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Soft and sheer, it did little to mask the gentle fingertips that dragged across its silken material as Carly gave in to her sodden desires and moaned aloud, all thoughts of “negotiations” clearly off the table as she heeded her PA’s advice and gave in to her baser instincts.
We both want this, she assured herself as Rahm’s hands drifted toward the waistband of her sensible work skirt, so what’s so wrong about having it? Or each other?
His hands worked a certain kind of magic, deftly unhooking her skirt and unzipping it down the side so that it pooled around her ankles, her hands working feverishly at the belt that kept his jeans up – until it didn’t anymore and they, too, slid down his muscular thighs to drag across his calves. They stood, poolside, skirt and pants ridiculously around their ankles, like two love struck teens who didn’t know what came next.
But Carly knew, all too well, the costs of a one-night stand and, despite the blood racing through her veins and the dampness between her thighs, she vowed not to let it go that far. At least, not this time.
Tenderly, even gently, but firmly, Carly met Rahm’s hand as it slid toward the waistband of her panties. Their eyes met, his confused, hers certain, as she simply shook her head. Emotions flooded his magnificent face, so noble and regal and yet so confused, like a pampered child being denied what he felt was rightfully his.
She batted her eyelashes, licked her lips and met him halfway, stepping from her skirt and sliding her throbbing mound against his own. “Don’t worry, Rahm,” she whispered, draping her hands around his neck as he pressed against her feverish flesh. “I won’t leave you hanging.”
They stood like that, Rahm helplessly pinned in place by the constraints of the tight black jeans pooled around his ankles and Carly free to tease and tempt and caress him as she pleased. She felt powerful and turned on as she alternately ground herself against his swollen staff and caressed it, like courting teenagers, over the quickly dampening front panel of his expensive boxer briefs.
He panted and moaned, powerless to do anything but gently cling to her waist as she danced and teased and purred and urged him to a quick and throttling conclusion. Before he could get there without her, Carly gently ground against his turgid staff, quickening her pace – and her pulse – until she squealed just as he grunted, until she gushed just as he surged, until he reached down to squeeze her trembling buttocks and drew her closer, ever closer, mouth clamped down upon hers as they climaxed together in the warm, tropical breezes.
She slumped against his panting chest, spent and shamed, feeling far too exposed and vulnerable in her panties and bra. Pushing herself away from him, despite his eager clutches and murmured protests, she whirled in a semi-circle, quickly finding her skirt and blouse and sliding them on as she noted the half-dozen buildings towering above their very public meeting place.
“Jesus!” she murmured, her voice breathless and husky from the unexpected orgasm. “I can’t… can’t believe that just happened.”
“Where are you going?” Rahm blurted, bent over as he tried to pull up his pants. Struggling, he sank onto the nearest deck chair to drag them up his shapely calves. “I had… a whole night panned!”
She blushed at the thought of more hidden pleasures, perhaps in the reclining position this time, and yet she saw her opportunity and took it. As he struggled to drag up his jeans she merely shook her head, blurted, “maybe some other time” and fled.
Fled past his deck chair, fled past his waving arms, fled from his hurt, wounded eyes, fled through the sunken living room and into the foyer and into the elevator, gently awaiting her arrival as she pressed “L” for lobby and felt the doors close shut before he even had a chance to catch up.
Carly’s heart raced as she fixed her hair on the way down, the elevator so sleek and smooth she was still fussing with it when the doors opened on a silent, spectacular lobby. She rushed past the desk clerk, a knowing look on her fresh young face, then past the doorman, holding the door open with a tip of his hat as she raced into the warm, sultry breeze, the sound of her sensible work heels scraping down the cobblestone path.
She didn’t stop racing until she was nearly home, pausing to sag against the bank on the corner as she caught her breath. She listened, between ragged breaths, for footsteps. Soft ones, familiar ones, on leather soles as Rahm raced to catch up with her.
He didn’t, not even when she stood and turned to find the streets behind her empty and glistening in the still moonlight. Part of her was relieved that he hadn’t followed, but mostly she was disappointed. She waited impossibly long until the silence became deafening, the empty streets depressing, before turning and following the familiar trail home.
Fourteen
“This… this is six times what the nearest competitor is offering.”
Josh Siegel sat, slack jawed, eyes wide, at their private booth high atop the Chez Ritz restaurant in downtown South Beach. Rahm had rented out the restaurant for dinner and arrived with a cashier’s check to close the deal with the startlingly young CEO of SoundCloud, the tech company Carly had been poised to invest in later that week. So young that the waitress had literally asked for his ID when he ordered a pint of craft beer at the beginning of their business meeting.
“Is it?” Rahm asked casually, toying absently with his linen napkin. The restaurant was sumptuous and quite empty, an entire staff at his beck and call as the two sat near a huge glass wall overlooking the ocean. “I can always reconsider my offer if it’s too much?”
Josh laughed, boyish in his knit cap and Beastie Boys T-shirt, far underdressed for the five-star restaurant. “No, no, not at all, I just… do you know much about my company?”
Rahm sat back in his chair, admiring the scrawny white kid sitting across from him. “Why do you think I invited you here tonight?” he asked, nodding toward the jazz trio quietly performing atop a gently raised bandstand in the corner.
Josh eyed them cooly. “I was wondering about that,” he murmured, pushing large red glasses up his pointy nose.
“Your company aims to put acts like that out of business,” Rahm said, making Josh sit up and take notice of something more than all those zeros on the cashier’s check sitting between them.
“Hardly,” he said, poised to argue before Rahm waved a comforting hand.
“Not immediately,” Rahm said, “but eventually. My goal for the company is to slow production and increase funding for Research and Development so that live acts are accentuated, and not eliminated.”
Josh rolled his eyes. “Live acts are dead, Mr. Farzik. Just look at how empty this place is.”
Rahm snorted, savoring his priceless brandy before putting the snifter down. “It’s empty because I rented it out for our meeting, Josh. Typically this place has a six-month waiting list, namely for the trio you feel is so ‘outdated’. But why should people wait to hear such beautiful music when SoundCloud can broadcast it, live, in any number of restaurants?”
Josh sat back, nodding appreciatively. “With the band getting a cut, of course,” he suggested.
“Of course,” Rahm said. “This way, smaller restaurants get to have live, beautiful music regardless of their budget, and smaller acts get wider recognition than the dining room they’re currently playing in.”
