50_shades_ultimate Page 15

  “Ah, there’s Rachaela!” Jazzy Rose crowed at one point. “I haven’t seen her in ages! May I visit with her, Mr. Chase?”

  Mr. Chase smiled indulgingly. “You may,” he said, and unclipped her lead.

  I admired the explicit erotica on display on the walls. Many of the people in the photographs were people Mr. Chase was talking to as we made our rounds, and that distracted me from the agony in my feet and legs for a while, but eventually it became too much. “May I go out on the veranda?” I asked when I spotted a bench out there, a place to rest my aching feet.

  He tugged my lead. “Stay with me a moment, Ash.”

  “Of course.”

  He steered me to a private smoking parlor and asked me to wait on a divan a moment while he went to speak to his driver. When he returned about a half hour later, he had produced another shoebox. “Open it,” he said, giving it to me.

  Inside were a pair of new, soft canvas running shoes. We passed a knowing look between us until I said, “Are you sure, sir?” I knew this was messing up the ensemble he had picked out for me specifically for this evening.

  He leaned down, cupped my chin, and whispered against my lips, “Never more so, my dear.”

  When we returned to the party, I was in much better spirits and ready to dance and play

  * * *

  For our first play as a ménage a trois, Mr. Chase ordered us up onto the big, antique, four-poster bed set aside for our coming out and told us what he wanted us to do. Jazzy Rose and I spent a little while disrobing each other, giggling and kissing, as the coolness of the room alighted on our skin. I didn’t look at the other members of the Society. If I looked at them, I knew I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. Instead, I concentrated on the soft, wet pressure of my lover’s kisses falling on my lips and cheeks and neck, on the feeling of her hands on my body, the smooth enamel of her fingernails sliding across my shivery skin. I kissed her back, sucking feverently at her mouth until she mewled against me.

  Mr. Chase slunk up behind me, hugged my nakedness against the delicious friction of his clothing, while Jazzy Rose kissed her way down my body, finally reaching my already greatly engorged cock. She ran the smooth of her fingernails up and down my shaft until I shivered violently, then bowed her head to lick delicately at my dripping crown. She licked all around the head and down the underside, nipping gently at my balls before working her way back up again. I groaned and would have grabbed at her head, except that Mr. Chase was holding me in his tight embrace, my arms pinned to my back so I was helpless to do anything except respond.

  Her small, perfect teeth closed around me and I bucked instinctively toward her and more precum spilled over into her mouth.

  “Don’t come,” Mr. Chase growled. “You don’t come until your gentleman comes.”

  I knew the rules, and I knew how to behave properly, yet it took a deep, determined grunt and every bit of my self-control to keep from going off in her mouth.

  “Good boy.” He let my arms go and pushed me forward, toward Jazzy Rose.

  I grabbed her by the hips and dragged her under me. She lay there on the bed, so dear, looking up at me with the sweetest, most trusting expression. I realized then that I was lost, that I loved her. That I loved Mr. Chase. That I loved us, as foolish as that was. I was in love, and lost, and I no longer cared if it broke my heart. I pulled her under me and easily sheathed my cock inside her warm, wet depths.

  The first thrust made her cry out. I leaned down to kiss her open mouth, catching her cry. I felt Mr. Chase slide up behind me. Already full aroused, he rubbed his thick, pulsing shaft against me, tracing my slit with it. I felt his wetness seeping between my ass cheeks, his precum spurting all along my seam. I groaned, and at his urging, lifted my ass a little higher. Mr. Chase gripped my hips and speared me soundly. The impact drove me forward a little, and deeper into Jazzy Rose. And again, Jazzy Rose came with a cry, this time ejaculating all over my belly.

  We began to move as one, Mr. Chase controlling all our rhythms. He slid his slippery cock in and out of me while driving my own aching erection in and out of Jazzy Rose. We went slow at first but quickly built up to a natural and almost punishing rhythm. Jazzy Rose wrapped her legs around us both, holding us tight together even as we all reached our end.

  “Remember,” Mr. Chase said, and held me tight as he pulled out and came all over my back and ass.

  I waited until he’d finished spending himself before pulling out and coming in pearl-like spurts between Jazzy Rose’s pert breasts and against her belly. She cooed as I emptied myself against her soft, warm olive skin. I leaned down to kiss her soundly, then proceeded to lick her clean to the enthusiastic applause of all the Society members gathered around us.

  * * *

  Jazzy Rose and I were standing on the veranda, talking to Devon, one of the more established courtiers, and his gentleman Malcolm, when a strange man came up to us. I immediately recognized him as a gentleman. He had two courtesans with him, both tall and regal-looking, but one dark-skinned and dark-haired and one pale and blonde so they looked like mirror opposites of each other. The blonde wore the same wide-eyed expression I did as she tried to take everything in around her all at once. I immediately recognized her as a novice.

  “Well, there’s our debutante!” the gentleman stated, looking me over carefully. But I didn’t like the interest he took in me, or the way he lingered on my footwear, of all things. Thank goodness I didn’t have to talk to him. In fact, it was against the rules of conduct inside the Dollhouse for gentleman and companions to speak who were not engaged in a relationship. But Jazzy Rose and I could speak to his courtesans.

  They introduced themselves as Brenda and Sylvie. Sylvie was the blonde one, and we immediately hit it off as we whispered and giggled about all the high society people.

  “Poor Christian lost a bet at last!” the strange gentleman was saying to Malcolm, and I immediately perked up at their conversation and the smug tone of his voice.

  “You two aren’t still engaged in that ridiculous rivalry, are you?” Malcolm said, reprimanding his friend. “How very ninth grade of you two!”

  The strange gentleman laughed at that but still seemed quite pleased with himself. After he called Brenda and Sylvie back, I managed to wrangle Devon aside by offering to help him with some champagne he was fetching for Malcolm.

  While in the wine cellar, I asked about the conversation I’d eavesdropped on.

  “Ah, Richard…a fine bloke…but far too competitive for his own good,” Devon said, climbing the ladder I was holding for him to better examine a bottle on a top shelf.

  Devon seemed to know a great deal about everyone here, so I pushed for details. “I didn’t know the gentleman here were in any kind of competition.”

  “They’re not, lad, but Richard runs that news station based out of Syracuse in direct competition with Christian, so their little corporate brawls are always flowing over into their membership here. Like that little bet of theirs?”

  “What little bet?”

  Devon climbed slowly down the ladder, looking at me oddly. Something passed across his face, a look I didn’t like, like he’d realized he’d spoken out of turn. He put on a big, false smile as he carried a prize bottle of champagne out of the wine cellar. “Forget I said anything about it.”

  And I tried to, but Devon’s words bothered me so much, I made excuses all through the evening just to get Sylvie on the side. When I learned that she’d been a lowly waitress who had become Richard’s courtesan at almost the exact same time as I had become Mr. Chase’s, I started piecing the puzzle together.

  It was an ugly puzzle. And the more I realized what had happened—that I was, in fact, the bet—the angrier I became.

  It rained as we left the Dollhouse and skirted puddles to the limo. The weather matched my mood completely. And like the storm clouds moving in, I knew trouble was coming, in more ways than one.

  * * *

  When we got back to Mr. Chase’s p
enthouse, the first thing he did was strip off his wet coat and say, “Everyone to the tub. Now.” There was a devious smile on his lips and in his wolf eyes, and I knew he was thinking about what fun we could have together, getting clean and warming ourselves in each other’s arms. Jazzy Rose squealed with excitement and raced off to the bathroom, but I hung back by the door.

  My gentleman turned to me with concern and said, “Ash?”

  I gave him my darkest look. “I know about the bet,” I told him, and promptly left the apartment, slamming the door behind me.

  I took the elevator back down to the underground parking garage and then ambled my way toward my reserved parking spot, where my restored vintage Mustang waited for me. I’d wanted one since I was a kid and had seen Bullitt with Steve McQueen, and now I had one. Unfortunately, it had been bought and paid for by Mr. Chase, and, like wanting to be Steve McQueen’s character, it was the same unrealistic pipe dream. I thought about that as I ducked inside and leaned back against the all-leather interior and listened to the rain fall. I would have to give the car back since I was officially breaking up with Mr. Chase forever. That also meant I had to get home on the sub tonight.

  But I just didn’t want to move at the moment. My mind kept whirling around with these little details even as I felt my composure breaking down. I covered my eyes and tried not to sob like a little kid.

  A knock on the glass made me jump in my seat. I was sure the parking garage attendant was probably wondering what the blond guy was doing in the vintage car, crying his eyes out. But it wasn’t him; it was Mr. Chase. He stared at me for only a moment before pulling the door open and sliding into the passenger side of the car.

  The moment he slammed the door, I said, “Please leave. You’ll get your car back, don’t worry about that.”

  For the first time, Mr. Chase looked angry. “I don’t want the car back. I want you back.”

  It exploded out of me then. “You made a bet with that Richard character and took me in like some stray animal. Do you know how that makes me feel?” I looked him over, his regal, wealthy presence a suffocating miasma in the car with me. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Men like you have no idea what it’s like to be a man like me.”

  He gave me a droll look. “No, because obviously I was born with money and power. I didn’t earn any of this.”

  I knew he was being sarcastic. I knew he’d come from nothing, had lived in some slumlord’s project in Queens with his unwed, struggling mother for the first sixteen years of his life. Then she’d died unexpectedly and his situation had just deteriorated. He’d worked hard to make it to the top, and he’d done so with zero education. But that didn’t mean I forgave him his behavior now.

  “How could you do this to me?” I said, trying desperately not to cry. “Did I mean so little to you?”

  He narrowed his wolf eyes. “Listen to me, Ash. You mean everything to me. That’s why I deliberately allowed myself to lose the bet tonight.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He made a gesture toward my feet. “The shoes. I thought they would be perfect, and I knew your class and behavior would be more than enough to match that Sylvie. But when I realized you were uncomfortable, I got you these instead. I decided the bet didn’t matter. Richard didn’t matter. It was a childish game and I regretted playing it with him.” He gave me a hard look. “I hope you can forgive me. And, Ash, I have never said those words to anyone in my entire life…except, perhaps, Jazzy Rose a time or two.”

  I sniffed the unattractive snot in my nose. “You’ve apologized to Jazzy Rose?”

  “When I’ve misbehaved, yes.” His eyes softened, and he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket to dry the tears on my face. “I’ve even let her punish me on occasion. The two of you mean more to me than anything else in this world.” He slid his hands around my waist and pulled me around so I was straddling his lap. Thankfully, the Mustang was roomy enough to accommodate us both. He captured my face and kissed me, softly but ardently, and I quickly felt myself melting against the solid, comforting wall of his chest, his heart beating rapidly against mine.

  We made out like two hungry teenagers before I pulled back and said, “Want to go upstairs and let me punish you? I’m sure Jazzy Rose is wondering what’s happening.” I hoped my eyes were as wolfish with desire as his were.

  “Soon,” he growled against my lips as he worked to undo our belts and trousers. “But first I want to spend some time alone with my work in progress.”

  * * *

  PUSS ‘N BOOTS

  By Madeline Apple

  “Hey, what’s new, pussycat?” I called as I came in the door of the penthouse apartment I shared with Leo. I tossed my keys down on the Queen Anne desk by the door and immediately went to the kitchen to get a drink of juice out of the fridge.

  Most men my age would have gone to the wet bar that Leo and I kept for guests, but I made a point of not drinking alcohol or having it on my breath. Leo’s parents had been alcoholics, and I figured it was the least I could do.

  I slid my briefcase along the kitchen counter, went to the Sub Zero, and got out some V8 juice. I checked my phone for messages. My secretary at the literary agency was always sending me “quick texts” about this client or that—which, essentially, meant I had to return to the office posthaste. Thankfully, I was text-free tonight, which was nice for a change. The week had been exhausting and I just wanted dinner and a movie, and to cuddle with Leo on the couch tonight. I drank down half a glass before calling out, “Leo, I’m home. What’s for dinner, hon?”

  The stove was cold and none of the pots had been used. Leo was a part time chef down at Le Bistro Moderne on Second Avenue and I always let him cook dinner for us out of the fear that if I did anything more complex than open a can of soup, I’d likely kill us both.

  “Leo?”

  I went into the living room. Empty. Then, my pulse flitting a little faster, the bedroom.

  He’d left the envelope on my bureau. He knew the first thing I did when I came home was change and put my clothes away in the closet and my watch away in the jewelry chest he had bought me. He knew I liked things orderly and in their place. He’d made enough Felix Unger jokes to last a lifetime.

  I slipped my reading glasses on and opened the envelope with shaking fingers. I slid the folded sheet of crème stationary out. The first words that popped out were “It isn’t you, Henry, it’s me…”

  I read the letter through three times. Then I put the stationary back in the color-coordinated envelope. I put my watch away in the jewelry case, my glasses away in my breast pocket, and hung my coat up properly in the closet I had been sharing with Leo McFarley for eight years.

  I caught a glance of myself in the bureau mirror, middle-aged, dark-haired, features pleasant if not remarkable. I thought of the eight years I had spent with Leo, the best years of my life. There were rings under my eyes from work, and now a permanent look of rage in my eyes.

  I went over to the shelves of glass and porcelain lions I had been buying Leo ever since we met. He always said they were cute and clever and that was very much like me. I picked up the first one I had ever bought him, a finely painted porcelain import from India, white with orange flowers, and smashed it against the bedroom wall above our bed.

  Then I smashed all the rest, stomped the glass and porcelain into the carpet, and went out into the living room to the wet bar to get very, very drunk.

  * * *

  I woke the next morning on the floor of the living room with the sun in my eyes and my phone vibrating in my pocket. I sat up in my rumpled clothes and immediately my head started pounding from too much of the expensive bourbon I normally reserved for dinner guests. I looked at the half-full bottle, then shook myself, wiped the gummy sleep from my eyes, and reached for my phone.

  It was an unfamiliar number. “Um…yeah,” I said, a far cry from my usual, proper greeting.

  “Is this Mr. Henry Miller?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said
, and looked around at the mess of the living room I had made. I thought, This is so not me…

  “This is Michael Boyd. I work in the law offices of Boyd & Associates? In Westford, Connecticut?”

  He paused as if I should know who that is. Frankly, I did not give a shit at the moment. I felt like there was a Mariachi band playing in my brain.

  “I’m your Aunt’s Gigi’s solicitor?”

  “Oh yeah, Aunt Gigi,” I said. I hadn’t seen my mom’s sister in years. I sat up straighter. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m afraid to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Miller, but your aunt passed away three days ago. However, she did leave you a sizeable inheritance. Is there any way you could make your way up here for the reading of the will this Sunday?”

  * * *

  Aunt Gigi had been a successful, stick-thin, sloe-eyed, trapeze-dress wearing model from the late 1960’s. She looked like Twiggy, only with piles of tomato-red hair. I didn’t know her back then, of course. I was just going by what I’d seen in her many portfolio pictures. The Gigi I had known growing up was a middle-aged matron, still stick-thin and sloe-eyed, but with more modest apparel and a propensity for collecting rescue cats. She’d always been very kind to me, which was saying a lot in my family.

  I thought about those years as I drove up to Westford, Connecticut, a scenic three-hour drive from New York if you took the back roads. I was not, by any means, in a hurry. Aside from my mom and Aunt Gigi, I had never really been on good terms with anyone in my family. As far as they were concerned, I was the odd man out, though they were always hesitant to use the term man to describe me. After I moved to New York City and started living with Leo, most of them disowned me.