CHAPTER 9
Blake
At six o’clock, my father stopped by for our weekly tête-à-tête. Usually, we met on Thursdays, but later this week, he had to be in New York for a mogul conference. He was impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored pewter suit that complemented his full head of wavy silver hair. My lucky old man hadn’t lost one hair from that head of hair of his. And at sixty-five, he was still in great shape, working out with a trainer at the company gym daily. I was hoping his luck would be passed on to me.
As always, we sat outside on my terrace, sipping brandies and smoking cigars. It was our little tradition. Our way of catching up on both business and personal matters.
“So, how’s the new girl?” my father asked after a drag of his Montecristo No. 4, a Cuban cigar Denzel Washington had given him at the Emmys. His voice was gravelly, and he’d never lost his “New Yawk” accent despite living out here for over half a century. My father was well aware of my history with development assistants—D-Girls—as they were commonly called in the industry. I’d been through them like water. No one lasted beyond three months. They couldn’t handle me. The joke around the office was that I burned them out. (Get it?)
Taking a puff of my cigar, I thought about Jennifer McCoy. She’s sexy, feisty, and fucking with my head. And driving my cock crazy. “She’s okay,” I said flatly.
“She’s got a sharp mind, that little fox. I was very impressed by the questions she asked during the guest lecture I gave for one of her courses. I told her to consider Conquest when she graduated, and when she sent me her thesis, I was totally blown away.”
“What did she write it on?” I asked.
“The Sexual Appeal of SpongeBob SquarePants.”
My brows did a pull-up. SpongeBob NoPants would have made more sense.
My father took another puff of his cigar. “Has she come up with any programming ideas?”
I took a sip of my brandy and then told him about her idea of targeting women with erotic programming during the daytime. I told him I was dubious.
To my surprise, my father nodded with approval. “Mommy porn. That’s fucking brilliant, son. Totally fresh and out of the box.”
“What should we do?” I asked tentatively.
He blew out a ring of smoke. “My instincts are telling me to let her run with it.”
“She wants to do focus groups to prove her theory.”
My father smiled and nodded again. “Good idea. It’s about time you did some.”
Unlike me, my father was very methodical and relied heavily on research to make decisions. Usually, they were never wrong, and he sometimes joked he should have done some research before hiring me. A man who had loved only one woman—my mother—he was not too keen about my reputation as a player or my gut-way of making programming decisions.
My father flicked the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray on the small glass table between us. “Put the groups on the fast track. And I want you to keep me informed about the findings.”
I took a drag on my brandy-laced cigar and spewed one word: “Done.” Arguing with my father had no upside. He was the boss. Period. The warm brandy seeped through my veins, making a delicious contrast to the chill of the early December air. Even in LA, it got cold, at least at night.
After polishing off the brandies and smoking our cigars down to the label, we retreated back into my office. My eyes widened. Jennifer McCoy, her briefcase in hand, was standing in the doorway. She had on a navy coat, looking ready to go home. She seemed surprised to see my father and adjusted her glasses.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Bernstein. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your meeting.”
A warm smile lit my father’s strong-featured face. “Not at all, Jennifer. My son was just sharing some of the excellent ideas you have for SIN-TV.”
The expression on her face said it all. Her eyes rounded; her mouth fell open. She had no clue I was Saul Bernstein’s son. And I had planned to keep it that way for as long as possible. To my amazement, she kept her cool. What an actress!
“Thank you, Mr. Bernstein,” she said smoothly. “I hope you’re right.”
My father winked at her. “I have a very good feeling about you, Ms. McCoy.”
She tweaked a smile. Man, she was cute when she smiled. I wanted to wink at her. My father continued.
“And I look forward to having you at our home on Friday night.”
My eyes bounced from my father to Jennifer. What-the-fuck was written across my eyeballs.
Unbeknownst to me, my father had invited her to our weekly Friday night Shabbat dinner. The night all things should be peaceful. But at our house, all hell usually broke loose. I did a quick silent prayer. Everyone behave. Please behave.
On Friday at six in the evening, the usual suspects were gathered at my parents’ dining room table. It was elegantly set with fine linens, crystal, china, and silver. My father sat at the head and my striking platinum-haired mother at the other end. I sat catty-corner, next to my father. The remaining chairs were occupied by my overweight older sister Marcy and her husband Matt, both gynecologists with a thriving joint Beverly Hills practice . . . their children, my six-year-old twin nephews from Planet Hell . . . and last but not least, my feisty eighty-five-year-old grandmother Muriel, who lived independently in the guest house on our property. Our house, located in the prestigious, gated Beverly Park area of Beverly Hills was huge—a twenty thousand square foot palace that included a screening room, full gym, and ten bathrooms. Many often mistook it for a hotel. It sat on six acres of land. In addition to the guesthouse, there was a swimming pool, tennis court, and a studio where my mother made pottery. Our A-list celebrity neighbors included Eddie Murphy and Sylvester Stallone as well as billionaire Haim Saban, the creator of the Power Rangers, a show I loved watching as a child.
There was one empty chair next to mine. It was reserved for Jennifer. She was unusually late. The Shabbat antics had already begun. The twins were whining about watching television; my sister was yelling at them, and my brother-in-law was yelling at my sister. Oblivious to it all, my grandmother was already on her second (third?) glass of wine. Technically, one was supposed to wait to drink the wine after the Shabbat candles were lit and the prayer for the wine was said. But Grandma always said in her Yiddish accent, “Vy vait? Vait shmait!” At her age, she could not be challenged.
“Vhere’s your new girlfriend?” she quipped, after another loud gulp of wine.
I jerked slightly. “She should be here soon, and she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Vhatever,” responded Grandma, going right back to her wine. “You need to get married.”
Grandma was always on my case to settle down. My mother shot her a harsh look she simply dismissed with a wave of her veined hand and a roll of her crinkly gray eyes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond. I was saved by the bell. Literally. The chime of our front doorbell sounded. It must be Jennifer. My guess was confirmed when a minute later, she was escorted to the dining room by our longtime housekeeper, Rosa. Our eyes immediately made contact.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she apologized, her voice on edge. “I got a little lost coming up here.”
Indeed, it was not easy to get to our house. The gated community was very secluded, and one wrong turn off poorly lit, twisty Benedict Canyon could easily land you miles away in The Valley.
My father stood up. A warm smile beamed on his distinguished face. “Welcome to our home, Jennifer. No apologies necessary.”
My eyes soaked her in. Not wearing her glasses, she looked absolutely stunning in a knee-length, navy blue A-line dress with matching pumps that subtly showed off her curves and slender limbs. Why did she always leave so much to the imagination? It fucking drove me crazy.
Her eyes wandered around the antique-and-art-filled grand dining room. By the expression on her face, I could tell she was in awe of the grandeur of our house. I felt myself cringe, embarrassed a little by the blatant wealth of my family. It couldn’t be helped. My father, who had come from meager means, had worked hard to build Conquest Broadcasting into a global empire, and this house, along with others we owned around the world, was the prize for all his hard work. Whether I agreed with him or not over programming and business decisions, my old man was a force to be reckoned with—and to be admired.
Composing herself, Jennifer took reserved steps toward my mother. In her hand was a bouquet of pink lilies. Their intoxicating scent filled the room.
“These are for you, Mrs. Bernstein.”
“They’re beautiful,” exclaimed my mother. “Thank you so much and please call me Helen.”
Rosa immediately took the flowers from Jennifer, retreated to the pantry, and returned with them arranged in a vase. She set the arrangement on the credenza and then headed back to the kitchen.
“I guess that’s my seat,” Jennifer said nervously, eyeing the empty chair next to mine. My father escorted her to it. The heavenly cherry vanilla scent of Jennifer’s hair mixed with that of the lilies and made a heady combination.
“Hi,” I said softly in her ear.
She gazed at me and blinked her beautiful long-lashed green eyes. With a nervous little smile, she whispered “hi” back. The tension between us was palpable. And so was the electricity.
Returning to his seat, my father introduced my family to Jen. “Jennifer’s one of our rising stars at Conquest.”
Her face flushed the color of the lilies she’d brought.
“You’re too skinny,” shouted out my outspoken Grandma.
She’s fucking perfect, I thought to myself.
My father continued. “It’s customary in our household for the guest of honor to light the Shabbat candles.”
Jennifer flinched. “This is my first Shabbat. I don’t think I know how.”
Despite her protest, my father urged her to come to the head of the table to light the candles. My father was not a man who took “no” for an answer. And Jennifer smartly knew that.
“I’m not very good at lighting matches,” she stammered, taking the matchbox into one hand. Opening the box with her other, she pulled out a match and hesitantly slid it against the striker. Nada. She tried again. Nada. Strike after strike was met with failure. The twins began to crack up and count her misfires. Moving on to another match and then another, Jennifer grew flustered and flushed with embarrassment. Either Calamity Jen was going to burn down the house or burn herself to a crisp. I rose from my chair and semi-circled behind her.
Wrapping one arm around her tiny waist, I curled my fingers of the other around the dainty wrist striking the matches. Her backside pressed into me, and I could feel the rise and fall of her chest. Her long ponytail tickled the sensitive crook of my neck, and that divine cherry vanilla scent of her hair trickled up my nose. Mmmm. She smelled delicious enough to eat. I could feel the beginnings of a hard-on beneath my slacks.
“On my count of three, get ready to light the match,” I breathed into her ear, resisting the urge to suck and nuzzle it. “One . . . two . . . three.” Aiding her, she struck the match and successfully lit it. “Yay!” cried the obnoxious twins. I gently led her shaking hand to the two Shabbat candles that stood tall and erect in the Baccarat crystal holders before us. One after another, the wicks caught fire, and I felt my body heat up with hers. My cock was on fire too.
“Thanks,” she mumbled humbly, setting the matchbox and used match down on the table. It was customary for the woman who lit the candles to cover her eyes with one hand and usher in Shabbat with sweeping gestures of the other and then recite a blessing in Hebrew. Readjusting my hands, I helped her do this and said the prayer since she didn’t know it. My large splayed hands covered her small ones. I loved the way they felt in mine. She trembled against me, and I wondered if she could feel my arousal. And my heat.
Symbolically, Shabbat was the union of man and woman—a spiritual wedding. God taking his bride. That’s what I’d learned when I was studying for my Bar Mitzvah. I’d never given thought again to this concept until this very minute . . . with Jennifer McCoy almost in my arms. I had the burning urge to cover her long, graceful neck with kisses but settled for breathing hotly on the nape. After everyone said the prayers for the bread and the wine, I forced myself to break away from her. My cock stiff, we both returned to our seats. Shabbat dinner was about to be served.
Shabbat dinner was always an extravagant multi-course meal. It began with the challah, a delicious egg bread, being passed around the table and was followed by Grandma’s melt-in-your-mouth matzo ball soup, and my mother’s scrumptious brisket—a secret recipe she guarded with her life. The tantalizing aroma of the meal to come wafted in the air.
“What’s your favorite TV show?” asked one of the twins while Rosa circled the table and served the soup.
“SpongeBob,” replied Jennifer, smiling.
What was with her and that stupid cartoon character? My brows furrowed, but she’d definitely earned brownie points with the obnoxious twins. My nephews’ faces lit up like light bulbs.
“Cool beans! That’s our favorite too!”
“Maybe you can watch it with us after dinner,” chimed the other little devil.
My sister shot him a dirty look. “You know darn well we don’t watch TV on Shabbat, Jonathan.”
The little boy frowned. He tore off a large piece of his challah in frustration and hurled it at his mother. It hit her in the face.
“Do something about him!” she yelled at my brother-in-law after stuffing the fragment into her mouth.
He shrugged, too busy eating his soup.
Fuming, my sister leaped out of her chair and dragged Jonathan out of the dining room. The little brat screamed. I almost felt sorry for him.
“Meanie,” shouted the other twin, clanging his soup spoon on the table.
Grandma dramatically pounded her heart. “Oy! Such tsuris! Your mother’s become such a klafte.”
Klafte was the Yiddish word for “bitch.” I inwardly cringed. I was thankful that Jennifer didn’t understand a word of Yiddish but regretful that she had to put up with our Shabbat shenanigans. I turned to look at her. To my surprise, she seemed amused.
“What’s this?” she asked me as Rosa ladled the steamy broth into her bowl, followed by two big dumpling-like balls.
“Matzo ball soup. It’s delicious.”
My eyes stayed focused on her as she scooped up a matzo ball into her spoon. She pursed her lush lips and blew on it and then she put the delectable ball to her mouth. Her lips parted and then descended onto to it. I desperately wanted her lips on my balls and fantasized what they would feel like in her mouth. So good. So fucking good. Heat pooled inside them. I squirmed in my chair, rubbing my cock and nuts on the cushion.
“Mmm,” moaned Jennifer as she consumed the matzo ball.
“Mmm,” I repeated, my balls mentally rolling around in her mouth.
And then she swallowed. Her eyes closed in ecstasy. I hastily took off my jacket. Had Rosa turned the heat up?
She complimented my mother. “Helen, these taste soooo good.” Her deft velvet tongue traced her upper lip.
Holy shitballs! I wanted to zip down my fly. My cock was raging. This girl had given me a major fucking hard-on. There was no way I could sit here any longer without coming in my pants. I jumped up from my chair.
“I’ll be right back.” I hurried out of the dining room before anyone could see the pitched tent between my legs and practically ran to the nearest guest bathroom. I couldn’t get my pants down fast enough. My full-on erection sprung from my boxers. Without wasting a second, I fisted my fingers around it and stroked it hard, up and down. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. In my head, I imagined Jennifer’s sensuous mouth wrapped around it, following my hand, as I raced toward orgasm. Groans escaped my throat; my cock was on fire; I was desperate to come. I squeezed my eyes shut and picked up my pace. I was close. So, so close. My face contorted; my heart raced like a Ferrari, and my cock filled up like a glass of champagne. And then with a jerk and a grunt, I exploded. All over my hands. Such a massive release of power. I sighed with relief and opened my eyes. Standing at the doorway was Jennifer, her body a stone statue and her mouth a frozen wide “O.”
Holy, holy fuck!