A Controlled Descent Ch. 02

Of course, that all plays out silently in my head. Out in the real world, I am still sucking Pierre's cock and gazing into his eyes. I could outline a novel in my head while being fucked, and a man would never know.

Pierre puts a hand on my shoulder, interrupting my rhythm. He's close to cuming and doesn't want to yet. I nod that I understand. He hands me a condom, which I tear open and roll down his shaft. He starts to sit up, but I push him back and climb astride him.

"Save your strength for the meeting," I say and spit on my fingers. Rubbing them into my pussy, I ease myself down onto him. His expression is borderline rapturous, and I feel his thighs parts slightly, so that my ass can nestle down between them, taking him all the way inside me. I'd like to say it felt incredible, but I really am so sore. His cock hurts more than anything else, but I am determined to keep it off my face. That's a me problem, and I don't want it to ruin his experience.

A thought enters my mind, unbidden - he wouldn't consider that doing a good job.

Not Pierre, Jack. He's back in my head. Or maybe he never left. Maybe I'm fooling myself thinking I could exorcise him that easily. He's like a pink elephant - the more I try not to think about him, the more tangible he becomes. How do I get rid of his voice?

I get distracted before I can answer the question. Pierre's hands skim down my sides and come to rest on my hips, fingers kneading the twin dimples of my ass appreciatively. I realize my pussy has stopped hurting, or maybe it's more accurate to say that the hurt is no longer holding me back and becomes instead a kind of fuel. I wrap my feet around the inside of Pierre's thighs, put my hands on his chest, and really fuck him. His hips rise to meet mine and I grind down on him, finding a rhythm together. It feels...good. Really good. In my mind's eye, I see Jack smiling approvingly at me. I expect it to take me out of the moment, but his approval does just the opposite. A familiar pressure begins to build inside me. I wait for the bad voice to tell me I don't deserve it, but all I see is Jack. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Please, no. Not again, not like this.

I start to cum. My arms buckle and give out. I let out a strangled cry as my head drops to his shoulder. Pierre puts his arms around me, holding me in place, and keeping up our rhythm even as I lose the beat. His starts just as my orgasm is fading away. I do my best to keep up with him, but my brain is a little melted from what just happened. I don't know what "putain" means, but he keeps growling it in wonder as he cums. I like that.

When he's done, I slide off him. Pierre rolls after me and plants a kiss on my forehead and one on my lips, caressing my cheek with the back of his hand. It's a nice moment, and my smile is genuine even if I couldn't tell you what it is I'm smiling about. He gets up and goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower running and take that as my cue. Retrieving my dress from the floor, I put it on in the mirror. For once my hair doesn't look like a crime scene. Maybe there's something to be said for gentlemen after all. I knock on the bathroom door and let myself in. He's in the shower rinsing me off of him.

"Must you go?" he asks through the glass shower door.

"You need to get ready for your meeting. I hope it goes well."

"How could it not?" he asks with a grin. "With such inspiration."

"Good luck." I start to back out of the bathroom.

"Would you have dinner tonight?"

The question catches me off-guard and for a moment I genuinely consider it. Dinner with a handsome and successful French businessman? A girl could do a lot worse in this town. Trust me, I know.

"I can't tonight," I say.

"Of course. May I reach out the next time I'm in town? If my meeting goes well, I will be back again."

"I'd like that."

"Bien," he says. "Adius, Rachel."

I'm so invested in the performance that I almost tell him my real name. Almost.

Out in the hall, I call the elevator and check my phone. Lots of messages but none from Jack. Honestly, I'd have been surprised if he had texted, maybe even disappointed.

I walk through the lobby and out into the sunshine. There are plenty of cabs. I could just get in one and go home. The thought of going through with Jack's deal and then blowing him off is very tempting. It would send a very clear message - I'm no one's whore but my own. The problem with that plan is that as far as he would know, I just chickened out. I need to tell him.

- it's done

His response comes back immediately.

- How did it go?

- fine

- Do you have time to see me now?

- think i'm just going to go home

- I understand.

I stare daggers at my phone. Do you? Or are you that immune to my insubordination. Am I just a child throwing a silent temper tantrum that you are too cool to even notice?

- hope that's ok

- You do what you need to do. That's the most important thing. I like your dress by the way.

- thanks

Wait, my dress? I shuffle to a standstill and look around for him. Across the street, Jack is leaning against his SUV, arms crossed, head tilted at a slight George-Clooney angle. He waves with just his index and middle fingers, eyes cloistered behind tinted sunglasses. Once again, I am left wondering if he was a model in another life.

When I reach him, Jack hands me a Starbucks cup with my favorite tea. It's still hot. As if he knows down to the minute how long it takes me to satisfy a stressed French businessman.

"Want me to drop you at your place?" he asks, opening his passenger door.

"I don't want to go home."

"No?" To his credit, he doesn't feign surprise. Nor is there any mockery in his voice at my capitulation. "What do you want?"

"Are you really going to make me say it?"

"That's how it works, I'm afraid."

"I want to go with you."

"Where?" he asks.

That I don't care.