“A hard-bitten ego-driven loner, “ was the way her agent had described him. “You know – big, tough, been-there-done-that, travels alone because he thinks other people can't keep up. Talks a lot on TV, but has never written a book. Now he wants you to write one – his book. The authorized biography.”
The obvious question was why, with all his travelling, all his ego, he’d never put anything on paper. “He’s too arrogant, if you know what I mean. I think he’s terrified of failure,” was the way her agent put it. That was either pretty shrewd or something out of New York
magazine. Lisa couldn’t decide which.
Her research before agreeing to meet the guy had led to some other conclusions. Cherchez la femme
– what women think of a man will tell you a lot about him. In this case, reading between the lines of bland public comments from ex-wives and A-list mistresses, women seemed to adore him and hate him at the same time.
“Start off thinking he’s a challenge, end up thinking he’s a selfish bastard,” she mused, staring out at the spangles of Manhattan across the harbour. “The clever ones get that he's a bit of a loser in the end (but often not till it's too late). He can't make a lasting relationship because he doesn't really think anyone else exists.”
“Talking about yourself?” she murmured, turning back to the wine cart. “What are you if not a lone wolf?” The buzzer went. Here he was. She put her glass down and went over to the mirror. Not bad, for 37. Her hair was still its natural full chestnut color, fine against her pale skin. The black skirt suit had cost a lot of money not that long ago, and…whose business was it what she was wearing underneath? Why was she even thinking about it?
Lisa was a novelist, one of the “most promising” of the post-9/11 writers. Pushed to the wall, she had started a bit of ghosting “to finance the real work”, but that’s what had bought the suit, and the apartment it hung in. “Maybe I’m just a hack after all. Fuckit, no I’m not. I’m as good as him. I am, I am, I am.” She went to the door.
And realized she was glaring at him. “Come, come in,” she said, suddenly, stupidly, flustered. Great start. She took his coat, gave him a drink, took herself to the john and gave herself a lecture.
“This is a business dinner. Yes, it’s in my apartment. Yes, he’s a big guy with a great, fuck-me smile. Given the time and the place, I might. But it isn’t, OK? Remember how it ends up – they all turn into whiny, needy little boys. First they get in your knickers and then they get under your feet.”
She had his number, all right. But when he was talking over dinner, she felt herself drawn by his eyes -- blue in a long, lined, weathered face - and his mouth. She found herself looking at his lips as he spoke. As for the eyes, they were looking at her, into her, as if she was the only thing that mattered in the world. Maybe that’s what made her sharper than she needed to be. She should have taken him to a restaurant, away from temptation.
He registered the combativeness, and some of what lay behind it. Knew her panties were getting damp. Knew it would be a battle, but one worth winning. Damn, who did she think he was, anyway? He was offering her a job, and a damn good one. Fuck the job, anyway.
The bottle emptied, and a second one followed it. He started telling travellers’ tales and stopped himself. Started to ask why she wasn't married and stopped himself. Remembered to ask about her work.
At least he didn’t ask why I’m not married, she thought. My panties are getting damp.
“So what do you think?”
“About the book, you mean?”
“Yes, about the book. Do you want to take it on?”
What did she think he was asking her about? The button between her breasts that she’d been playing with all through dinner? That was unfair of course – but every so often as they talked about his travels and her writing career, her hand had strayed to that button. There was nothing seductive about her plain suit jacket – except maybe that she wasn’t wearing a blouse and there seemed to be some interesting depth between the lapels – and her manner with him was pretty blunt. Thank god, he thought. He’d had enough of women flirting with him, and more than enough of women throwing themselves at his head, or feet, or wherever they threw themselves these days.
“You’ve had such an interesting life,” she offered. “Just what I’ve read about you on the net and what you’ve told me over dinner would make a great book.” She looked at him with that direct look of hers, not challenging exactly, but not backing away either. Green-blue eyes, pale skin, pronounced eyebrows darker than her hair. Pale throat he could follow down, down into milky depths.
“That’s a given.” Not arrogance from the best-travelled man of his generation, just stating the facts. “Question is, can you handle it?” Handle me, he thought. “Make it something I might have written. If it’s going to have my name on it…”
“Have you read anything of mine?” Giving as good as she got.
“Of course. I read the pieces your agent sent me.”
“But not my books.”
“No. I’ve been rather busy.”
“Yes, in fact. Travelling.” He went over to the window and looked over at the glittering city, its eternal roar a silent gesture in the warm room.
She was beside him before he realised she had moved, closer than she’d been all evening. He could scent her, an old lion scenting a lithe young doe. He grinned suddenly at the trite image. A doe with a kick, he thought. No pushover, this one.
“What are you smiling at out there?” “Out there? No. In here.” He turned to face her. She was nearly as tall as he, after all. Damn, the woman kept surprising him.
They were practically touching, but she didn’t back away. Well, she wouldn't, would she, he thought. Let’s see. He reached out and undid the button, the one she’d been playing with. That made her step back. “What…?”
“You were playing with it all evening. Just thought I’d help.” He grinned at her, that famous grin.
“Look … we should be clear about something if we’re going to work together.”
“You don’t sleep with the boss?”
“The client. No.” But she didn’t do the button up. Her breathing was faster, the gap between the lapels was wider, the shadow deeper. He felt slightly dizzy, out of his depth under her grey-green gaze. Not at all like facing down huge, hairy Afghan tribesmen, not at all. They were tall but they weren’t slim and pale and they didn’t smell like… He stepped closer.
“You’re smiling to yourself. Again.”
“I was just thinking you didn’t smell like an Afghan.”
“Tribesman.” Her turn to smile. It did surprising things, amazing things, to her face. “No, people don’t usually…”
He reached out as she spoke, undid the next button and slipped the other arm behind her back. The arm stopped her as she recoiled.
“I know. But we don’t have a contract, do we. So…” Another, last button. Her skin was almost as pale as the lacy wisp that almost hid her breasts. Her very full, and apparently not indifferent, breasts. A fiery blush spread over them from her throat down. Her breath came in hard, shallow gasps. Her lips were very close. He kissed them.
It took her by surprise. God she’s going to sue me, he thought. Then suddenly he was kissing a softness he could barely sense. He was dizzy again. Her breast was tender in his hand, the nipple against his palm. How did…
She went rigid, pushing against his chest “No.” Now he was gasping. He let go of her but she stayed where she was. Her head was down. Red glints, he thought. Slowly, she lifted her hands to the buttons.
It was his turn. “No!” He took her hands in his, pulled her to him, her softness against the back of his knuckles. Head down, she struggled against him, struggled against his hardness, a strong, determined woman. She bent her head and bit his hand.
That enraged him. Sue me then, bitch, was his last conscious thought. Going with her strength, he let her go back, off balance, then spun her round. One hand twined in her thick hair, pulling her head back, the other under her ass, he ran her to the chair he had been sitting in and bent her over it. She gasped as it took her in the midriff, kicking back with a wicked stiletto heel, missing.
He was between her legs now, snatching at her skirt, that expensive skirt, ripping it up her thighs. Stopped a moment, gasping at the pale perfection of her buttocks and thighs against the black, scraps of creamy lace disappearing into the lewd cleft. Which he spread with rough hands, thrusting hard fingers into her folds. She was moaning, Oh god Oh god, grabbing a cushion and burying her face in it. Still with his hand deep inside her, he fumbled with his pants. Suddenly, she was squeezing his fingers in her wet cunt, clutch and release, clutch and release, moaning and shaking as she came. Furious, he slapped her round ass, each buttock, backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand. He heard himself grunting: Fucking fucking fucking tease.
She cried as the blows fell, but made no move to avoid them or free herself, sobbing softly when he stopped, whether with pain or lust he could not tell. Calmed by his rage, he stepped back and looked at her, black ripped stockings, calves tensed by the high heels, pale, perfect ass, now blotched and flaming where his hand had hit her. Then, cock standing out thick and straight, he rammed himself into the hot, wet depths.
She was tight, god how tight, but fitted him exactly, rippling up and down his cock, easing to let him in further then squeezing so hard he could feel nothing. He grasped her hips, fucking her madly. She braced her long legs, black stockings against the silk of the chair, arching and hollowing her back to get more of him, totally gone, face buried in her cushion. He reached under, slipping around her lips enfolding his cock, finding her clit, pinching till she gasped, then rubbing first gently then harder as her pale ripe buttocks bucked and writhed against him. He pulled his hand back, grinding her clitoris against the chair’s rough silk. She sobbed and cried out and began to come in waves, shuddering and groaning, flooding her cunt until his cock nearly slipped out. He grasped her hips again and pounded into her, fucking, fucking, till he thought he would die before he came. As she came again – still? – he flooded her in his turn, spasming against her, powerless in her liquid grasp, desperately trying to stay hard, stay in her, stay…
He fell on her, gasping. “God,” she said, “Get off. You’re killing me. ” Somehow he gathered himself, lifted her, laid her against his shoulder, walked her to the couch. Now she was calm, soothing him, stroking his hair, murmuring as he panted on her breasts, still improbably in their slight covering, their tips gradually relaxing and spreading. He spent some time kissing and fondling their creaminess, licking the softening aureolae, smoothing big hands over her belly and tangling his fingers in the thick hair of her mons.
Then rose finally on an elbow, looked at her. She was smiling now, beyond smug, an ineffable smile. “Did you plan that?” She looked as outraged as a well-fucked woman lying on a couch can look. He almost thought of lawyers again; then she giggled. “Not…exactly.”
“Do we have a contract?”
“Fuck the contract.”
“God you have a dirty mouth.”
“I’m going to get it dirtier.” Sliding onto the floor and taking his slippery cock first into her hands then slowly into her mouth. Taking it out, slipping it between her breasts, squeezing them together and bending her head to lick the tip. Looking up at him with wide eyes. “Is this the cock that stuffed a thousand slits?”
“Smart mouth, potty mouth. You’re building up a good case for another spanking, my girl.”
“You won’t catch me so easy next time, buster. Besides, I have you by the…” She squeezed, not quite gently.
With a groan, he had to acknowledge she was right there.
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<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/reluctance/the-writer-and-the-traveller.aspx">The Writer and the Traveller</a>