Yet, I still want to thank him for what he did: bringing me here on his private plane in all of the comforts that kind of lifestyle affords.
“Thank you for not rescinding the offer,” I say. “I still want to do it.”
“One year with me? You sure you can handle that?” he jokes.
“It’s you that you should worry about.” I smile. His hand grazes his temple just as he drops his chin.
“Yeah, I’m getting that sense.”
Our eyes lock on each other’s and we share a moment. Suddenly, nothing else exists except the two of us. I don’t know much about him and he doesn’t know much about me but that’s part of the attraction. It’s the mystery that gives me all of the feels.
I take a step toward him, he takes two closer to me.
He brings his hands to my face. They smell like lemon.
He squeezed one into his drink over dinner.
The scent is intoxicating. I stand up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
I bury my fingers in his hair. It is so soft and luxurious I can lose myself in it.
He opens his mouth and our tongues intertwine. But only for a moment. Then he starts kissing my neck.
Warmth starts to radiate from somewhere in between my legs and course through the rest of my body.
My hands search for an entrance into his flesh. I peel off his jacket, dropping it to the floor.
His shirt is tucked in. Tightly. His mouth returns to mine as I tug on it trying to keep our lips together. I laugh. Then he laughs. He pulls the shirt up from the back and helps me unbutton the front.
I do one button for his two.
Once the shirt is shed, I take a second to admire the body underneath. I run my fingers down his washboard abs. Then I run them back up again. I kiss his nipples, one at a time.
He takes off my cardigan and kisses my arms, from the shoulders down to the crook of my elbows. Instead of letting him, I wrap my arms around his neck. He tries to unbutton my blouse, but I don’t even let him untuck it. Instead, I just pull up my skirt over my butt and place his palms on my cheeks.
“Hmmm,” he moans, squeezing them gently.
“In case there’s any confusion,” I say slowly. “This is me begging you to do it.”
He pulls away from me. His eyes light up. Even twinkle. I roll mine.
“Oh, is that right?” He squeezes me tightly.
“Please, fuck me,” I whisper into his ear.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, spinning me around.
There’s a perfectly good bed right over there.
My roommate is six thousand miles away.
We have all night to enjoy ourselves and our bodies.
But I don’t want any of that right now.
I have been teased enough by this man. I want him to take me from behind. I want him to fuck me. I want him to do it so hard that I see stars.
Nicholas’ hands grasp onto my thighs and fold me over the kitchen island. It’s the perfect height for this exact activity.
I grab on tightly to the edge, bracing myself for impact. But then I remember that I’m still wearing underwear.
It’s not really much, just a black thong that can easily be slid to the side.
Instead of doing that, he tugs at it slightly and watches it fall down to the floor. By the time, I step out of it and press his body to mine, I realize that it wasn’t just my thong that he had removed. We are now flesh to flesh. I can feel his hard dick against me.
I spread my legs. I lean over. I wait.
“Get the fuck off her,” a stranger’s low deep voice says.
35
When there is an interruption…
For a second, I think that the voice might belong to Nicholas. But it’s raspier, older than his. When I turn back, I see a man in all black. Black long sleeve shirt, black pants, black combat boots, black gloves, and a black ski mask.
He’s pointing a gun with a long barrel right at Nicholas’ head. My throat closes up. Nicholas takes a step away from me.
On instinct, I pull down my skirt but Nicholas doesn’t make a move to get dressed. His pants are still at his ankles and he just stands there, motionless. His shoulders spread wide, his arms at his sides.
It takes significant effort to pull my eyes away from the weapon. But after a moment, I focus on him instead. The guy with his finger on the trigger.
Who are you? I wonder.
I can’t make out a single distinguishing characteristic except for his height, which is way over six feet. I don’t even know what race he is because the slits in the mask are too small to distinguish the skin color.
“What do you want?” Nicholas says.
“The girl is coming with me.”
“No,” Nicholas says, but then the perpetrator points the gun at him.
“I’m not here to kill anyone, but I’m ready to do it,” he says. “Don’t get in my way.”
My head is spinning. He’s here for me? Why? Who is he? What does he want with me?
“You mind if I pull up my pants?” Nicholas says.
His voice sounds strange. Casual somehow.
Sing- songy even.
The usual intensity is gone.
But why? Maybe to appear calmer or not so threatening. Though why would he seem threatening?
The guy shakes his head no.
“C’mon, man,” Nicholas whines. He actually elongates the a in man so that it resembles a sound that a sheep would make.
The man grabs me by my arm and pulls me toward him.
I look back at Nicholas. My eyes open wide. His hands are strong and powerful and they pinch at my neck. I try to resist but he keeps waving his gun over my head.
The gun goes off piercing my ear drum.
When my head stops pounding long enough for me to open my eyes, I see the guy lying on his back with a little black dot in between his eyes.
“Are you okay?” Nicholas says, throwing his arms around me.
Tears stream down my face making it impossible for me to speak.
He holds me for a few minutes and lets me cry on his shoulder. I feel safe in his arms, even though I had just watched him execute a man in front of me.
“Should I call the police?” I ask, keeping my eyes closed. Nicholas pulls away abruptly.
“Absolutely not.”
I reach out for him again, but he just walks away.
“Not now,” he says curtly.
Nicholas picks up his phone. Okay, he wants to make the call to the cops. That makes sense.
I don’t even know how to begin to explain what just happened.
“Yes, I’m calling for Katherine Hepburn. Urgency level 9,” he says and hangs up.
Katherine Hepburn, the dead movie star? Is that someone’s name? Why did he call her instead of the cops?
He walks over to the sink and opens the lower cupboard.
“Do you have any…?” he asks, turning around all of the bottles and searching through the mess of crap underneath there.
Before I can answer him, he pulls out a pair of Sydney’s canary yellow cleaning gloves.
“Why do you need those?” I ask.
My blood runs cold. He needs them to hide evidence.
“But you did nothing wrong,” I plead.
My voice gets really high and uneven, even cracking, as a result of my disappointment. “He burst in here and pointed his gun at us. He was going to kidnap me. I’m sure that the police will understand.”