Chapter 5
Bianca
Valentine’s Day
After my encounter with the mystery woman in the hall last night, I only sat in the hot tub for a little while. Not long enough to ease any of my aching muscles.
No matter, though. I spent the morning skiing and now plan to soak for a lot longer. When I ski, I really ski. I go for the hardest, longest runs on the mountain. Not only because I like the challenge, the physical and mental effort it takes, but the solitude it provides.
Every day, not just on Valentine’s Day, I don’t particularly like other people. Especially not shallow, chatty ones.
But today, as I go back into the lodge, I’m exceptionally glad for it. Within seconds of coming back to “civilization,” all I can see is couple after couple. Drinking cocoas and coffee. Snacking on cookies and candies. Chocolates and caramels provided by the resort just for “your sweetheart with a sweet tooth,” as the puke-inducing signs say.
Repressing a shudder at the horrible, cheesy marketing, I clear my boots of any snow and ice. As I do, I think about the mystery woman again. Her offer to come to an event tonight. One she promised would be unlike anything else to be had in Aspen. One that would give me a chance at finding a man who would be willing to take whatever I have to “offer.”
What the hell did she mean, “offer”? Is it a holiday-themed bazaar? Auction? I’m not sure, but something about the latter — the event being an auction — feels likely. But then again, I haven’t spent twenty-years in the publishing industry without developing a “sense” for language and its use. And “offer” seems like a particularly important, conscious choice.
While making my way from the main lodge area to the area that acts like the hotel, I think, Do I really want to go to that kind of thing, though? What if it’s creepy? Weird? Dodgy?
The woman said it was my best chance of getting what I need and want, though. She said if I wanted something beyond normal, this would be my one and only opportunity.
I hang a left, heading toward my room with thoughts of the invitation still on my mind. Whatever the event is, it’s invitation only.
Room numbers coast by me as I move, but I’m not paying too much attention to them. Just enough to be sure I’m headed in the right direction.
If I don’t take the woman up on her offer, it’s not like I can just go some other time. Some other day. And the card stated “dinner” started promptly at eight, which probably means I can’t be late if I go.
I sigh, starting to feel sticky and warm in my ski clothes. Even just walking is enough to make me sweat. “So, I need to decide soon if I’m gonna go,” I mutter, happy to see I only have a few more doors to go before I reach mine.
I see something that doesn’t make me happy, however. I see him. Greaser Boy. I stop walking, initially thinking maybe it’s not him. But as he turns completely to face me, I realize it’s definitely him.
I also know I have no option to avoid him like I did last night. There’s no alternate way to get to my room. Worst of all, though, is that, unlike last night, Greaser Boy’s seen me and is headed my way.
He’s got a swagger to him, though this time it’s not due to too much drink. It’s due to his super-inflated ego.
“Hey, Pink Martini,” he says. His tone is maliciously playful; like he’s been working on a comeback for my treatment of him all night. “Looks like we’re neighbors,” he adds, making sure I can’t squeeze past him. Unfortunately for me, he’s placed himself right in front of my door. “Lucky us, huh?”
I take a shallow breath and square my shoulders. “If you consider me being stuck on the same floor as an ignorant, pushy grease ball lucky, then yeah.” I clench my ski poles, being sure he sees the tips. “Lucky me.”
Again, as he did last night, Greaser Boy seems hurt. Miffed at my treatment of him, but unlike last night, he doesn’t allow himself to act angry. He simply saunters up to me, resting one hand against the wall, and the other loosely at his side. “Hey, girlie, sorry about before,” he says, “I’ll admit I wasn’t on my first drink when I came up to you.”
I look around him, yearning for the quiet safety of my room.
Greaser Boy’s head blocks it out, and I have no choice but to look into his blue eyes. Far from being beautiful, they’re bright and pale enough to be unsettling. Like they don’t belong on his body—stolen from someone else’s.
“But you were mean to me too,” he purrs. “I understand your frustration.” His free hand wanders too close to my body, my breasts. “All alone on Valentine’s Day without a man to help you release all those beautiful, curvy frustrations of yours.”
The jerk actually goes to put his hands on my curves. I bend my body away but that just makes Greaser Boy step closer.
“Why not come to my room, baby girl. I’ll handle all those frustrations for you.”
Just as he goes to lean in and grab or kiss me (I don’t know which), I step away and slip past him. He darts toward me.
“The only thing frustrating me is you,” I say, almost yelling. “If you want to help me handle my problems, go away.” I scream this part, feeling something between rage and fear. I shoulder past him, not caring that my body slams into his.
“Oh, come on, baby.” He whirls around and grabs my wrist. Spinning me to face him again. Which happens more quickly and easily than I want to admit. “Quit being so fussy and let me give you my pacifier to suck on.” He grinds his hips, thrusts lightly as he says this, completely and totally grossing me out.
“No!” I pull out of his grasp, turning to make it to the safety of my room. “I told you to leave me alone. If you don’t, I’ll call security.”
Around me, I hear door handles rattling. Jiggling, as if the occupants are standing on the other side listening to the exchange. But none come to help me, not that I particularly need their help. I can handle myself.
Greaser Boy grabs at me again, but before his fingers can bury themselves in anything personal, or he’s able to get a good grip, a man’s voice belts out from behind. It’s strong but tender. Booming, but with the edge of feathers or sunlight.
“Hey, dumbass! Did you not hear the lady?” Quick, thundering footsteps follow. “She told you to leave her alone, so do it!”
In the next moment, Greaser Boy’s hands abandon their quest.
I turn to see my savior. He’s blonde haired and blue-eyed. Kind of skater/snowboard boy looking with his medium-length hair style, backwards baseball cap, and a sports jersey.
Not usually what I see walking around a ski resort like this. But despite being dressed like a punk, his attitude is straight up gangster.
“You better crawl into whatever hole you came from before I get up there, or I’m breaking all ten of your fingers, bitch.”
Greaser Boy growls. For a moment it looks like he might stand his ground in front of the newcomer. But as my backwards baseball cap referee rolls up the sleeves on his jersey, flashing an expensive and painful-looking set of gold and silver rings across his ten fingers, Greaser Boy loses his nerve. Slinks away from me and quickly beats a retreat into his room. Which, unfortunately, is a few doors down from mine. I hear him grumble something as he slams his door closed, but I don’t care what it is.
My bit of divine intervention is still making his way to me. At the same speed as before, but his posture has relaxed. Even from here, I can smell his sporty cologne. Something between lemons and linen.
When he finally reaches me, he lowers his shoulders and head so he's on my level. Not to tower over me as Greaser Boy tried to.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asks.
Though I’ve had a lot of men in my life put on an act of being the one who put gentle into gentleman, this doesn’t seem to be an act. This young man seems genuinely soft-spoken. Genuinely concerned for me. He reaches tentatively for me but doesn't make contact. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?
“No,” I say with more force than I intend, but I don’t want or need him thinking I’m a damsel in distress. “I’m fine.” I purse my lips. “And I’m perfectly able to take care of myself. You didn’t need to intervene.” I flick my eyes toward my ski poles. “I’m armed and wouldn’t have been afraid to use them.”
The young man — I call him “young” because compared to me, he looks barely twenty-one — seems to take no offense to my words. He just bats his eyelashes (and unconscious gesture) and says quietly, “Forgive me for saying so, but I think you know as well as I do he wasn’t listening.”
His eyes dart to the ski poles, just as mine dart to the bit of bare chest I see peeking out from under his jersey. “Ski poles or not, sometimes men’s ears don’t work unless another man tells them to fuck off.” At his use of “fuck,” my savior looks slightly contrite. Nervous, like I’m his mother, and he’s cussed in front of me. “Excuse my bluntness.”
I smile, feeling genuinely at ease. You’re right about that, young man, I think, enjoying the innocence on his face. Sometimes that’s the only way to get them to listen. But I don’t like being rescued. I don’t like needing to be. I lose my smile, thinking this. No domme worth her salt loses control of the situation.
Out loud I say, “Thank you for your assistance, but I’m not the kind of woman who needs others to interfere in her business. And I’m definitely not the kind of woman who needs rescued.” As I speak, I keep my voice blunt. Harsh, almost. The same tone I used with Greaser Boy.
But, to my surprise, my savior doesn’t react badly. He simply bows and takes my hand in his. Held there like I’m his Queen, and he’s my knight, he kisses my hand.
Right after, he says, “I appreciate your honesty with me. But would you deny someone the chance to do something for you if he is at your service? If he wants to make himself available however you need, for whatever you need?”
I’m shocked by his words. Intrigued by them, but I try my best not to show it on my face. At my service? I look him up and down. You’ve got my attention with those words, young man.
“Interesting.” I allow my hand to rest more completely in his. “You’re at my service, are you?”
“Absolutely, miss,” he whispers, obviously hungering for another chance to kiss my hand.
“And you say you’d be willing to serve me however I need, for whatever I need?”
He nods softly, yet resolutely. “However, whatever, wherever, miss,” he answers. “You’re in charge. You make the rules, and I’ll follow.” He goes to kiss my hand again, and this time a shiver goes up my spine. It’s out of excitement, not fear. Could this punkishly dressed boy be asking me for what I think? My mind races, thinking about what it would be like to make him my sub. Make him my obedient playmate.
Just as the possibilities are about to rush down to my clit and fill it with blood, the young man’s phone rings.
Clumsily, angrily he lets go of my hand and fishes around in his clothing for the disruption.
He’s cussing again, but under his breath as if he doesn’t want me to hear. When he finds his phone and answers it, a whole other aura envelops him. This one is bratty. Punkish, like he really is a gangster and is dealing with someone he hates.
“What? What are you calling me for?” His jaw tightens. His eyes roll. “Fine. Fine, I’ll be there.”
I hear talking on the other end, but what I hear more is my little gentleman sighing. Growling impatiently.
“I’m coming right now, okay?” He stamps his foot in a childishly adorable way. A way I find even more adorable when I compare it to the gentlemanly, heroic aura he was overwhelming me with before. “Right now, I swear.”
So, you have a bit of an attitude to go with your princely actions, do you? I like it!
As he hangs up and stuffs the phone back into the abyss that is his baggy jeans, he quickly loses his irritated lines. His pouty mouth.
“Sorry about that, miss,” he says, taking my hand and kissing it a third time. His lips linger on my skin deliciously and this time my nipples pucker with interest. “I promised my friends I would go to lunch with them, and they’ve just called to remind me.” Bringing his lips off my hand, he says, “I hate to leave you like this, but they’ll have my head for part of the buffet if I don’t get going.”
I smile at him. It’s a gentle and easy thing on my face. Something I’ve given to a lot of men in my time, but not with so much authenticity as I do him.
“Well, then. I guess you’d better be on your way.” As my backwards-baseball-wearing boy goes to leave, I stop him with a squeeze on his head. As I hope, he stops obediently, bringing his eyes right to me. “Before you leave, I’d like to know the name of my Savior,” I say.
“Jordan, miss,” he answers softly.
“Jordan.” Even his name is a sweet dream that fills me with warmth and hunger. “Good to meet you, Jordan.” I tilt my head and drink in one last little bit of him before releasing his hand. “And please — call me Bianca.” I send him on his way with a hand lightly brushing his ass. “Only sometimes ‘miss.’”
Jordan murmurs an understanding before practically running away from me.
I turn and enjoy watching him leave. When he’s no longer in eyesight, I momentarily close my eyes and lick my lips. Oh, my God! Jordan, you are absolutely delicious and adorable! If you weren’t due somewhere else for lunch, I’d have you for mine.