by Kira Blakely
Mr. Howell is... perfection personified. From the black hair that is never out-of-place, always combed into an Ivy League side part, down to his cufflinks, down to his manicured fingertips and muscled body, trained rigorously in everything from boxing to yoga. Mr. Howell is perfection. He only drives luxurious foreign cars. He only wears tailored, designer suits. He would never settle for a resort that brings throngs of middle-class workers onto its beach.
My fingertips hum with adrenaline at the thought of him, so sleek and powerful, like a jaguar made into a man. I’ve been masturbating furiously for weeks now, picturing what a fucking scepter his cock must be, thinking about how the women he beds must always come their brains out before he lets himself go. He’s a workaholic, too. He can’t hide that kindred streak from me. I know his brutal spirit must transfer into the bedroom. So far, I haven’t seen him with any women, though—and I’m glad for that. I would be lime-green Jell-O if I had to see that.
I unfasten all the pins and shake down crimped chestnut hair onto my shoulders. I unbutton my blouse. The constrictive shapewear I always have on makes my cleavage intense but it also makes me look flat. I slip out of my skirt next and then wiggle loose from the airtight slip. My ass and tits bounce into full gear immediately. Every time.
I’m so excited to begin my trip, but there isn’t really much I can pack. The resort will handle my clothes and I’ll be masked the entire time. I can at least pack some different perfumes, though.
I flounce to the bathroom, feeling like a jiggly hourglass. My body has always been out-of-control with its curves, and I never got a moment’s rest before I discovered slim wear. Men would cat-call me no matter where I was or what I was doing. I could be at the doctor’s office with a head cold and someone would ask me to back that ass up.
I gaze at my body in the bathroom mirror. Without the control-top panty hose and the minimizing bra, I’m almost a new woman. I pull off my glasses and shake out my mane, playing with the idea of being someone else this weekend.
The kind of girl who would slip on a mask and attend an anonymous sex party.
I prop a foot up on the sink and let my knee fall a little, exposing my shaven, pink gash in the mirror. I trail my fingers sweetly up and down my smooth trim, licking my lips at the thought of finally letting go.
After Rex gave me the invitation, I thought about it long and hard. He would be there, and he would be looking for me, hopeful that I had submitted to all the tests and gone through with it. Why else make sure that I was invited? What else could an invitation like that possibly say?
But Rex won’t recognize me like this. I can barely recognize myself like this.
It’s an exclusive party, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. That was the explanation I received when I called the booking headquarters, before I sent off all my test results. That sealed it for me. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.
And the only thing I want to do is Rainier Howell. I won’t settle for anyone else. There’s no way that any other man will speak to me the way he does. I crave him late into the night. I crave him on a damn near poetic level. The thought of him makes my pussy open up like a flower in the sunlight. He woke me up from a long sexual slumber, but now I am awake.
Wide awake.
My fingers play over my pussy, idle and exploratory. I close my eyes and allow my head to fall back as I imagine Rainier Howell, so gruff and yet polished, so surly and broad, flicking open his cufflinks. Shrugging off his suit jacket. I’ve never seen his bare chest before and I imagine how it must feel so smooth and chiseled beneath a woman’s hands—my hands. And what about his cock? I bet that’s smooth and chiseled, too…
My middle finger finds the tingling nub of my clitoris and works it. I remember bending over his desk today, and how he stood behind me, watching. That was hot. Now we’re back there again and he leans over me this time. I feel his hardness press into my ass. God, he’s always hard when we’re together. I hunch over my own hand and grate up and down, going harder. Faster. His hand binds my skirt up around my thighs as his thick finger slithers between my wet pussy lips. My eyes roll back. I want his fingers grinding on my clit. I want to hear his pants unzip, to feel the hot skin of his iron cock between my thighs... against my wet, waiting pussy. Oh, god, he called me a naughty girl today. He said he could teach me a lesson.
My thighs tremble and I fold down onto the bathroom tile, on hands and knees now, forgetting everything else. Just thinking about Rainier’s palm flashing down onto my ass. Just thinking about Rainier seething and shuddering as he pumps into me. Thinking about how his voice sounds when he comes. How his cum feels. I want him in me bare. I want to ruin my career at Howell & McKenzie. I don’t care. I want him to fill me up and leave me on the desk to dry out again.
The image of his cock getting harder and thicker, harder and thicker until it pops, is what sends me spiraling over the edge. My hips press high into the air and quake with orgasm. My own clear juice tracks down my thighs, desperate to be penetrated. When I think about him, I get so wet that it can ruin my clothes. I’ll wear a panty liner to work just to make sure that I don’t end up with a pussy-shaped wet spot on the back of my skirt.
I climb into the shower and wrench the faucet, filling the stall with hot water and steam. I lay and open my thighs, letting the water clean me off. With a sigh, my head falls back and my muscles loosen. I’d better emotionally prepare myself for the last step between myself and Mystique Island: calling my parents to let them know that I’m missing Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll tell them that I have to.
“Mr. Howell is making me,” I’ll say... and it’ll be true.
Because I can’t go on like this, feeling as if my sex is going to explode any minute. I see the tent his erection is always making in his pants. I see the tantalizing shape of his prick through the fabric. I know that he wants me, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he won’t admit it to himself. And he’s going to have me. No one else on that island will lay a finger on me until after Rainier Howell has his fill, and I have mine.
He’s going to be the first man to ever slide between my lips and break me open. He’s going to be the only one good enough to turn me out.
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Forbidden Series
Forbidden Feast
Craving More Kira?
First Love Second Chance
Last Chance
Throttle
She’s Mine
Play Thing
Beauty and the Billionaire
Faking For Her
One Hot Daddy
Owned by the Billionaire
Untamed
Billionaire’s Protest Box Set
Billionaire Bad Boys Box Set
Copyright © 2017 by AG Media, LLC, a representative of Kira Blakely.
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About the Author
All I’ve ever wanted to do for years is write my own books. I spent an ungodly amount of time ghostwriting a few bestsellers for other authors before realizing it was time to start taking credit for my own work.
My personal struggles in life, love, and money have driven me to start doing what I love most: Writing full time.
I started writing when I was a teenager. I fell in love with a boy who didn’t quite love me back--admittedly, I was terribly insecure and slightly overweight--and the entire experience drove me to start practicing my craft. Writing helped me to escape, to reimagine a world where happy endings actually existed. If I couldn’t have the love of my life, I’d just create Mr. Right in my romance novels… with maybe a few embellishments.
I’ve found my calling. Having the expe
rience of doing what I love most as a full time job has given me happiness and confidence galore. And, soon after I found those, I was able to find companionship. Shout out to my guy and my kitty!
I so hope you enjoy my books! I wish you the very best in this crazy thing called life.
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