Bad People

"Banking? No, I give blood, mainly," he replied. "I also volunteer for clinical trials. You know, to test out new medicines, devices... that sort of thing. The money isn't bad."

Nick choked on his single malt and coughed into his fist.

"Stop- stop it," he sputtered. "Jesus H., Griff! Don't listen to him Sloan. He makes a respectable living despite the occasional lack of civility."

"Griff builds and restores custom wood boats," said a beaming Olivia. "What he can do with his hands... it's amazing."

Sloan raised one eyebrow.

"Oh, a tradesman! Well that's just splendid, isn't it?" Brock perked up, delighted at the news. "We'll have to get you over to the Southampton place, right dear? It's positively falling apart. We desperately need a sturdy handyman who doesn't mind getting dirt under his fingernails."

Griff smiled and thanked the waiter for delivering his pint.

"Griff isn't a handyman, Brock." Olivia put her beer down and frowned. "He's a craftsman... an artist."

"It's outrageous what's going on out there these days," Brock said to Nick, ignoring Olivia's objection. "Bloody contractors are driving around in Audis now. It's as if they... well, as long as we don't run into them on the first tee someday, eh?"

"Oh I don't know, Brock, I don't have a problem with..."

Griff tilted the glass of amber liquid to his lips and raised his eyes to Sloan. She returned his gaze as the others carried on.

*****

Sloan stepped out of the chart room and onto the covered porch, the breeze off the sound pulling diaphanous white curtains behind her. Dusk had begun to thicken into night and a faint carpet of grey spread across the wide lawn that ran to the water's edge. She and Brock were weekend guests at the old Latham estate, the place where Nick and Olivia had summered as children. The elder Lathams had left on a three month Mediterranean tour. Old money, she thought; the best kind.

She had left Brock upstairs with a cold, wet cloth over his eyes, having changed into something more comfortable than the ridiculous costume he had worn to dinner. She made a mental note to start paying more attention to his wardrobe. It had been a difficult day for him. After the humiliation of tennis, he was by turns morose and belligerent. He had made a perfect ass of himself repeatedly trying to wound Nick's friend. She'd had to step in to put an end to it.

Worst of all was the demeanor of that boat builder, she thought. He had treated Brock, his better, with an air of amused indifference, hardly making an effort to respond to him. She grudgingly admired his easy confidence. His speech, his laughter, his movements... it all seemed so unforced. But, as far as Sloan was concerned, his eyes wandered over her altogether too freely whenever she spoke. It had bordered on inappropriate.

She walked to the end of the porch and leaned on the railing. She pictured the way his muscles flexed when he moved over the court and the trails of sweat that ran through the sun bleached hair of his arms and legs.

She kicked herself for feeling turned on by his brief flashes of attention. When Griff locked on her with those dangerous brown eyes, she knew he wasn't interested in what was coming out of her mouth. He wanted to strip her naked, bend her over that beautifully set table, and thoroughly fuck her in front of Brock, their hosts, and the assembled membership of Clear Harbor Yacht and Tennis. The vivid image produced a flutter in the pit of her stomach and a warm glow between her legs.

She smiled, and shook her head. Sloan, she thought, what you need is a proper rogering.

"Hi Sloan."

"OH!" She jumped, panicked for an instant that she might have spoken her thoughts aloud.

Griff stepped out of the dappled, evening shadow of a lilac tree and laughed good-naturedly. She noticed that he'd changed clothes. The tails of a lightweight flannel shirt hung outside his blue jeans.

"Sloan, I'm sorry... really. I didn't mean to startle you." He lifted his thumb in the direction of a pebbled path. "I was just going for a walk. I'll leave you alone, uh, unless..." He hesitated. "Do you want toooo... join me?"

*****

Olivia said goodnight to her boyfriend and tossed her phone on the bed, distracted by what she had just seen from her second story window. Griff had disappeared down the boathouse path with that royal bitch. What in hell? She asked herself.

Sloan and that creepy boyfriend of hers had spent the entire day treating Griff like a servant who didn't know his place. She was furious with her brother for having anything to do with them. It was a good thing Griff knew how to handle himself. He had avoided an ugly scene while managing to keep his dignity intact. Why in the world would he even talk to her?

She walked to her closet and slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders. She smiled inside as she stepped out of the crisp pile of cotton bunched around her feet, recalling the way Griff had defended her. No one had ever done that before. She curled one corner of her mouth and shook her head, thinking Brock was lucky it had happened at the club. Had they been anywhere else, she was sure Griff would have shoved a racquet up his ass.

Olivia stretched out on her bed in her panties and folded her hands behind her head. She reminisced about the summers Nick invited Griff to the old homestead. He was possibly the worst sailor she had ever seen but the three of them had riotous times together out on the sound. Damp, salty air drifted through her window and she could almost hear the heavy rustle of sails as the wind snapped them tight.

She thought about a time the two of them had taken out the Sunfish, blinding licks of sunlight glancing off the water. Griff used to make a game out of capsizing the fourteen-footer. He was three years older than she but acted like a big kid. She loved the fact that he dropped his tough guy act and let down his guard when they were together.

On their way back in, Griff turned with the wind and the two of them tumbled overboard on top of one another. They popped to the surface gasping and laughing. She held his wide shoulders and wrapped her legs around his thighs while he tried to keep them both afloat. His lips looked so kissable and, for a moment, she thought he might finally do it.

That's when she felt it - a hard bulge pressed against her crotch. It so took her by surprise that its meaning didn't immediately register. By the time she realized that that their genitals were separated by microscopic layers of nylon, Griff had pulled away, quickly dunking her to cover his embarrassment. They righted the little craft and sailed home, making uncomfortable small talk along the way.

Olivia couldn't get it out of her head. By the time she reached her bedroom she was in a joyful panic. Griff had gotten an erection, a big one! Because of me! ME! She wanted to call her best friend and tell her the news. She'd had a crush on him from the very first time she saw him and a knot formed in her stomach whenever she heard his name. Yet, until this day, he had shown no sign that he thought of her like... like that.

From across the hall came a squeak of turning handles and the familiar hiss of the shower. Griff's room was part of a Jack and Jill suite with a shared bath. Before she knew what she was doing, Olivia's feet carried her into the unused guest room. The musty smell of stale linens filled the darkened room, gold-threaded brocade blocking the soft afternoon sun.

A ribbon of light angled across the floor and illuminated a narrow slice of vapor tumbling slowly in the air past a partially open door. She stood in shadows and peered through the four inch gap. She drew her breath so sharply that she was sure he must have heard. Griff was completely naked, leaning over the tub with his hand testing the cascading water.

Even now, lying on her bed with a wet finger teasing her nipple, she could recall every detail. The roundness of his buttocks and weighty suppleness of his penis were in such stark contrast to the sectioned sinew of his athletic frame. His fluffy pubic hair, which began as a trickle from his belly button, matched perfectly the light brown spray across his chest. She had never seen a cock before that day, not in the flesh.

His cock. God, his cock. It draped across the two fat ovals that bulged in his dangling sac and swung below them. Her mouth watered at the memory of the meaty shaft adorned with plump veins and a faintly darkened ring. It was turned ever so slightly to one side and it jiggled as he stepped inside the curtain. She pictured the flared, pink head with its curled ridge and ached to feel its texture and shape on her tongue.

Olivia lifted her bottom and pushed her panties down to her thighs. She wondered if his beautiful organ would grow even longer when it became aroused. Aroused by her. She massaged her outer folds while she imagined how thick it might become. He would smile down at her with his sleepy eyes and tell her it was okay, looking cute and nervous. He'd allow her to see all of him, to play with him, fully erect; no secrets any longer. I'm yours, he'd say.

Her fingers moved in a circle over her clit. He would be too big at first. I won't hurt you, he'd promise. I'll never hurt you. The stiff penis would glide into her slowly, deeply, taking her breath away. His heat and muscle would become a part of her.

Olivia pulled off the panties, pressed her soles together, and spread her knees wide. Two fingers curled inside her tight opening and pushed upward. The waves would build inside as he began to fuck her, really fuck her, giving in to his raw desire. He would hold her down and finally make her his woman, invading her, claiming her. Her contractions would break wildly over his wonderful, pulsing cock as it pumped his hot seed into her body, his face a study in exquisite suffering.

Her orgasm shook her body and curled her toes. "I love you, Griff."

*****

Griff faced the wide expanse of water amid a rising chorus of crickets and frogs. He and Sloan had wordlessly followed the path that wound downhill from the main house through a thicket of red oak and hickory to reach the shoreline. They stood on a weathered deck outside the boathouse, a breeze lifting the golden hair that barely touched Sloan's shoulders.

She was staring at the grey horizon with her arms crossed tightly across her chest when she broke the silence.

"Why did you invite me here?"

Griff followed a squadron of gulls and watched them disappear into a brake of scrub pines before he answered.

"I was being polite. I didn't think you'd accept."

Sloan pursed her lips and nodded. "I don't know why I did."

He turned to look at her. She still wore the silk print dress she'd had on at dinner. The supple material made love to her sleek lines, hugging her ribs and caressing her hips. Her eyes sparkled, even in the failing light. He had to admit it. She was stunning.

"Maybe you were curious."

"About you?" She turned and looked up at him. Her black pupils flittered back and forth as she studied his eyes.

Almost involuntarily, he raised his hand to brush bangs of white gold off her face. Her body stiffened infinitesimally. He could tell she was surprised by his touch, yet she didn't object.

"Partly about me, sure," he said. "But mostly about yourself."

A sly grin formed slowly on her lips. "Athlete, master craftsman, and a psychologist? You're a Renaissance man, Mister Griffin. Or do you prefer that I call you Michael... or Griff?"

"No, that's okay." He shrugged. "Mister Griffin's fine."

She dropped her head and laughed, hands still tucked under her arms. The sound was surprisingly disarming. It reminded him of the wind chimes on his front porch.

"Well, it's a beautiful setting anyway," she said as her laughter faded.

"And a beautiful evening."

"So this is where we engage in small talk." Her smile was catastrophic. "Are you always this exciting, Mister Griffin?"

He had to touch her again. That face. He didn't care how she might react. He had no real interest in Sloan. Having witnessed her act all day he had no desire to join that particular circus. That stuffed shirt she had tagged along with could have her.

He raised his hand and traced lazy circles on her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She tilted her face into his caress and skimmed her lips back and forth across his hand. Incredible, he thought.

"Is this what you do? You just reach out and take what you want?" Her head continued to roll and dip into Griff's now open palm. "We might have more in common than I thought."

He slid his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. "I don't think we're much alike, Sloan."

Her long lashes and big, green eyes suggested innocence and vulnerability but every movement of her body told him that she welcomed, even expected his advances. Do I really want this? He asked himself.

"I'm about to be married, you know." She dropped her arms to her sides and looked at him boldly.

"Congratulations. I hope you'll be happy."

"I mean..." There was a hint of annoyance in her tone. "I'm marrying the man who's waiting for me in that house... right up that hill."

Her breath hit his throat when he curved a hand around her waist and pulled her hard against him, her fine hair flitting and mouth falling open. Dipping his head near her ear, he picked up the clean scent of her skin. Something else, a trace of something woody and blossomy, hung in the unstirred air. He felt his stomach tighten and a familiar swelling in his jeans.

"Sloan, I don't care. I was being polite again."

Griff slid a hand between them to cup her warm breast, giving it a long squeeze before moving to the other. He found a nipple with his finger. It was erect, sending another surge into his uncomfortably restrained organ. He moved from one hard button to the other, gently coaxing them through silk and satin layers, feeling them respond to his touch.

Sloan held his gaze as his other hand examined her ass through the slinky dress, still making no move to stop him. He ground his pelvis into her, knowing she could feel the bulge that angled toward the waist of his jeans.

She gripped the molded flesh of his shoulders and slid her hands down the rugged contour of his arms.

"How tall are you?" Sloan squirmed against his body to the movement of his hands.

"Six-five." He released her breast to run his fingers through her hair. He clasped the nape of her neck and leaned down to graze her lips with his.

"Weight?" she murmured into his mouth.

"About two-ten.

"And your cock." She paused. "How big is it?"

Griff's eyes flashed to hers. He read them. Cold, implacable. So much for small talk, he thought. He slowly reached under his shirttail, unfastened the button of his jeans, and lowered the zipper. Sloan nibbled her lip and slid her hands over his hips, never taking her eyes from his. He felt his fly being opened wide and the elastic of his boxer briefs pulled away from his skin.

A cool hand dipped inside the warmth and curled around his erection. His stomach lurched with a jolt. Slender fingers took the measure of his shaft, methodically moving up and down its length, gripping and re-gripping. He felt his cock grow even harder in her grasp. A long growl rose from deep in his chest as fingernails nicked his glans and a second set of fingers rolled his testicles between them.

A familiar pressure had begun to build deep in his abdomen. His balls ached and his heart hammered at his chest. Her head was settled under his chin now, ragged breath heating the skin beneath his shirt. She returned her attention to his column, gripping it firmly; first one hand, then two. Completing her assessment, she shifted his cock upright against his belly. He wanted to thank her for the adjustment. She carefully removed her hands from his underwear leaving him partly exposed above the waistband of his briefs.

"Where?" she asked hoarsely.

*****

Griff turned the key and the barn-style doors to the boathouse swung open. Sloan stepped forward when the lights flicked on. Hanging lamps and recessed spotlights cast a golden glow upon the glossy, pine paneled walls and ceiling. Half a dozen sailboats were suspended from cables above their heads. With another flip of a finger, submerged lights illuminated two watery bays protected from the open water by lowered overhead doors.

"What do you think?"

Sloan was staring at her reflection in the polished mahogany hull of an antique launch, water gently lapping its sides. She looked back at Griff.

"She's gorgeous."

"1952 Chris Craft. She was one of my first assignments."

He moved in close and held her hips as she bent over to smooth a hand over the gunwale. Her body warmed at the gentle strength of his grip.

He turned her around to face him when she stood up straight. He pulled her close and wrapped an arm around her waist while her hands slid up his back to hook his shoulders. He smelled clean and masculine. Feeling hard muscle beneath the soft flannel shirt, she felt a rush of adrenaline. She was about to fuck this raw specimen for all he was worth.

Sloan had known that one day she would take a lover. It made good sense to her. She would marry Brock. Shepherd his career. Perhaps even love him. But at twenty six she was too young to concede to a lifetime of sexual monotony. Brock was attentive and eager to please her; she'd made sure of that. But she knew the day would come when she needed more. She just didn't expect that day to come so soon.

"You don't like me."

"No," he said, hesitating before adding, "Sorry."

He sounded sincere. He feels badly about hating me, she thought. That's fine, she decided. It really was better that way. She wanted his body, his penis in particular, not his heart.

"But...?"

"Yeah. 'But'... Exactly." He hooked his hands under her arms and raised her effortlessly off the floor.

Sloan's head and back slammed against a hand-hewn timber, knocking the breath out of her. Griff slid an arm under her ass and clamped a hand on the back of her neck. Before she caught her breath, a warm, wet mouth mashed onto hers. This was no romantic kiss; no tender, exploratory touch. It was predation.

Sloan's dress slid up her thighs and her legs hooked below Griff's buttocks as each open mouth tried to devour the other. He offered his tongue and she sucked it hard, feeding off the power and intensity of his assault. Her hands moved frantically over his shoulders and down the deep groove of his back. They writhed and groaned, unable to get enough of each other.

Suddenly, she plunged her fingers into his thick hair and jerked his head back violently. Their mouths separated with a loud smack, both of them gasping for air.

"Jesus-fuck, Sloan," he panted. "What was that for?"

"Suh... sorry." Her chest was heaving. "Couldn't breathe."

She grabbed his face with two hands and the mauling continued, tongues wrestling, hands searching desperately for skin.

Finally, he cradled a hand around her jaw and pulled away, his lower lip snapping back into place when she reluctantly let it go. He stepped away from the column and supported her back.

"Unbutton my shirt." She felt his ribs expand and contract with his breath.

She looked at him uncertainly before squeezing her legs tighter and leaning back in his hands. With shaking fingers, she slipped the first button through its little slit. She was still breathing heavily, the trace of musk in his aftershave and the male scent rising from his skin making her dizzy with arousal.

This was something she hadn't felt before. There was something about the strength of his hands and arms - the confident way he held her - that made her want to surrender control. It was oddly thrilling. Fumbling with the next button, she was defeated by the narrow eyelet.