by JR King
“Someone wired over a million dollars to the Sawyer family account the same day Ina Sawyer hit Elena.”
Something that felt like a heavy rock settled in my gut. “You don’t think—,”
“Someone wants her out of the picture.” An accusatory finger rose toward me. “Any ideas? An unstable ex with Histrionic Personality Disorder?”
My mind started doing back-handsprings. “Haven’t dealt with any unstable ones lately,” I said in a properly grave voice. “Did investigators rule out any criminal wrongdoing in Mitchell’s car accident? Was it vehicle malfunction…or…Anna?”
“It wasn’t us, that’s as sure as a stone drops from the hand. Leave it to me. I’ll find the perpetrator.”
Minutes later, the bedroom door slammed shut behind me. Delightfully alone with Elena for dinner, I planted a quick, chaste kiss on her forehead, running my fingers through her hair. “We’re stuck in a pickle,” I smiled, sitting down. Removing the silver cloches from our plates, I pulled a fry from a paper sleeve. “I just remembered that fast food isn’t allowed on your diet. Fry?” I held it out to her across the bed.
She clamped her mouth shut, remaining unresponsive.
I poked at her with the fry. “Lost your tongue? Aren’t you hungry, baby?” Nodding solemnly, I put my forefinger to my lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t. My lips are sealed, mum’s the word.”
“Did you talk to me while I was comatose?” she asked cautiously, giving her lips a lick.
There comes a point in your life when you find yourself on the edge of a cliff. That famous watershed moment. Looking down at the jagged rocks below, you dive off it, hoping your lifeline doesn’t snap. Currently, I was on that cliff. I didn’t have the guts to lead Elena astray. Then, just I was about to confess, Sophia’s words popped into my mind. Take me at my word, if she finds out, you’ll be a letdown and she’ll leave you. Even if lies walk on short legs, right, telling the truth wasn’t in my best interest. I went with: “Zealotry. I was preaching new rules.”
“Nothing about ice cream and Sara?” I noticed the color in her eyes becoming lusterless.
I blinked a few times and shoved a hand through my hair, sighing in frustration. “Come again?”
Her face contorted in a grimace. “That’s what I thought. It makes absolutely no sense.” She snatched the fry and popped it into her mouth.
Against my better judgment, I began swirling my thumb in slow circles on her back. “Do you remember the dream?” I probed a little further.
“Not really,” she gasped, letting out a soft noise, more to herself than me. “Someone was buying ice cream for us.” She wrapped her fingers around my wrist, pulling my hand to her mouth, nuzzling her face into my palm and pressing a kiss to the center. I felt a shiver go up my arm, resounding through my back in a cascade of sensation. Noticing the effect she had on me, a pleased smile settled on her face.
I moved away from her by just inches, but she immediately arched her body to follow mine. A sharp, profound groan broke from my mouth. Reaching out lazily, I pulled her head close to mine until millimeters separated our lips, her breast curving gloriously in my palm. For a moment, her warm breath caressed my lips, delicious expectation making me more desperate. When we kissed, it was a kiss with closed lips, bodies trembling and waiting for remnants of pain to pass. Given how much I’d missed the intimacy, the chasteness of the kiss seemed ridiculous.
“It’s vital that we wait till you’re healed,” I breathed gruffly.
“What will happen then?”
I took in the warm puffs of air that escaped her parted lips. “Itching for a declaration of intent, aren’t we? Miss getting spanked, kitten?”
She colored a little, sweetening the deal with, “I think yes, sir. I need loving bondage-sex.”
“I like that I can still make you blush.” My hands ran up and down her back, molding the column of it. “Eat now.”
“Are you put off by the scar?”
I gave her a lazy smile, my fingers reaching out to stroke her hair. The weight and glossy texture of it never ceased to fascinate me, reminding me of fine-spun silk. I purposely suckled her neck. “Not by a long shot. Scars are beautiful, they’re bastions of beauty.”
“Then what?”
I gave her a mini-glare. “Don’t be that way. You need to physically heal.”
“Big whoop. I’m horny.”
Her words clung to the air like a gossamer web, the sensual quality in her voice making me ache. Two days after the atrocious accident, Bloodhound Gang’s The Bad Touch started replaying in my head. You and me baby ain’t nothing but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel. Because abstinence could make things interesting, it’d kept me from dry humping the walls. “So am I. Doesn’t mean I’ll jump you.”
“Be that way. I’m going to Gold Shire for hardcore role-playing.”
I sighed in exasperation, nodded. “Do what you want. Eat first.”
We ate, and then I had a good laugh watching her fool around in WoW. ERP, the nerds had dubbed it. My jealousy went down a few notches, I was content playing snuggle bunny. Real funny shit because all you do is type in commands. Since the majority of players were male, it was just gay sex.
Around midnight, she closed her laptop. “Guys can be so dumb.”
I curled my fingers around her neck, tight enough to make her gasp. “Want me to read you a slumberous bedtime story?”
She pulled at my hand, moaning a plaintive, wordless sound before it changed into a long, wounded moan. I kissed her cheek and offered her mine, moving my hands from her neck to either side of her body. “Mine.” It was a hoarse whisper, and I was kissing her cheek again.
She brought her lips to my ear. “Yours. Read me something erotic, sir. Something dark and a little depraved while I play with myself.”
I went to the library to fetch the autographed first edition of Anne Rice’s The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty. If I haven’t mentioned it yet, masturbation was allowed during our so-called abstinence practice.
How Elena pulled the next act together remained a mystery. As I reunited with her in the bedroom, she was no longer wearing a silk kimono. Standing in the middle of the room, with her hair pinned up and a touch of makeup, she wore the Uschi slip. I’d made it clear months ago that she was forbidden to wear the red and black fringe flapper dress in public, even if wearing lingerie dresses was a trending phenomenon.
“See something you like, Mr. Turner?” She pulled up the dress’s hem, revealing lace and satin garters.
“You’re going to give me a coronary, baby. Better stop teasing.”
She dropped the dress, her soft smile almost childlike, but not bashful. Momentarily stunned, I drank in the sight of her body. She stood proudly, hands on her side so I could see everything. Her body was fit and toned, the muscles in her arms and legs subtly defined. Despite her slenderness, she was undeniably feminine. Her small breasts were surprisingly round, her hips inflected outward, and her ass was modestly curved. I couldn’t stop staring. The tight tendons of her regal neck, the perfectly rounded curve of her angular shoulder, the delicious swell and jiggle of her breasts as she took harsh breaths, the dips of skin between her ribs, a small scar smeared across the right side. A week beforehand—the third week of recovery, the doctor had removed Elena’s bandages and began scar treatment. All I can say is that her chest couldn’t be any prettier. Her thighs, on the other hand, were perhaps a little too thin.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking you’re prettier with the scar.” She gasped. “It’s a horrible thing that happened to you. Yet I can’t help myself.” A series of rough sexual images blossomed and died in my mind’s eye. It took everything in me not to throw her on the bed and fuck the life out of her. Ruinously. Irresponsibly.
“Interested in some role-playing, Alex?” she warbled. Her hand was sprawled across her naked stomach, her thumb stroking back and forth. “Teacher and student? I, the
lazy, disrespectful brat, am in need of student discipline. I didn’t finish my dissertation in favor of lingerie shopping.”
“You couldn’t leave well-enough alone, could you, little one? Either lose the mantrap outfit, or I’m going to overnight at Antoinette’s.” This is why you always need to be on good terms with your neighbors. To be someone given to whimsy.
While we’re on the subject of neighbors, I invited Spencer and Antoinette over for Thanksgiving. Their children lived abroad, and typically came back for Christmas.
Making your own Thanksgiving table is a shit ton of work, but I did it, with Jillian, Frank, and my own grandmother’s help of course. This year, the Andersons and Turners reunited at my estate, and Elena even invited a couple of D’Souza family members, the ones that’d contacted her after the accident. It was a gesture born out of respect; she hadn’t seen her paternal family since her mother’s death. To my relief and everyone else’s satisfaction, the D’Souzas politely declined the invitation.
Between the attending families, there was no pell-mell combination of shortsighted grandparents, sniping siblings, racist aunts or liberal-hating uncles, or homophobic cousins. Frank was a great cook and Cecilia a great technician, there was no bad food, each classic dish was unimpeachable. The turkey was cooked perfectly, the haricots verts were tender, the potato mash was velvety, the flavor of the giblet gravy was pure, and the cranberry sauce was particularly clean and concise. I absolutely loved the butternut squash soup. For me, it was the highlight of the dinner. Unspeakably delicious were the little bits of minced ginger melting into the glistening liquid, which rang the bells of nostalgia for me. That simple coupling of a vegetable and a root spice was a reminder of childhood soups and motherly love. It might surprise you, but my mother loved cooking, and though she seldom experimented with spices or peppers, whenever she did it was spot on.
A successful Thanksgiving dinner means no one watches how many drinks you have, or how many slices of pumpkin meringue pie you have if you had a bit too much to drink. No one argues about religion or politics, and no one tells stories you’ve heard a million times before. So, if we were to go off on these standards, it was a successful—and sexless—evening.
Elena Anderson
The Reluctance Games
Between the Douglas Fir, Canaan Fir, Fraser Fir, Concolor Fir, and White Pine on the well-curated list, I was clueless. I needed grandpa to help me make an informed choice. I walked to the window overlooking the lake. I stood before it, staring at the snow-dusted garden beyond my silhouette’s reflection in the glass. I was almost there, the one-year anniversary of my kidnapping. It shouldn’t excite me, but it did. I wanted Alexander to play darker games with me. Some sick part of me wanted to experience the violence. I wanted him to spank me, to take me roughly, shoving his thick cock into me with a force that’s both arousing and painful.
I thrust my hands so forcefully into my dress’s pockets I feared the seams would rip. The vibration of the iPhone against the glass surface of the table pulled me from my memories. I let my aunt’s call go to voicemail, and returned my attention to the online catalogue.
Alexander was in his vest when he marched into the living room, and he’d loosened his tie. In the morning, I’d selected the Hardy Amies suit. Jacket out and loose tie were obvious signs of stress. A strange urge to lick him from head to toe and back washed over me.
“Good evening, Alex.”
“Evenin’, sweetheart.” His fingers skimmed down my collarbone, his eyes tracing the movement.
With lips thinned, he reached out with one hand and undid the first button of his pinstripe waistcoat. His eyes never left mine.
“Someone’s not happy. I’ll give you a clue: it isn’t me.” I brought his free hand to my lips to nibble on his fingers. Taking his thumb into my mouth, I slid the pad of it over my tongue, sucking gently on the tip. He arched a single eyebrow, then the hard lines bracketing his mouth smoothed out. I closed my teeth around his thumb, and my cheeks sunk in when I sucked in harder, my head bobbing as I tried to elicit a reaction from him.
“Fuck it.” A glimmer of a hard-to-resist smile played across his lips. He finished unbuttoning his waistcoat, and then worked the buttons of his striped blue shirt, pulling it wide apart.
My eyebrows lifted as he pulled down his fly and reached inside his boxers.
A few seconds later, his cock popped out, the tip damp with pre-come. “Give me head.” His face was taut with lust, his jaw clenched tight. Growing impatient, he pulled me by my ponytail.
Shivers ran from the nape of my neck to my tailbone as I palmed him. “What happened to abstinence? Your penis has forgotten that we have three days to go.”
“My penis is quite dumb,” he muttered. “Can’t do it. Can’t concentrate on work, can’t enjoy food, can’t sleep.” He pressed his cock to my lips. “All this talk will lead to nothing good. Swallow my cock, Elena. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
Looking up at him, I drank in the tortured expression on his face, truly enjoying the taste of raw power. “A blowjob? Not stock prices, market shares, and investment concepts?”
He fisted my hair. “Stop talking. Suck my cock with that smart mouth of yours.”
“If I say no?”
“I’ll rub it out. I also won’t speak to you for days.”
“Poor Alex.” My hands grasped his heavy balls, making him groan. I took him in my mouth, contracting the inside of my cheeks around him, humming softly. His hands tightened in my hair when he felt the inside of my cheeks rubbing against his hardness. It was sloppy. Saliva ran down my cheek, dripping inside my cleavage. And the way he held my hair hurt my scalp, but the discomfort aroused the little masochist in me.
Eventually, he closed his eyes and became wild, fucking my mouth to find his release. I tried to take him deeper when he pushed his hips forward, forcing his cock further into my throat, but I gagged, spitting up saliva. It didn’t seem to annoy him. “Yes, that’s it. That’s a good girl. We’re almost there,” he hissed, opening his eyes to watch me as he fucked my face with hard, relentless drives. More saliva dribbled down my chin when I choked. I heaved for oxygen; I couldn’t breathe. Involuntarily, I shifted a little off the sofa, nudging his legs. “I’m there. Remember to breathe through your nose. Swallow,” he grunted.
I drank his come, which was something he highly rewarded. “What about me?” I wiped my mouth and chin with the back of my hand. “I demand my Lion’s share.”
A slow smile began playing around his lips. “Search for clues.”
Only then did I notice the rose petal confetti strewn across the room, trailing like breadcrumbs toward the hallway. I followed the path they made, and came to a stop before our bedroom door. “No playroom?” I asked this regretfully.
“Not yet.” I cracked under the pressure of his snow-soft kisses on my neck. “How about a compromise? An exotic drink?”
“Something with alcohol, please?”
To his credit, he didn’t react to my petulant behavior, his eyes merely flashed dark and dangerous under the slant of thick eyebrows. “The best way to slake your thirst is with…,”
Before he could finish, I slapped the palms of my hands over my ears and started shouting a train of lalalas.
“Jesus Christ, give me a gallant benefit of the doubt. I was going to say a potable bellini. Nothing could be further from my mind than bodily fluids.” The roguish gleam coloring the shell of his eyes suggested otherwise. Randy pervert. Rake. Liar. The most beautiful liar I’d ever seen.
“You’re such a manipulator.”
“Am I hearing complaining, dahhhling?”
Since we spent hours in bed the moment he came home, Jillian made sure that kitchen staff brought over an ice bucket, a water pitcher, glasses, and fruity cocktail ingredients, setting them on the ebony sideboard.
Alexander fixed me a cocktail, almost a glassful, and made himself a generous whiskey. He set his drink on the nightstand and handed me mine, a flut
e filled with orange-amber bubbly. “Drink one good swallow, then give it back.”
Sipping slowly, I savored the champagne. A tickle lingered at the back of my throat, confirming this wasn’t the non-alcoholic sparkling wine I’d been consuming for weeks.
“Thank you, sir.” I returned the glass, scrutinizing him as he one-handedly pulled out his shirttails.
We sat cross-legged opposite each other on the bed, staring at one another. Raising the flute, he took a tiny sip from it and waited. By now the drink would be disgustingly warm. He leaned forward and kissed me, letting the liquid travel from his mouth into mine. He continued feeding me the cocktail this way, slowly flowing it from his mouth to mine. There was a downside to the playful gesture. Each time he gave me another swallow, the kiss grew more violent, and the nip on my bottom lip grew more painful. Despite his reticence, I knew the sadist in him had taken over.
Flute empty, I begged for more.
“You’ve had enough for tonight. You’re on meds, kitten.”
I spread my arms wide. “Don’t you want to take advantage of me?”
“You think I need alcohol for that?” The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle, but one filled with carnal hunger long denied. Lips crushed and tongues shoved deeper and deeper, as if we couldn’t get enough of each other. Breaking pattern, Alexander’s lips floated over my upper chest, nipping a trail across the slope of my shoulders. “I can pretty much order you to do anything I want, Elena. Even pet play.”
I pulled back. “I’m not into that.”
He rearranged the pillows and sat up against the headboard. “I call bullshit. Doesn’t matter what you’re into, love. You’ll do as your master desires.” Taking a sip of whiskey, he leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I’m just exploring avenues that don’t include physical pain.”
“How can I serve you?”
Roughly patting my cheek, he traced my jawline with his fingertips, then rested two extended fingers on my lips. I took them into my mouth, sucking hard. He hooked his fingers behind my bottom teeth, pulling me forward by the jaw, whispering, “Reluctance.”