3
FAREWELL, MANHATTAN
I sat in the back of the car, a black Mercedes-Maybach Pullman limousine. It was luxurious beyond compare, soft and supple quilted tan leather, soothing classical music piped in crystal-clear surround sound via invisible speakers. There were a thousand other details that made the car worth more than half a million dollars. I sat in the rear passenger seat, staring out the window gazing up, up, up. Tinted, reflective glass rocketed skyward to a dizzying height, and I saw the face of a Manhattan highrise that had been the scene of a life-changing series of events for me. Up there, on the very topmost three floors was Roth’s former home. My former home, really. In what seemed like a lifetime ago I’d stood behind a pair of rich mahogany French doors, my heart hammering, waiting to meet the man who essentially owned me.
I’d been blindfolded. My heart had hammered like a drum. Fear had pumped through my veins in place of blood. Yet through it all, there had been an element of excitement. Seduction, even, that began from the first moment I’d heard his voice, sensed his presence, smelled the spicy undertone of his cologne, felt the brush of his fingers on my shoulder. He’d owned me, financially, but from that first moment, he’d also owned my body, my soul, my heart.
When we first made love, he’d taken possession of my whole being.
I could never go back, now. I could never be a normal girl, dating normal guys. Even if I wanted to—which I didn’t—the experience of Valentine Roth had ruined me for all other men.
And it had all started a few hundred vertical feet away from where I sat. The place where Roth was right now personally attending the sale of his building. His home, the core of his company. I wondered if he would walk the halls once more, visit the shower where we’d done…such delicious things to each other. The bedroom, where he’d finally allowed me, of all people, to see the real him, to know him, taste him, feel him.
I thought about the library up there, where Gina Karahalios had shot me in the knee and then kidnapped me. The hallway near the foyer, where I’d first encountered Roth…where I’d seen Eliza’s dead body. Eliza, Roth’s housekeeper, friend, and one of the few people other than Robert, Harris, and me that he truly trusted or cared for. Eliza, the namesake of our ship.
I inhaled sharply, then blinked. I ignored Layla’s curious glance at me and focused on breathing and pretending it was just another day. People passed by on the sidewalk just a few feet away, staring curiously, but the windows were mirrored, preventing anyone from seeing in.
Long, long minutes later—fifteen minutes, or maybe an hour, I’d lost track, lost in memory—Harris emerged from the rotating doors at the entrance, followed closely by Roth. God, Roth. All seventy-six-point-eight blond-haired, blue-eyed, gloriously gorgeous inches of him, clad in a trim black bespoke suit, crisp white button-down, no tie, top two buttons undone, striding confidently toward the limousine, unfastening the center button of his suit jacket as Harris opened the back door for him. I knew from his expression that my Valentine wasn’t in a good mood. He had on what I thought of as his “shit-kicking” face, brows drawn, lips pressed in a thin flat line, jaw muscles flexing, eyes glittering and shifting.
Harris took the driver’s seat, buckled his seat belt and checked his mirrors. “All set, sir?” He glanced in the rear-view mirror through the lowered partition between the front and rear seats.
Layla, sitting in a rear-facing jump seat, glanced from me to Roth and back, and then slid toward the passenger door. “Hang on, Harris, I’m coming up front.”
She exited and took the front seat beside Harris, who shot another glance back at Roth. A nod from Roth, and Harris pulled the long, powerful vehicle out into the stream of traffic, and then closed the partition.
I waited a few minutes more in silence as Roth stared out the window, brooding. Finally I reached out and pried his hand open, threading my fingers through his. “Babe? You okay?”
He shook his head. “No. I hate selling that building. I built it from the ground up. I formed the construction company myself, handpicked the foreman and architect, and chose all the subcontractors myself. Every tile, every slab of marble and every board foot of imported wood, every door handle and cabinet pull and roll of carpeting…I chose it all myself. My handprints are in the foundation. I poured the first load of concrete. It was the first place since I left England as an eighteen year-old boy that really felt like home, you know? It just…sucks.”
“You didn’t have to sell it.”
He glanced at me, finally. “Yes, I did. Number one, we need the cash. Number two, could either of us have walked into that library ever again? I couldn’t. I just…couldn’t. I went through the bedrooms, the kitchen, and all the other rooms. But the library…I just couldn’t go in. Couldn’t stand to see the place where she…where Gina….” He shook his head, once, sharply, and then rested his chin in his other hand. “I couldn’t. And, besides, for better or worse, I’m done with New York.”
“So now what?”
“Now…Robert condenses the businesses that remain into one umbrella company.” Another glance at me, this time with a small smile. “We’re calling the new structure St. Claire, Incorporated. You’re on the board, and you have your own majority share.”
“What?” I stared at him; he never ceased to amaze me.
“You and I are the controlling shareholders, each of us owning a third of the shares, with the remaining third split between a few others.”
“So…what does being a majority shareholder entail?” I asked.
He shrugged. “As much or as little as you want. You can become involved in the day-to-day operations of the company, if you want; I can teach you anything you need to know that you don’t know already. Or, you can just sit back and do nothing and collect the earnings, which will go directly into your personal bank accounts.”
Ah, yes, my private bank accounts. Roth had set them up for me after Harris and I had rescued him from Gina. They were my insurance, in case anything happened to Roth, or if—god forbid—I either left or became separated from Roth. The accounts were mine, and only mine. He had no access to them. In my purse there were debit cards, checkbooks, and a slip of paper with series of codes written on it, allowing me access to…six accounts? Seven? I wasn’t sure. There were a whole bunch of Swiss and offshore accounts, each in my name.
They contained, in total, something in the neighborhood of eight hundred million dollars.
Every once in a while, I would remember I had that money, and I would try to imagine what it meant. Eight hundred million dollars. It was a gobsmacking amount of money. Enough that I could live in utterly ridiculous luxury for the rest of my life and never have to work another day, never have to pay taxes—something that was handled without my needing to do a thing. I wasn’t sure how he’d worked that magic, and didn’t honestly care; he wasn’t a criminal anymore, so it was all legal. Of that I was positive.
“I tend to forget about those bank accounts, honestly,” I said.
Roth laughed. “How do you forget about nearly a billion dollars, Kyrie?”
I strived to look innocent. “Out of sight, out of mind? I don’t use the money since you take care of everything for me.” I shrugged as if it didn’t matter, which to me it really didn’t. I had total confidence in Roth’s ability to provide for us financially. “So…why did you add me to the business, and why name it after me?”
He grinned, a cute, sexy tilt of his lips. “Because you’re half of me, sweetheart. And everything I have is yours. All of it is meaningless, without you.” He turned toward me, finally. “I’ve never exactly been poor, but I can tell you without hesitation that I would live my life in utter poverty, as long as I could do it with you.”
I shook my head. “Roth, baby. You’re a spoiled brat. You have no idea what poverty is like. But…I believe you.”
He laughed. “I only said I’d do it, not that I’d like it.”
“You would hate it.”
He nodded seriously. “I’m sure I would. I have a taste for the best things in life. But I assure you, my love, if we were to somehow lose everything, every penny, every company and subsidiary and property and stock share, we wouldn’t remain poor for long. I would work day and night until you were provided for as you deserve.”
“I know it, Valentine. I have absolute faith in you.”
He just smiled and squeezed my hand. After another few minutes of silence, the vehicle stopping and starting and weaving through traffic, I recognized that our path was leading to the airport. “So, where next?”
“A private airfield a few hours from the city.”
I furrowed my brow. “Private airfield? Like your own airport?”
He shrugged. “Sort of. It’s nothing but a few acres in the middle of nowhere with a hangar and a landing strip. But it’s owned by a dummy corporation and was purchased through a complicated series of transactions that would be…very difficult to trace back to me. It’s a secure facility, surrounded by razor wire and protected by heavily armed guards from Harris’s security company.”
“Wow.” Roth never ceased to amaze me. “When did you do all this?”
“Oh, I’ve had the airfield for years. I first purchased it back when I was still running guns, but I essentially sold it to myself via a long and complicated process to erase any connection to me personally. And then I just let it sit, kept it maintained, but that was it. Then, a few months ago I had it overhauled, had the landing strip repaved, upgraded the fence, and had Harris set a guard. I had a feeling we might need a place to fly in and out of that was totally off the radar.”
“And where are we going from the airfield?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“A wedding surprise?”
He grinned. “Maybe.”
“But Layla and I haven’t done any real planning.”
“Once we’re at our destination, you two can go crazy. As long as you follow Harris’s security rules, anything goes.”
“What are the rules?”
“He’ll tell you when we get there.”
“When will that be?”
Roth lifted an eyebrow at me. “Soon.” He turned toward me and lifted the armrest up out of the way. “You aren’t eager at all, are you?”
I slid away from him, putting my back to the door. “No,” I gulped. “Not at all.”
He was all over me, a hand cupping my hip and tugging me down, toward him, pulling me horizontal. The movement made my knee-length skirt hike up to mid-thigh, and then Roth’s hands were helping it upward, pushing it up around my hips, baring me to him.
“Why, Kyrie…” he whispered, pressing his lips to my ear. “You aren’t wearing any underwear.”
“You know what being in a limousine does to me.”
“We have company up front.” His fingers trailed up my leg, tracing from calf to knee to thigh. “You’ll have to be silent.”
“I can do that.”
Roth just huffed a laugh in my ear. “No, you can’t. You are many, many things, my love, but quiet during orgasm isn’t one of them.”
“I can’t help it if you have a knack for making me scream,” I said, and then lost the capacity to formulate sentences, because Roth’s fingers were inside me, scissoring, spearing, withdrawing, smearing my juices over my clit and sliding back in.
I moaned, and Roth covered my mouth with his, not kissing but rather eating my groan, swallowing my sigh, smothering my whimper. I slid further beneath Roth, arched my back, ground my core against his fingers. Eager, hungry, ready. I rode his fingers, writhed against him, sucked his tongue into my mouth and tasted him, bit his lip. I fisted my fingers in his hair and let my knee fall aside, opening myself for him, hooking my other heel on the back of the seat.
“Are you close, Kyrie?” Roth whispered against my lips.
“Yes…fuck yes.”
“Squeeze my fingers, darling. Don’t make a sound.” He had his index and middle fingers deep inside me, and now pressed his thumb against my clit. I clenched my teeth on the shoulder of his suit coat, groaning, writhing, stifling a scream. “You’re there, aren’t you? You want to come, don’t you?”
“I need it, Roth,” I said past gritted teeth.
“Not yet.” He slowed his plunging fingers, curled them inside me to knead his fingertips against that perfect spot, the ridge high on the upper wall, circling my throbbing clit with his thumb.
I was wet, dripping wet, each motion of his hand making a thick squelching sound. He was alternating now, circling with his thumb and pressing with his fingers, and then switching so his fingertips swiped and scraped and pressed inside me while his thumb was stilled against my clit. No rhythm, no predictability. Just enough to make me need it more, driving me crazy.
I knew what he wanted.
I clamped down with my vaginal muscles, and he started fucking me with his fingers, giving me rhythm now. In and curl, thumb pressing in hard and fast circles. Harder. Faster.
I bit his earlobe and moaned as softly as I could, which…wasn’t very quiet.
“Shush, Kyrie, love. Keep quiet for me.”
“Can’t.”
“You can. Or I’ll stop.” He made good on his threat when I moaned again, his hand going still.
I whimpered in frustration, writhing against him, needing to come, needing to fall over the edge. “Roth, please.”
“Yeah? Not above begging, are you, sweetheart?”
“Hell no. I need it, Roth. Let me come. Please let me come.”
“Not yet. I don’t think you’re desperate enough.” He went to work again, starting all over, kneading, circling, and finger-fucking arrhythmically, slowly, maddeningly, until I was grinding and biting his sleeve and trying desperately not to scream from the raging need inside me, the whirling fireball of need, the hurricane of sexual desperation.
“Please, Valentine, please. God, I can’t take anymore.” I whispered this in his ear in my quietest voice, barely audible.
He thrust a third finger inside me, hooking them to rub against that spot, fucking in and out faster and faster, the only sound now my ragged breathing and the wet sucking of his fingers.
I felt the edge approaching like an on-rushing cliff, like a detonation building, building. Every muscle tensed, my spine arched off the quilted leather, my heels were pressed against the opposite door to keep me aloft, and my teeth clenched against the scream.
I squeezed his fingers as they fucked in and out, in and out, and then I was beyond all control, focusing only on not screaming. He was in control now, his three fingers and one thumb ruling my universe.
He pressed his lips to my ear, and nibbled my earlobe. “Come for me, Kyrie. Come now.”
I had to clench my teeth so hard my molars ached as the orgasm blasted through me with nuclear force. I felt myself gush, squirting all over his hand and wrist, and he kept finger-fucking me with relentless speed, pushing my climax to the absolute zenith, pushing it until I was frantic and writhing helplessly, coming and coming and coming.
When it finally slowed, he withdrew his fingers and murmured in wordless satisfaction as I collapsed against the seat, gasping.
“Look at this, Kyrie.” I forced my eyes open, and saw him examining his hand. “You soaked me, love.”
His hand was dripping, his shirtsleeve and the cuff of his coat were dampened. Even the leather beneath my ass was wet with my juices.
I felt myself blush in embarrassment. “I made a bit of a mess, hmmm?”
Roth kissed each fiery cheek. “You did indeed. My hand is going to smell like your pussy all day now.”
I buried my face against his neck. “I’m sorry?”
He laughed. “I’m not.”
I shifted to a sitting position beside him, and noticed a certain problem. “Your turn, I think.”
His eyes cut over to me. “My turn?”
I swiveled to partially face him, curled one leg up on the seat. “I mean, I can’t let you suffer, can I?”
“Certainly not.” He brushed a flyaway strand of hair away from my face, an eager gleam in his eyes.
There was no protestation that I didn’t have to. Obviously not. We were past that, long past. I knew what he wanted, and how he liked it. He knew I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to. He just sat there, waiting, his eyes on me.
I shot him a smile as I unbuckled his belt, careful to not let it jingle. I unfastened his trousers, unzipped him. He lifted an inch or two off the seat, and I slid his pants and boxers down to his thighs, baring his cock. It stood tall and straight, rigid, veined, pink, and huge. Begging for my mouth. Pleading for my touch.
I wrapped my fist around him, slid my fingers down the shaft and back up slowly, watching his expression go heavy-lidded. He inhaled deeply, letting his breath out in a slow gusting sigh. With my other hand, I cupped his balls, kneading them gently, sliding my middle finger down, down, finding his taint. He shifted lower, let his knees fall apart as wide as his pants would allow, brushed my hair out of my face, lip curling in pleasure as I stroked his length.
I kept it slow, teasing. Toying with him. Just touching him. A thumb across the tip, smearing the droplet, squeezing around the broad head until it popped out over the top of my fingers then plunging my hand down to the root. Again. Again. And again, and this time his hips flexed involuntarily. I squeezed harder, and he sucked in a breath.
“You like that, don’t you?” I asked him in a nearly inaudible whisper. “When I squeeze your cock?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
“You like it hard and tight, don’t you?” I kept my eyes on his as I bent over him. “I know why, too.”
“Why’s that, love?” His voice was even, steady. But his eyes betrayed him, gave away his need, gave away how much he was enjoying my ministrations.
“Because it feels like my asshole, and I know how much you love to fuck me there.” I said this, and then wrapped my lips around the thick head of his dick.
“Jesus, Kyrie,” he mumbled, and let his head fall back against the seat.
I took him in my mouth, flattening my tongue to taste the salt of his taut flesh as he slid between my wide-stretched lips. I backed away, letting him pop out. “Don’t you?”
“Don’t I—what?”
I felt a wild thrill of satisfaction; I knew I was doing it right when he lost composure. I squeezed as hard as I dared, and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Don’t you love to fuck me in the ass?” I plunged my tightened fist down from tip to root, squeezing, clenching around him. “Like this? Tight and hot?”
He made a sound low in his throat. “God yes…just like that.” He thrust his hips, his groan rumbling deep in his chest.
I pressed a kiss to his jaw, and then his throat, and then bent over him and licked the tip of his glans, tasting pre-come, and then stroked his cock with my hands, taking him deeper into my mouth as I lowered my fist around his girth. He groaned again and leaned forward, thrust upward, and I took the thrust willingly, letting him fuck my mouth, letting him fuck through my squeezing fist and between my lips.
But then I backed away and glanced up at him. “That’s enough, now, Valentine. Let me make you feel good. Don’t move.”
His eyes narrowed, Roth nodded, resting his head back against the seat once more. He threaded his fingers through my hair, tucked his other hand behind his head, and let out a sigh.
I waited another moment, drawing it out. Then, keeping my eyes on his, I pulled his shaft away from his body, tilted my head to the side, and took him into my mouth. He sucked in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, chest swelling, jaw tensing and flexing as he watched his dick slide between my lips. Back away, bend closer, take him deeper, let him almost slip out…I matched the rhythm to the pace of his breathing, faster and faster and faster, until I was bobbing almost frantically.
And then I stopped, and Roth groaned. He’d never apply force or pressure, but his grip on my hair tightened.
I let his saliva-glistening member pop free of my mouth, and then, eyes on his, moving slowly, deliberately, I licked him from root to tip, pressing my tongue so it was wide and flat against the veined flesh. As I reached the apex, I took him back into my mouth and this time wrapped my fingers around him just beneath my mouth and stroked him with both at once. I took him to the back of my throat, and then I added my other hand around the base—god, I’d never get over how huge his cock was, how perfect, that I could fit both hands and my mouth around him and still have room to move, that I had to stretch my lips and jaw around him, that my fingertips didn’t quite meet when I gripped him with my fist.
I began moving slowly, then. Torturously slowly, gliding down with my mouth, stroking with both hands, pulling upward so just the soft and springy head of his cock was in my mouth, and then I began sucking. Fists moved, sliding up and down, faster and faster.
Harder and harder.
And then slower. I removed my mouth, pulled him away, looked up at him, maintaining eye contact as I stroked him hand over fist, smearing my saliva and his leaking pre-come all over his cock. He groaned again, fisting my hair even harder, so the roots tugged. He was close, then.
I jacked him with one hand, the tip of his cock at my lips, kissing, licking, sucking, a gentle careful scrape of the teeth, and then he was flexing his hips and clenching his teeth to keep from making too much noise.
“Just your mouth, love. Give me your hands.” His voice was an unexpected rumble.
I reached up and he took my hands in his, cupping my small ones in his much larger paws. I rested my cheek against his stomach and slid lower, closer, and let his cock slide into my mouth. Sucked. Bobbed. Paused to lick the tip and flick my tongue against the hole at the very apex, tasting the smoky essence. And then bobbed lower and took as much of him as I could, setting no rhythm.
And then he was rasping in his throat and his hips were flexing, and I knew it was time to stop playing with him and make him come.
I tugged one of my hands free from his grip and cupped his sac in my palm, slid my middle finger against his taint and pressed in. His breath caught, and I began fucking with him my mouth in earnest, now, no finesse or technique, just my lips and tongue on his throbbing cock, faster and faster.
I pressed harder with my finger, slid it a little further back, earning a grunt of surprise from him. He didn’t protest, though, so I pushed yet farther, until I was right there, tip of my middle finger pressed against his asshole and he was fighting to relax, wanting to tense, but not allowing himself. I found the center of the knot of muscle and pressed, slid the tip of my finger in, and he groaned helplessly, his muscles going limp even as his hips flexed and stayed taut.
All the while, I was going down on him, not hard or fast, but with a consistent rhythm. He wanted it faster, wanted it harder. But I didn’t give that to him. My goal wasn’t to make him come quickly, but intensely, and to that end drawing it out as long as possible was best.
He was close, though; I could feel it, taste it.
And I wanted it. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to feel him let loose, feel him take his pleasure in my mouth.
Until Roth, giving blowjobs was something that was just…a thing. Not a bad thing, or a good thing, just something one did as a routine part of sex. I didn’t mind doing it, but I didn’t enjoy it. I always knew my partner enjoyed it, obviously, because every male whether straight or gay loves few things more than getting his dick sucked. But this…with Valentine?
This wasn’t about sex, really. It was about an expression of love, about showing him how much I loved him, showing him how much I wanted to make him feel good, showing him that his pleasure was paramount to me. I loved his body, every inch of it. And I especially loved his cock, all the glorious length of it. I’d never have thought it was possible, but I loved feeling him in my mouth, loved the sensation of stroking his hardness with my hands, tasting the pre-come on my tongue, feeling him tighten and grow harder under my touch. I loved feeling him go crazy, watching him lose control, knowing it was me, knowing I could make him feel so incredible that he couldn’t hold back. I loved the way his cock would throb and thicken as he got closer to orgasm…like he was at that moment, rock-hard abs taut as a drum skin, balls tight up against his body, hips flexing involuntarily, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in short wild gasps…
Yes, here it came, the release.
I loved this too, when he cut loose in my mouth. I felt him thrust deeper into my mouth and pressed my finger deeper, felt him tense, flex. He gave my hair two sharp tugs as a warning signal.
I slowed my pace.
He groaned, growled, sounding almost feral.
I slowed yet more, pulling back until he nearly popped out, and then plunged down, taking him to the back of my throat. He growled again, thrusting up as he prepared to come.
I hummed, moved my finger ever so slightly in and out, and gave him one more long slow stroke of my mouth, and then I tasted salt and heat, felt the initial spurt as I was backing away. Felt it on my tongue, splashing into my mouth. I swallowed, continued my slow deliberate stroke, until I was at the edge of my gag reflex.
I wrapped my free hand around the thick root of his cock and stroked him there too, hard and fast now, while moving my mouth up and down slowly, slowly. The contrast of the slow movement of my mouth versus the quick hard jacking motion of my hand drove him crazy, and he shot another thick stream of come into my mouth. I swallowed. He groaned, a low but loud rumble, and I kept the contrasting pace going, milked his orgasm for yet another spurting gush, another smaller one, and then one last dribble.
Finally done coming, he let out a sigh.
But I wasn’t done. I used my hand alone now, caressing him slowly from root to tip, coaxing more semen out of him, casting a glance at him as I licked it away. Again. And only when he was finally starting to subside and go limp did I let him go, helping him tug his underwear and pants back into place.
And at that moment, as I was tucking him back into his boxer-briefs, the privacy glass whirred and lowered,.
“Hey, we were thinking of stopping for—oh Jesus! Seriously, you two?” Layla’s voice shifted from casual query to disgust and outrage within a single breath. “You’re for real blowing him right there in the back of the limo? We’re right here!”
I glanced at Layla as I zipped, fastened, and buckled Roth. “That’s why it’s called privacy glass.”
“Yeah, but—” she faked a dramatic shudder. “Seriously did not need to see that.”
“Good thing you didn’t open the window any sooner, then,” I said, resuming my seat and smoothing my hair back.
Layla just stared at me for a long moment, and then her brows drew down. “Um. You’ve got some…right by your mouth—oh god. I’m not sure I can look at you anymore.”
I wiped at my face and grinned at her. “Oh please. Like I’ve never walked in on you before. In fact, I think I did, and you didn’t even slow down, if I remember right. You just kept on going.”
Layla looked equal parts embarrassed and angry. Roth was silent, but clearly enjoying it, and Harris? I wasn’t sure about him. He kept his eyes straight ahead, hands at ten and two on the wheel.
“Yeah, well—” Layla started. But then she laughed despite herself. “That was so damn awkward. We were in the shower and you had to use the bathroom. But he was right there so I couldn’t just stop, and you were about to wet yourself.”
I laughed even harder. “I pretended I didn’t know what was going on, and you pretended I wasn’t there. Only, there was a shower curtain between us, clear from the waist up. Thank god it wasn’t glass, but I could just see the top of your head moving…”
“You wouldn’t look at either of us for weeks after that.”
“Yeah, well, your creeptastic whatever-of-the-month didn’t have that problem. He’d look at me like ‘yeah buddy, you want some, too?’”
“He did?” Layla asked.
“Um, yeah? He stared me down all the time after that. Gave me these looks, wiggled his eyebrows. Shit, he all but pulled his junk out and offered it to me.”
Harris coughed, then, and Layla glanced at him, and I saw her expression shift from amusement to embarrassment, and from there to walls-up defensive anger. “What?” She turned to him. “Got something to say, Harry?”
He swiveled his head ever so slightly. “No, Miss Campari.”
“Oh please. ‘Miss Campari’ my ass. You know my fucking name.”
“True.”
“So what?” She tilted her head, and I could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was spoiling for a fight, Layla-style. Poor Harris. Layla in pissed-off or embarrassed mode is scary. She could flay the red off a brick with nothing but a few well-turned phrases. “You don’t like to hear about my sexual exploits…Harry? Got a problem with it?”
“Not at all.”
“Well it sure as fuck seems that way. That little cough, like excuse me? Sounded to me like a judgmental sort of cough, know what I mean?”
“Not at all. It isn’t my place to judge.”
“But you are, aren’t you? Bet you’re wondering how many dicks I’ve sucked in the shower, aren’t you?” She leaned close, enunciating each syllable very clearly and carefully. “A lot. Not just in the shower, either. In the car. In the bed. On the couch. Public bathrooms. Behind the bleachers. Everywhere. I love blowjobs, Harry. They’re my fucking specialty.”
Harris’s shoulders lifted and lowered as he took a long breath and let it out. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “Very clever play on words, Miss Campari.”
“My name is Layla.”
“I’m aware.”
She traced the shell of Harris’s ear with her finger. “Bet you want a sample of the goods, don’t you? A little test run? Right here, right now?” She leaned closer. “You want some road head, Harry?”
“My name is Harris. And no. Not while I’m driving a half-million-dollar automobile.” He didn’t flinch, didn’t bat her hand away, and didn’t look at her. “Ask me later, though, and I might have a different answer.”
Not the response she was expecting, I gathered. She snorted and turned away, catching a glimpse of Roth, who was barely restraining open laughter.
“Glad you think this is funny, Roth,” she snapped.
“Oh, I do. Very much so.” Roth gestured at Harris, chuckling. “You’ve managed to fluster Harris, and that is no mean feat, I assure you. Harris is so unflappable he could be British.”
Harris shook his head. “Very funny…sir.”
This only made Roth laugh even harder. “So it’s sir, now, is it? You never call me sir.”
I had to defuse this, somehow. “I feel like we’ve gotten off-topic, here. Layla, you were going to say something about stopping somewhere?”
She tossed her thick, curly black hair. “Never mind. I ain’t even hungry anymore.”
Uh-oh. Layla rarely reverted back to what she referred to as “old Layla” slang. She’d grown up in a pretty rough area, and her manner of speech had shown that. She’d worked hard to eradicate it, and had taught herself to speak more properly, even if she still swore like a sailor. But when she was really upset she’d speak in street-slang.
“Layla, I—”
She raised the privacy glass, cutting me off.
Roth glanced at me. “That was unexpected.”
“She gets prickly when she feels like she’s on the defensive.”
“She going to be okay?”
I shrugged. “Eventually. Layla is Layla. You can never tell with her.”
“YOU KNOW I CAN HEAR YOU, RIGHT?” Layla shouted. She lowered the glass again. “I am not prickly, and I am not unpredictable. Jesus.”
I had to laugh at that. “Layla, come on—”
“Just—shut up, Key. You’re just gonna piss me off even more.”
“Please, Kyrie,” Harris cut in. “Whatever you do, don’t piss her off anymore. I have to ride with her up here.”
“Oh shut your fucking mouth, Mister Unflappable.”
“You first, Miss Blowjobs-for-Everyone.”
“Oh…shit,” I murmured.
“I didn’t mean—” Layla started, and then shut her mouth on her words so fast her teeth clicked. “You know what? I don’t owe you dick for explanations. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“That’s what it sounded like to me.” Harris was speaking as calmly as ever, but there was something in his voice, a hint of ire, a note of irritation…something I’d never heard before.
“I was making a point.”
“About how much you love blowjobs. Point taken.”
Layla hissed. “About how my decisions are mine to make and I won’t be judged for them!”
“I’m not judging. I have not uttered a single word in judgment. I haven’t said one syllable that could be construed as negative towards you in any way, Miss Campari—Layla, I mean.”
“It’s the way you’re looking at me. Or not looking at me.” She sounded petulant, and less sure of herself, somehow.
“Then you’re misconstruing the way I’m looking at you. And, honestly, my focus has been on the road, not you.”
“What, you can’t divide your attention?”
Harris let out a breath, a very frustrated breath. “Oh for fuck’s sake. You’re impossible.”
Layla had no reaction to this. She just crossed her arms beneath her prominent breasts and stared out the window at the rural New York State scenery.
I glanced at Roth as this exchange occurred. We traded looks, both of us surprised at our respective friends.
I’d never seen Layla interact with anyone this way. She dominated conversation simply by virtue of being louder and talking faster, by being in your face and unapologetic and rowdy and bawdy. She was beautiful, tall, strongly built, had curves for days, and a personality that naturally took up all the attention in any given room. Every guy she’d ever dated or slept with or whatever she wanted to call it, they’d all just gone along with her, because trying to buck her need to control and trying to steer her at all never worked. Not for anyone. She was the epitome of the no-fucks-given mentality, not because she genuinely didn’t care about how she came across, but because she refused to be cowed or dominated or controlled by anyone.
But Harris, with his quiet, calm, unassuming mannerisms, had somehow taken her down a few pegs without even trying. He’d gotten under her skin. No one—nothing—ever got under Layla Campari’s skin. Her skin was so thick it was like armor.
This interaction with Harris had me thinking. Combine this with the overly quick denial that anything could ever happen between her and Harris…
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.