The Foundation
(Lawson)
That was the sweetest pussy I’ve ever had. It’s like this is what I’ve been looking for in all those other women. And a virgin. Skye’s pussy is mine and mine alone. No one else will ever taste her sweet nectar.
I don’t know what it is about her that makes me think things like that. I’ve lived my life convincing myself I don’t need anyone. That I didn’t want anyone because all they wanted out of me was my money.
An issue Skye clearly doesn’t have. But even if she did, I’m not convinced I’d mind.
I lay on the bed beside her, my hand grazes over her perfect peach of a body. The body I’m claiming.
Pulling the comforter over us, I turn out the light and bring her close to me.
I don’t wake up until nine. That happens when you’re up fucking half the night. I came four times in total, Skye countless more. The noises I drew out of her are enough to make me hard just thinking about them.
Skye is still asleep. She’ll probably be for some time, I doubt she fell asleep until very late. It isn’t every night you lose your virginity. I still can’t believe she didn’t tell me beforehand. My dick twitches again just thinking about it, and I adjust it to get it to behave.
After a quick shower, I head to the kitchen and start making breakfast. In anticipation of having Skye here, I gave all my staff the weekend off and ordered them to stay away from the house.
I don’t want Miss The Rich Are Evil to lecture me about having them. She’d probably demand proof I’m paying into their retirement funds.
It’s the kind of attitude that pisses me off when I see it on the news, but when it comes out of her, it doesn’t. Nothing that ever passed through those full lips could offend me.
While I’m frying up some bacon, Skye appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Good morning,” she says.
“You found me.”
“I followed my nose. I’m starving.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m amazed you know how to cook,” she says when I set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her.
“I’m not completely useless.” I know she’s implying that she thought I’d have a cook, what with all my money. And I do have a cook. But I decided before our date that I’d avoid the topic of money today.
We talk while eat our breakfast, the words flowing fast and easy between us. I’m surprised to learn she’s estranged from her parents, but don’t push anything. That’s her business.
“More coffee?” I offer.
“Always.”
I’m about to gesture with my hand to my housekeeper to pour us more coffee, but I realize I’ve given her the day off and quickly pull my arm back, hoping Skye hasn’t noticed. I jump up and get the pot, and pour us each another cup.
While still standing, I ask her, “Would you like a tour of the house?” Everybody always wants a tour.
“I’m good. I don’t need a tour of some shrine to the one percent,” she says, staring straight at me. Here we go, the topic I wanted to avoid.
Sitting, I say, “The world wants to give me a billion dollars and you think I should turn around and say thanks but no thanks?”
“Oh, the world just handed you the money?”
“I didn’t rape anyone for it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not directly, anyway.”
“Whereas you paint for the masses. I suppose after you finish at Kelso’s, you’ll be heading down to your local housing project to hand out your work for free.”
Her eyes narrow, and I can’t help feeling under attack by shooting daggers.
She cocks her head and says, “How much did you give to charity last year?”
“Lots.”
“Lots by your standards or mine?”
“I’ll show you,” I say, standing, “If you can stomach walking through my house to get there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come with me and you’ll see.”
Skye takes my offered hand and I lead her through my house and into the home office I dedicate to my charity. The walls are lined with photos of people the charity has helped, along with all the awards it’s won.
I’m not sure why I’m showing her this room. The only other people who have seen it are my sisters. When I first told her to come with me, I wanted to show her up, to stop her anti-rich bullshit. But by the time we’re halfway down the hall, I realize it’s not that. I want her to like me, to approve of me. And know me.
“Don’t tell me, it’s your own charity,” she says, looking at me sideways. Figures she wouldn’t approve of a rich person’s charitable foundation.
“Of course. I want to be sure the maximum amount of money is reaching the people I want to help.”
While I stand still and watch, she examines the photos on the wall nearest her, walking along the wall after she’s satisfied with each one. When she comes to an award, she reads out the certificate.
“The Heywood Foundation. It doesn’t say who all these people are.” She pauses. “Cancer?”
“Orphans,” I say, smirking.
“Ah, orphans. Of course. Everyone wants to help the orphans.”
“Actually, you’re wrong. Everybody feels for an orphan, but there’s a shocking lack of actual help. My foundation helps by providing counseling, income support, scholarships, funding to keep siblings together, apprenticeships, vacation camps. You name it, we provide it. I give the charity half of my profits, and that will increase once Kelso goes.”
“How noble.” It’s impossible not to notice the sarcasm in her voice.
“Don’t you want to know why orphans? Why not all the other good causes in the world?”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she says returning to me and grabbing my hand.
I take her to the far wall, to a photo of my two sisters and me standing in front of a huge group of people of all ages.
My breathing is shallow. I’ve shared my story a thousand times at events for my charity, but I’ve never spoken about this to a person in private before.
“This is a photo of all the orphans I’ve helped.”
Skye squints her eyes as she examines it.
“Isn’t that your sister?” she asks, pointing to Julie.
“Yeah, she’s the first orphan I ever helped.”
Skye’s eyes widen. She swallows as she moves all her attention from the photo to me.
My eyebrows arch and I shrug. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I was sixteen. There weren’t any relatives to take us in, so I quit school to support my two younger sisters.” Though her face falls as I talk, I carry on.
“When I left school, I got a job as a hotel bellhop. I did every job at the hotel, from valet parker to bookkeeping. It ended up being an amazing apprenticeship. By the time I turned twenty-one, I had so much experience, I was ready to open my own hotel. But I didn’t have any money. That’s when I met Kelso.”
She shudders when I say his name. So do most people who’ve met him.
“He proposed building the hotel for a cut of the profits. Sounded great to me, it was the only way I’d ever be able to have my own hotel. It was a massive success, so Kelso kept on building them and I kept on running them. Until I got fed up with the asshole.”
“That’s why you’re splitting?”
“Yeah. I should’ve done it years ago.”
Skye pushes her body close to mine, wraps her arms around me and nuzzles her face against my T-shirt. I smooth her hair back and kiss the top of her head.
“I don’t know what to say.” She looks up at me, her eyes welling with tears.
“Say you know Kelso’s a fucking asshole and you’re not going back there.”
“I meant about you, not him.”
“Then say you know I’m right about Kelso, and that you’re not going back there.”
A tear escapes her eye and she says, “About your parents. It’s heartbreaking.”
“It was half my lifetime ago now.”
“That doesn’t make a difference. How can that sort of trauma ever go away?”
“Life presses on. The world keeps spinning, and you have no choice but to spin with it.”
“Spinning doesn’t mean leaving your trauma behind.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I clear my throat. There are some things in life that I don’t want to think about.
“I can’t imagine what must’ve been going on in your head.”
“The only thing going through my head was taking care of my sisters.”
“But who took care of you?”
“Me,” I push out through my constricted throat.
Skye grazes my cheeks with her fingers, silent tears still dragging down her pretty face. I hate making her cry. Maybe I’m being too cold to her. Does she even understand what a big deal telling her all this shit is? This wasn’t at all how I thought it would be. Why can I give all these speeches about it to roomfuls of people with ease, but telling her feels like I’m ripping my fucking ribcage open?
All I can do is squeeze her tighter. To drink in the comfort her body against mine brings. We stand like that until her breathing slows and the tightness in my throat lessens.
“Sorry for giving you a hard time,” she says, wiping away her tears.
“I’m not sorry for giving you a hard time last night.”
Before she can call me an idiot, I press my lips against her and kiss her hard enough to forget everything I’ve just told her.