Keeping Her

by Holly Hart

I mean it. I’m not going to allow myself to orgasm – not until I find a way for Skye to share in the pleasure.

  Which means I’ve got a problem. A really big fucking problem.

  Because if there’s one thing I don’t know how to handle, it’s denying myself anything. At all.

  215

  Skye

  I can’t take my mind off of what happened yesterday. In one night – just a few minutes, really – Harlan took me closer to that elusive, long-promised, orgasm than any man ever has. For the first time in a long time, he’s got me believing that I really could experience that kind of nirvana.

  I just hope that it’s not a false dawn. I don’t know if I would be able to take crashing back to reality after Harlan has built me up this far.

  “Down, girl,” I mutter to myself, clearing my head. I realize that I’ve been in the office an hour already, and all I’ve done is stare blankly into space contemplating what happened in this very room just a few hours ago.

  Heck, I’ve got goose bumps on my skin just thinking about it.

  The things Harlan did with his tongue…

  I didn’t know they were possible. I didn’t know a man could make me feel that way, especially when all the attentions I’ve, uh, administered to myself have failed…

  … Over and over…

  … And over again …

  No matter what toy I tried…

  But Harlan was good – unbelievably good. No man has ever pleased me like he did last night. It’s almost like someone trained him in the dark arts of going down on a woman.

  Maybe he learned it while in the SEALs?

  I picture a room full of hard, unshaved men sitting behind tiny school desks. Their faces are painted with dark camouflage paint, their bodies dripping wet from a long swim. Rifles lean against the walls, and the odd hand grenade spins lazily on the floor.

  Looking closely, every single SEAL is waggling their tongue in the air, performing complicated maneuvers with the pink organ – one second spelling an imaginary alphabet, the next performing long, lazy strokes on an imaginary clitoris.

  I snort, almost knocking a cup of coffee on my desk over in the process. A second later, I’m consumed by a fit of uncontrollable giggles. I can’t control either them or myself. I collapse forward against my desk, chest heaving as I try to hold back the laughter.

  My office door clicks open, and Tyler anxiously pokes his head around.

  “Is everything all right, Skye?” He asks.

  “Everything’s –,” I snort, “fine, Tyler. Just something I… read.”

  My assistant frowns and squints at me, as if he thinks I’ve gone crazy.

  In a way, I guess I have. I remember reading once in med school that in the olden days, doctors used to coax their female patients to orgasm after diagnosing them with “hysteria”. Hell, that was why the vibrator was invented…

  Maybe they were right… maybe there really is only so long a woman can go without experiencing that kind of pleasure before they “lose it” and become “hysterical”.

  But I don’t need a dainty, white-coated doctor. I’ve got my Navy SEAL.

  He’s not your anything, Skye. But if he can prescribe you an orgasm then, girl, take him and run!

  Besides, I’d bet any money that doctors back then were simply taking advantage of their patients…

  “Skye?” Tyler questions, looking yet more concerned.

  “Sorry, I was in my own world,” I mutter, mastering my face. “Did you say something?”

  “You didn’t hear? I got –,” he pauses, as though he’s confused. “I got a strange message from Mr. Wolfe’s office.”

  My ears prick up. “Mr. Wolfe?” I say, pretending as though I’m surprised. “What does he want with me?”

  Tyler shrugs. “His assistant said something about expanding your sessions with the traders? I guess he wants to discuss that. You want me to come with you to take notes?”

  The expression on Tyler’s face suggests that there’s anywhere he would rather be. I don’t blame him. If I hadn’t had Harlan’s face between my legs last night, I would be as wary as him about an unexpected summons from the CEOs office.

  But I did have his head between my legs… and it felt damn good.

  I flush, realizing that Tyler’s still staring at me questioningly, and my cheeks burn with hidden embarrassment.

  “Wait,” I say, replaying Tyler’s statement in my head. “Where am I going?”

  Tyler shrugs for a second time. “No idea. I just got told there’s a car waiting for you downstairs.”

  My mind goes into overdrive. This is strange. I thought Harlan wanted to keep this thing between us a secret – and yet he may as well be broadcasting this affair to the entire world!

  “Um,” I stammer, buying time to think.

  I picture what Harlan plans to do to me – and maybe me to him – wherever we’re going. There’s no way I can expose Tyler to a scene like that…

  “You know what, Tyler, you stay here. I’ll ring you if I need anything. How about we go with that plan?”

  Tyler nods hurriedly, visibly relaxing, and returns to his desk. I think fast, realizing that if the car’s waiting for me, then I don’t have long.

  I grab my laptop case, throw a couple of bits and bobs inside it, and then grab Harlan’s file from the cabinet.

  I open it up, noticing that it’s still pretty bare. The things I don’t know about my boss – and lover? – outnumber the things I do know by a thousand fold.

  I make a note of his military service, and remind myself to get to the bottom of what happened to him out there. The more I think about it, the more I’ve decided that whatever he experienced shaped his personality – his ambition, and his overwhelming need for dominance and control.

  I wave goodbye to Tyler, plunge down Wolfe Capital’s skyscraper in the elevator at stomach-turning speed, and walk out of the lobby and into a raucous Manhattan street. The smell of burnt fuel and sizzling hot dogs fills the air.

  I don’t even wait a minute before a smartly dressed driver – the man who delivered the thousand-dollar cocktail dress to me before my first date with Harlan – catches my eye.

  “Miss Warren?” He says hurriedly, his leather soles clicking on the sidewalk as he approaches me.

  “That’s me,” I smile, hiding a broader one as I realize the man’s face reddening slightly. I wonder if he’s remembering me telling him I was only wearing a towel the first time we “met”.

  “We better hurry,” the driver says, flushing. I think he knows what I’m thinking… “The boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  The limousine winds its way out of the city, and pulls up outside a private airfield just north of Manhattan. For some reason, I get a slightly uneasy feeling when my eyes pass across a sign that reads: “Teterboro Airport”.

  I wind down the privacy divider – feeling a thrill despite my concern. This is the life! I pull up short before starting to talk, realizing I don’t know who I’m actually talking to.

  “Um, sorry – I didn’t catch your name.” I say.

  “Stan,” he replies, glancing up at the rearview mirror. “How can I help you, Miss Warren?”

  “Where am I going, Stan?” I ask, raising my voice slightly to drown out the engine noise from a private jet taking off overhead. “No one told me I was going to be taking a plane ride today. And call me Skye.”

  Stan’s shoulders jerk up slightly.

  “No idea, Miss –, I mean, Skye. I just go where I’m told.”

  The limousine rocks like a white water raft as it passes over a speed bump, and Stan gently maneuvers the fancy executive car past a couple of security bollards. I drum my foot anxiously against the richly carpeted foot well, and peer out of the windows into a world I never thought I would join.

  Private jets – mostly made by Gulfstream – I think, not that I know my ass from my elbow when it comes to fancy planes – are laid up diagonally, parked almost wing to wing. Yet more noses
peek out of gray metal hangers. As little as I know, it’s obvious there must be hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of planes here – probably more.

  Stan rolls down his driver-side window, shows his credentials, and we’re let out onto the runway itself – or at least, a feeder lane. He drives confidently, as if he’s traveled this path hundreds of times before.

  I begin to wonder whether I’m the first woman that Harlan Wolfe has treated like this, and decide I don’t want to know the answer…

  “This is it, Skye,” he says, slowing and jerking his head at a private jet set apart from the rest. It’s slightly longer, as well – and a gold trim decorates the wings. “That’s Mr. Wolfe’s plane. One of them, anyway.”

  “How many does he have?” I squeak.

  “More than I have cars, that’s for sure,” Stan grunts. He spins the limousine, so that my passenger side almost kisses the waiting jet’s steps, and slows to a halt. The car’s engine cough’s and dies, and in a flash Stan has already exited his door, making for mine.

  “I can do it –”

  Myself, I say in my head as Stan gently pulls my door open and picks up my case. It’s slowly beginning to dawn on me that I’ve entered a completely different universe – a universe where uniformed men drive me around and apparently one in which I fly on private planes!

  “What do I do now?” I asked once I’m standing on the asphalt. I feel completely out of place.

  Stan jerks his head up the steps. “After you, Skye,” he says, casting an anxious look into the jet’s open doorway. He almost seems to choke when he says my name – as if he’s worried someone might note down his informality.

  I climb the steps with leaden legs. It doesn’t feel right, somehow, and yet here I am anyway. A stewardess appears immediately, as if she was waiting for the moment, and greets me with a smile.

  Stan follows close behind and sets my laptop bag down. It’s instantly spirited away. He turns to leave.

  “Stan! Wait…” I stammer.

  “Ma’am?” he replies with a questioning frown. “Anything I can do to help?”

  I let his return to formality slide. I realize that he’s probably just as uncomfortable with this situation as I am. His job was to drive me somewhere, not counsel me about my issues!

  “It doesn’t matter… I half say out loud, half-whisper. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Stan inclines his head and departs.

  What now? I wonder.

  I don’t have to wait long. After just a couple of minutes, the unmistakable clamor of rotor noise washes out over the tiny airport. I don’t pay it any attention at first, but it grows louder and louder, until I’m forced to search out the source.

  I peer out of one of the cabin windows, and almost choke with surprise. A huge helicopter – I couldn’t say what brand – slows to a hover just thirty yards away from the private jet I’m sitting on. The Wolfe Capital branding makes it obvious who the occupant is.

  “You, Skye,” I mutter – vocalizing my nervousness, “are in way over your head.”

  The helicopter sets down, kissing the asphalt skillfully without even making a bump. A second later, Harlan almost jumps out, a perfectly tailored gray suit hugging his frame as though – as I’m sure it was – it was made for him. A man follows behind him with a couple of suitcases.

  Suitcases! Where the hell am I going?

  And, I hope he packed something for me…

  “Skye!” Harlan exclaims after he’s climbed the stairs. He spreads his arms wide, and his gray eyes glitter on that perfectly chiseled face. He seems – if it’s possible – even more confident than the last time I saw him. “You made it…”

  My cheeks burn as I remember exactly when that was…

  “I wasn’t under the impression,” I mutter. “That I had a choice…”

  “You always have a choice, Skye.” Harlan smiles mischievously. I think – and this is my therapist’s voice talking – that Harlan Wolfe knows exactly what he’s doing to me. He’s taken me here to throw me off balance.

  And it’s working.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “It’s a secret,” Harlan grins back. “But trust me – you’re going to love it.”

  “I have patients, Harlan,” I say, purposefully injecting a little bit of bitchiness into my voice. In truth, it’s hard to stay angry at a man like Harlan. He has a way of ingratiating himself wherever he goes and whoever he sees. And it’s working on me…

  But regardless, I need to let him know that I’m not the kind of woman who lets just anyone push her around.

  Harlan walks toward me, and behind him I see the stewardess stowing his cases and closing the private jet’s door, dragging the stairs in first. Harlan lowers his voice.

  “Have you ever had sex at 30,000 feet,” he asks, purposefully glancing behind him to make sure the stewardess didn’t hear – or maybe to find out whether she did.

  I put my foot down. “I’m not sleeping with you, Harlan.”

  Harlan’s eyebrow jumps. “No?”

  I shake my head grumpily. “No. In fact…” I pause, stalling for time. “In fact we’re going to have a session. What do you think of that?”

  Harlan takes my coldness in his stride.

  He shrugs.

  Charmingly.

  With his suit ruffled from the ride in the helicopter, and his hair wind swept from the road to wash, he looks startlingly like a British prince. God, it’s going to be hard to resist him if he comes on to me. A girl’s only got so much self-control…

  “Well that’s why you’re here, of course,” he smiles.

  “It… Is?”

  “Of course, we can’t exactly do my sessions at the office.”

  “Why is that?” I ask – now on the back foot. I wonder if it’s accidental, or whether Harlan has skillfully – and intentionally – maneuvered the conversation in this direction.

  Harlan spreads his hands wide, takes a step forward and slumps onto an enormous armchair opposite me. “I run a multi-billion-dollar corporation, Skye,” he says as though it’s the most obvious point in the world.

  “The second word gets out that I’m in –,” he pauses, as if he’s loath to admit what this is, even to himself – “Therapy, the share price will drop a hundred points. The smart money will get out quick, and the dumb money will follow close behind.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” I protest. “And besides – not everything is about money…”

  Harlan grins. “I don’t care about the money. I’ve made more than I could ever spend.” He pats the seat beneath him. “This baby costs me twenty thousand dollars per hour to fly – and that’s just the fuel. But I make fifty thousand bucks an hour just having my cash sitting in the bank. So – ”

  My mouth drops open so wide a fly could buzz its way in. I close it sharply, breathing out as I realize what point Harlan is trying to make.

  “Even if you never worked again, you could fly this plane forever without running out of money… without even spending the interest!”

  Harlan nods, seemingly pleased. “That’s it exactly. These days money is just about keeping score.”

  “So why do you bother?” I ask, stumped. “Why not just take off,” I say as the jet’s engines whine behind us, “and spend the rest of your life in some island in the Caribbean?”

  Harlan frowns, and states “because Wolfe Capital is my baby, of course.”

  I lean back into my seat and study Harlan’s face. I don’t think he’s lying to me. For all his love of flash motorbikes, private planes and expensive meals, I think he is telling the truth. The money really doesn’t matter to him. Of course, what the money can buy is another matter entirely…

  But it makes me think. If it’s not the money, then what is it? Why all the bother? There’s something here that doesn’t make sense, and I’m determined to find out what it is.

  “How did you sleep last night?” I ask.

  “Like a baby,” Harlan says quickly
– too quickly for it to be true.

  “So, you were up every forty minutes needing the bathroom?” I ask archly.

  Harlan’s eyebrows dart up for a second. “Okay, you got me. I slept like shit. You want to know why?”

  I wince, realizing that my laptop case – and notebook – is out of reach. I think about calling the stewardess, but decided against it. If Harlan’s on the verge of opening up to me, than the last thing I want is to interrupt him.

  And anyway, Harlan Wolfe doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who will respond well if I make the treatment environment too clinical. He’ll just shut down, and that’s the last thing I want. I decide to play the game on his terms.

  “Shoot,” I say.

  “I was up all night thinking about you, Skye,” Harlan growls, raking his eyes across my body. His tongue flicks out and wets his lips. “About the way you looked with your legs spread. About how much I want to – ”

  “Don’t say it,” I whisper, my voice choked. I know what was about to come out of Harlan’s mouth. “Fuck you.” I hear the words echo in my head regardless. I picture Harlan – naked – standing in front of me.

  “Why not, Skye,” Harlan says, his voice softer now. “Why hold back when you know you want it?”

  “Because I don’t want you…” I whisper. “Not like this.”

  Harlan’s forehead furrows. For the first time he looks truly stumped. “Like this?”

  216

  Harlan

  The silence between Skye and me grows thick and heavy with tension. Unfortunately, for both of us, this time it’s not sexual tension. The plane’s engines grow louder and louder, and the jet begins to coast down the runway.

  “What you mean, like this?” I repeat.

  Skye chews her bottom lip. She seems tense, maybe unsure whether to delve any further.

  “This,” she whispers, waving her arm around my jet’s luxuriously appointed interior. “All of this. I want you to be different, Harlan. I want you to be open to me, to us, because otherwise, what is this except a fling, an affair?”