with the tip. Each stroke sent a shudder through my body, and I couldn't resist. I was putty in his hands. Throwing my head back, I let him circle, circle, circle me, commanding my pleasure with a single point of contact. I sighed and moaned, spread out on his desk like a banquet, until his tiny, sweet, merciless circles spiraled out, out along my limbs, curling in my belly, and I came in small, short bursts.
He stood, undoing his trousers with a practiced motion, then reached up and helped me out of my skirt, letting it fall to the floor as he inched my shirt up over my stomach until it bunched beneath my breasts.
“Lie back,” he said, and I did. Defying him didn't even cross my mind now. All I wanted was pleasure—his and mine. His hands circled my ankles and brought my legs up, perpendicular to my torso, and pressed them together so my pussy was open and exposed to him. Languid and content, I lay on the desk as he coated his cock in my slippery juices, preparing myself for entry.
But he didn't enter me. Instead he slid his cock between my legs, letting it glide against my sensitive clit, and began to fuck my thighs. His arms wrapped around my knees like iron, and I gripped his desk as he pleasured himself with my body. The soft head of his dick slipped against my clit over and over again, my world narrowing to the point between my legs. His belt buckle slapped against my ass with each thrust, and I writhed, aching for him to fill me. He was like a drug. I was an addict.
Then he stuttered in his stroke and grunted, thrusting harder. Warm cum spurted from his cock in quick, short bursts, spattering up my stomach, marking me as his. I wiggled, needing completion, and without comment he reached down and plunged a finger into my pussy, pumping me hard and fast as his cum cooled on my skin, his cock still rigid and hard on my clit.
I strained and arched, and within moments I was coming a second time, the world melting around me, my body melding with his.
When I was finished, he lowered my shirt down over his cum and plastered it to me. He helped me to my feet and steadied me as I worked my skirt back up over my trembling legs. I closed my leather jacket around my upper body and tied
it in place so no one would see the stain on my shirt. Anton kissed me again before releasing me.
"I'm sorry, Felicia," he said. "I will be more mindful in the future. In the meantime, I'm betting you should update that blog of yours and tell all. I wouldn't be surprised if you made some sales out of this."
Why was everyone concerned about my sales? I hadn't put hand to clay in almost two weeks and I was married to one of the richest men in the world. I didn't need to agonize over my art any longer. And I didn't have any ideas anyway. Anton had anesthetized the turmoil inside me. There was nothing for me to say at the moment.
I nodded and gave him a smile. "All right," I said. "I'll do my best."
He showed me to the door, gave me another kiss, and I left. I held my head high the whole way home.
*
Anton wasn't home yet when my mother came barging into the second floor reading room where I was camping out with a fire, a blanket I'd liberated from my still-packed things, and a mug of Irish coffee while I scrolled through my emails and texts from all my friends. Contrary to my fears, very few people I knew seemed to have lowered their opinions of me. Most of my art friends expressed envy at the publicity, and my former coworkers at the bar were mostly surprised that I was so kinky. I didn't bother to correct them, because as far as I knew I had always been kinky, I just hadn't known it.
I looked up when my mother entered the room, her feet meeting the floorboards as though she held a personal grudge against trees. "Felicia!" she exclaimed when she saw me curled up in an armchair. "Felicia, what are you thinking?"
The whiskey in my coffee was making me feel quite good, so I smiled at her instead of shying away. "I'm thinking I should get another cup of coffee," I said.
She stared at me, dismayed. "Felicia," she said again, "you are on display all over the internet and on the newsstands. Everyone is peering into your most intimate moments with your husband. Your husband is treating you without respect. Did you know he was into this sort of... perverted sex play before you married him?"
Well, I had signed a prenup that had explicitly detailed all of Anton's favorite kinks, so technically I suppose I had known. "Yes," I told her.
She threw her hands in the air and collapsed in the armchair across from me. "Really?" she said.
I nodded.
She put a hand to her eyes and shook her head. "I can't believe this is happening."
Annoyance ran through me. "Why?" I said. "Because it makes you look bad to all your country club friends?"
She glared at me. "You know that is not true, Felicia. You know I have only wanted you to be happy. I have only ever wanted you to find love with a good man."
I sighed. For all her faults, I knew this was true. She really did want me to be happy. She just... didn't realize that people could be happy in different ways. Was I happy now? I didn't know, exactly. I was, at the very least, content to see where this hedonistic relationship could go. And if I wanted to end it in the future, I could. But I could lean on Anton. I could depend on him. And, weird as it sounded, I trusted him. I'd trusted him since I'd first read through his contract. A man so open and forthright with what he wanted and what he wished to do to me... it was refreshing. No surprises with Anton.
Well, none except the small vulnerabilities he let me see, sometimes inadvertently. All things considered, arranged marriages could go a lot worse. A lot worse.
"I don't know, Mom," I said. "I enjoy Anton's company. He's... he's not a bad husband."
A pained look passed across her face. "That's what you have to say about him? He's not a bad husband?"
I was aware of how it sounded, but I didn't want to commit to more than I knew I was able. My growing affection for Anton was well-guarded. I took it out at night when he slept beside me and turned it over in my mind, letting myself explore its edges and contours before putting it away again. It was small now, but with care it could be something very real.
"Yes," I said. "That's what I have to tell you. He is not a bad husband. I know you wante me to be happy with the man I marry, and right now I'm feeling okay with the way things are going."
My mother sat back, somewhat mollified, but clearly unwilling to let this go. "I don't know," she said. "I don't like the changes I see in you."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
Waving a hand she attempted to encompass all of me. "Your clothes. Your attitude. I haven't seen you do your art the whole time I've been here."
I shifted, uncomfortable. I knew what she was saying, because I had the same feelings. Misgivings, really. But I tamped them down. I depended on Anton to keep her alive. I leaned on him when I felt weak. Which was more and more often.
I stared at the fire. Before I knew Anton, I'd lived alone. I'd worked hard. I'd been my own person. A messy, unkempt person that my mother always lamented of ever learning glamorous personal grooming, but my own person all the same. Now I was falling into Anton, fading into the force of his personality, of his dominance. It sheltered me. But shelter can be an awfully small space.
I couldn't let my mother worry about me, though. "I'm fine," I said. "I'm just stressed out. When this whole wedding thing is over, I'll go back to working on my art and stuff."
With a sigh, my mother deflated. "Felicia," she said again, "please, take this seriously, and answer me honestly: why did you marry this man?"
I couldn't tell her it was for the money, and I certainly couldn't tell her it was for love. What could I say to the woman who gave me life, and now feared I was throwing that life away?
I gave her a wan smile. "For the right reasons," I said. "Trust me."
She held my eyes for a long time in the dancing light of the fire. "I will trust you," she said. "And I hope you are right."
*
The fallout of the tabloid pictures wasn't half as bad as I'd feared. Most people just acted faintly embarrassed when they recognized me, but my blog saw a huge uptick in traffic and, true to Anton's predictions, I sold everything that was for sale in my storefront. Unfortunately, I couldn't find time to go down to my old apartment to package everything up and send it out because wedding preparations—and Anton—took up all of my time.
Dress shopping, gift registry, gift bags, decorations, catering, drinks, bridesmaids, colors, flowers, silverware patterns, and getting tied up and fucked each night and most of the days took up a lot of time. Getting married, it seemed, was a full time job that did a lot to alleviate any obsessing I might have done. Besides, after a few days the embarrassment of being photographed in intimate positions wore off, especially when tourists from out of town stopped me on the street and asked to take a picture with me. Of course, they never asked while Anton was there. Anton gave off a forbidding vibe.
By the time the week was up, I was feeling better about the world, but I was still looking forward to fresh tabloids so my picture would get off the cover. Sadie and I were walking to the nearest drug store so I could grab myself some Midol—my period was coming up and the beginnings of crankiness and cramps were making themselves felt—and discussing how to get her picture in the tabloids so she could sell some of her work.
"We should kiss," she said. "The next time you see a papparazo, you have to tell me so I can mack on you."
"I'm not kissing you to get you into the National Enquirer," I said. "Why don't I just advertise your shit on my website?"
"Because," Sadie whined, "I want to get autograph requests, too!"
I laughed. She didn't really want this kind of scrutiny, and besides, there was no telling what Anton would do if he found out someone had touched his property, for publicity or not.
Ducking out of the rapidly chilling autumn air—now creeping into winter—we browsed the aisles in the Rite Aid.
"Do you need enemas?" Sadie asked loudly from two aisles over as I looked for the Midol.
"Sadie!"
"Just asking. You never know. What about laxatives. Laxatives and enemas?"
I groaned and put my head down as she ro
unded the corner, grinning.
"Hey," she said. "Those tabloids are going off the shelves. Someone has to keep you humble."
"I'm plenty humble," I said.
Unzipping her hoodie, Sadie bared her chest to me. "Really? Then I dare you not to sign these."
"No problem," I told her as we headed toward the checkout. "I don't have a pen with me."
"God, Lis, you are absolutely no fun at all." She zipped back up and followed me. "Come on, let's see which poor sucker is on the front page of the Star now that it's not you in a dog collar and leash.
"Sadie!"
"What? Everyone knows!"
Cheeks burning, I tried to pretend I didn't know her as I approached the checkout. I let my eyes pass over the colorful tabloids next to the counter as I neared, and a pang of relief lanced through me when I realized that none of the pictures there were mine. Thank god.
Then something caught my eye.
I frowned, puzzled, and reached out, plucking an Examiner from its spot. The story on the front was something about celebrity plastic surgery gone horribly wrong, but in the upper left corner was a familiar face.
My mother.
I read the words next to her and dropped my box of Midol from nerveless fingers.
"Oh my god," I said. "Oh my god." I swayed on my feet and Sadie hurried over.
"What's wrong?" she said. "Did you get caught screwing your husband again?"
Numb, I shook my head and held the paper out to her. She took it from me. I saw the blood leave her face when she recognized my mother there, and in a shaking voice she read the headline aloud.
"SEX, DRUGS, AND REHAB: THE BILLIONAIRE'S MOTHER-IN-LAW SOBERS UP."
We stared at one another while the clerk behind the counter tried to act nonchalant. Then Sadie leafed frantically through the tabloid, searching for the story. There, in the middle of the Rite Aid, she read it out to me.
"Selene Dare, 56 and mother of the recently exposed Felicia Waters, has been attending a court-ordered twelve-step program for narcotics abuse, the Examiner has learned. While billionaire mogul Anton Waters and his newly wedded wife, Felicia Waters, swan about town shopping for their upcoming wedding celebration, Selene sneaks off to daily meetings to maintain her sobriety. The wife of millionaire businessman Jonathan Dare, Mrs. Dare lives in California, where she was recently arrested for driving under the influence of illegally obtained Xanax."