“I’m not like Aiden, or Hunter Altman, or any of the others you may have met through Jamie. They were bastards who couldn’t see that something was missing in their lives. They needed the love of a good woman. I’m telling you right here and now: That’s not me. I know who I am. I know why I’m here on the planet. I know the sacrifices I need to make, that I’ve already made. I know what my plan is supposed to look like, and it’s tight to the wire. I’m only going to do this with you if you understand.”
“I told you. I understand.” But actually this is just working me up more. What the hell is wrong with me? My hands are still wandering. I want to get on my knees. I want him inside me, one way or the other.
“It needs to be what you want, too.”
“I want it.”
“Caitlin!”
That stops me. Something clears and I meet his eyes. My heart is still pounding and my neck and face are still flushed. My pussy is wetter than a water park, and it’s hard to stand. But Anthony’s hard word brings me around like a slap.
“This has to be what you want,” he repeats. “To be with a man who wants nothing that’s not physical. We’ll be friends, and we’ll fuck. That’s all. I won’t love you. I simply don’t have the time. Most people don’t have a mission. I do. I can’t compromise it. I can’t say that often or strongly enough. If we do this—”
Just his mention of doing this makes my imagination turn again, feeling the doing between my legs and tasting his this between my lips.
“—it’s to solve a problem and advance my ability to do what I need to do. If it ever starts to subtract rather than add—”
Oh, fuck this guy and his speeches. I’m a big girl.
I take two handfuls of his shirt and pull him against me. He can’t keep talking with our lips together. There’s just a moment’s hesitation — probably because I didn’t actually agree to his lengthy terms and conditions — but then I feel his restraint fully shatter. His lips lose their reticence, mashing into mine, covering my mouth with his passionate kisses.
His hands are on me in an instant, no longer lingering near our hips. We work in frenzied tandem, me pulling his shirt off as he pulls mine off. We’re so rushed that we collide over and over, clumsy, stumbling, none of it remotely funny.
Earlier, I spied a couch at an intersection in the aisles. It looked soft and comfortable, the kind of thing I’d want to sink into. He’s either seen the couch, too, or I’ve been leading without realizing — because moments later we’re against it.
He looks down at my chest, spellbound. His hands find my breasts, caressing them softly through my bra.
“Take this off. Let me see you.”
The door rattles. It surprises me a bit, but from here I can see the bell above it shake without really ringing. The door stays closed; the customer moves on.
We’re locked in; that’s why we entered through the back instead of the front. For some reason this cranks my temperature up the rest of the way.
This is happening. Here. Now. On this couch.
I reach back and unfasten my bra, shrugging it off, feeling my skin electrify as it takes new weight. Anthony’s hands replace the bra, cupping me, his hands smooth against my bare skin. His thumbs roll across my nipples. I shiver, feeling gooseflesh.
“You’re amazing, Caitlin. Your body is beautiful.”
I run my hands across his chest, fingers spread. He’s firm and nearly hairless. I run my hands down his abdomen, feeling the exposed ridges of muscle. Anthony is broad and strong, utilitarian in a way that reminds me of a body built by farm work, though I know for a fact he’s never lived on one.
And so I wonder: How does he find time to work out so effectively? And how, when most men grow soft in their forties, has Anthony found a way to grow harder?
It’s his system. It’s his schedule. He works out the same way he works, the same way he fucked you on that conference room floor: intensely.
The system I’ve distracted him from. The schedule I’ve interfered with.
I slide down his body. We’ve backed up to the couch. I sit, then look up and hold Anthony’s hungry eyes as my fingers move to unbutton his pants. I force myself to move slowly, watching him and biting my lower lip, but it’s nearly impossible. I can feel the heat and hardness behind this thin layer of fabric, and I can’t free it fast enough.
I pull it all away. I feel his cock’s radiant heat before my tongue is on it. I hold his gaze and lick the tip.
“Put it in your mouth. Suck my cock, Caitlin.”
I wrap my fingers around his cock, then slide it into my mouth. I wrap my lips around his shaft, my spit gliding its passage. He moves to push into my mouth but I use my hand to hold him back, lingering, feeling how full he makes me, letting my tongue linger as it cradles the underside of his cock.
“Oh fuck,” Anthony says, his head tilting back.
I move my free hand down to his balls, stroking them gently. I pull his cock out of my mouth, teasing the tip, sucking the end, flicking him with the tip of my tongue. I feel his balls snug up and his legs flex as I hit a particularly good spot, so I squeeze his shaft a bit tighter and suck down again, running my lips back and forth over the ridge.
Anthony reaches down, his voice nearly breathless. “Stand up.”
Instead of complying, I lift my eyes to look at him. His cock is still deep in my mouth, my hand still slowly pumping the shaft between my lips and his body. As best I can with my mouth full, I shake my head.
He’s still reaching down. “Come up here. I want to fuck you. I want to lick your pussy.”
But instead of doing as he says, I stroke a little more firmly. I suck a little harder. I feel his balls pulling up tight as I tickle them with my fingers. He’s twitching in my grip. His cock is throbbing and pulsing inside my mouth, against my tongue.
“If you don’t stop,” he says, even more breathless, “I’m going to come.”
I suck harder. I move a little faster.
“Caitlin, I’m—”
It happens all at once, almost without warning. All the holding back he’s been doing — all the clenching, all the slow breathing, all the tension I’ve felt down below — is suddenly inadequate. I didn’t realize how close he already was, how hard he was trying to keep from erupting.
But now there’s no going back, and the cock in my mouth erupts in a hot geyser, filling me up, overwhelming me. I swallow what I can, but it’s too much; it leaks between my lips, over my pumping hand, onto the floor.
Anthony jerks and spasms, his load still coming in warm spurts. It seems to last forever, and when he’s finally finished I’m a mess. He reaches for his discarded hoodie, turns it inside-out, and begins to wipe my chin. His cock continues to throb in my hand.
I take the hoodie from him and begin to clean up, but I don’t get far before he’s kneeling in front of me, undoing my pants, removing my shoes and socks, sliding everything off. By the time I toss my rag aside I’m totally naked in the shadows of this bookstore I pass every day, lying on a couch with a naked man between my open legs.
Anthony wastes no time. I look down to see him smiling up at me, then he moves his gaze to my bare pussy.
He runs his finger along my slit, then rolls it across my clit. Lowering his mouth, he begins to stroke and flick, his movements expert. I come immediately, but he only stops for long enough for me to recover and my hypersensitivity to retreat. Then his hand is back on my bud, his tongue below, both now working in tandem.
“Come for me, Caitlin,” he says. “I know you have another in you.”
And he’s right.
The second orgasm is even stronger than the first, slamming into me so hard it buckles me like a punch to the gut. I lose sense of myself as I come, aware only that I’m shouting and my arms and legs are weak.
“I knew you could do it,” he says.
I smile weakly, nodding toward his face. “You’ve got a little something on you.”
Anthony reaches for his garment
-turned-cleanup-rag and swipes his mouth with it. “Fucking women.”
“Me? You just pumped a gallon of come down my throat. Look — there’s some on the floor of your bookshop.”
“I have a cleaning crew,” he says with a shrug.
The euphoria starts to descend. I’m not exactly relaxed yet; truth is, he could probably get another orgasm — or six — out of me. But I’m content, and I like this arrangement — and if I understood the terms correctly, we’ll get to do this again and again and again.
So long as it’s only sex, and fits his plan to always put work first.
“Come up here and sit with me,” I say, “assuming your schedule will permit it.”
Anthony actually rolls his eyes.
I squint down at him. “What?”
“I love that you think your work is done,” he says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CAITLIN
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” I ask.
Anthony climbs onto the couch and sits beside me with his hard cock still at full mast. But then he just stares at me, waiting for something I don’t understand.
This isn’t a prelude to cuddling. This is something else.
“Well?” he says.
“Well what?”
“Get your pussy up there.”
“Where?”
“Where do pussies go?”
I look at his cock. It twitches, a drop of liquid at its tip.
“But you just came.”
“As if that would stop me, with you and your hot body here for the taking.”
His words thrill me as meaning sets in. I assumed he was spent and we were finished, but it seems he’s up for another round. My pussy twitches at the thought, hungry to have him inside. It excites me more than I realize. It’s tricky, at first, to speak.
So Anthony speaks first. “Grab my cock.”
I do it. I rub it slowly. It’s still hard as stone, as if it hasn’t just erupted in my mouth.
“Now put it in your pussy.”
I rub him harder. He responds, throbbing in my grip. His words unnerve me. I guess I wasn’t content at all. I want him inside me now more than I think I’ve ever wanted anything.
I roll sideways, onto my knees, and straddle him. I stop with his cock in my hand, poised just below my opening. Anthony pushes up, touching me with the head, and I feel like I might come on the spot.
“Do you need me to draw you a diagram?”
I slide down onto his length, feeling it fill my needy slit. He’s hot inside me, bigger than I remember.
His hands go to my tits, rubbing them, then craning up to lick them and suck my nipples. It’s electric.
“Fuck me faster,” he says.
So I do, now feeling my third orgasm building. It cripples me, bending me over Anthony’s chest as my pussy grips his shaft and I fight to recover. Anthony takes over thrusting, grabbing my bare ass and pushing up into me.
When I remain useless through the throes, Anthony rolls over and lays me on my back. He opens my knees as I half-lay on the couch, then runs the fingers of one hand over my clit as he slips his cock back inside me.
“Can you come again?”
Panting, I say, “I’ve come three times already.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He fucks me harder, faster. It’s aggressive, the way he fucks me — the way a man fucks when he wants to get off without a care for the woman’s pleasure. For some reason, seeing him above me with his chest starting to sweat, pounding into me like a caveman and working my clit like an instrument, is a huge turn-on.
“Do it, Caitlin. Come again while I fuck your pussy.”
He slams harder, faster. I can tell he must be close. His thrusts are selfish — just trying to get off so he can come again inside me. But his words and his pace drive my pleasure higher as his cock fills me up, as his balls slap my ass.
His eyes close and he reaches his peak as I feel my fourth orgasm rise from deep within. This one is primal, born from a part of me I’ve never seen. It arrives with something between a moan and a growl as Anthony makes his own noises above me, ramming my pussy to its limit, his hand rough on my clit.
It’s all I can do to hang on. My hand somehow finds Anthony’s and our fingers interlock, gripping. He slams into me as he erupts. My pussy squeezes his cock like an iron fist.
Anthony arches his back as he takes his final thrusts, finally slowing, pausing, then sliding his cock out of me.
I feel it go, feel momentarily empty. I want it back. I don’t ever want it to leave me.
Anthony plops onto the couch beside me, slick with a sheen of sweat, finally spent.
“I agree,” I say, once I recover my breath. “I agree with the terms of your ridiculous proposal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ANTHONY
IT GOES SO WELL IN the first weeks that I actually consider writing up a procedure for what Caitlin and I have going on.
I’ve always believed that a life worth living is worth committing to paper, and that good things can always be made better with a bit of focused attention. There’s a truism about how if you can’t measure something, you can’t manage it — a fact of life about the things we track and monitor versus the things we do by instinct.
And that makes me want to dissect our arrangement: not to bind her like a contract, but so that I can improve it.
We both agree to meet and have sex without obligation or attachments, as often as both of us want, whenever it’s possible. Normally, that kind of loose language is a recipe for trouble. But for some reason it’s not a problem at all, and I end up wanting to hook up as often as Caitlin does — and because I’m in town for the time being, it’s happened a lot.
It’s like we’re in sync. I’ve called Caitlin and asked if she wants to get together and she’s always said yes. Or she’s called me and asked if I have time and interest, and within a few hours I’ve always had an opening. Sometimes I’ve had to shuffle things, but so what? I’ve always shuffled.
There have been no messy questions about what it all means. I haven’t been with just one woman for this long since just after high school — but unlike that relationship, this thing with Caitlin has clear lines that neither of us seem hungry to cross.
I’ll be honest: when I pitched this whole thing to Caitlin in the bookstore, I thought she’d balk. I waited too long to lay things out, and by the time I gave Caitlin my conditions we were far past making decisions. We were two very drunk people who believed we could drive anywhere.
I thought that maybe, when it was over and our itches were scratched, we’d realize our mistake. But that hasn’t been the case at all.
Three weeks later, things are still smooth. I’m running my business as efficiently as ever; I’m hitting the gym and getting my massages and chiropractic. I’m attending every meeting on my calendar, honoring my few social obligations, talking to my charitable partners and moving things forward with Eros and the Syndicate.
In what’s been an unexpected bonus, Caitlin’s work for the Ross Foundation has dovetailed expertly with what I’ve been up to. We keep finding ways to multi-task without it being a burden — like the talks we have after we’re through having sex, which tend to be about the things that interest each of us in the moment.
For me those things are all work-related. So while my dick is slowly growing soft, I’ll lie there naked with Caitlin and give her a rundown of my current projects. I’ll tell her about the new seminar I’m planning, thoughts I’ve had for education and charity, and some airy ideas I’ve had about new ways to change the world.
Now that we’ve fucked out our tension, I feel much more secure. I’m not second-guessing, the way I felt that night she got so mad at me. I thought having Caitlin in my life would make me doubt, but the opposite has been true.
And for Caitlin, the things she wants to talk about after sex have turned out to be work-related as well. I didn’t prompt this, and I’m certainly not asking
her for status reports while her saliva is still drying on my body. She’s just talking about her passions. She’s being true to herself, her feelings, and her mission in life. It’s just dumb luck that Caitlin’s mission in life ended up being stuff that’s relevant to my foundation.
We fit together like two gears. She scratches my itches and I scratch hers — and, because I’m having sex with the same woman regularly now, my team and I are saving tons of time that used to be spent wooing and screening my nightly dates. I’m having sex and getting work done. I’ve popped that awkward, yearning bubble between us, and I’m saving time. I’m fucking a girl I’ve realized I’ve wanted for years, and feeling more certain of my future direction than ever.
“You’re making a mistake.”
Alexa Mathis says this to me, on the private Disclosure conference app.
I like talking on Disclosure whenever I have someone to meet. It’s not just that it’s automatically transcribed so I don’t need to take notes; there’s also some AI that analyzes the transcript afterward to give me bullet points. Disclosure lets me fly into meetings barely prepared, then process them later.
At first I don’t know what Alexa is talking about. So I repeat her statement about the mistake, feeling dumb.
“The app, Anthony,” she says, her voice a little condescending. “I thought we were on the same page about it.”
“We are.”
“Sure doesn’t sound like it. Remind me again, in a sentence, what you think the goal is?”
“It has a lot of goals.”
“Then just from your perspective. The big one. The one you’ve told me a million times.”
I know the goal she’s referring to because she’s right: I’ve said it to her a million times. “To free the world from shame and sexual stigma.”
“Right. Which basically means we want people comfortable with being the perverts they are.”
If Alexa were here in person with me instead of just on a video conference line, I’d give her a hard stare, or stand up and walk around, or any of the other dozen power moves I know. What she’s just said isn’t a fair summary of my goal for the app, and she damn well knows it.
The Guru (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 6) Page 13