by JR King
Alexander laughed as well.
Aidan cracked a sexist joke.
Then they all laughed, nearly splitting their guts. If I had supernatural powers, I would have blasted the smirks off their cute faces.
“I hate them,” I mewled, breezing out of the living room.
Three of a kind. As Jim Reeves crooned something about a white Christmas on the Bose SoundDock, I did my Christmas shopping online. I was glad I found a rare Romain Jerome watch for my doofus boyfriend. No caveat emptor, it was an original.
For the cocktail event, a Wynn nightclub had been transformed into a formal reception venue. No event was too onerous for this establishment. Event managers were thorough, and handpicked and delegated with heart. Round highboy tables covered with spandex and sky-high centerpieces were scattered around. An extended bar with a splendiferous made-to-order buffet stood on one end, an orchestra played on the opposite side, and flameless candles littered the entire periphery. The food was wholesome, doctored by a James Beard award-winning chef after popular restaurant foods. Tasty nibbles included cured ocean trout with its own roe and horseradish, guinea hen and lardo ravioli, beef tartare with egg yolk, sunchoke purée on sea lettuce, smoked cod cheeks and crispy chicken skin. Main dishes were prepped à la minute. The seafood display alone was a work of fine art; canned caviar, half-shell oysters, steaming mussels and clams, broiled lobster, and fried catfish. The meat lovers got spoiled with steak and truffles, spicy sausages with pesto mash, honey glazed pork belly, and caramelized duck breast. For dessert, there were sumptuous pastries and a gelato station.
Guests arrived by the handful. Jubilant, and in proper etiquette, they greeted the host and his entourage of public figures. Carina was here too, a vision to behold gowned in Elie Saab. Her hair was upswept and sprinkled with diamond hairpins, the dark color a striking contrast to her cream ensemble. Men clustered around her like bees drawn to the Queen’s nectar.
Before long, people mingled and conversations were in full swing. Voices hymned with sonorous glee, and small crowds of seven or eight began gathering around some of the tables. Others refreshed drinks at the bar. It was only a little while later that I noticed the music was blaring somewhat louder than the usual. Guests were swaying to the seductive beat.
The Senator before me offered his wife an amused smile, turning to her. “Do you mind giving us a minute? I need to talk to Mr. Elliot about a project.” Compliantly, she nodded at him and he slapped her ass. “Run along now, missy. Man talk.” It was so corny, like she was an actress in a sixties movie or something.
I stayed put.
Twisting a diamond-studded wedding band, Lloyd McNamara gave me a lecherous leer. He was middle-aged, over forty according to my eyes, the salt-and-pepper bristles that capped his skull glinting in the bright light. His skin was stained orange, his face a mass of wrinkles. Too much sun in Hawaii—I predicted.
Alexander was engaged in conversation with a CNN correspondent. I held my flute to my lips and found Tony’s eyes. Please, get me away from this creep, I thought, hoping desperately that he could hear prayers.
He nodded imperceptibly. “Senator, ‘scuse us,” he told Lloyd with the authority that only someone of his size could project.
Still twirling his wedding band, Lloyd smiled at me. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to look me up, Ms. Anderson.” His voice was flat, dispassionate, yet strangely authoritarian.
Without giving me the time to respond, Tony took me by the elbow and guided me away.
“Thank you for saving me, Prince Charming,” I said.
“You read like a book.”
“There’s a kernel of truth in that, old-timer.”
“Little bitch.” He cocked his head to the side and smirked at me, and there was no anger in it. “Your time will come.”
We mingled heartily with young out-of-towners. On my way to the ladies’ room, Carina was lying in the wait, staring at me, holding a drink served in a tall glass with lots of ice and a slice of lemon, rivulets of condensation beading the outside. I stared back at her. My shoes were pinching my little toes. I didn’t know what else to do, so I moved forward and extended my hand to shake.
She didn’t shake my hand. “Hello, Elena,” she drummed up in a tone reminiscent of the famous Hello, Newman.
“Carina. Hi.”
“I read about the accident. A drunk driver who missed a pedestrian by a whisker. Awful. I’m glad you’re healed. Surprised to see you here, I thought you were still on bed rest. Recuperating.”
“Thanks to Alex, I’ve fully recovered.”
Her eyes stared frostily into mine, then catalogued my appearance. “I wanted to have a quiet word with you. I’m astonished, you surprise me at every…corner.”
“I don’t understand. You know what? Humor me a little. Do it for the kids.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of you as a worthy, take-charge adversary.”
“Adversary? You’re out of the picture, Carina,” I reminded the back-stabbing, self-aggrandizing bitch, very sweetly.
Her eyes, limned with envy, glared at me. “If you think for one second you can make him happy, you’re very much mistaken.”
“And you can? I make him happy everyday.” I was gloating.
“He has needs you cannot possibly begin to satisfy,” she snarled.
“What do you know of his needs? That he should date some painslut?”
She cringed at hearing the pejorative term.
“I’m not into that shit. Yet he chose me.”
She wagged a finely manicured finger at me. “How dare you judge our lifestyle? You know nothing, and if you think he’s going to be happy with a judgmental bitch like you, think again.”
A whirlwind of words—a tornado raged in my mind, each one vehemently pressing to be let out. “What lifestyle? Alexander doesn’t subscribe to a specific lifestyle. And don’t you dare come between us,” I sneered at her. “Grow up or use a chill pill, will you? Why’s your marriage on hold? When will you understand you’re not in the running anymore? When will you learn that it’s over between my boyfriend and you?”
Carina’s eyebrows lifted, the heat in her eyes cooling. She gaped, terror-struck, but not at me. Past me. I realized her ex-dominant was standing behind me.
Eyes watchful, I waited.
“What’s going on, Carina?”
She spoke softly, “She’s not right for you, sir.” Her eyelids fluttered moth-like.
“Oh yeah?” he chuckled, startling both of us. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt the anger radiating off him in waves so strong I felt myself trembling. “How the fuck do you know what’s right for me?”
“We have needs, Alex.” The glint in her steel-blue eyes was telling.
“You have unrequited needs at the moment, I believe. I don’t perpetually need add-ons,” Alexander huffed, his voice dripping with contempt.
“You’re making a big mistake. I’m a better match for you,” she suggested arrogantly.
“Indeed you are, Carina.”
I swallowed, tried to get rid of the bitter lump in my throat.
“In other words, you’re a better match than Elena to pave a path to my own destruction. With you I could lead a loveless life. And every time I’d want to fuck, I’d have to tie you up and beat you.”
“That’s not true.”
“We had sex once, Carina. And it was bad. I just fucked you while you cried. You were crying because I hadn’t hurt you. Because it was vanilla.”
Thanks for taking her down a peg, Alexander. Totally out of line, “Once only?” I commented unnecessarily. “Sorry. I’ll leave you to it.” I twirled away.
Okay—yes, I didn’t actually twirl, but you get what I’m saying. I felt great. A kind of radioactive joy. Maybe this is how Zidane felt when he won the World Cup. How Packers felt when they won the Super Bowl. How Cardinals felt when they won the World Series.
“Elena.” It seemed that Alexander was right behind me. “Will
you be all right if I leave for an hour?”
“Strip club?”
“We’ll drop you off.”
“Mind if Ray and I stay here, handsome?” I drawled, my lips curving in a small smile.
He answered with a slow, secretive smile of his—the one I knew well.
Alexander Turner
The Changed Man
The strip club was business as usual, a session of lap dances and the like in the Champagne Room. Too tedious to put into words. For example, the black bodysuit the girl on me was wearing had scarcely any material to it; sheer mesh exposed her tits and privates, and latticed lace cutouts encaged her waist in a bandage-like style. Her eyes were heavily rimmed with black eyeliner. Still, I enjoyed as she straddled my knee, rubbing herself off in the sexy atmosphere while I looked her in the eye and kept pulling her head into position so that she couldn’t disengage from my gaze.
We good if I skip the rest?
I’ll take that as a yes.
For a last drink, and the highlight of the evening, I whisked Elena off to the Tower Suite bar. Lots of patrons were swarming out. My eyes searched for the bartender, someone was monopolizing him on the other side. Maybe Steve knew I was here, because a sexy, ultrafriendly hostess came out of the woodwork and miraculously produced two vodka martinis and strawberries on a silver salver in front of us—compliments of the house. When in Vegas, Wynn was the place to be for serious bad boys, and girls. I’d outgrown my crazy ways, partying à la Barney Stinson. Nowadays I enjoyed being backstage. Owning a playroom was most useful; it prevented scandals and royal missteps.
Eyes brimming with mischief, Elena hopped up on the white barstool and threw the dice. “Your family knows them?” she asked dully.
My eyes caught hers. “Acquaintances.” I moved a little closer to her, sipping my drink. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but now I realized with a mixture of amusement and annoyance that she was baiting me in public. Licking the rim of her glass as if she were licking a salt-rimmed margarita glass. My gaze traveled down her body. Her long legs swung back and forth, her heels clicking against the rung of the barstool. I imagined them wrapped around my hips as I drilled her.
“Alex, don’t you think,” my eyes moved up to hers, which twinkled beneath thickly mascaraed eyelashes, “the cocktail is tight like a snatch?”
“How would you know what a tight snatch feels like?”
She put both elbows on the bar and squeezed her upper body between them, pushing her breasts together in the most mouthwatering, erotic way imaginable. “I made out with girls at univ.” She caught me staring at her creamy, tasty-looking cleavage, but didn’t call me out on it. “I experimented after what P…we used to do lots of shots the first year.”
Her tipsy goofiness was sexier than the strippers I’d watched earlier. I sound old, don’t I? Only a little, right? “How far did my little kitten take it? Third base? Home run? Grand slam?”
“Ace,” she grinned that childish grin of hers, and I could almost get hard just from watching her lick the curvature of her lips, “it was definitely a home run.” My brain couldn’t even comprehend what she was telling me. I was adept at assessing sexual experience. Did this mean that she—? Tongue-tied, I took the opportunity to study her, the girl I’d known for over twelve years. She looked the same—high cheekbones, blue eyes, an angelic smile—but I suspected I was only starting to get to know her. To really know her as the person she wanted to be. And I’m sure the same was true for me; I’d changed. I was blossoming into someone else, someone I liked much better than the snarky and snide person you saw earlier tonight.
My open-mouthed expression must have clued Elena in. “Sex is sex, Alex. It has nothing to do with love.”
That should have been my tagline. I smiled all the way, trying to conceal my amusement as I replied in a soothingly calm voice. “Smart pet.”
I waved over the bartender. He arrived without ceremony, and gave me a smirk, maybe guessing what I had in mind. “Mr. Turner. A pleasure.”
“Jose Cuervo. 250 Aniversario.” I tempered my tone. “At any cost, keep ‘em coming until I leave with this girl.”
Elena laughed a pirate-wench laugh and leaned in to give me a quick peck on the lips. “They’ll kick us out.”
Utilizing my CEO tone, “Not gonna happen,” I told her.
Folks, some history. Jose Cuervo was the world’s oldest tequila maker, and this particular tequila’s pedigree was unbeatable. It consisted of 5, 10, 15, and 20-year-old añejo tequilas, and a splash of blanco tequila that’d been stored for a century. The final concoction had been aged in sherry casks for almost an extra year before being poured into hand-blown decanters. No wonder Elena eyed the shot like a knife was going to jump out of the glass and stab her.
I grinned. “It’s just a shot, sweetheart. Don’t be a baby.”
“Don’t be a pussy,” she corrected my statement, whispering.
My grin widened further. It was the first time she’d used the word pussy between us, her cheeks even turned red. She was commonly eloquent and decorous in her use of language in everyday circumstances. I found it amusing to hear her talk in such vernacular. “Do the shot,” I entreated.
“From me to you, Mr. Turner.” Even at the point of sounding repetitive, she looked absolutely adorable, swimming in bravery. I knew the alcohol most likely burned her throat like hell, but it was worth seeing the expression on her face. It twisted with disgust, and once it was gone, she smiled warmly at me, licking her lips in that sluggish manner I loved. “Delish. The shots we did back then weren’t sho tashty.”
My heart skidded at the thought of her making out with some hot chick, alarms wailing in my head as my throat constricted. No salt, I threw back my shot, and no lemon either. Smoke and cherry assailed my palate, and most surprising of all, I could smell the caramel and agave, something that was usually absent in aged tequilas.
Elena crooked a finger to beckon the bartender.
“One last one, no more.” I nodded at the bum and he knew what to do.
She picked up a strawberry and began sucking on it. Just to drive me insane.
I looked around for Ray.
“Tastes good…,”
I was barely listening to her. She was sucking on a fucking strawberry, which looked juicy and ripe as it slipped into her wet, wanting mouth.
“You look very beautiful while licking that berry, Ms. Anderson. But you’ll look even more beautiful while licking my cock.”
“You’re playing with my head.” She leaned in to me, her breasts on my chest. Blood rushed straight down into my cock. I could feel her hard nipples through our clothing. I’d fuck her right here if I could get away with it. “Playin’ with my head, not my body. You had much fun with strippers.” She bit into another cherry. My cock wanted out of my trousers and inside that warm, tight pussy it knew so well. My head didn’t even give a fuck what Elena was doing anymore, what her incentive was. I’d shifted into sixth gear mode, a mechanized ferocity thrumming through me.
She swayed on her feet and grabbed the edge of the bar. “I’m taking Sara with me the next time. Just tellin’ you, we’ll go to a Chippendales show.”
It dawned on me that she could feel my hard-on on her thigh, so I pushed up against her a little. I paused on a breath when she took over. Too tormented by the feel of her warm thigh gliding up and down my raging dick, my face grew stern. Elena was moving with purpose now, driving me on with a circular grinding of her hips. “Time to bust a move. Drink up so we can go back to the hotel and have drunk sex. It’s the local sport.”
Her eyes fluttered shut after the last shot. I was in full Vegas-mode. Drunk or not, I longed to pull her into my lap and sink myself into her slick sex.
Contracting my pelvic muscles, I willed my erection down and did the best I could to cap the tension. Elena tottered out of the bar with Ray while I jammed my hands into my trouser pockets, holding myself in check. With an assuming smile, I generously tipped the waiter, and the
hostess.
I expected to find Elena asleep as I went inside the waiting car. She was awake and soberish.
I asked, “Do you forgive me?”
She answered in that fuzzy triple-a kind of manner: “F-forwhaaat?” Her hand moved to take mine, tangling her fingers with mine.
“For kidnapping and isolating you. In two weeks it will be the new year. Look, babe, I could do the whole Red speech. I’m going to stick to my guns and say—,”
“Ah-h! Do it, do a stump speech!” she clapped excitedly. “Because to tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit about the kidnapping.”
“Baby, there’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try and talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone and this old man is all that’s left. I got to live with that. Rehabilitated? It’s just a bullshit word. So you go on and stamp your form, sonny, and stop wasting my time. Point is, Elena, I have serious flaws.”
She reached out to smoothen my arched eyebrow with the tip of her finger. “Foibles and imperfections are a part of us.”
The limousine practically raced to our hotel. Once we were inside the bedroom, I zipped open her dress in a minute and removed her underwear in less than that. She clutched my shirt collar to prevent herself from toppling over. My tongue greedily delved between her lips and licked against her tongue. I detached my lips long enough from hers to yank my suit off my body, flinging it onto the floor. I was painfully hard. The cool air felt invigorating against my hot skin. I took a step back to admire the inviting naked girl in front of me before my hands sought out the mass of dark brown hair, lips rushing back to hers. I kissed her hungrily, my tongue assaulting her with frantic energy as I pushed her up against the cool, smooth wall and slid my cock inside her.
“Wet and tight, fucking perfect.” I moved in long, slow thrusts, thudding harder against the wall each time I went deeper. “Stop me if you’re in pain.”