by Eden Connor
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
COME, THEY TOLD ME
First edition. December 19, 2014.
Copyright © 2014 Eden Connor.
Written by Eden Connor.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Come, They Told Me
Eden Connor
Hour One
Hour Two
Hour Three
Hour Four
Further Reading: Wildly Inappropriate
Also By Eden Connor
Come, They Told Me
From the Files of Banger & Lever
Eden Connor
Author’s Note: This story first appeared in the Naughty Nights Press Christmas Anthology, Doing the Naughty List, Twice, published in 2011. The story has been revised prior to re-issue, but the title and substance remain the same.
Actual story word count: 8000 words.
Hour One
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Each tap of Davis Laramie’s gold pen on the heavy linen-bond paper pointed out yet another place I needed to sign. Each signature brought me one step closer to selling the company I’d poured the last nine years of my life into building. The sound reminded me of the passing time, but time’s something everyone’s obsessed with on New Year’s Eve.
I’d plucked a nondescript sunglasses manufacturing firm out of the also-ran pile. Changing the company name to Banger and Lever, I molded the product into the top-selling brand of sunglasses worldwide. I’d plucked a husband from the also-ran pile as well, allowing myself to be blinded by the glitter of Rincón Gutierrez’s on-field exploits with New York’s favorite baseball team. After he got caught doing steroids, I still stuck by him.
My husband put up a fierce—and expensive—battle against the MLB, but in the end, he lost his lucrative contract. Since he didn’t have his one true love—baseball—his frustration led him into the arms of several wannabe starlets and one very famous, older pop singer. I sued him for divorce. He countered by suing me for half of Banger and Lever.
The judge ruled the company to be outside of our pre-nuptial agreement because he felt Rincón had been “instrumental” in the company’s success. I had a hard time accepting that the jerk was entitled to half of my company’s profits simply because he’d been the company spokes model when B.L.O. was in its infancy.
Yes, I’m that Sophie. Sophie Weller Gutierrez, CEO of Banger and Lever Optics, a woman so jaded by the age of twenty-one that I named my company after the concept of the one-night stand. That piece of branding made me a fortune and emotionally, it summed up my life.
Tonight I was selling Banger and Lever. On the very night when the rest of New York was getting dressed up and looking forward to new beginnings, here I sat, tied up in endings.
Across the conference table, Matthias Jackson, my buyer, shifted in his seat.
I bent my head again to the endless forms. Time to put up or shut up, as Matt would say. I’d had the chance to learn a lot of Matt’s colorful sayings. For the last four months, my buyer had worked diligently to learn my business from the ground up. I’d worked equally hard to teach him every detail about the business he was purchasing, because, to my secret delight, Matt was a ground-up sort of man. Not the kind to be fooled by the slick elegance of my corner office in the clouds. He wanted to see the dim storage basements, the busy factory floors in wretched overseas locations, wanted to become intimate with the dirty underbelly of the money-making beast I’d fashioned. I’d delighted in showing him those details, because I was that sort as well.
Working with Matt had been no hardship. He stood six-five in his abused Tony Lamas. His well-sculpted ass was always—and I mean always—clad in some dime-store denim, but the man had an air of command that intimidated even the snottiest New York maître d’. His billion-dollar bank account didn’t hurt in that regard. Mathias Jackson had so much money he could’ve sauntered into Peter Luger’s in just the Stetson and boots and still scored the primo table.
Davis—the lawyer with the golden pen—was even more intelligent than he was beautiful, and so persuasive he could probably talk a subway bum into giving him his last quarter. The poor bum would smile about walking away from the encounter bankrupt, because an angel had done the asking. I’d approached my old school friend after not seeing the man for over a decade, because Davis had the connections to pull a buyer for my company out of his hat.
The three of us had enjoyed more than one working luncheon as we’d hammered out the details of transferring ownership of Banger and Lever to Matt.
Davis offered to handle my divorce as well.
At my insistence, both undertakings would be wrapped up tonight, on New Year’s Eve. Money, I’ve found, can’t buy love, but it can get me most anything else. Like a working Supreme Court judge on a holiday.
Each time Davis leaned forward, the scent of his expensive cologne tickled my nose and the pants of his soft cashmere and wool suit caressed my knee. His arm across the back of my chair felt comforting, helping me take this huge step.
It’d been the year from hell, starting with the divorce and ending with the nightmare of being trapped in a car dangling on the side of an embankment in the Adirondacks for eighteen hours with my mother. Mom had persuaded me to take a day trip back in October, to see the leaves change. A truck ran me off the road without a backward glance.
What do two terrified women talk about for that length of time as they cling to the hope of rescue?
Well, I’ll tell you. We began by talking about all the things my mother held dear, from Aigner to the Alps and from Versace to Venice, and progressed in much greater detail to the things she despised, from her first husband—my father—to her last, a man not much older than Rincón. She spoke of restaurant reservations as if they were Napoleonic conquests and spoke ill of damn near everyone we knew. By the time the doors slammed on the back of my ambulance—mercifully shutting out her voice—I knew I’d do anything to avoid ending up like her.
I had a vague idea of how I’d accomplish that by the time the emergency room personnel pronounced me fit to be discharged. Number one on my list of mountains to move was selling the company.
Sending Rincón Gutierrez a monthly check until some far-off day when he found someone else to support his lazy, cheating, drug-doing ass was bound to make me every bit as bitter as my mother. So I decided to sell the company, hand him one large lump of cash, and be done with him.
And from the time the ball dropped in Times Square later tonight, until it dropped again next year, I was determined to seek only my pleasure. Not the pleasure derived from owning things, or making things, or from piling up cash and possessions, but the pleasure of one slick body against another, each driving the other to senseless, starry darkness.
There hadn’t been enough such moments in my life. I planned to put a year into searching for orgasmic release every bit as hard as I had battled to make B.L.O. shades the must-have eyewear for the modern male.
Davis’s peppermint-scented breath tickled my ear while he explained each thing I was giving up as I signed. I didn’t need to look at his perfect profile. The tumble of charcoal curls above his forehead and blue eyes, ringed by the longest lashes I’d ever seen, had been stamped in my mind since I was fifteen.
I met Davis at boarding school. His sculpted cheekbones, the aquiline nose, the lips that would make a cherub cry with jealousy, had lived in my fantasies for the last fifteen years.
Abruptly, the beautifully-appointed conference room felt unusually warm. Beads of sweat slid between my breasts. I tried to dodge the dusty memory of mine and Davis’s single kiss, and failed. I dropped my pen and wrenched the buttons of my jacket open
.
Davis assisted me. The innocent brush of his fingers along the sides of my breasts made matters worse as he helped me slip out of the confining sleeves.
“Hot, Sophie?”
Dear God, Matthias’s exquisitely soft voice always made me visualize toffee-colored velvet. Ordinarily, the sound wrapped around me like warm flannel on a cold night. Now, unnerved by being so close to Davis, Matt’s voice only served to further arouse my jangled nerves.
I tried—as always—not to stare at my buyer. Matt’s soothing voice and weather-beaten face had no business together, much like the expensive cashmere V-neck sweater he wore over ragged Wrangler’s. Matt’s eyes were also blue, but where Davis’s were the color of military uniforms and Ming pottery, Matt’s eyes reminded me of the cerulean skies of spring. The man fastened them on me now with a blistering intensity that made me press my thighs together.
Davis chose that moment to rub the spot between my shoulder blades. Matt rose from his seat to lean across the table and grasp my chin in one work-worn paw, stroking my heated cheek with his thumb.
Once, on a dare, I pressed my tongue to the business end of a fresh nine-volt battery. The effect of their twin touches was much the same. The rough pad of Matt’s thumb made me want to compare that feeling to the stroke of his three-day beard against my skin.
Davis’s soft caress made me wish for one fleeting second that he’d help me out of my bra, since the fine silk was chafing my hardening nipples.
“I’m okay,” I muttered, picking up my pen again, but something I thought I saw in Matt’s eyes made my channel ache.
Down, Sophie. These two are not for you. The problem wasn’t a lack of attraction on my part, but on theirs. I’d had a crush on Kendall Davis Laramie III since I’d been fifteen. I’d cried for a week after I tried to kiss him and he scorned me, making fun of the braces that were the bane of my young life.
As for Matt, I’d suppressed my attraction to the drawling, plain-talking perfectionist as we’d worked side by side for the previous four months, partly to not jeopardize the sale, but mostly because I feared neither of us would be able to tell whether my attraction was to him or to the seductive pheromones of his money. I supposed that happened to him a lot. Now that it’d happened to me, doing that to someone else was unthinkable. I mean, I had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life, but Matt seemed to be taking the price of Banger and Lever out of petty cash. He kept a yacht at the harbor, a jet at the airport, an apartment on Park Avenue, as well as a home in Bermuda—all in addition to the private island he owned off the coast of South Carolina.
“Second thoughts, sugar?”
I blinked. Matt never called me anything except Sophie.
Matt’s sexy lips turned up at the corners as he caressed my face, and I felt the sweet slide of my juices as they begin to trickle towards my entrance. I caught a whiff of his citrusy, grassy scent and saw his nostrils flare. The notion he could somehow smell my rising desire made my cheeks burn hotter. What was wrong with me? I hadn’t blushed this way in years.
“No.” I wasn’t having second thoughts. Not about the sale. I shook my head.
“I’ve sublet my apartment, put my better things in storage. As Matt would say, let’s get ‘er done.” His hand dropped from my face and the moment of exquisite tension passed. Sudden tears stung my eyes and I had no idea why. My sense of loss was bewildering.
Davis darted a look across the table, but patted my shoulder. “Shall we continue?”
I eventually made it through all the papers. Davis brought me a tall Waterford tumbler filled with sparkling water as my reward for trading my hard work for an eight-figure payday. I leaned back in the comfortable leather chair, sipping and spying from under lowered lashes, but money wasn’t on my mind.
Davis slid the thick pile of papers across the table and took a chair beside Matt, ready now to shepherd my buyer through signing the complex contract. I allowed the carbonated bubbles rising from my glass to tickle my nose, while the sight of the two dark heads pressed together tickled my fancy.
They were roughly the same height, yet Matt was broader across the shoulders. Had he not been wealthy enough to have his shirts tailor-made, I suspect he’d have trouble finding any to fit. Davis had his shirts tailor-made on Bond Street. The crisply starched, button-down collar of the one he wore was beginning to wilt. His recently-buffed nails had the same expensive gleam as the table.
Davis was the sort of man to make a woman try to recall if she’d donned her sexy underwear that morning. Looking at Matt would make her regret wearing any.
Not so long ago, I’d never have been able to sit here and look at Davis this way. Throughout my late teens and early twenties, the memory of his rejection gave me as much pain as the time I was seven and my mother hand slammed the car door on my hand after catching stepfather number one in bed with the maid. The way she’d yelled at me, for daring to have a problem larger than her own, had tripled my actual hurt. Now, the pain from looking at my first crush was no worse than what I endured to wear my Christian Louboutains. Seeing Davis still pinched a bit around my heart, but looking at him was worth the pain.
Matt was like a good facial scrub. He was abrasive, but he had a way of leaving me glowing. I believe if he tried, he could cuss paint off a wall, but he was polite to even the most ragged beggar on the street. When he gave me one of his rare compliments, I wore it like a jewel for days. Side-by-side, they brought to mind a spa treatment, one man to stimulate, the other to soothe.
I stroked the sides of my glass as I stared, jerking my hand away when Matt raised his head to stare pointedly at my movement. His deep dimples, only visible when he was very amused, winked as I buried my hand in my lap. My blush grew hotter.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My silk panties abraded my trimmed triangle of russet hair while I squirmed in my seat, pressing my knees together. I locked one ankle across the other, as if that prim act would stop me from thinking about having the pair of them tumble me to Davis’s Savonnerie rug.
To my horror, the challenging look on Matt’s face implied he knew the direction my thoughts had taken. When Davis raised his head, I fancied his mirroring grin was pure sinful invitation.
Wishful thinking.
Twilight settled over the Manhattan skyline behind them as they stared. The city began to don her diamonds in preparation for the evening’s festivities.
I needed to think of something else, but my heart raced as I wondered what it would be like to be pinned between them, fondled by four hands rather than the usual two.
I looked away, staring out the glass wall overlooking the peaks of the city over their shoulders. They returned to the task at hand. But an image of the three of us striving for satisfaction, each stained in the other’s sweat, seared my brain.
A turbulent ache settled in my channel.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Hour Two
It wasn’t yet dark when Davis slid the gilded pen into his shirt pocket and restacked the signed documents. The sale was nearly done. Now, I could look to the future.
Women all over the city were primping for the evening’s celebration. I was shocked to realize I had no plans. I stared at my appointment calendar on my iPhone while Matt began the electronic transfer of funds that would mark the end of my tenure as the brains behind Banger and Lever.
“Somewhere you need to be, Sophie?” Matt’s fingers moved across his laptop with amazing agility, given the size of his hands. “Whose fancy party are you attending tonight?
I shook my head. I’d had my fill of being feted on Page Six of The Post. “No plans. I might watch the ball drop on television.”
His brows rose. “Transfer complete. Check your account, please.”
I logged into my bank account with my phone and frowned at the new balance, unsure what to say. Davis lifted the receiver of the phone and murmured to his secretary.
“It’s only h-h-alf of the agreed on amount.” I couldn’t s
top mentally stripping him of the damned cowboy shirt long enough to manage the exact math, but half seemed about right.
Davis’s phone rang. I darted the lawyer a desperate look, but he paid my comment no mind.
Matt leaned back in his chair. One of his long legs slid between mine as he stretched like a waking panther. The way he studied me made me feel like prey.
“I got divorced once. For months, I was hurt over the loss of the woman I loved. I got past that, eventually, but I never did get past handing over all that money. It was my money. I earned it, no one else. Wasn’t it bad enough she rejected me and the things I most wanted to give her, yet grabbed every damn dime she could get on her way out the door? Same as you with Rincón, I figure.”
He shrugged, making me think about how broad his shoulders were, in spite of the important topic. What would it feel like to run my hands over them?
“So I figured it might hurt you less if you never had that half of the money. What you see there is yours, clean and clear. If you’ll agree, Davis has arranged for me to transfer the amount specified by that idiot of a judge directly to your about-to-be ex. Then, all you have to get past is that you loved him, and it’s over.”
Davis burst out laughing, despite the phone pressed to his ear. He slapped a hand over the receiver. “She never loved him.” He said it with the assurance I’d have used to say it was Wednesday.
Matt scowled. He looked from Davis to me. “Is that true, Sophie?”
Matt and I had discussed many things, but never how I felt about Rincón. At the moment, I couldn’t recall why I’d ever dated him, much less married him. I made a helpless gesture, my unusual loss for words betraying my confusion.
“Why in hell would you marry a man you didn’t love? Did you have to be married to get your trust fund or something equally idiotic?” Matt made no bones about his belief that those of us born wealthy were tied by some strange rituals.