Grant was a son of society, a trust fund baby. He was born with a diamond encrusted platinum spoon in his mouth as did his parents. He was raised primarily by au pairs and staff, summered in Paris and lived between America and whatever country his folks happened to be the rest of the year. He was the apple of their eye, and only son. Yet even with all this his family’s friends, he grew up alone. His real friends were the servants and their children. But even then he was treated ‘differently’.


His social status was his birthright and curse—he never knew if people were genuinely interested in him or his money so from an early age, he learned to conceal his worth under a veneer of ‘normality’. Like his father, he had a love of the outdoors and like his mother, a taste for the performing arts. Until university, he never seen the inside of a classroom; his governess and tutors supplied his education.


He’d studied economics because it’s what he understood; money and how it worked. But his passion was history. History wasn’t a proper major for their son…so he went with plan B. Who cared? It wasn’t as though he’d actually use his degree. He was set for life.


Surprisingly, he grew to love the field and built a prosperous career after graduation. Mr. Fitz was an old friend of the family and he wasn’t shocked when Mrs. Fitz began her matchmaking attempts. Out of the twenty odd women he’d been matched with, Sharon was the only one to capture his attention. Sharon was real—she didn’t put on airs nor was she dazzled by his wealth. Surely she must have known how much he was worth. Two months into their relationship, he flat-out told her. Her reaction was lukewarm at best and she quickly changed the subject. Truthfully, she was more concerned with them missing their reservation at PF Chang’s more than his net worth.


She was a keeper.




“Will you lick me?” Sharon whispered. She laid back, her knees spread.


Grant nodded his twinkling eyes looked up from between her thighs.


“Now, kiss me here,” she pointed to his latest indulgence, a satin g-string covered in Golden South Sea pearls. He moved down between her legs and teased the string of pearls with the back of his index finger. “Do you want me to take it off?”


He grinned wickedly. “Why would I ever want you to do that?” He kissed her lips. “This is a trifle, Sweetheart. They’re worthless, you’re priceless.” He pressed his face into her wetness and licked up and down her length; his tongue danced inside of her soft layers and grew more intense as he continued to lick.


Her head lolled back onto the pillows; she languid under his care. Her breathes came slowly as she reveled in every sensation, from his soft tongue to his prickly stubble, she etched his every movement. “Suck,” she whispered in an exceptionally small voice. “Suck me.” And he did, brilliantly. The string of pearls pressed against her skin, from her ass all the way up between her silken lips. There was something immensely sexy about his tongue, stroking over her, while stroking over the pearls. Some of the rarest and most valued pearls in the world, pearls which were normally inherited, were a mere trifle nestled between her lips being licked by the man of her dreams. God, she wanted to cum.


His all-pervasive slurping was punctuated only by his words of undying oral devotion to her—she came quietly, suspended high above herself and only returned when she heard the sounds of his fingers playing inside of her. She hips rocked slightly, and she begged and begged him for another orgasm—she never begged more sincerely than when Grant was servicing her pussy.


He would’ve placed the world at her feet. He craved her; her taste, her whimpering, and the sight of her lovely chocolate body lying before him on the brink of plummeting into the depths of orgasm. He needed all of her, not to feed his ego…rather something deeper, something unseen and intangible.


“Oh Grant, I’m cumming.” Her entire body went ridged, she dare not move, she hardly dared breathe, she was frozen in the midst of an orgasm. Grant’s sucking and licking had silenced her once again. Finally the spell was broken. She wailed and panted and pulled at the sheets. She was in another place with no sense of time.


Grant held her thigh tight to him. Only when she’s relaxed did he sit up and wipe his face and spoon his naked chest pressed against her back.


“You sucked the smart, independent woman right out of me.”


“Good. Who needs her anyway?”


“You’ve spoiled me.”


“It’s only the beginning.” He kissed the back of her neck and drifted to a late afternoon sleep.


A few hours later, Sharon was awaked by a phone. She wiggled from under Grant’s weight, threw on her robe, and took the call in the living room.


“Do you know what time it is?” It was Monica, her tone clipped. “What the hell’s going on?”


Sharon shook off the last remains of post orgasmic sleep and squinted at the clock, 8:00. She smacked her forehead. “I had a meeting with the caterers, didn’t I?”


“Yeah! You did! Now, I’m stuck creating a menu for people I don’t even know!”


“Can you reschedule?”


“No! Get your ass down here!” Click, she was gone.


There was no time to sort out how or why she’d forgotten the single most important meeting of her week. She jumped in the shower; Grant went to her closet and produced clothing for them both; they swapped places in the shower and were dressed almost simultaneously. Sharon studied the table layout and floor plan while the car sped through downtown. She braced herself for Monica’s wrath.


“How did I forget this?” Sharon mumbled as they entered the café.


“Relax, it’ll be fine.” Grant ushered her inside.


Monica stood in a black Kelvin Cline wrap and knee boots, crossed armed and unsmiling. Without so much as a hello, she turned and walked down the narrow darkened hallway leading to the back of the café.


This was their cue to follow. They entered the café’s largest room and were greeted with an enthusiastic “surprise” from their friends. Only social decorum and Grant’s rock hard body wedged between her and the doorway prevented Sharon from turning and sprinting from the room. Her birthday was days away, the cloud of confusion slowly dissipated: this was for her.


“I hope you did think I’d allow Grant to steal you away before we celebrated your birthday.” Monica beamed and hugged her. Sharon was at a loss for words so Monica pushed her further into the room where everyone welcomed her with open arms. Monica pulled Grant aside. “Thanks for the help.”


“Not a problem, anytime” he grinned and excused himself when he spotted Scott seated at a nearby table. The Terrible Two were together again.


It had been a nice night of dinner, catching up, and lots of slow dancing. Toward the end of the evening, Monica started communicating her wish to leave as they danced. She bit Scott’s bottom lip as they kissed, a sure sign she was definitely in the mood for something kinkier. “Let’s go,” she nibbled his ear and neck until they were both moaning and ready for more.


They went to say their goodbyes but Monica found herself cornered by KC. After twenty minute and a promise to call her first thing in the morning, Monica was free.


The coat attendant was gone for the evening. Monica called for help but there was no answer, only the reveling from the party could he heard in the distance. Taking matters into her our hands, she sneaked into small dim room. She pushed and pulled each coat out of her way until she’d reached the back of the room where a small cabinet housed the lost and found. Her wrap and purse were nowhere to be found. “Damn it!” she pushed her thick curls away from her face.


“Are you looking for this?” a hard male voice came from behind.


Monica froze with fear. She quickly tried to place the voice but couldn’t and now, in her moment of need, she’d wished she’d paid closer attention in those self-defense classes. Scream. Don’t scream. Damn it, no mace! Eye contact? Um, no eye contact. Kick, where? “What do you want?” she was too afraid to turn around.


“I’m going to fuck you, Monica.” He moved closer.


Fear gave away to absolute panic. “Please don’t. I have a boyfriend who’s just outside. He’ll hear me if I scream. Please…” she could feel his heat pressed against her back, his right hand glide smoothly up the back of her thigh, his lips close to her left ear.


Ha! He laughed. “I’m not worried about your boyfriend,” his powerful hand rest on the cabinet beside hers—she was trapped. “Please, go ahead scream. He won’t mind. You’re mine.” He kissed her just below her ear.


She shivered at the casual coarseness of his voice. She waited for her opportunity to run. He must have felt it.


“You trying to run will only piss me off. Don’t try it.” His hand caressed her button.


Fear raised goose bumps on her skin and she took a deep breath and realized her knew that cologne. She knew that hand. She knew her coat closet assailant. She gasped realizing with, much confusion, that she was both highly aroused and scared shitless.


“You want a release, don’t you? I’m going to give you what you want.” He leaned her over the cabinet, raised her dress around her waist exposing her bare ass. “You’re soaked, aren’t you?” he chuckled.


“No!” she yelled, more akin to a pout.


He chuckled and pulled her hips backward. “What am I gonna do with you?”


She wiggled and strained to free herself but her effort only left her more vulnerableto him.


“Aw, you’re spreading yourself open for me. I didn’t even have to ask.” He unzipped his pants and his belt buckle made a clink as it hit the stone floor.


“Oh God, no!” Monica cried when she felt the tip of his cock moving up and down her slick lips. His right hand gripped her thigh. Terror, pleasure, fear, arousal, and greed churned in her belly. His thick cock plowed into her and took up a savage rhythm. Somewhere between whoredom and delirium she gave way to his desires—he filled her in ways he’d never done. She stretched to please him. “God!” she was being helplessly impaled and loved it. She hated it. She wanted more. She wanted to run. Her walls captured him and made him moan for once. She would control him. Suck him off. Make him cum until he sang out with pleasure and anguish.


“I knew you’d like it. You’ve always liked it a little rough.” he crooned into her thick locks. Sounds of their naughtiness were muffled by the hanging garments. Voices of the party goers could be heard in the distance. One voice came closer.


Monica sensed her chance for escape but found herself reluctant yet keen on staying under his masterful control—protecting him from detection. Evidently, his cock had delivered a heavy dose of Stockholm Syndrome. She bit her bottom lip and clinched her fist. She was cumming. Please go away! She begged the voice coming down the hall. “Shhiitt! She cried when she heard the bathroom door close. She could feel every glorious, dreadful inch press against her stretched walls, his head pushed to the end of her passage. She lost her sensibilities. He no longer held her forcefully. His hand lightly held her hips. She was free but she wanted to be forced, just a little. She wanted his grasping groping unyielding masculine hands pressed into her flesh. She wiggled in a feign attempt to escape until he yanked her back onto his cock.


“Very good,” he petted her. “You can’t help yourself, can’t you?” He leaned back slightly watching his cock slide in and out. “I can see what I’m feeling—your lips stretched tight around me. It feels like your pussy is grabbing and swallowing my cock it all by itself—like you’re reconciled with being fucked.” His creeping hand teased her clit.


“I am,” she affirmed. “Harder,” She’d never felt him like this before, so raw and powerful—so damn hot! Her panting increased as did his thrust. The bathroom door opened but there was no stopping her howling orgasm or his.


He hastily yanked a nearby coat from its hanger and shoved it into her mouth just before they came. Her cries hushed by fabric; his by the sheer force of will.


The party continued as their orgasms subside.


“Yuck!” Monica shouted removing the unknown coat from her mouth. “Synthetic!! Who wears synthetic?!” She spit repeatedly like a sprinkler. Her mental cloud completely lifted.


“Sorry, there was no time to find a natural fiber,” Scott grinned and kissed the back of her neck. “I’ll bring a gag next time.”



                                                       ******



Midday and Joy had yet to complete one task Monica emailed to her at the crack of dawn. Thankfully, neither she nor Sharon had come into the office…yet. Joy’s head pounded from hungry and nerves and having to deal with another overambitious fashion assistant was about to do her in. She’d called all of her connections before calling the design house itself…she, unlike the other assistants preferred to less aggressive route for acquiring merchandise. But this was the limit. She wouldn’t be talked down to by a fake-ass Brit from Burberry especially when it meant disappointing Monica.



“Look lady, the new line doesn’t come out for another two weeks. If your boss wants the new wrap she’ll have to wait…just…like…everyone…else. Get it!? So let me stop you…”


Joy took a long swig straight from the offices’ spare bottle of Dom Perignon—anything to dull the hungry pangs. “No, let me stop you! I’m calling on behalf of Monica Galloway. She doesn’t wait for anything! If you can’t get the job done, then pass the phone to someone who can. You get it?!”


Silence. Dead silence. “Sorry, I wasn’t aware you were calling on her behalf. We can have her order ready,” there was the faint sound of papers flipping. “It can be ready for pickup Friday evening.”


“The order is as follows: Two trenches in each color with and without fur , matching bags with coordinating umbrellas and scarves, two silk Creponne Tonal dresses in each color, a pair of twill crop pants in black, four monogrammed wraps and throw in a couple of bowling bags for the gals in the office.”


“I don’t know if I’ll be able to track down all of these ideas by Friday, but I will do my best.” There was a smile in her tone.


“I never agreed on Friday,” Joy pointed out as coldly as Monica would have. “You have until tomorrow afternoon. Monica has dinner tomorrow evening and requires all of her items in her hands before 5:00. If this is too difficult for you, then maybe telling your boss that you’ve just told Monica to kiss your ass. Let’s see what he has to say about that, shall we?”


Silence. More papers moving…then more silence.


“I have to go. You now have until 4:00. Goodbye!” Joy hung up just as Monica and Sharon came through the door.


“How’s it going, Joy?” Monica placed a cream canvas bag with “CI” stitched on the side. “I bought you some lunch. Grab your portfolio. You can eat in my office.”



Monica settled in behind her desk, Sharon took a chair, and Joy spread her meal and leather bound portfolio on the coffee table and dove in—briefing the two of them between bits. The Fitzpatrick’s soiree was two weeks away and Monica and Sharon were becoming increasingly demanding and rightfully so. Their reputations were riding on the success of this single project. Its one thing to dethroned the incumbent and succeed, however to fail would mean utter irreversible ruin. Their names would be dragged through the mud.


And with Sharon leaving for two days, Monica was losing her partner in crime. She and Grant needed time alone and two days wasn’t much to ask. She’d overseen the hiring/firing of the band, caterers, and lighting coordinators, now it was time for a break—of course she’d have her cell phone, her and Monica’s lifeline, on at all times.


Joy placed a checkmark beside each completed task as Monica read them off. It was then she realized Scott hadn’t gone to have a tux cut. His fittings should’ve been begun weeks ago. She flipped to Scott’s page in her book where she kept a detailed record of his schedule, contact information, shoe size…everything down to his favorite bottled water. She almost burst into tears when she saw his schedule was full. Her oversight was going to send Monica through the roof and would undoubtedly be the end of her career.


Back at her desk, Joy called Scott to see if he had, by chance, gotten fitted on his own. Tears streamed when he confirmed her worse nightmare and she was reduced to gasping choking sobs when she was casually informed he was working two consecutive shifts and then his classes would begin. He’d help in any way he could but didn’t have time to run all over town. The pressures of the event where wearing on him as well. Bullying a Burberry fashion assistant was one thing but there was no way she’d find a tailor to cut a high end piece at this late hour.


Although she hated to ask for help from his camp, Mr. Fitz’s tailor was her last resort. Joy called his senior assistant, Bernie, and cooked up a scheme: If Scott couldn’t go to the tailor, then tailor would go to him.


“Un-fucking-believable!” Scott said when Mr. Fitz’s driver pulled into the station. Case watched in amusement as Scott was pinned, chalked, measured, re-measured, re-pinned, and re-chalked. “Enjoying yourself?” he snapped.


“Yep!” Case laughed. “Aw, Cinderella, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Be glad the other guys aren’t in here.” He kicked his feet up on his desk.


“I hate you.”


“Don’t hate me,” Case threw up his hands. “It’s not my fault you have a thing for high maintenance women. Did you learn your lesson after dating Courtney? No. You didn’t.”


Scott looked down at the weathered man kneeling before him. “If the alarm goes off I’m outta here.” To which the guy shrugged and continued pinning. “Seriously? I’m getting attitude from the help?”


“Chill out. Things could be worse.”


Scott reached for his phone near Case’s foot, just out of reach. Case beamed with extra wattage.


“Call Joy, get her down here.” Scott’s irritation showed but a quick pin prick brought him around. “Dude! In the balls?! Really!? All that other flesh and you went right for my balls!?”