Dalton
Thwack!
That sound, just the memory of it, has my half-hard cock pressing against the zipper of my pants. It’s the crack of skin hitting skin, my hand on a woman’s bare ass. I can practically feel the sting on my palm and hear a playful and surprised shriek.
Fuck, I love that sound.
I’m pulled from my thoughts and back to reality as Robert, the doorman, takes my badge and swipes it against the lock to let me in. The guy’s job must be mind-numbingly boring, but for some reason he always has a smile on his face. I don’t get it.
“Welcome back, Mr. Croft.” His giant mustache wiggles up and down as he grins at me.
“Yes,” I grunt out and figure he’s too new to the building to realize I prefer silence whenever possible. I don’t want chitchat and formalities. He’ll learn.
I walk past him with purpose. He’s broken me from my thoughts, but it was best not to enter the building with my cock at full-staff anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to put in an hour at the gym before heading to the bar. No need to fantasize about what will soon be a reality.
Fucking is a perk of my lifestyle. I work hard. I deserve to play harder. But I didn’t get on the Forbes List of Rising Entrepreneurs by getting lost in the baggage and disruption that comes with serious dating. I’ve seen dozens of men fail at the hands of a woman they think they love. Pathetic.
The Bachelor Tower is a co-op apartment building that was designed by a genius. My hero. The late Garry F. Brockton thought up every detail for an apartment building that catered to ambitious men who know better than to let the lure of a relationship get in the way of their goals. Just two blocks from the Financial District in Boston a man can live as he pleases. We are kings, and this is our castle.
Casino nights, a fully equipped gym, lap pool, cigar and Scotch bar, and a media room with screens the size of the average movie theater. The list is endless. I can network with other associates trying to launch their careers or those who are at the top and want to stay hungry. The best part, a place like this attracts women, beautiful women who hang out in the lobby bar and wait anxiously for an invite upstairs. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.
When I say these women are pros, I don’t mean I have to pay them. I mean their skills are on point. They approach their sexual talents the way an athlete trains. And it shows. Perfectly waxed, toned, and limber.
Any guy who thinks a good blow job is just open mouth, insert cock, has not lived. These women know the power of a firm swirl of a tongue and a well-timed two-handed grip. It’s all about the right rhythm and that primal moan.
I’m not even halfway through the lobby, and I’m rock-hard and throbbing again. Hell, I’m a healthy man in his prime. It has been a long week, and I’ve put business before pleasure. I don’t pursue women—they come to me. I refuse to apologize for accepting what they offer.
No one paved the way for me. Long nights and hard work got me here.
And here is pretty fucking good. Everything is mine for the taking. Power. Money. Pussy. At the Bachelor Tower I can get my rocks off, my dry cleaning done, and my steak cooked just the way I like. No judgements made if each is of equal priority to me.
This co-op is an oasis. A fortress. Very exclusive. That’s why as I enter the elevator and see a woman in dog-hair-covered yoga pants, a cute tank top, and a messy bun of hair, I stop to make sure I haven’t hit my head and ended up in the wrong building. Maybe all the blood that rushed to my cock hasn’t made it back to my brain.
“Hi,” she squeaks and waves nervously at me. Her face is pink with embarrassment, and she’s practically vibrating with nerves. Usually vibration and women go together nicely, but something is wrong here.
“You lost?”
“Ah, no,” she answers as her eyes dart away. “I’m just heading to my apartment.”
“In this building?” I chuckle, knowing now she must be lost. She certainly hadn’t been sipping martinis in the private bar downstairs and gotten an invite up. Not dressed like that. She’s hot, though. Her perky breasts are barely covered by the thin tank top and strappy sports bra. Her workout pants hug her luscious ass. She is toned and tanned with a sexy, nervous smile. Absolutely fuckable, but most definitely lost.
“I’m on the fourteenth floor,” she says, waving the key card and waiting for me to hit the button. When I don’t, she brushes by me and hits it herself.
The key is legit, and I frown. Women and pets are allowed in parts of the building, but never unattended. “Who are you here to see?”
“No one. I live here now.”
Not possible. She was either given a key or stole one. She wouldn’t be the first woman to try lying her way into the building. Maybe she hoped if she could get this far, someone would like what he saw enough to take her to his place. I scan her figure again and realize I could be swayed toward that option—even if it meant locking my shit up for a night.
“You’re either a very convincing cross-dresser, or you’re a liar.” The elevator doors open on my floor. Coincidently floor fourteen, and we both step out. “This is the Bachelor Tower. It’s a men’s-only apartment building. No women. No families. It’s been like that for fifty-six years.”
She shrugs, her flushed cheeks still raging. “You know Mr. Brockton died, right?”
“Yes.” I ignore the pang of some unnamed emotion that rises in me. Brockton was not just the owner of this place, but he strutted around like he was the mayor. He had serious swagger, even in his old age, always a woman on his arm, and likely a Viagra in his pocket.
“His niece is taking over. Apparently she has a different vision for the building.” She chews her lip as she seems to think on it. “I guess they were keeping it quiet. Change is tough, but it might be better to just rip the Band-Aid off quickly.”
Rip off quickly. I bet her shirt would. As nuts as she’s making me with this news, I’m picturing her against the wall with those sweet lips parted in anticipation. She’d tip her head back and beg me to fuck her right here in the hallway. She’s tiny, so I instantly imagine how tight she’d be as I thrust inside her while she cries out my name. If we even bother to exchange names.
God, women are a distraction—this one more than most. “That can’t be right. His niece? She wouldn’t dare. There’s a long waiting list for this place. No offense, but you don’t look like you could even afford the rent.”
“Careful,” she says, pointing at the ground and walking away from me coolly. “You’re spilling your judgmental, obnoxious arrogance all over the place. Wouldn’t want you to slip on it.”
Fuck, she has a bit of fire to her. I like that.
I stand in the now-empty hallway. The mahogany walls, rich charcoal-gray carpets, stately doorways fade away. I’m left with only the lingering image of her sea-glass-green eyes and the smell of her lavender perfume.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself as I pull my key card out from my pocket and realize she’s my neighbor. I’m only one thin wall away from that tight little ass. No way in hell I’m getting any work done now. The fortress has been compromised.