More Layers: Book Two Layers Series (2 page)

BOOK: More Layers: Book Two Layers Series
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The doors close and an older attractive woman in front of me turns around and smiles. “What floor would you like?” She winks and waves her keycard in front of me. Shit, it’s an access by keycard elevator. Of course it is you lobby-waiting pussy.

I give her my devastating
GQ
smile. “Whatever floor is yours.”

She licks her lips and swipes her keycard. Then she takes a step back and runs her purple painted faux nails down my arm. She smiles, leans into me, and whispers into my ear. “You want the thirty-fifth floor.”

I give her a faux smile and lean back against the elevator wall. I take a shallow breath. Fuck me. Her excessive use of perfume engulfs me and I silently pray that I don’t pass out before I make it to her floor. Her girlfriend turns and looks at us. They share a look that says. “Remember it’s not finders keepers. We’re the two musketeers, all for one, one for all
.
” Not going to happen ladies. My junk is staying within the confines of my overly priced, designer chinos.

As we ascend, people get on and off. When we reach the thirty-fifth floor, the doors open and the two musketeers step out. There are two other men in the elevator and I need the thirty-ninth floor. I’m hoping one of them does, too.

The women smile and patiently wait for me to exit.

“I’ll give you a minute,” I say and gift them with a suggestive wink.

They giggle, then Ms. Eau De Parfum mouths, “See you in a minute.”

The doors close and the man to my front right smirks as he looks back at me.

I shrug my shoulders. What can say—I’m the man that all the women want. Well, okay, there is her.

The elevator stops on the next floor. Both men step out and another steps in and swipes his card and presses the thirty-ninth floor. There is an elevator God, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. When we reach the thirty-ninth floor the man steps out then...there she (her) is. She steps aside and a guy that looks like Mr. Universe steps in front of her, blocking my view. I’m assuming that this is Lee, the hunky-hot gaywad bodyguard Jules raves about.

Five other people step into the elevator first. Then Mr. U steps in and clears some space, and she steps in behind him. She puts her head down, and it all but presses up against Mr. U’s huge mass of spray-tanned muscle. Mr. U better be gay “all the way,” none of that his and her boinking because...I was going to say, because she’s mine, but she’s not. After all this time I still can’t say it... “she’s not mine.”

She doesn’t see me. God she looks...hot. She takes my breath away. Yeah, she still takes my pathetic, pussy breath away. How could I have forgotten how beautiful she is? But fuck me, “The Big Guy” remembers. That’s all I need, a fucking tent pole in a crowded elevator. I could be ninety-seven, blind and impotent, and this woman would still rock me solid. I lean my head back and try to think of something that will calm “The Big Guy” down. I think of someone that always makes him want to hide and my pole plummets.

When I’ve taken command of my cock, I look back at her. My heart skips a beat, then another. She tilts her chin up and bites her lower lip. I have to bite mine to control all the emotions that start to invade me. She’s still fuck-me stunning but she looks tired and thinner—too thin. I wonder if she’s been ill. Her hair is pulled up in some kind of loose knot but it’s still long and gorgeous. Her hair—I fucking love it. I love the way it felt when I ran it through my fingers. The way it fanned out over the sheets when she was lying under me. The way I wrapped it around my hand and pulled it back as I entered her from behind. Oh crap, up goes the pole.

I close my eyes and command my dick to deflate. Then, fuck me—her scent invades me, “crashes into me” like Dave Matthews
and his band. I inwardly smile, thinking how she would laugh at my stupid song analogy. Citrus, pear, spice and Alexia—God help me. Her scent comes from a combination of shampoo, body wash and lotion. I’d never smelled anything like it, like her. She told me that she had it made especially for her. Apparently there is this place in Paris that makes custom body products that are matched to your “body-scent signature.” Whatever the hell that is? Sounded like a marketing ploy to me. I asked her about the name on the label—Goddess Not. She laughed and said that the Frenchman that tested her “scent-signature,” (fuckin’ Frenchy better not have touched her) told her that her scent made him think of a Goddess. She said the guy was a perv so she named it, Goddess Not—that’s my girl. (Was my girl.)

I open my eyes and dare myself to look at her again. Her head is still down, but it’s now pressed up against Mr. U muscled mass. I’d nail the guy if I didn’t know he was here for her protection. Okay, you’re right. The guy would deck me with one punch.

I wish she would look up. I need to float in those ocean eyes. Fuck me! What the hell am I doing? I came here for closure not to reopen long closed doors and rekindle lustful desires. Yeah right, who the hell I’m I kidding? Five, ten, twenty, one hundred years could pass and I’d still want and need her more than my next breath. What the fuck am I going to do?

* * *

Alexia Grant

Of all the elevators in the entire world—okay in Vegas—he had to step into mine. It’s been 2.498288843 years. 30.90015130 months. 130.357142857 weeks. 912.5days. 21,900 hours. 1,314,000 minutes. 78,840,000 seconds, since I heard his voice and my heart stopped then shattered into a 5.698 million pieces. No matter how I calculate it (years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds) or how hard I try not to calculate it in my head and wish the numbers away—I can’t. It’s like telling your lungs not to breathe or your blood not to flow. Not possible unless you’re dead.

Holy hell, he looks...hot! No
breathtaking. My heart...skips a beat, then another. Oh my God, what’s with the long hair and the goatee? Is he trying to kill me? It’s getting warm in this elevator, don’t you think? Beads of sweat are now running down my back. Oh hell, please stop. Fuck, too late. Fucking beads of sweat are now taking up residence between my ass cheeks.

Do I dare sneak another peek? I do. I look up. Thank fuck he has his head back and his eyes are closed. Shit! Now the hairs on the back of by neck are rising. Oh man, double shit—goose bumps and sweat. It’s been 936.5 days since I’d last laid my eyes on him and he can still make me hot and give me chills. I look back down at the elevator floor. God, please don’t let him see me behind this hellnormous man, who happens to be my bodyguard—Lee. Yes, I said bodyguard. We’ll get into that later.

I’m not ready to see or talk to him. I thought I was but...I’m not. I knew it was going to happen...but I need more time. Maybe another 12.135863024 months. Shit, our best friends are getting married, and I’m moving the Grant Headquarters and my family to New York. How in the hell I’m I going to stand near him at the wedding when I can barley breathe? How the hell am I going to live in the same city, or even on the same continent?

* * *

After I returned to London I wanted to hate him for taking my already damaged heart and breaking it into millions of pieces. But, damn, it’s hard to hate someone when a part of them is renting out space in your belly.

No, I don’t hate him. I don’t even hate Mia. (Most days.) It takes a hell of a lot of energy to hate. And now that I’m a mom and a CEO, I don’t have any to spare. Goddamn, how do women do it? How do men do it? Single parenthood is a bitch. All parenthood is a bitch. Life is a bitch. But that bitch parenthood kicked me in the ass and said, “Grow the fuck up!” and I have. I had to.

That bitch has taught me a lot of things about life and myself. She taught me this thing called “forgiveness.” Have you heard of it? It’s fucking awesome. It’s not a cure-all but it helped me heal some of my old wounds that kept on bleeding out and messing up my life. Yeah, I’ve forgiven my parents (for the most part) for being such fuck-ups. Parents (or grandmothers) aren’t responsible for all the bad things you do, and the bad decisions you make throughout your life. But by God, they can sure drive you crazy and start you down that path of messed-up stupidity.

That bitch also taught me about the harms of judgment. This one hasn’t been easy for me. Every one judges, but when you become a mother; you warp speed into a new breed of judger. You become the mother superior of the Parental Supreme Court.

Like I said, I’ve tried hard not the judge but sometimes it’s damn near impossible not to. Sometimes as a PSC judge you need to give yourself a pardon for your own judgments. For example, I tried hard not to judge the mother at the park whose kid ate dog shit. She didn’t even blink one eye. I, on the other hand, all but had an epileptic seizure, and I’m not epileptic. But good God...dog shit! And I’ve tried hard not to judge my grandmother, Lizbet. Even though I know her style of parenting (buck the fuck up, you’re a Grant) fucked up my dad, Alex, and pushed me over the edge. How could it not? And as for my mother Marie, well, she was an orphan raised in foster care. So, I’ll give her an inch or two; let’s call it an early parole. There’s a reason I’m telling you all this forgiveness and judgment stuff. That reason is standing just feet away. I hope that when I tell him he has sons, he’ll let that bitch parenthood teach him a thing or two about forgiveness and the harms of judgment.

* * *

I take another quick peek. Shit. I think he’s looking my way. I step closer to Lee, all but spooning his muscle-man fine ass. If he takes a step back he’ll either knock the air out of me or crush me to death. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I look down at my feet wishing that the elevator floor would swallow me up or that Siegfried and Roy (are they still alive and living in Vegas?) or David Copperfield were standing next to me and could make me disappear...vanish into thin fucking air.

It’s so hard to look at him and yet it’s friggin’ hard not to. But then again, I haven’t really ever stopped looking at him. My sons, (his sons) are the spitting image of him. They have the same wavy, dark, black-brown hair; the same cleft chin and cheeky grin, and the same intense dark- chocolate eyes. They tilt their chin up when they’re fed up with me. Whine and tell me I talk too much, and yes, God help us all—they gift me often with “The Brow.” And you know it. I hate the fucking brow.

Yes, they look like their father but they’re my sons, too. So, needless to say, they’re not your typical kids. At 2.588220397 years old, (or if you are one of those parents that prefer to tell everyone their child’s age in months—32.136157071 months old) they can read my reports, are nearly fluent in English, Spanish and French, have near photographic memories, and take in everything like a sponge and place it on their little shoulders.

I take another quick peek and thank fuck his eyes are closed again. What the hell is he doing here at the Four Seasons anyway? He’s supposed to be staying with the others at the Venetian. If Nick told him where I was staying, I’ll de-ball him. Jules won’t be too happy about that, but it will have to be done.

The elevator stops and a man steps out and a woman steps in. And of course, the bitch in heat sees him, moves next to him and then presses herself up against him. This forces him to step away from her and closer to me. Holy baby Jesus, give me a friggin’ break. Now I can smell the man pheromones. It’s freakin’ hot in this elevator but I know without even looking my nipples just hardened. In the last two plus years, I’ve accomplished many things in my professional and personal life, but there is one thing I haven’t been able to do and that’s stop wanting him. I think of and ache for him every day. I ache to see that cocky cheeky grin and feel it press into my hair. I ache for the feel of his heart beating against my breast. I miss the way he rolls his eyes at me and pleads for me not to think. And God help me I miss “The Big Guy.” Dear Lord, how I ache for his cock, to feel it thicken and lengthen, then release inside me.

There were days (months) that I thought I would go crazy because I needed him so much. Fuck me. There is nothing like pregnant horny. Nothing! I had a dozen vibrating orgasmic pleasuring devices charged and ready at all times. I now have carpel tunnel. When my belly got too big to touch myself, I humped the furniture. That’s when I got tennis elbow. (And what’s up with that? Why do they call it tennis elbow, when you can get it without putting your elbow anywhere near a court?)

Everything is his fault. He impregnated me with not one but two babies, turning me into a crazed nymphomaniac. Then the asshat cheated on me with his ex-fucking wife, forcing me, the crazed nympho, to use self-pleasuring devices that gave me carpel tunnel. Breathe. Then, because I was impregnated with his two (one 8.3 pound, 22-inch son, one 8.5 23 inch son) sons, I got too big to touch or even see my clit, which forced me, the crazed nympho, to hump the arm of a chair, causing it to topple over and me with it. Thus, landing on my elbow and hyperextending it, then voilà—tennis elbow.

So take that, Jaxson Chase Ryan, you goatee-sporting, long hair bobbing, pheromone reeking, tight chino wearing, attention seeking, vagina teasing, hot body flaunting, arrogant airing, lying, cheating bastard. Phew...I feel so much better.

The elevator stops two floors before the lobby. Then, no...hell no, the other five occupants in the elevator exit. Why the hell aren’t they going down to the lobby? The doors close leaving just the three of us. Christ it’s hot. I’m sweating like a whore in church. I lean my forehead on Lee’s shoulder. He misunderstands me and steps aside. I look up. Our eyes meet.

“Fuck me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

 

Cheeky Bastard

Alexia

He takes a step forward and Lee steps in front of me.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“No. No problem. I just want to talk with Ms.
Grant.”

Lee steps aside. “You know this guy?”

“Yeah...I know him. Lee Johnson, meet Jaxson Ryan.”

Lee gives Jaxson a thorough once over. “So this is Jaxson Ryan,” he comments with attitude.

Jaxson holds out his hand. “Jaxson Ryan.”

“Mr. Ryan,” Lee says as they shake hands.

Jaxson gives him a hesitant smile.

The elevator doors open and we step out and into the lobby.

BOOK: More Layers: Book Two Layers Series
2.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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