Money Shot (45 page)

As Chelsea continued stroking his cock, the others smiled approvingly at the mess Tristan had made of her. Levi handed her a cloth napkin, then a second. Raymond broke the silence, saying, “Gentlemen, I do believe we have made an excellent choice.” Chelsea grinned as she wiped the cum off her breasts, her legs still wrapped around Tristan’s torso.

Chapter Five

It was nearly midnight when the car pulled to a stop in front of a building somewhere in downtown’s Gold Coast district. The driver opened the door and Chelsea looked at him closely as she stepped out of the car, trying to catch any hint of recognition. There was none; she was comfortable the five men had not told him anything about the arrangement.

As she walked to the door, she realized she could see Lake Michigan nearby and thought,
Holy shit, this place must cost a fortune!
A doorman said, “Good evening, Miss Broussard” and held the door open as she entered the building. He followed her in, then escorted her to the elevator and pushed the button. “My name is Bradley. Please let me know if there is anything I can help you with. You’ll find your apartment on the twenty-third floor at the very end of the hall to your left. Apartment 23-B.”

The building was old but in perfect shape, with every detail expertly preserved. Chelsea found her door and opened it, gasping as she flicked on the light switch. The apartment was easily three times the size of hers, and was beautifully appointed: a gorgeous mix of French Colonial and urban contemporary. A bottle of Dom Perignon sat on the coffee table, along with a vase containing two dozen red roses. She peeled off her coat and dropped it on the couch before taking a look around. There were two bedrooms, each with its own bath, and the kitchen was huge.

Chelsea inspected her bedroom and saw a door, opening it to find a balcony overlooking the lake.
Oh my fucking God
, she thought.
This is the greatest apartment ever.
She stepped out into the chilly winter air, then retreated inside. She was still buzzing too much to sleep, so she ran a bath, stripping out of her dress and sliding into the hot soapy water.

While she relaxed in the tub, she replayed the events of the evening in her mind. She remembered the feeling as each of the five men entered her and used her body for their own sexual gratification. Tristan in particular seemed to
stop
fucking her just as her orgasm was near. She was merely their sex toy; she had even told Tristan to his face that she was his slut. Hell, she’d agreed to be a slut for all five of them and had taken ten thousand cash in return. And now this beautiful apartment. It was all so decadent, so absolutely filthy.

It slowly dawned on Chelsea that she’d been gangbanged.
Guess I can cross that off my fantasy list, too
, she thought. She wondered what else the men would have in store for her in the coming days, and found herself getting turned on at the idea of being repeatedly used as a sex object by them. As she imagined it, the orgasm she’d been denied earlier suddenly demanded attention. Chelsea grabbed the handheld showerhead and turned on the water, then tilted her head back and closed her eyes as she brought it down between her legs.

ABOUT ALEXIS ADAIRE

Alexis Adaire is the author of more than fifty erotica and erotic romance titles, including her brand new trilogy, “Seducing My Billionaire Stepbrother.”

Living in the Pacific Northwest, Alexis Adaire spends too much time indoors, cuddling under blankets with her husband and muse, emerging from the bedroom periodically to refill her coffee mug and jot down ideas. Does Alexis draw upon personal experience for her short story ideas? She will never tell.

Alexis keeps her twisted identity separate from her everyday life; no one knows what debauchery lies behind her violet eyes. Although, she admits this double-life she leads—mild-mannered office worker by day and erotica novelist by night—keeps a glow to her cheeks and a sly smile to her lips.

Alexis takes her readers to those secret, unspeakable corners of their fantasies they never knew existed.

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Seventy-One

Logan

I was balls-deep inside of a blonde barfly. You know the kind. The sort of girl who wears bright-red lipstick that’s practically neon. She’s selling her goodies to anyone who wants them, and those goodies are free.

Her silver skirt is flipped up so I have access to an eyeful. I ripped the middle of her thong, so all she has now is a scarlet lacy decoration around her thin hips.

Her skin is the leathery orange that says that she lives in a sun tanning booth AND uses fake tan. When I touched her thigh, it was like feeling the embalmed skin of a dead person. Cold. Hard.

I’m using her skirt so that I’m not touching any part of her with anything but my dick, and that is covered up in a condom. I might be a manwhore, but I’m not a stupid one. I know better than to catch HIV from the kind of girl that I’m fucking right now. Even worse would be impregnating her.

That’s why I coated the condom in spermicidal lube, too.

She’s bent over the sink in this bathroom, hands clutching the sink, and I can see her eyes are closed from the mirror. Her mouth is hanging open, and her lipstick is still perfect. That’s because we haven’t kissed.

She’s moaning a lot, and I hope she’s not a screamer. Girls think that men are into that, but they aren’t when they are in a public bathroom.

Still using her skirt, I rub her clit, and she bucks wildly forward. I press her even harder against the sink, my thrusts growing more forceful, until she’s squeezed hard. I keep up a steady pace, and the volume of her groans increases.

The sound of our bodies slapping together fills the bathroom. I know she’s getting close, because her entire body is trembling in front of me. I pick up the pace and thrust into her harder and deeper than before. I’m squeezing her hips hard.

With a surprised shout, she climaxes, and her pussy flutters around my dick. Most of the time, that’s enough to get me to shoot my load.

Not today. I am just not into it. I pull my dick out of her, and I take off the condom to throw it into the trash.

“Baby, that was so good.” She whirls around and tilts her face up for a kiss.

I don’t give it to her. I’m tucking myself back into my boxers and pants. I pull my zipper up.

“But you didn’t finish! Here, let me…” She reaches for my softening dick.

“Nah. It’s cool.” I finger-comb her straw-like bleached blonde hair back into place. “Glad you had a good time.” She beams at me, lipstick on her teeth. She reaches into her scarlet lace bra (could it be any other color? of course not), and she has her number written down on a card.

Bubbles Hannigan
says the card, and it has a phone number underneath. She puts it into my hand.

“Call me. Anytime.” She blows me a kiss and goes back out to the bar, possibly to catch another guy and do the same thing all over again.

I wait until she’s outside, then I throw the card away in the garbage.

I should go home. I’m turning thirty tomorrow, and I’m getting too old for this.

Birthday Surprise

Logan

I’m sitting in the waiting area of my parents’ estate lawyer. The receptionist is hot, if you’re into curvy redheads who eyefuck you. Maybe she’ll get lucky tonight.

Mr. Jackson comes out to get me. “I’m ready for you now.” He’s just like a doctor. His face looks like he’s about to give me a diagnosis of terminal prostate cancer. He could work on his bedside manner.

I sit down. My arm goes around the back of the chair, and I’m relaxed, with my back against the back of the chair. He’s been the executor of my parents’ estate since they died nine years ago, so we have these fun little chats any time that I need money or he gives me the annual disbursement.

“What’s up, Mr. J? Sorry I missed your call.”

He winces. “I asked you not to call me that. And you’re here now, which is the main thing.” Lawyers are so uptight.

“Whatever you want, sir.” I smile my winning smile at him, the one that makes girls’ panties fall off. Too bad it’s less effective with wrinkly old guys.

He sniffs as if he’s smelled something bad.

“As you know, your parents have left the trust to you for the time that you turn thirty.”

“Yeah, and it’s my thirtieth birthday. I should be celebrating it in Ibiza, but here I am, with you. You should feel honored.”

Mr. Jackson is too dignified to roll his eyes at me, but I can feel him do it mentally anyway. He sighs. “I’m here to talk to you about the terms of the trust.”

“What’s there to talk about? I’m thirty. You let me take cookies from the cookie jar. Easy.”

“I’m afraid that it’s not that simple. Your parents left you a tape for the day when this came.” Mr. J—I mean “Mr. Jackson”—dimmed the lights and hit play on a remote.

“Hi, sweetheart.” It’s my mom, dressed in one of her favorite pink St. John suits. It hurts a little to see her, but I suck it up instead of tearing up like a pussy. She’s been gone for a long time.

She’s holding hands with my dad, who is sitting there in a Ford suit. He still has the military posture, and there’s no smile on his face.

“Son.” He clears his throat. “We’re worried about your future.”

What?

“I’ve told you time and time again that you need to be more serious about your relationships. You’re respectful inside of the family, but you’ve paraded too many girlfriends in and out of the house. The housekeeper has a separate drawer for the variety of women’s underwear that she finds in your room.”

I grin. That’s my secret trophy case.

“We want you to settle down. You need to find the love of a good woman, like your mother.” They make eye contact, and I feel a lump in my throat. They were so in love, and in a way it was poetic that they died together in that stupid car crash.

My mom turns to look at the screen. “We just want you to be happy, sweetheart, not living the endless life of a bachelor forever.”

“We set up the trust to cover the necessities of daily life until you turned thirty. You have a degree, but you aren’t using it.”

At twenty-one, no, I hadn’t used it. And even now, I used some of my money to throw around into seed funding startups, but I didn’t have a real job.

“We want you to be stable.” My dad is stern and resolute now, like the time that he caught me running through the house with our neighbor’s muddy Labradoodle. “That’s why we’re setting up conditions for accessing the trust.”

“You have a year, honey.”

A year for what?

My dad nods. “You have a year to settle down and get married.”

I’m gobsmacked. I never saw this day coming. I thought I’d get married when I was old and gray and not hot enough to get chicks anymore.

There’s a rock in the pit of my stomach. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins. This feels like the end of my life.

The Terms

Logan

Mr. Jackson turns off the TV. “Those are the terms.”

“What do you need to do as the executor?”

“I’ll verify your marriage certificate with birth certificates from the two of you. I already have a copy of yours.”

“A year isn’t long enough.” I scrub my face with my hands. “A year isn’t nearly long enough. How long do I have to stay married?”