During the last two years, I’ve found the conversation at these affairs to be mundane and as boring as hell. The attendees address me speculatively, shocked by my success and youth. At thirty-two how I’ve succeeded is not the norm unless one’s empire is built on family wealth and prestige. In a sick way my empire was built on family money—the hush money given to my mother when she fled this city thirty-two years ago. Funny thing about hush money, though, it’s rarely kept quiet.
But tonight I’ll have to endure all the disgusting verbal fawning. I can hear the people now, those shocked by my accomplishments.
“Hello, Mr. Kingsley. I've heard so much about you.”
“Good evening, Mr. Kingsley. It's amazing how you've taken Wall Street by storm.”
“Oh, Mr. Kingsley, what a striking man you are . . .blah . . .blah . . .blah.”
The eyes on the nameless faces of my commentators have one thing in common: fear. Fear that I will dislike them, fear that I will crush them, and fear they will never obtain the wealth and power I have. It's pathetic how each dinner, gala, or benefit turns into a sycophant ball. A wicked dance where I'm placed in the center to be admired and envied. Displayed on some invisible pedestal until the sands shift beneath me and another up-and-coming man replaces me. Someone with more money, more power. The next bright and shining star. No one remains on top forever, and I have no illusions about my tenuous position among New York’s power players.
Eddie opens the door and I exit with a quick nod to him. “Plan on company tonight. I need something fun to look forward to.”
He nods back in a silent reply because he knows my routine and sexual appetites very well. It's a waiting game for him. He will receive my pick-up text and appear in five minutes at the curb. I'll let him know in my message if I’ll have a friend at the end of the night. He will then prepare my arrival accordingly. Tonight, since I've alerted him early, he'll have some champagne ready when we enter the car, the backseat divider up, and seductive music playing in the background. Later, after I’m finished with the night's delight, he’ll drop her off at her Upper East Side co-op lovingly bought by her rich father who I've probably done business with.
Making my way to Lincoln Center’s entrance, I pull the ticket Mrs. Carter gave me from my jacket’s pocket. I see a line has formed in front of the building, and I dread having to stand with everyone outside. When I decide to bypass the line and proceed inside through the doublewide doors, a young woman with an official-looking badge pinned across her flat chest approaches me. Her blond hair falls haphazardly against her shoulders and she appears overwhelmed. I notice a little perspiration glisten on her forehead as she forces a smile at me. Sweating is so weak, I think to myself. I plant a smile on my face and prepare for her compliments, the inevitable suck-up that asks me to open my wallet and hand over its contents.
“Good evening.” I decide to speak first.
“Good evening, Mr. Kingsley.” She offers her hand to me in a formal greeting, and on reflex I respond in kind. “My name is Natalie Vincent. I'm the assistant to Ava Swanson, the executive director of The Swanson Foundation. It’s an honor to have you attending our benefit tonight. We have special seating for you in the ballroom.” She doesn’t spew the usual false platitudes. How refreshing.
“This way.” She tilts her head toward the direction she wants me to follow. She appears to be on a mission, and her high heels begin clicking with speed against the marble floors. Pulling my eyes away from her long, slender legs, I stop briefly to acknowledge some pompous men from whom I’ve legally stolen money. It’s the Wall Street way, and the only place on Earth where stealing is applauded and rewarded.
I shake a few clammy hands and endure a couple slaps on my back, then hurriedly make my way back to Ms. Vincent. She’s halted her march toward the ballroom and stands waiting for me a few feet away. Her patience may be running thin as I watch her feet tap away until I’m back by her side. I have to smile to myself as I’ve never had a charity executive show such disregard to me. Me, the person who will likely be the biggest donor of the night.
“Excuse me,” I say and add the best devilish grin I can produce. “I hate to leave a woman waiting.” But I see her discreetly roll her eyes and huff as she turns in the direction she was headed. And I have to say I’m enjoying the view of her backside as she walks a few steps ahead of me.
Ms. Vincent and I enter the main dining area for tonight’s event. I watch her stop at the head table and I start to tense. I despise sitting at the head table as it ensures that I am front and center. I prefer to blend in and watch others, not have all eyes fixed on me. Turning toward me, Ms. Vincent points out my seat and the identifying place card with Adam Kingsley written boldly across it.
“You will be sitting by the speaker, Sir Lawrence Scott. He's the organizer of The Hope House in Ethiopia. A wonderful outreach and a wonderful man.”
“It should provide some stimulating conversation for the evening, I'm sure.” I attempt to sound sincere but become distracted when I notice the elaborate diamond necklace lying on her pale chest. The clasp is moved to the front and ruins the piece's declaration of importance. After pulling my gaze away from her chest, she eyes me speculatively and continues.
“Stimulating might be a stretch, even for Sir Scott.” She gestures toward a wall of open doors. “If you'll follow me, I'll show you the patron's reception area.”
Once again, I'm trailing behind Ms. Vincent and wondering what's underneath the tight black dress she’s wearing. My imagination conjures up lace encasing soft silk. If I found her more attractive, I might try to see if I’m right.
After entering the reception area off the main ballroom, Ms. Vincent departs, assuring me I will be speaking with her later. I head straight toward one of the several bars scattered throughout the large room and order my standard scotch, Glenlivet. If they have my favorite brand, I'm likely to contribute more money. Otherwise, my donation goes down considerably. After I successfully place my order, it appears The Swanson Foundation is in luck tonight.
Scanning the crowd as I wait for my drink, I see the usual suspects: balding men with pooching bellies holding on to their latest trophy wives or girlfriends. Some of the women meet my gaze with a knowing look as I’ve already been improperly introduced to certain parts of them when they were less attached.
I spot a former friend, Sarah Edmonds, I believe it is now. She has wonderful auburn hair that cascades against her alabaster skin, but her hideous laugh sounds like a hyena. I need to turn my gaze away from her quickly or she'll interpret my perusal as interest. I don't touch the merchandise once it's bought. And she most surely is bought. Poor fucker, Mr. Edmonds.
I take a couple more swigs of my scotch and let some of the better memories with the women I’ve known in the room come to mind. Between the scotch and brief sexual fantasies, I feel my body start to relax for the first time since this afternoon. I signal the bartender for a refill. I need a few more before subjecting myself to an evening next to Sir Lawrence. Fuck, this night needs to speed by.
In the far corner there’s a stunning raven-haired beauty, and I shift my body slightly so I can watch her more closely. I've noticed her at a couple events the last month, and both times she has appeared alone. No one seems attached to her, which I find extremely odd as raw beauty like hers is uncommon in Manhattan. I wonder who she is and where she came from. No one suddenly appears on the New York social scene without some fanfare, especially at her age and her likelihood of being single. I bet she’s family money, or a trust fund baby beautifully grown up.
I would guess she’s older than I am, but I have never been close enough to see the details of her face and determine what her true age might be. Early thirties possibly. Her luminous skin gives her the glow of youth, so it's hard to tell. I enjoy watching the men around her as they hang onto every word she speaks out of her ruby lips.
Her congregation reminds me of a scene from Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara had all the
naïve southern boys circled around her and eating out of the palm of her hand. I can almost hear this stunner mocking the men with a little fiddle dee dee thrown at them.
She ceremoniously extricates herself from the crowd of fawning suitors and moves toward the bar where I’m located. My heartbeat quickens at the thought of seeing her up close, maybe even sharing a word or two.
As she approaches me, I watch the sway of her hips and damn how they sway. Her tight dress accentuates her every move and I’m mesmerized, completely in her thrall. Her stature is petite, but curves grace her body seductively. Everything I see makes me thankful I’m a man. The sexy stilettos she’s wearing belong in one of two places, over my shoulders or on the floor next to my bed.
Finally she looks my way and our eyes immediately connect, and at this moment I’m perfectly still. I can’t break the intensity I feel in this first interaction between us. Her blue eyes are surrounded by creamy skin and framed with her long, black hair. She is a fucking masterpiece. An artist’s beauty.
The next thing I see on her lovely face is a knowing smile. She doesn’t appear to be mocking me, at least that's my hope. And I decide right then that I need to know who this mystery woman is and where she came from.
I have an unspoken rule of never introducing myself at these shitty functions, but this woman I've got to meet. Now. I walk toward her, blocking her path to the bar and making it impossible for her to ignore me. She places her hands on her hips and looks up at me expectantly.
Feeling a bit on edge, I revert back to full-on business mode. What is it about this woman’s beauty and expressions that make me feel uneasy? I stretch out my hand to her, but her hands remain solidly on her hips.
Well damn, this is interesting. There isn’t a single wrinkle or line on her face, but the way she looks at me is intriguing, a confidence only acquired with time and experience. Everything about her fascinates me, and her sudden appearance on the social scene bewilders me. But most importantly right now, her body has totally aroused mine. This combination almost never happens with the women I meet at these things, so I start to speak.
“I’d like to introduce myself, I'm Adam Kings—”
She laughs before I can finish my name.
“Oh, I know who you are, pretty billionaire boy. Everyone in the room knows your name. Likely even the bartender I was on my way to visit knows you.” She holds up an empty wine glass. “Do you know who I am, though?”
“I'm afraid you have me at a loss.” Smirking, I draw my hand to my chest to feign feeling hurt and rejected. “And calling me ‘pretty’ and 'boy.' That stings.”
“Please don't be offended. They’re really meant as terms of endearment.”
She moves closer to me, so close I see the full swell of her breasts as they disappear beneath the silk of her dark green dress. My cock responds to my perfect vantage point as I watch her mostly exposed chest move slowly and evenly. This intriguing yet nameless woman is an enticing tease, and I have to say I’m thoroughly enjoying myself for the first time tonight.
“Let me introduce myself. In polite company I go by Kathryn.” I watch as she winks and runs her little tongue across her bottom lip. I swallow, hard.
“We have a name. That’s a start.” I find myself smiling at her. A full-blown grin, which contradicts my usual behavior. “And what do you do, Kathryn?”
“You want to know what I do?” She keeps her eyes trained on mine, and I swear I see a mischievous twinkle in them. “In my case that’s a loaded question.”
“Loaded question or not, I would still like to know,” I say, hoping she’ll reveal more of herself to me. “I’ve seen you before at other functions. It’s like you just appeared out of thin air.”
“Not quite thin air, but close. And it’s funny; I’ve noticed you, as well.” She moves even closer, and now we are nearly touching one another. “I wondered if we’d ever meet. You know I’ve been warned about you.”
“Warned?” My question sounds hollow, unconvincing: I know what she’s likely been told. Adam Kingsley is a player. A skirt-chaser. And I can’t deny it, either.
“Yes, warned to keep my distance.” I see a touch of amusement in her eyes, and now I’m sure she’s mocking me. “I know we’ve just met, but I’m curious about something. Can I ask you a really personal question, Mr. Kingsley?”
“Sure, but you have to call me Adam.” Honestly, I just want to hear her say my name. Watch her full lips mouth the sound.
“Let’s stick to formalities, Mr. Kingsley. My question is actually a semi-professional one.”
“A professional one?” I’m still left in the dark about her occupation, even her last name, yet she wants to ask me personal questions. Who is this ballsy woman?
“Yes, professional. I have a doctorate in psychology and coach couples in the intimacy department.” The intimacy department? What the fuck does that mean?
“Well, Dr. Kathryn, I’m not sure how I can help with that subject. But okay, shoot away.” I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.
“When I look around this room, I see women watching you and our exchange. Some looking sad, others looking envious. I’m curious to know how many of them you’ve slept with?” She stares at me with a serious look on her face. She doesn’t blink or look away. It’s then I realize she really wants me to answer her. Throw out a number. Fuck. I’m not sure how to respond or even count up the tally, so I decide to try a little humor.
“Somewhere between one and all of them?” She rolls her eyes to the side, not satisfied with my answer, but I’m not finished yet either.
“Honestly, I’d like to say you, just you.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “That you’re the only one I’ve fucked in this room.” Kathryn appears a little surprised by my answer but then laughs, and I join her. I think she realizes I’m teasing her. But what I said might be partially true because no other woman in this room appeals to me like she does.
“They were right to warn me.” Her mood shifts. Gone are her smiles. “Men like you will never understand what a woman really needs.”
“Is that right? So you’re an expert on me now. My judge and jury.” I cross my arms over my chest as my temper starts to rise.
“Oh dear. I think I’ve touched a nerve,” she says while throwing her head back and laughing at me. Quite frankly, I’m not amused. “Yes, Mr. Kingsley, I’m an expert of sorts.”
“Care to explain?” My tone’s short with her as I’m still a bit pissed.
“It would be my pleasure.” She winks at me and I’m feeling conflicted. Do I really want to know what she’s an expert at? Who am I kidding? Of course I do.
“I'm a specialist at taking boys like yourself and turning them into real men. I've never failed. Not once. At least that’s what their wives and girlfriends say.”
“So, what have you never failed at, in more specific terms?” I’m hoping she takes the bait and gives me the details of her exploits, as this woman confounds and frustrates me.
She brings her free hand up to my chest and runs her delicate fingers under the lapel of my Armani tux. My arms fall to my side as I feel her grasping my jacket and gently pulling my upper body down toward her, bringing our faces cheek to cheek. Her soft lips brush lightly against my ear.
“I take cocky, rich boys like you and teach them how to make love to women until they're barely able to mutter a word. Completely and utterly blissed. That's really what separates the men from the boys, Mr. Kingsley. Sex as an art form versus fucking for a release.”
I find myself unable to respond, completely tongue-tied. Something I’m not used to experiencing. I always have a slick comeback. Always. I see fire in her eyes and notice her lips starting to move again, and good God, I realize she’s not done with me yet.
“You see, Mr. Kingsley, when I said you were a pretty billionaire boy I meant every damn word. You’re very pretty indeed, striking really, but still just a boy.”
Hungry for more?
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Purchase Adam’s Apple (Touch of Tantra Book 1)
Purchase Adam’s Fall (Touch of Tantra Book 2)
The concluding sequel to Adam’s Apple.
Adam and Kathryn's tantric love story continues once again told in his point of view...
"Kathryn's mesmerized me with some kind of tantric magic. I'm bewitched without an ounce of fight left within me. She knows my dilemma, my hesitancy to surrender and loosen the grip I have on my past, and she's won." ~Adam Kingsley
Adam’s life takes an unexpected turn when newly exposed secrets surrounding his birth father force him to make a seemingly impossible choice. Avenge those he loves and let everything he holds dear crumble around him, or allow the guilty to go free.
Eroticism. Love. Redemption. A perfect erotic mix...
About the Author
Raised in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, Liv now resides in Manhattan with her first and hopefully last husband. After relocating eleven times during his corporate career, she qualifies as a professional mover. Learning to bloom where she's planted, Liv brings her moving and life experiences to her writing.
Liv received a degree in communication from the University of Maryland. She has published her debut series, Touch of Tantra, and the Love in the City romance boxed collection set.
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Copyright © 2014 J.L. Mac Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
Cover design by:
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Edited by:
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