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Her check-in went smoothly, and she loved the room. Careful not to mess up the sharp appearance of it, she stripped and showered. Enjoying the water’s warmth and fragrances of tiny products provided by the hotel, Tory closed her eyes and softly began to rub three of her fingertips between her thighs and then over the soft tiny protrusion that made her moan. She pictured the faces of some of the businessmen on the street, the power in their shoulders, the boxy squareness of male hands exploring her body.
Tory masturbated openly, completely abandoned to sheer pleasure, alone for the first time. She felt her clit become harder and wetter as she rubbed it, moaning while she wished she could finally have sex for the first time.
She pictured a tall, handsome man in a suit, who would take it off for her and let her run her hands down his chiseled chest while he kissed her. Then he would have his way with her, and she’d give up the virginity she still carried around with her like an embarrassing secret.
She hadn’t yet met the man in real life who was worthy of it. But in her fantasies, he caressed her body while his tongue was entwined with hers. He grabbed ahold of her large ass cheeks while he gently slid his big cock inside her dripping wet pussy. He thrust in and out of her while playing with her nipples, until she said his name over and over.
In the shower in this gorgeous hotel room, Tory grunted as she came one more time, hoping that soon her fantasy could come to life.
Chapter 2
The elevator door slid open silently. Harlan Dawes stepped out and put his helmet and gloves down on a narrow white buffet table nearby, unzipped his boots and took them off. This afternoon he had decided to ride the Ducati around before dinner.
The motorcycle gave him the much-needed escape from the world of monitors and sleek ergonomic furnishings of the studio. He unzipped his leather jacket and let it fall in a clump as he walked down into the sunken living room.
His 80-inch smart TV came on at his briefest insinuation. An odd-looking man spoke about tech stock futures as worldwide market symbols scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Dawes was twenty-two years old when his eccentric and beloved Uncle Kurt passed away, leaving Harlan his design magazine, Nextthing. Although Harlan had long since given up on the idea of becoming an architect, his Uncle Kurt had always supported his efforts even if Harlan was only designing websites for sneaker companies.
Sixteen years ago, when Harlan took over, it was clear to him that it was time for the small press magazine to catch up with bigger publications that transitioned to successful online presences much earlier.
When he decided to put together an in-house digital design team, it changed the business forever. Many of the marketing professionals who’d made up the magazine’s previous boutique subscribership began using Harlan’s team exclusively and recommending them internationally.
Harlan had been on the cover of Business Week at age thirty. Nexthing.Net occupied the top three floors of a modern midtown building and had just landed an account that put Harlan’s team to work on revamping a popular app’s icon that had been on every iPhone’s desktop for years.
The success of recent years left him feeling challenged socially. Ideally tall, with a full head of dark hair and good bone structure, Harlan never had a problem attracting women when he was poor, but the fish in a barrel reality that wealth provided started to bore him. Certain the models, social media influencers and trust fund set were only sleeping with his status, he felt they were only women who may not necessarily have been in love with his mind.
He missed wholesome, down to earth women, like he had been known to date in high school. But his world was so different now that he wondered how he would ever find one.
Harlan worked out daily to maintain a chiseled appearance so he could be assured every woman’s compliment was at least based on something, unlike the hollow laughter and feigned enthusiasm often encountered for his personal pursuits.
Whenever he had met a woman he was attracted to, who had risen to similar status in a similar or related profession, she was as domineering and jaded as he himself felt he was. In most cases he was inspired by many of them, had hired or had been hired by some others, but it never led anywhere else.
An email inbox alert pinged and Harlan sat on a sleek dark leather sofa in front of the TV.
“Open new email,” Harlan commanded his virtual assistant.
A window opened and expanded. It was the list of design contest winners, their photos and bios coming from promotions.
