Undying Love (3 page)

However, it wasn’t her hands that made contact with my back. A warm, wet sliver of velvet slithered up my spine. Her tongue! The movement was slow, fluid, and focused. Tingles spread through my body, pooling in the engorged area between my inner thighs. She was driving me crazy. My balls were filling up. She was giving me a boner! I wanted that aerobic tongue in my mouth. And then I wanted it all over my cock.

When she reached the nape of my neck, her hands took over. With her magic fingers, she kneaded my neck, upper back, and tight shoulders. Oh, yeah! I was in heaven. Except for my pulsing dick.

“You carry a lot of tension in your neck and shoulders,” she said, squeezing the flesh along my shoulder blades.

“I sit in front of a computer too much,” I mumbled, wanting to tell her that I was carrying a lot of tension between my legs.

“You need to stop doing that, Golden Boy.” It was another command.

“Turn over,” she ordered before I could respond.

I rolled over onto my back. There was now a serious bulge between my legs. It was hard to miss. I was blessedly well-endowed. She shot a glance down at me and muttered another one of those hard-to-read “hmms.” She smirked at me.

Gripping my shoulder blades, she leaned into me. Her warm breath heated my cheeks. “How do you like your massage so far?”

“I’ll show you how much I like it.” I couldn’t help myself. Grabbing her ponytail, I yanked her down toward me and covered her lips with mine. Not resisting, she moaned into my mouth. I moaned back before parting her lush lips with my tongue. It immediately found hers, and I massaged her mouth all over. She tasted delicious.

A roguish blend of guilt and desire surged through me. Here I was kissing this girl I’d just met, who was making me as hard as rock. And damn it, I wanted to ravage her every which way I could.
Stop it, Madewell!

Lucky for me, unable to refrain, she abruptly pulled away first.

“This is not part of the deal.” Her voice was gruff.

She was right. And I was wrong. What right did I have engaging in this lewd behavior? “I’m sorry,” I apologized.

“I’ve gotta go and you’ve got an article to write,” she said, climbing off the mattress. With her long legs, she jogged down the spiral stairs. Still bare-chested, I trailed behind her, unable to keep my eyes off her backside.
Holy shit! That ass!

“I recommend taking a hot bath,” she said, seductively leaning against the elevator. Her eyes roamed down my body and stayed locked on my crotch. “It’ll make you feel better.”

My cock was throbbing. She had successfully managed to blue ball me.

I pushed the elevator button, resisting the urge to thrust my body against hers. The door jerked open. As she gracefully stepped backward into the car, she said, “Good luck, Golden Boy, with that article. I might even buy a copy of that schlock magazine and read it.”

The door slammed shut before I could say a word.

Following her advice, I trudged back upstairs and drew myself a hot bath in my antique copper tub, one of the few things I installed without my soon-to-be ex’s approval. Charlotte had insisted on a built-in Jacuzzi tub, but I had always wanted one like this. Deep and soulful. No girl had ever shared it with me, including Charlotte.

Leaning my head against the back of the tub, I stared at my swollen dick, which was shooting out of the water. I couldn’t get Allee out of my head, and the more I thought about her, the harder and larger my dick got. It was crying out for relief. Holding my heavy, aching balls in one hand, I circled my fingers around my girth and moved them up and down the shaft. Harder and harder. Faster and faster, jerking myself off. Closing my eyes, I arched my back and fantasized Allee in the tub with me, her long, deft fingers taking over. My breathing grew ragged as I raced with brutal speed and force to a climax. As my cock exploded, I growled her name. She was right. The bath made me feel better. Damn that girl!

THREE

I
 was not looking forward to the rest of the day. It was my mother’s birthday, and she was giving a small formal dinner party at my parents’ Fifth Avenue apartment to celebrate. I was expected to dress up, bring her an expensive gift, and indulge her as she talked about her society friends and accomplishments in between glasses of Dom Perignon. I could be sure that neither she, nor my father, would have any interest in hearing about my marathon achievement. Hell no! They didn’t even bother to come watch me run the race. I hadn’t expected them to.

Reluctantly, I donned my requisite preppy finest—chinos, a crisp blue and white Turnbull shirt, and a navy gabardine blazer. Attending my mother’s birthday party was the last thing I wanted to do after the grueling marathon. It meant having to spend time with my father.

My parents’ twenty-room Fifth Avenue apartment enjoyed one of the most coveted and prestigious addresses in the city. Famous people lived in the elegant pre-war building, including several award-winning movie stars, one former U.S. president, and numerous Forbes-List billionaires like my father. With only one apartment per floor, the gilded elevator brought me directly to an elegantly appointed corridor, facing the rich mahogany door to their apartment. After a ring of the doorbell, I was greeted by my parents’ longtime housekeeper, Maria. Having practically raised me as a child while my mother fluttered between beauty treatments and social events, she was always delighted to see me. The handsome Honduran woman, her hair now graying, wrapped an ample arm around me and warmly ushered me into the spectacular duplex.

“Darling, how good of you to come,” came a voice from the sweeping staircase. My mother, Eleanor Madewell. Needle thin, Botox-beautiful, and always on the best-dressed list, she made the perfect trophy wife for my father, Ryan Madewell III. What made her even more perfect was the fact that she could look the other way despite his many rumored indiscretions.

Wearing a long, silk sheath that exposed her jutting hipbones and a long strand of sparkling diamonds with matching teardrop earrings (last year’s look-the-other-way birthday present from my father), she draped a bony arm around my neck and pecked each cheek. Her other hand was wrapped around a half-drunk glass of champagne. I’m sure not her first.

“Help yourself to a drink,” she said as I followed her into the spacious, elegantly furnished living room that housed a well-stocked art-deco bar. “Charlotte will be here shortly.”

Charlotte was coming? A shudder ran through me. I thought she was still away on a trip with her parents and not due to come home until next week. After I’d told her a few weeks ago that I thought we should cool our relationship and see other people, she blew up and seized the opportunity to travel with her parents to their chateau in the South of France. She was convinced I would come to my senses upon her return. Except while she was abroad, I had decided I wanted out and planned to break up with her permanently as soon as she came back. The five-carat Tiffany’s engagement ring that she coveted wasn’t going to make it to my credit card. Or her finger.

I was not looking forward to seeing her. Dread seeped through my veins. My mother had no clue that I wanted to break up with Charlotte; I hadn’t yet told her. Or my father.

As I made myself a martini, contemplating how I was going to handle seeing Charlotte, my mother continued in her clipped voice, typical of old-money Manhattan wealth. “Since she’s practically family, I thought it fitting to invite her to our little soirée after I ran into her this afternoon at Bergdorf’s. I would have, of course, invited her parents had they not still been on holiday abroad.”

My parents and Charlotte’s parents, the Vanowens of steel industry fame and fortune, had known each other forever. Their ancestors even came over together on the Mayflower, and Charlotte’s mother Sylvia, like my mother, served on the board of Daughters of the American Revolution as well as other prominent cultural institutions and philanthropic organizations across the city. Her father, like my father, went to Harvard and Harvard Business School. They played golf together whenever they retreated to their upstate New York country manor homes.

Both sets of parents believed that our union was destiny and had pushed us together. On paper, Charlotte and I were the perfect couple. Gorgeous debutante daughter and New York’s most eligible Ivy League bachelor. We were the kind of couple that was feature-worthy in the wedding section of the
Sunday New York Times
. Beautiful and aspirational. In truth, beautiful and dysfunctional.

Over the past few months, Charlotte had been getting on my nerves, pressuring me to get engaged when I wasn’t sure if I was really in love with her—or ever had been. A rising interior designer, whose clients included New York’s elite, she was becoming more and more like my mother every day. Bouncing from one social event to another and seeking media exposure. It was all about her. She was a
Page Six
regular as well as a fixture in
Women’s Wear Daily
and the
New York Social Register
. It didn’t hurt that she was Uma Thurman beautiful and dressed to the nines. More often than not, I was featured in the photos, labeled as Charlotte’s “handsome billionaire boyfriend.” I could care less. All I wanted to do was stay home and write. We’d grown incompatible. I finally told this to Charlotte. Bickering replaced her one-way conversations. When she demanded an official engagement date, I’d had enough.

As I finished my martini, Charlotte came sweeping into the room. Her long, wavy platinum hair curled around the exposed shoulder, her one-shoulder sequined gown left bare. Its thigh-high slit gently revealed her long, toned legs.

“How good to see you, darling!” she said with one of her perfunctory high society embraces. “Did you miss me?”

I quirked a nervous half smile. Words were trapped in my throat. She was acting like nothing had gone down between us before she’d left, and this was making it harder.

“Mummy and Daddy send you their love.” She casually helped herself to some champagne.

“Why are you back so soon?” She was only gone for ten days.

She sipped the champagne and, with her free, perfectly manicured hand, flung back her shiny mane of hair. “Muffy Malone’s baby shower. It was this morning at The Carlyle. I just couldn’t miss it.”

Sheesh! She knew damn well I was running the marathon. That I’d trained a year for it. That it was important to me. But some classmate from Spencer, whom she openly despised, was more important to her. She didn’t give a shit…Just like my mother, who couldn’t miss her waxing appointment, and my father, who couldn’t miss his weekly Class of ’74 Harvard Club brunch (and who, quite frankly, didn’t consider running a marathon a sport). I shrugged my shoulders. It didn’t matter to me. I had someone there for me. And I still couldn’t get her face out of my head. Maybe later tonight I would call it quits with Charlotte.

“Where’s Father?” I asked my mother.

On cue, he strode into the room. As dapper as ever, he was clad in tan twill slacks and a black cashmere blazer that buttoned over a crisp white dress with monogrammed gold cufflinks and a silver silk tie.

His steely gray eyes met my blue ones. “Son, you could have at least put on a tie for your mother’s birthday.”

He was always critical of me. From the day I was born, he’d never had a nice word to say. I dared not to challenge or defy him. Or could I ever rub in his face the shit I knew he was capable of doing. It was not what Madewells did. Reluctantly, I mumbled two words. “Sorry, sir.”

The five-course dinner was served by Maria and her staff in the grand dining room that overlooked the sparkling city. The table, which could seat twenty, was scaled down to make the evening more intimate. My parents sat on opposite ends, Charlotte and I in the middle, facing each other. Most of the conversation zigzagged back and forth between my mother and Charlotte as they exchanged small talk and gossip. Charlotte, who barely touched anything on her plate, was only one glass of champagne behind my mother, who had consumed four. I swear when I looked at the two of them, Charlotte could easily be mistaken for my mother’s daughter. They say that boys are often attracted to women who remind them of their mothers. I suppose that’s what attracted me to her in the first place. A big mistake. In retrospect, I should have known how things would turn out.

My father said few words and consumed his elaborate rack of lamb meal with a blend of grace and gusto. “Did you see what Madewell Media closed at on Friday?” he asked me.

Madewell Media was a Fortune 500 company that owned newspapers and broadcast outlets around the world, as well as a sizeable chunk of the Internet. My father was the revered and feared Chief Executive Officer. Worth over three billion dollars, he was number ten on the Forbes 400 List of Billionaires. He wouldn’t be happy until he was number one.

“Well, son?” His tone was irritated.

My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about Allee. Reliving my run with her. Her massage. And that kiss.
Holy fuck! That kiss
. I was getting an erection under the table! Finally, I brought myself back into the moment and replied, “Sorry, Father, I wasn’t paying attention.”

My father’s lined, but still handsome, face hardened. “For your information, the stock closed at an all-time high.”

So, he was richer. How much richer could he get?

My father’s voice grew harsh. “Ryan, if you’re going to take over Madewell Media one day, you had better start paying more attention to these kinds of things.”

That’s what my father was grooming me for. To follow in his footsteps and take over the business. But that’s not what I wanted. I just hadn’t worked up the courage to tell him.

Sensing the rising friction between my father and me, Maria suggested opening my mother’s birthday presents while she cleared the table. Charlotte presented hers first—a lovely Hermès scarf, something my mother could never have enough of despite already owning dozens. I gave her a rare Baccarat unicorn that I’d found on eBay to add to her menagerie, and finally, my father presented her with a twenty-carat Burmese ruby ring. She gasped and instantly put it on her middle finger.

“It’s absolutely beautiful, darling,” she drooled.