Mr. Always & Forever

by Ashlee Price

  “Hey!” one of the guards calls seconds later, approaching us.

  I nearly whimper as Clark takes his mouth off mine. “Yes?”

  The guard stares at us, frowning. “Get a room. Literally.”

  He unlocks a door and pushes it open, pointing to it.

  “Thank you,” Clark says, picking up my purse and ushering me into the bedroom. “You’re very kind.”

  “Just get in,” the guard says, shutting the door as soon as Clark is inside. “You have fifteen minutes,” he calls from behind it.

  My eyes grow wide as I sit on the edge of the king-sized four-poster bed.

  Fifteen minutes? For what?

  “Well, you heard the man,” Clark says, tossing my purse on the bed and sitting beside me. “We have fifteen minutes to fuck.”

  “What?” I turn to him, eyes even wider.

  He’s got to be kidding.

  “Isn’t that why you came here with me, Lois? Isn’t that why you were spying on that couple?”

  “I wasn’t…”

  “Why, then?” He strokes my cheek. “Why are you here?”

  “I…”

  I try to think of an excuse but fail. The lips he has latched to the side of my neck and the finger circling my nipple through the satin empty my mind even as a gasp escapes my lips.

  Clark’s right. I did want this.

  I do want this.

  Now that I have my scoop, I might as well indulge in a little fun.

  When he kisses me again, I kiss him back with all the passion I’ve built up since puberty, shivering in delight as my tongue mingles with his. He pushes me down on the bed and the soft mattress is like a cloud beneath me. My hair unravels past my shoulders as he rakes his fingers through it.

  With each caress of our tongues, the combination of whiskey and tequila creates a far more intoxicating cocktail, muddling my brain and making every inch of my body burn.

  His hand cups my breast and I moan into his mouth, my flesh stirring to life beneath his palm through the thin layer of satin. He unbuttons my collar, his hand slipping in to pinch one of my swollen nipples. I gasp, the pain and the pleasure mixing to create ripples of heat that travel through all my veins.

  Suddenly he pulls away. Seeing my lipstick all around his mouth, I can’t help but chuckle.

  “What’s funny?” he asks.

  “Now you’re wearing something else red,” I tell him, planting another kiss on his cheek to prove my point.

  He wipes it off with the back of his hand, frowning at the red tint.

  “Oh, is that so?”

  Without warning, his mouth finds my neck again, sucking on the patch of skin with so much force I whimper.

  “What did you do?” I ask, frowning as I rub the skin after he’s done.

  He grins. “Now you have something else red, too.”

  This time he kisses my neck tenderly as he continues to rub my nipples. That wickedly wet tongue and his naughty fingers draw more gasps and moans from my lips and more of that warm, sticky liquid from between my legs.

  When his hand creeps beneath my gown to stroke the stain on my underwear, I tremble, weak and dizzy from his touch.

  Lifting his head, he holds my gaze as he pulls my underwear off. The cotton slides down my thighs to my ankles. Then Clark, too, slides down until the top of his head is all I can see.

  He slips my underwear off my ankles and lifts my gown, then spreads my legs and disappears between them.

  “Clark, what are you…?”

  I stop talking as I feel his tongue dipping into the source of that warm, sticky spring. My thighs quiver and my back arches. My arms long to be free so that my fingers can hold on to something, anything, just so I won’t be swept away.

  “Clark, my hands…”

  It’s no use, though. He just keeps going, that tongue of his going places I never knew existed, doing things I never knew a tongue could do. And all I can do is throw my head back against the mattress and from side to side. My hands wring the sheets beneath me even as the metal cuffs dig into my skin, and my eyes squeeze shut as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure wash over me. My cries bounce off the walls.

  “Oh God…”

  Then his tongue pulls out, brushing against my swollen nub and setting off sparks throughout my body. My eyes fly open. My mouth opens in a silent scream.

  A few more flicks of that tongue and I come undone, my body shaking and then shattering into pieces, the air sucked out of my lungs, tears blurring my eyes.

  Closing them while I gasp for air, I feel like all time has stopped, like I’m drifting away aimlessly. Vaguely, I feel hands grip me, turning me around. Then a sudden, hard slap on my bare skin anchors me back to reality.

  Opening my eyes, I find myself staring at the white sheets beneath a veil of my hair. My face is shoved against them and my knees are pressed to the carpet.

  Another slap on my backside, and I wince. A third, and I whimper from the pain even as a fresh jolt of excitement surges up my spine.

  “That’s your punishment for behaving badly tonight,” Clark hisses. “And this is your reward.”

  Gripping my hips, he enters me with one thrust, ripping a cry from my throat. Something stings, but only barely. My body is still numb from pleasure.

  He moves, and my body jerks with his, the bed creaking beneath me. This time, it’s not just my imagination. It’s real. His cock is sheathed inside me, rubbing against the spots his tongue merely grazed, reaching into the depths of me.

  “So this is what it feels like to be fucked,” I whisper.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Faster,” I tell him. “Harder.”

  The pleasure from my orgasm, which hasn’t really died out, bursts into flames once more. My stiff nipples rub against the satin of the sheets, adding to the friction between my legs. My quivering thighs grow wetter. A strand of saliva trickles out from the corner of my mouth as my moans turn into new screams, eclipsed only by the slapping of skin against skin. My knees dig into the carpet.

  Clark’s grip tightens, almost bruising, as he speeds up even more. Then, with a sound between a grunt and a growl, he stops, pushing himself to the hilt as his quivering cock fills me with an explosion of warmth. The depth and force of that last thrust sends me into my second orgasm. It’s a tremor compared to the massive quake that was the first, but it still leaves me breathless and trembling.

  For a while, Clark lies still on top of me, panting. Then he gets off me and frees my wrists. I rub them as I slide off the bed to sit on the carpet.

  “Twelve minutes,” he says, glancing at his watch after he puts his pants on. “That’s a record.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agree.

  I can’t believe I lost my virginity in twelve minutes.

  “But was that pleasurable enough for you?” he asks as he zips his pants.

  I grin sheepishly as I rest my still reeling head on the edge of the bed. “It was super.”

  Now, this is how Valentine’s Day is supposed to be.

  ~

  That wasn’t at all how it was supposed to be, I think as I pop a pain reliever into my mouth in the kitchen of my apartment. My head feels like it’s splitting in half, being squeezed like an orange and pounding like a drum all at the same time.

  What was that I drank, anyway?

  What’s even worse, though, is the sticky, sore feeling between my thighs—or rather, what it means.

  How the hell could I have been so horny and so foolish as to give away my virginity to some stranger? Granted, he was hot, but was I really that desperate? What was I thinking?

  I place a hand over my mouth, an idea dawning on me.

  Was there something in that weirdly pleasant-tasting drink, maybe? Well, that would explain things. I just hope it doesn’t have any harmful long-term effects. At any rate, it’s over now. Last night is done and gone. At least I have my story.

  As soon as the effects of the pain reliever have set in, making my head
ache bearable, I go back to my bedroom to check the now stained gown I wore to Damien Shore’s party. Ignoring the stain, I check the collar. My eyes grow wide as I realize the camera isn’t there.

  What the…?

  I sit on the bed, trying to remember when I last had it on.

  I still had it when I was… spying on that guy who bought the girl from the auction, so I must have lost it afterwards, when…

  I blush, remembering what happened next.

  I stand up, shaking my head as I pace the room.

  “No. No. This can’t be happening. It can’t be.”

  Still, it has happened. The camera is lost, probably having fallen off while I was having sex with that handsome stranger.

  “Ugh.” Groaning, I run my hands through my hair.

  What have I done?

  Suddenly, my phone rings. I grab it from the nightstand.

  “Hello.”

  “Ingrid? Didn’t you say you were going to Damien Shore’s Valentine’s party?” Samantha, my colleague from The Dallas Times, asks.

  “I did,” I tell her, sitting on my bed. “Why do you ask?”

  “Let me guess. You found out something.”

  “I did.”

  “Something about Damien Shore liking whips and handcuffs and auctioning off underage girls?”

  I straighten up, eyebrows furrowed. “How do you know that?”

  Samantha sighs. “If that’s your story, Ingrid, I suggest you write a different one, because that one’s already been published on the website and will be in print by tomorrow.”

  “What?” I stand up. “But who wrote the story?”

  “Actually, it’s…”

  “Conner Blake.”

  I say his name under my breath as I march towards his desk.

  I’ve heard of him, alright, although I’ve never met him in person.

  Even though he’s less than thirty, he’s one of the top reporters at The Dallas Times. Some say that’s due to the fact that he’s willing to do anything for a story, even sleep with a source—which isn’t hard given his legendary looks.

  At first, I thought he might just have stumbled onto the story the same way I did. What with all the masks, I couldn’t tell if he was at that party. But then I took a closer look at the pictures and realized they were exactly the ones I took. In particular, the last one, with that buyer and the girl, couldn’t have come from any other camera.

  How on earth did he get those pictures? Well, he could have stolen my camera, but how…?

  I stop a few feet away from his desk. There’s a man seated behind it, a man with chestnut brown hair and thin lips, a slight cleft on his square chin, features apparent with or without a mask.

  No way.

  My purse falls from my fingers and my knees turn to mush so quickly that I have to lean on a nearby table to keep myself standing.

  “You?” Conner stands up, the shock and recognition in his eyes mirroring the horror in mine.

  Going around his desk, he walks towards me, eyes on the ID hanging from my neck. “Ingrid Halfield? You work here?”

  I raise a finger. “Don’t play dumb with me. You knew who I was.”

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  “Liar,” I spit out.

  “I only knew you were a reporter. I didn’t know for which paper.”

  I point my finger at him. “You stole my story.”

  Conner shrugs. “You dropped your camera. I simply found it and used it.”

  “You used me.”

  “As you used me.” He steps forward. “Admit it. You thought I was a handsome billionaire who could get you into the inner circle so you could get your scoop. And I did. Then you got in trouble and I saved you.”

  I pull my shoulders back. “Saved me?”

  “Plus, you had the time of your life, so, really, I don’t understand why you’re complaining. You got the better end of the bargain.”

  I slap him. “How dare you!”

  Conner raises an eyebrow as he rubs his reddened cheek. “So, we’re into that now, are we?”

  I feel an urge to slap him once more. Instead, I clench my fist at my side and square my shoulders. “You, Conner Blake, are the worst man I’ve ever met.”

  “Really? I thought you were quite smitten with me, Lois—I mean, Ingrid.” He scratches his chin. “Didn’t you say I was…”

  “You’re an asshole,” I continue. “You’re even sicker than Damien Shore is. I hope you rot in hell.”

  Picking up my purse, I stomp to the elevators, seething.

  “By the way,” he calls after me, “your gown was lovely. I’m sorry I ruined it.”

  I raise my middle finger at him. “You know what? If you think you’re all that, why don’t you shove your dick up your ass?”

  I step into the elevator, banging my head on the wall after the door closes.

  How could I have sex with that… that filthy scumbag? I don’t even know what’s worse—that he stole my virginity—and yes, he did steal it—or that he stole my story.

  I let out a deep sigh.

  Well, one thing’s for sure—I’m leaving this paper. And then I’m going to forget about him and everything that happened last night. I’m going to pretend none of that ever happened and I’m going to get a better job and I’m going to get a nice boyfriend, have better sex with him and maybe marry him after a few years.

  As the elevator doors slide open, I take a deep breath and step out, head and shoulders held high.

  Today marks the beginning of the rest of my life, and nothing will stand in my way.

  Chapter One

  Conner

  Six years later…

  The redhead beside me groans as I toss her arm aside to get out of bed, but she continues sleeping, snuggling into the pillow.

  I place the blanket back over her, watching her as I put my jeans and my shirt back on.

  What was her name again? Leslie? Lisa?

  A glance at the pen holder on the desk tells me it’s the former.

  Leslie. We met on the plane to Boulder, hit a bar straight from the airport and hooked up.

  What else is new?

  Walking to the kitchen, I open the fridge, empty except for a few cheese slices, half a loaf of fruit cake, a jar of pickles and some cookie dough. I grab one of the cheese slices, peeling off the plastic and munching on it as I sit on the stool by the window, watching the snow fall and paint the city a fresh layer of white.

  There’s definitely much more snow here than in Dallas.

  Not that I prefer snow. I neither hate it nor like it. Kind of like shrimp. In fact, I’m not particular about climate. I can adapt to any kind. I’m cold-blooded that way.

  I don’t mind Dallas. A lot of restaurants serve great chili, which is good for mild hangovers. There are great bars, great women. Malls. Plenty of fresh produce. History. There are half a dozen pro sports teams and lots of politics and business going on, which also means there are plenty of stories if you know where to look, or just look hard enough.

  That used to be enough, but not anymore.

  I press my face close to the glass. A thirty-five-year-old man with weary eyes and a frown above an unshaved chin stares back at me.

  In the past two years, I’ve started to wish I had something more to plan for, something to look forward to. When you’re a journalist, working a job where you don’t know what your next story will be, you want something to anchor yourself to, some measure of constancy or certainty.

  You want a home, a family.

  No, you need one.

  My cheese slice is gone and the sky is starting to brighten up, so I head back to the bedroom to get my bag and my phone. Picking the latter up from the nightstand, I pause to look at Leslie.

  Pretty. Witty. Successful in her own right.

  Ah, but aren’t they all?

  All the women I’ve been with are the same, all boring and pretentious—save one ash-blonde beauty.

  The only one I know willing to ris
k her life for a story. The only non-Asian woman I’ve seen wear a cheongsam and look ravishing in it. The only woman who let me cuff her and spank her and have amazing sex with her, all in the span of fifteen minutes.

  No. Twelve.

  Even now, the memory of that night still haunts me, sometimes giving me a hard-on in the shower. Why, just the thought of it makes my cock throb now, even though I can’t remember how many times Leslie and I did it last night.

  Yes, she was fascinating. Unfortunately, she was also the only one who’s ever told me to shove my dick up my ass, which out of all the insults I’ve received from women is by far the worst.

  Sighing, I bring my things to the living room, sweeping the magazines on the coffee table aside to make room for my laptop. While waiting for it to boot up, I pull the blanket off the armchair, wrapping it around my shoulders and rubbing my hands to ward off the chill.

  I may not mind the cold, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get cold.

  As soon as my screen’s ready, I go straight to my latest story—allegations of corrupt alliances among farm owners—to continue editing it. I add a sentence here and there, check my notes to make sure I have the details right, listen to the interview again to make sure I didn’t miss anything important. Then I change the starting sentence to make it catchier, then change it three times more.

  When I’m done, I read the whole story two more times before formatting it and sending it to my editor with a quick note. I’ve barely hit send when my phone rings.

  “Hello.”

  “Conner Blake?” a woman’s unfamiliar voice asks.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Dana Hill, Ms. Cassandra Newton’s secretary.”

  Oh, her. I don’t know her, but I’ve heard of Cassandra Newton, Deputy Head of the News Division of newly listed SSJ Media, the company which, due to a dozen recent mergers and acquisitions, I now work for.

  I stand up, the blanket falling off my shoulders. “Ms. Hill, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Blake, are you in Boulder already?”

  “As it so happens, I arrived last night. Why?”

  “Something came up in Ms. Newton’s schedule. She would like to see you this morning at ten-thirty instead of this afternoon.”