"It's not something you want to hide forever," he says, breaking my train of thought.
"I don't know what I want."
"Oh come on now," he says, almost laughing. "Quit kidding yourself."
"Says the man who's strong arming me into selling the one business I'm adamant on keeping."
"It's just obvious to me that you want the girl, so do something about it."
I look at him and know he's right.
55
Ashley
If Arsen is going to keep feeding me like this, I’m going to have to start spending an extra hour at the gym. I mean, seriously. We’re sitting on his terrace balcony, overlooking Central Park. He has a massive table that’s laid out with breakfast. I have my choice of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, slices of white or wheat bread, fruit, yogurt, granola, and croissants.
Oh, there’s also pancakes. There’s coffee, tea, orange juice and cereal.
Apparently, the building concierge has been instructed to prepare a breakfast spread every day for Arsen since I’ve started spending more and more time with him.
Arsen however, is just eating some bacon and a croissant, with some coffee, and reading the New York Daily Journal. The sound of taxis and delivery trucks wafts over to our little terrace in the clouds and I look over at my handsome breakfast companion.
“You live very well, Arsen,” I tell him, smiling. He looks over at me and smiles. Last night he took me to the MOMA where we saw the unveiling of some new Frederick Hart sculptures that hadn’t been released to the public after the sculptor’s death. Variations on Three Goddesses and Cross of the Millennium on both bronze and acrylic resin. I look into the room. Arsen bought one of the pieces and it’s sitting in the living room, purchased and now forgotten. Which would be fine if it was a dress from Bloomingdales, except that this tiny sculpture costs around $150,000.
After we got home, he wasted no time in celebrating his acquisition by unzipping my black dress and kissing my neck. Actually, if we’re being completely honest here, I was already wet when he pulled me over at the MOMA and whispered into my ear, “I want to fuck you senseless right now, Ash. Just rip your fucking panties off and shove my cock inside of you and pound you till you scream so loud that only the fucking birds can hear you.”
I mean, sure, I had splurged a bit on the dress. It was backless and showed off my ass pretty good. But work has been great. I got a $500 bonus this week. So I mean, I didn’t mind that I was having that effect on him.
I take a piece of toast and bite into it, thinking back to last night. It had been a nice night, so by the time his clothes were off and my panties were…I don’t actually know what happened to them. Either he ripped them off or I took them off, but we threw them somewhere and I can’t find them this morning. I think I saw my bra in the kitchen sink. Oh well. Where was I? Oh yeah, by the time I was naked, we actually ended up on the terrace. He lay me down on the table and proceeded to defile me in the most delicious ways possible.
Seriously, having sex with this man each time is like having sex for the first time with him. I cum at least once for sure, but as many as eight times. Although by then, the orgasms are all ripping up my body in one wave after another. There have been times I’ve blacked out for a few minutes because it’s just too much pleasure. And then afterwards, I’m in like some sort of post-orgasm coma, where I just sit there blinking and enjoying the endorphins going through my body.
“What are you up to today?” Arsen asks me looking up from his paper with a look like he just remembered something as I look at him. I’ve never really made a big deal about our schedules, telling him that my schedule is pretty flexible—I mean, I can work whenever. But still, out of habit I pull out my phone.
And I freeze.
I have a meeting with Client 5 on my calendar. Oh my God!
How could I have forgotten? I thought it was yesterday.
No way I’m letting him go to another girl. Not because I’m worried about losing the fees. No, more because I want to talk to him.
As sexed up as Arsen has gotten me, King Henry hits another spot in my brain and in my heart. Because we only talk for little bits, I crave the time I have with him jealously. I need him.
But the meeting—or call—or whatever is scheduled in ten minutes.
I look over at Arsen, wondering what it is that I can say. I mean, what can I even say to someone, anyone, if I have to leave in 10 minutes? Like, sorry I didn’t realize but I have to go have phone sex with a client? To the man who is feeding me breakfast?
How did I ever end up in a situation like this? Where I’m lying to two men?