Quid Pro Quo free porn video

When I got to the bookstore, everyone was in a tailspin. Liz and Brian looked fearful and wouldn't answer when I said good morning to them; they just stocked the mysteries as if their life depended on it. Pauline was white as paper while she worked the register; her usually cheery lips in a grim line. And Sue, who spent six hours out of eight talking to her boyfriend on the phone, was studiously doing inventory in the children's section. I wondered if the weirdness had anything to do with the smattering of reporters outside.

Only Derek spoke to me on my way back to the employee lounge. "Bette sold the bookstore," he whispered.

"No, she didn't," I said. Bette and I had been best friends for more than a decade. I was the first person she hired. If she sold her life's work, the business she loved, I was very sure I would have gotten a phone call.

"She did. This morning," Derek said.

I looked at him. He was pale. "Did she tell you that?"

"Yeah."

I wasn't going to ask him anything else. I had to go to the source.

I walked into the Bette's office. There was a cardboard box on her desk and her back was to me. "Why did Derek just tell me that you sold the bookstore?" I asked.

She turned. Her face was red and puffy. Her eyes were bloodshot.

"Oh, my God," I said. "You did. What happened?"

Her lip trembled. "I didn't have a choice. He knew about the porno."

I blinked at her. "Wait. What? The porno you made when you were eighteen? There were only like fifty copies made and only in VHS."

"He owns the production company that bought the rights back in the late nineties. He's threatening to make it digital and re-release it"

"He, who?"

"Charles Fucking DeWitt."

Clearly, I had woken up in an alternate universe. One where Bette Turner gave two shits about a porno she made twenty years ago and where womanizing, real estate moguls make power moves to buy privately owned bookstores.

"First of all, who cares about the porno?"

"My eighty year old father sure would. Fucking DeWitt promised to send him a copy."

"Jesus. Why?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I dated him a zillion years ago and I cheated on him."

"You dated Charles DeWitt and cheated on him?"

"With his best friend, Rob."

"Shitty of you, but still, hardly worth all of this fuss."

She still didn't look at me. "I married Rob. Charles told me at the wedding that if I ever hurt him, I would pay."

I stared at her, knowing perfectly well that none of her three marriages had ended well. There was infidelity in all three, sometimes on both sides but always on Bette's.

"So, Little Prick DeWitt is here this morning when I get in, tells me about the porno, tells me he knows that I poured my heart into this business, and then tells me he's going to take it from me and sell it off piece by piece. Tells me payback's a bitch."

"After twenty fucking years. Are you kidding me?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"This is some bullshit, Bette."

She loaded a couple more of her things into a box. "He told me to send my manager to him when you got here. He hasn't talked to anyone else. He's just waiting for you."

"What the fuck for?"

"No idea."

"Where is he?" My tone was dark and it made Bette look up.

"Don't do anything rash. He's a fucking bastard."

"Don't worry about me. Where is he?"

"He's in the coffee shop."

"Don't leave without me," I said, leaving her office and closing the door behind me.

#

He sat alone at the largest table in the coffee shop. I recognized him from his picture on tabloid covers and apparently I wasn't the only one. Some of the shoppers were taking an unusual interest in the mug display just to his left. He didn't seem to care; he was busy talking on his cell phone, which I could hear as I made my way to his table.

"...she employs eight people....You have too much conscience, Rob....All right, fine...I said fine. I figured you'd have a problem with it so I'm already working on it. She has a manager...some old lady named Nora. I'll see what I can do."

I ordinarily would have been entertained at being called an old lady, but I wasn't in the mood. I presented myself, with my arms crossed, in front of his table.

"Hold on." He pulled his phone away from his ear and looked me up and down once. Then he did it again, smirking a little like he liked what he saw. "How can I help you, Gorgeous?"

"I'm Nora Wells, the store manager."

His smirk faded and his face took on a predatory expression. He looked me up and down again, this time slower. Then, he spoke into his phone. "I've got to go, Rob. Give Christina my love."

He turned back to me. "Hello Nora. I'm Charles De--"

"I know who you are. I know what you did to Bette and why. I'm here to tell you to fuck off."

He drew back a little but the predatory look intensified, like he was a snake that just got bit by the mouse he was trying to eat. "Is that really wise?" he asked. "Especially given that I now own the place where you work?"

"Rumor has it that you're going to sell the bookstore off as scrap, so I don't really see the risk." I turned and started to walk away.

"Nora," he called after me. "You don't want to walk away from me right now."

I turned with my arms still crossed. There were a fair number of people in the store and at least half had turned to look at me and Charles. "Give me one good reason why not," I said without bothering to lower my voice

"Because seven other people still work here. You're the one who decides whether they keep their jobs or not."

Sue was near enough to hear and give me a frightened look. She was three months pregnant and I know she needed her paycheck. I gave her a tight smile that was probably anything but reassuring and went back to Charles's table, flopping into the chair across from him and glaring at him.

"My grudge is against Bette," he said.

"Obviously."

He paused for a moment, like he wasn't used to back-talk. "I don't want to leave you or anyone else unemployed. I will, but I don't want to," he continued.

"Big of you."

He paused again. I had trouble reading his expression: irritation, certainly, and...amusement? "Your offer is this," he continued. "I'll double your salary, make you executive manager, or whatever title you like, and leave the operation of the store entirely at your discretion."

"How often would I have to deal with you?" My tone made it clear that I hoped the answer was 'never'.

"I'll get back to you on that. I'm finding this business more attractive than I thought I would." His eyes slid over me, down to my breasts, and back up to my mouth in a suggestive way.

"Did you miss the part where I told you to fuck off?" I asked.

"No," he said smoothly. "But here's what you're missing. It would be easier for me to lay off everyone here and liquidate my assets then keep this place running. Reject my offer and that's exactly when I'm going to do."

I looked back over at Sue. She wasn't the only one here who needed a paycheck. I would be okay for a while and Bette was from a wealthy family, but we were the only two who wouldn't be hurt right away. My conscience didn't really leave me much of a choice. But, I wasn't going to take any bribes from the sonofabitch, either.

I met Charles DeWitt's eyes. "I won't accept a raise," I said.

His eyebrows shot up. A playful smile teased on his lips, reminding me of how he usually looked in pictures posing on his yacht or on beaches in the Mediterranean.

"I'm the store manager already," I told him. "I'll keep that title. However, I will run this business to keep the staff employed."

He smirked at me; he knew I was trapped and he clearly liked it. "I want to go over the books with you tonight. I might as well find out what this place is worth. I'm at the Plaza Hotel; you can meet me there at seven."

"Somewhere that isn't your room, correct?"

He gave me that predatory look again. "If you insist."

"I'll bring the financial statements. What else do you want to see?"

"The event calendar, a listing of staff assignments, and you in a dress."

"The first two I'll bring. You can fuck yourself on the third." Which was funny, because if he hadn't said anything, I probably would have worn a dress to the Plaza. "Are we done?"

"For now."

"Good. I'm going to help Bette get home."

His expression was serious for the first time since I had presented myself to him. "Aren't you on the clock?" he asked in a caustic tone. I saw immediately what he was doing. He wanted Bette to walk out by herself, carrying her boxes, dealing with the reporters who loitered. I lifted my chin; I wasn't going to let that happen.

"I'm salaried," I said, my tone more than a little snotty. "If you don't like it, fire me. You're good at that, right?"

I waited for a moment for him to say something. When he didn't, I turned and walked away. As I walked, I could still feel his eyes boring into my back.

#

After dropping Bette off at home with a bottle of wine and too much chocolate, working the floor in the bookstore during an unusually busy day, and sending the staff home with the reassurance that we would meet in the morning, I gathered the paperwork Charles requested and hurried back to my apartment. I got into my most conservative pantsuit, texted Bette what I was doing, and made the drive back to the city.

It was the longest day I had ever spent; I was exhausted and it wasn't even over yet.

When I got to the Plaza Hotel, the concierge led me to where the conference rooms were. Charles waited for me in a small one. He looked up when I came in, his expression heightened and that predatory smirk on display.

I carried a huge bag of paperwork and started laying it out on the table. Charles already had a drink in front of him, like this was a social thing.

"Something to drink for you, Ma'am?" the concierge asked.

"Water, please."

When he left, Charles came around to my side of the table and stood too close. He pinched the fabric of my suit between two fingers at the shoulder, like it was a stinky rag. "This is terrible. Did you borrow it from your grandmother?"

"I don't want to be here and I didn’t dress for you. Can we get this over with?"

"A gorgeous thing like you shouldn't dress like a congresswoman. Do you need a clothing allowance?"

"No, I don't." I pushed a binder closer to him. "These are the financial reports from the last fiscal year, if you would like to review them."

He pulled out a chair for me; good manners made me sit. I instantly wished I hadn't. He pushed the binder back in front of me, leaned over me way, way too close, and said in a low intimate voice right next to my ear, "I'm going to need for you to show them to me."

I started to, but with one of his hands on the table beside me, the other on the back of my chair, and his face so close I could feel his body heat, I could tell we weren't going to get far. I powered through six months in about a half hour but when his hand moved from my chair to my shoulder, I stopped.

"I need you to back off," I said.

Rather than listening, his hand slipped from my shoulder to the back of my neck, where he started to rub the muscles there. "You're so tight and tense," he said in a low voice. "I'd love to know if that's true everywhere on your body."

I stood, hitting him with my chair as I pushed it out. At least it made him step back a pace. I put my hands on my hips, facing him. "Look, Charles. I get it, okay? Bette hurt you and hurt your best friend. Now, you're getting revenge by trying to do the same thing back."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Clearly. But, this isn't going to end with me in your bed. Do you understand me?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Because you're very attracted to me."

"I'm not your type." My voice was pure scorn.

"Really. What's my type?"

"Supermodels and actresses. Usually under the age of twenty-five."

For the first time, his face reddened. It was like he didn't know that all of his escapades are reported to the world in photographic detail. He was forty, a bachelor, and dated hot, young things. Everyone knew that.

"Don't believe everything you read," he told me. At least he didn’t look amused anymore.

"It's okay," I told him, my tone a hint nastier. "You're not my type either. I like nice men." His face got redder. "Do you want to go over more paperwork?"

"I think I'm done for the night." Then, something seemed to occur to him and that predatory, amused expression found a home on his face again. "Next week? Same time and place?"

"You want this to be a standing, weekly meeting? You don’t even live here."

"I have a jet. Do you have an issue with that?"

My frustration must have shown because he looked very pleased with himself. "I'll be here," I told him.

I started gathering the paperwork. He put a hand on mine. "I didn't ask you if you'd be here. I asked you if you had an issue with a weekly meeting."

I shook off his hand. "Yes, I have an issue with it. But, like I said, I'll be here."

"We might be able to work things out where we don't have to meet in person so often." His voice was sly.

I crossed my arms again. "What are you hinting at?"

"Wear a dress next week."

"Are you still on this?"

"Wear a dress next week, and I'll forgo the next meeting. Wear a dress to every meeting and we'll meet bi-monthly." I must have looked stunned; his smile was heated and not at all kind. "But I have to be satisfied you dressed for me. Heels. Your hair done. Make-up. Think of it like a date."

"You seriously need to fuck off."

"You don’t want to see me. I want to see you dressed up. I'm just proposing a compromise. Otherwise, I'll just have to enjoy you on a weekly basis in whatever potato sack you choose to wear."

I leveled a look at him. "You're a businessman, right? Do I need to explain to you what sexual harassment is?"

"No. I have excellent lawyers I pay very well that explain it to me all the time."

I finished packing up all of the paperwork and gave him a long, disapproving look. "I'll see you next week." Then, without another word, I left.

#

Bette and I drank too much wine the following weekend and she told me all about Charles DeWitt. He was a sweet guy, at one point, she said. She met him when her parents and his parents were vacationing at the same resort when she was eighteen. They dated off and on for two years. He was the best lover she'd ever had--not that that sort of thing kept her from cheating.

She hadn't given his threat for revenge a second thought at the wedding or much after the divorce.

"He's trying to make you wear a dress to these meetings?" Bette asked.

"Yes. And he has zero concept of personal space."

"He wants to fuck you."

"Just to get even with you. He's just still in revenge mode."

But, after six weeks of me in pant-suits, he still hadn't relaxed his pressure. Oh, sure, he looked at the financial statements and the events calendar when I put them in front of him; however, far more of his time was spent asking personal questions and trying to invade my personal space. It really was starting to wear thin.

In our seventh meeting, he said, "You're single, aren't you? No man would put up with you meeting me in the evening, like this."

"Why? Because Charles DeWitt is so irresistible?"

"Well...yes."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Nobody's worried about these meetings turning into something more."

"Is that because your boyfriend doesn't care or because he doesn't exist?" His eyes strayed for the ten-thousandth time to my bare left hand.

"It's because you're dating supermodel Anna Krinski," I told him. "And we all know how faithfully in love you are with her."

I took every chance I had to remind him of his sordid and completely public love life. If he could torture me, I would needle him. He clearly wasn't amused. His jaw set and a little vein in his temple pulsed. He dismissed me curtly and without even undressing me with his eyes.

In our eighth meeting, he brought the subject up himself, which was a little odd. "What do the headlines say about me this week?" he asked.

"That you and Anna broke up, but you're comforting yourself with up-and-coming actress Tori Allenson. What is she? Twenty-two? Whatever do you talk about?"

"Screenplay revisions." He gave a long, calculating look. "How would you like your name to be next to mine in the tabloids?"

I blinked at him a moment. I would hate being in the headlines and I would hate it twice as much if it was connected to him. I didn't need to even say so; his look of grim satisfaction told me he could see as much.

"No?" he asked in a hard way. "Then, next week, you're going to wear a dress, like we discussed."

"Fuck off."

"No fucking of any sort is required. Yet." That predatory look came out again. "What you do need to do is make yourself pretty for me. If you don't, the morning after, you're going to find photographers on your doorstep and wild speculation about every part of your life in print."

I stood. "I get why you did what you did to Bette. I don't like it, but I do get it. I will never understand why you feel the need to torture me, too. All I'm trying to do is help seven people keep their jobs."

He seemed to have a flash of something. Misgiving? Conscience? I didn't stay to find out; I just left.

It took me all week to find the courage to not wear a damn dress to the next meeting. It was the definition of cutting off my nose despite my face. Not only didn't I want to be in the headlines linked to Charles DeWitt, but I was also sick and tired of looking frumpy. I even dressed down on the day before and after our meeting in case he decided to stay in town and drop in on the bookstore.

But, when the next meeting happened, I showed up in one of my least attractive outfits: shapeless pants, a boxy jacket, and my hair in a neat ponytail. I saw his distaste when I walked into the room but I ignored it. He didn't make a fuss. For once, we went over the paperwork without much interruption. When we were done, about forty minutes later, he politely said, "I'll walk you out."

"No need," I replied.

"I insist."

So, I let him walk with me to the valet. We were in front of the hotel before I realized my mistake. The photographers and reporters shifted towards us like they were magnetically attracted to Charles. He gave me that predatory grin and before I could anticipate what he was going to do, he kissed me.

It wasn't a peck either. It took me completely off-guard. He pulled me to him, one hand on my waist and the other on the back of my neck. I hadn't ever needed to resist a kiss before, so initially, I accepted it: his lips not too open, the tip of his tongue not too invasive, his hands firm but not harsh. My body started to respond. It took me a second or two to have the wherewithal to push him away.

By then, the damage was done. Cameras flashed all around us. Reporters were yelling at me, demanding to know my name.

I was furious and not thinking. I slapped him.

He smirked at me. "That was spicy," he said in a low voice.

"That was assault," I growled back.

By then, my car had arrived. I stalked through the reporters ignoring their questions, and locked myself inside. If one of them had been in front of my car, I might have hit them in my haste to leave. Luckily, it didn't come to that.

#

"You're dating Charles DeWitt?" Sue asked me when I made it through the reporters in front of the store and to the staff lounge the next day. They had been in front of my apartment, too.

"I am not dating fucking Charles DeWitt," I snarled. I hardly slept and it left me snappish. I saw Sue's hurt and softened my tone. "Sorry. He kissed me to be a jerk. He knew the paparazzi would run with it."

"Why would he do that?"

"He can't get at Bette anymore, so he's having his fun with me." Her eyes widened. "Don't worry," I told her, my tone softening further, "I'm not going to quit."

My phone rang. Thank God it was Bette and not another unfamiliar number. "Hey," I answered.

"Look, I hate to do this to you, but..."

"Then, don't. Seriously. I'm at my wits end."

"You know how I go to a local business gala every year?"

I sighed. "When is it?"

"Saturday night. It's at the conservatory."

"What do I need to do?"

"Just show up. Wear a cocktail dress. Stay an hour. Give a donation to the Business Owner Association out of the slush fund."

"Okay. I'll take care of it." I hung up the phone and stared at the wall. A gala might be good for me. I wasn't really doing much socializing these days.

"Nora?" Derek approached me, seemingly shy about talking to me, which he never had been before.

"What's up?"

"There's a problem with the inventory in the children's section...."

"Show me."

I was grateful for the distraction and Derek was grateful for the help. It actually made me forget for a moment that my picture was splashed on the front of all of the tabloids. At that moment, I was nothing more than a store manager and I was happy to do my job.

#

On Saturday night I went all out. I wore a new, blue, fitted, feminine cocktail dress that was a little shorter than I usually wore. It made my legs look very long. I left my hair down, stepped into heels, and did make-up for the first time in weeks. It was nice to feel attractive after ill-fitting pant suits for so long.

I drove to the conservatory and let the valet park my car. The photographers called my name, asking where Charles was; I ignored them. I entered the beautiful venue, got a flute of Champaign, and wandered through the perfectly manicured plants. I migrated towards the orchid display; I had been here as a tourist once before.

"Ms. Wells?" I turned and it was a dapper-looking gentleman, maybe ten years older than me. "I'm Paul Mansfield. Bette and I have worked together on a number of projects. She called me and told me that you would be here and that I should make sure you're not alone." He had a faint accent. British, maybe?

"That is very kind of you."

"It was actually very kind of Bette. I would have been wondering who you were. This is usually very much the same crowd every year."

I liked Paul right away. The lines on his face seemed to have formed entirely by smiling. We entered into a discussion about our favorite books, many of which we shared. We had a playful discussion about whether Catcher in the Rye or To Kill a Mockingbird was more representative of the classic American novel. After two Champaign flutes, I was warm and loose, smiling and enjoying the harmless flirtation.

I heard a woman's voice from behind. "Paul. I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's someone you really must meet."

I turned, still laughing at something Paul had said. The event organizer stood there next to Charles DeWitt, looking very delighted with herself. "We're lucky enough to have the new owner of Neighborhood Books here."

I froze; my smile stuck on my face in an uncomfortable way. Charles had a shocked expression, too, though it quickly became clear that my appearance, and not my presence, was the reason he was so off-balance. He stared at me without an ounce of amusement, not even glancing at Paul. And while the predatory element still remained, it was tempered by appreciation.

I regained my balance first. "Charles," I said, offering my hand. "I had no idea you were in town."

"I came back for the gala," he said, shaking my hand but not letting go. "If I had known you'd be here, I would have suggested that we come together."

"I'm sure you would have."

Charles gave me a long, heated look. "Could I have a word with you?"

I looked at Paul, who seemed to be very entertained by Charles, who hadn't even said hello to him. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Of course," Paul said.

Charles drew me a pace or two away. "What do you need?" I asked him.

"You."

"To do what?"

"Come back to my room and open your legs for me. You're fucking gorgeous."

I heaved a sigh and yanked my hand free. "Could you give it a rest?"

"I'm serious," he said. The gravity in his tone stopped me a moment. I had dismissed all of his other come-ons as revenge-harassment. This had a completely different feel to it. His predatory look seemed fueled by heat rather than amusement.

It was interesting, but it didn't change anything. "I'm serious, too," I told him. "Knock it off."

I turned to leave, but he caught my arm. "I don't enjoy being ignored, Nora."

"Fine," I said with an acidic bite. "Enticing as your offer may be--poetic too, might I add--I'm afraid that I must decline. There. You are no longer ignored; you're rejected."

I shook off his hand and went back to Paul Mansfield. "I'm so sorry about that," I told him. I made sure my smile was warm and that Charles saw it. "He's challenging sometimes."

"I heard something about that," Paul said, his eyes twinkling with fun. I knew then that Bette and he had talked about the sale of the store.

"Where were we?" I asked.

"I was about to ask you if you would like to take a walk through the butterfly sanctuary."

"I would absolutely love to."

I didn't look at Charles directly but I saw him watching me out of my peripheral vision. I let Paul help me up and when he offered his arm, I took it. I didn’t see Charles for the rest of the night.

#

I started to rethink the idea of wearing a dress to the weekly meeting I shared with Charles. For five minutes at the gala, I had the upper hand with that asshole. All because I showed a little leg. I was curious to know if I could repeat that dynamic

So, for our next meeting, I wore a dress. And, no, it wasn't because I had a sudden love of skirts.

The shift in his expression was noticeable: from bored-looking arrogance to heated want. I got a physical thrill, knowing that I affected him so easily and immediately. I started laying out the documents and he came around the table, looking me up and down.

"Are you teasing me?" he asked.

"No," I replied innocently, looking up at him. "You said if I wore a dress, we could make these meetings every other week. I decided to accept. We don't need this much one-on-one time."

He couldn't fault me on my outfit: skirt just above the knee, a clinging top, a little sweater to make it all modest, and some heels, as requested. Some subtle make-up with my hair down and even curled.

"I beg to differ," he said, his eyes hot. "I think a little more one-on-one time is just what we need."

"Then you aren't going to honor your offer?" I countered smoothly.

He clenched his jaw; it gave me another rush. He was stuck and he knew it.

"Of course I'll honor my offer," he finally said. "We'll meet again in two weeks."

"Thank you, Charles," I said sweetly.

He gave me a long, calculating look. "Did you bring the inventories?"

He had never asked for them before, but I had them. I handed him a binder and he scowled. "Anything else?" I asked.

"No."

Two weeks later, I was in a dress that Bette gave me. It was red, fitted, and showed a touch of cleavage. It was just on the edge of what you could wear to a business meeting, so I paired it with a sweater for modesty. Not that it mattered to Charles.

"Jesus, Nora," he said when I walked into the room.

"Is something wrong?"

The heat coming off of him could have melted an igloo. He didn't answer me; he just looked.

I shrugged and started laying out binders but I was well aware of the fact that he had stood and was coming around the conference table again. I ignored him but I couldn't maintain that for long; he took the last binder out of my hands, set it aside, and leveled a look at me.

"What?" I said.

"This is deeply unfair," he said, standing close but not touching me. "And you know it."

"What is?"

"Showing up here, looking like this, and expecting this meeting to remain businesslike."

"I can't believe you just said that to me," I replied. "You told me to wear a dress. You tried to blackmail me into it. And now that I do as you ask, you're complaining?"

"I'm not complaining about you wearing a dress. I'm complaining about you keeping me at arm's length."

"Well, that's just too bad," I told him. His jaw clenched and, again, it gave me a little rush. "Arm's-length is my right as an employee."

"Unless I can get you to agree otherwise," he said darkly.

"Good luck," I replied.

Two weeks after that, I showed up in a brand new little black dress that was classy but sexy. It was sleeveless, showed a little more cleavage than the red dress, and had a hemline an inch or two above the knee. I put on a sweater for modesty, but that didn't stop his eyes from going directly to my tits.

"All this for me?" Charles purred.

"No. I have an engagement after this."

He looked stunned for a moment. Then, angry. I got another thrill out of it. "An engagement? You mean a date?"

Actually, I meant an engagement. I was meeting Paul Mansfield at the swanky bar next door to discuss a joint book signing event. Since I had to wear a dress anyway, I decided to go all out.

"I don't really see that as any of your business," I told him primly.

"With who," he pressed, standing. "Paul Mansfield? I hope you're caffeinated; he's dull as a marble."

"Your concern is noted. Do you want to start with the financial statements?"

He stood and came around the table to me. At this point, I pretty much expected it. However, when he stepped behind me and curled his fingers around the lapels of my sweater with both hands, almost hugging me, I froze.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my tone impatient.

"You look overheated," he said. He eased my sweater off of my shoulders his fingers brushing my arms. My body responded despite me. I think that's why I didn't stop him.

He put my sweater on the back of the chair beside us. His hands rested on my arms and he pressed himself against me gently. I felt his erection. It gave me a bit of a thrill at what I had managed to do to him. I heard him inhale next to my ear. "You smell like flowers." His dick twitched against my ass.

"Down, Boy," I said.

"That's not the direction I'm headed."

"I've told you before and I'll tell you again, the answer is no."

He let go of my arms. When he was facing me again, his expression held a challenge. It made me a little nervous for the first time in a while. "Are you sure?"

"Yep."

"And nothing could convince you otherwise?"

"Nope."

"Not even if I gave you the bookstore?"

Now, that did shock me in a visceral way. "The bookstore?"

"You heard me."

"You'd give me the bookstore," I said, looking at him.

"I want you more than I want it."

"That's ridiculous."

"It's mine to do with as I like. So...what do you think?"

I didn't like to admit it, but it was an interesting offer. I wasn't as promiscuous as Bette; it wouldn't be as easy for me to trade on my body as it would have been for her. Still, the bookstore was a hell of a pay-off.

I hesitated too long. That arrogant, predatory look returned. "You're tempted," he said.

"Maybe," I replied noncommittally. His arousal seemed to climb. He swayed a little closer to me. "If I could trust your follow-through," I added.

"You can."

"And we clearly define what you expect."

"One evening. Whatever I want to do. Say, a few hours minimum."

"A few hours of vengeance fucking is a really long time, Charles."

"It isn't vengeance," he said. "I only wanted revenge against one woman and you are not that person." He gave me a long look. "I want willingness from you, though. And enthusiasm."

"Willingness, I'll give you. Enthusiasm, you have to earn. I'm not a porn star; I'm not going to fool you if I'm not into it."

"Fair enough," he said. "Willingness, then. And an open mind."

"One evening," I said thoughtfully. "We meet here, I go upstairs with you, we do whatever you like, and I sleep in my own bed that night?"

"Yes."

I met his eyes and the challenge there. "And once it's done, I never have to see you again?"

That made him hesitate, which made me happy.

"At least not in association with the bookstore," he amended.

"I can live with that."

He put a hand on my back, looking supremely confident in himself. "Then, shall we adjourn to my room?"

I stepped away from him, breaking contact. "Whoa there," I said. He looked surprised. "First of all, I still have an engagement tonight. Second of all, I have to think about this. Having someone fuck you for personal gain may be old-hat to you, but it isn't for me. I'll let you know one way or another at our next meeting."

"Nora, I'm a very in-the-moment kind of guy."

"You think you're going to change your mind in two weeks?" I asked lightly. We both knew that wasn't going to happen. His jaw set again. "Shall we look at the finances?" I asked. "I really do have to be somewhere at eight-thirty."

"Fine," he said, sitting down and pulling the binder in front of him. I couldn't help but notice that his erection still made a bulge in his pants which was an exceptionally satisfying feeling.

#

It took me the better part of two weeks to decide to go through with the thing. One evening. I could do anything for one evening. I had the flu once and puked for twelve hours; this would have to be better than that and it would certainly be shorter, right? I didn't tell Bette what I was planning; I didn't want her to try to talk me into it or out of it.

I bought another new dress to help my confidence: white, this time, with a very low back and a flirty skirt above the knee. I got a white, lace bustier and matching panties, too. He wanted me willing and open-minded and this was my best outward show of that.

I didn't bother with a sweater or any of my other usual nods to modesty. I also didn't bother bringing the usual stack of binders. When I entered the conference room, Charles was on his feet and pacing. He stopped when he saw me, staring at me, his predatory look already on display.

"Please tell me this is for me," he said, looking me up and down.

"Yes," I told him. "This time, this is for you." He came around the table to me but I backed away before he could touch me. "So the offer is still on the table?" I confirmed.

"The offer is still on the table."

"How do I know you'll honor it?"

"I was optimistic after our last meeting. I had the documents prepared to transfer ownership. They're in my room; all I have to do is sign them." He smirked at me. "Anything else?"

"Not as far as I'm concerned."

His expression got hotter. I'll admit it; I was nervous. "Turn around," he said. "I want to see your dress from the back."

I did what he said, feeling more like a piece of meat than I ever had. I waited for more instruction, but instead, there was a light touch down the length of my spine. He brushed my hair over my shoulder and kissed where my shoulder and neck met on the other side. I shivered and I'm sure he felt it. But I wouldn't make him stop, and he knew that, too.

"Let's go upstairs," he said.

We got into the elevator. He hit the button for the twentieth floor, which wasn't the top floor. My heart was beating like I was sprinting. As soon as the doors closed, he looked me up and down again. "I should have asked for more than one evening," he said.

"I wouldn't have said yes to anything longer," I told him.

He led me to his room, my hand trapped by his. All of me trapped by all of him. I was having second and third and fourth thoughts.

His room may not have been a penthouse, but it was about a hundred times nicer than anything I'd ever seen. He had a full bar and an amazing view. Of course there was the massive King-sized bed in the middle of the room, completely distracting me from everything else.

Charles drew my attention to the desk. "Here's the paperwork, if you'd like to look it over."

I didn't but I sat down at the desk anyway, to stall. I flipped through the pages. There wasn't one thing out of place that I could see. Just a bunch of signatures and initials left to fill in. He pulled another chair near the desk and sat down in it.

"All good?" he asked.

"All good."

For once, he wasn't smiling. He leaned over and took my ankle in a firm hand, pulling my foot into his lap. He took off my shoe and started working my calf. The thrills from it went all the way up my leg and to my sex. I made a little involuntary sound and saw his smug look. "So tense," he teased. "I wouldn't be the cause of that, now would I?"

"You contribute," I told him.

"You tell me what's tight, Nora, and I'll rub it for you."

Willingness. He wanted willingness. I could do this. The sole of my foot sat on his lap. I slid it to his crotch, easily finding his erection, and rubbing it gently with the ball of my foot. He met my eyes with an expression I couldn't read; I stopped.

"Harder," he said in a husky voice.

I pressed into him harder and worked him up and down. I curled my toes around him. He didn't look away from me even as his breathing picked up. This went on for at least a couple of minutes. Then, seemingly with considerable effort, he put a hand over my foot.

"I think, first, I just want to fuck you," he said, his voice gruff.

My tension rose. I wasn't a virgin, but I kind of felt like one. He let go of my leg and offered me his hand to help me stand. He found the zipper on the side of my dress. "Let's get you out of this."

He teased the zipper down, slower than he needed to, and the dress slid to the floor. When he saw me in the bustier, his eyes widened and he literally took a step back.

"Jesus Christ, Nora."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Charles, seriously. Stop it. You dated a twenty year old underwear model. You're paying me for this night; you don't have to blow smoke up my ass."

He made a motion with his index finger that told me to turn around. I rolled my eyes and obeyed.

"First of all, I was photographed with a twenty-year-old underwear model. She was on my yacht with a bunch of other people. I am frequently photographed and paired with people I haven't fucked." I finished my spin and faced him. "Second," he said, looking me up and down again, "I am not blowing smoke up your ass, though if I can fit it in before you leave, it sounds like fun."

Maybe it was nervousness, but that made me laugh.

"She does have a sense of humor," he commented.

"She hasn't had much to find funny lately," I shot back.

He stepped up very close to me. "Let's see what other sounds I can get you to make."

He pulled me to him, kissing me much harder than he had in front of the photographers. It was possessive and demanding. His teeth nipped at my lips; his tongue soothed where he bit. My body didn't care who he was or what he'd done to my best friend. It was a very good kiss and a flood of want came with it.

When the kiss broke, we were both breathless. Everything about him seemed like a taut wire. He unclasped the hooks on my bustier and let it fall to the floor. "Get on the bed," he ordered.

I did and watched while he quickly removed all of his clothes. He was forty but fit, something that didn't surprise me. He had been photographed often enough without his shirt. His erection wasn't going to need any help; it looked almost painfully hard. It was bigger than average but I was grateful that he wasn't enormous.

He pushed me onto my back, stripping my panties away before he lay on top of me. He kissed me, his erection against my inner thigh.

I had a moment of panic at what I was about to do. The word 'whore' kept sneaking into my mind. I stiffened and tensed. I know he felt it because he paused. He looked at me a moment, I think waiting for me to stop him. When I didn't, he caressed my body, trailing over my stomach, reaching between my legs. He drew a finger over me; I had no idea how wet I'd gotten. He did it again and my breath came out shaky.

"I'm going to make you come, Nora," he said. "When I do, I want to hear my name. I'd like a little acknowledgement that, tonight, I'm the source of all of your pleasure."

His arrogance brought me back to myself. I opened my legs wider, almost defiantly. "You're not going to hold out long enough to make me come."

There was the heat of a challenge in his expression. "You think that?"

I lifted my chin. "I think that."

He positioned himself and before I had the chance to consider my misgivings again, entered me. My gasp was completely drowned out by his moan.

"You're so tight and so wet," he said in a strained voice, thrusting once in a long stroke. He did it again and his whole body shuddered.

"Yeah, I give you about five minutes," I taunted. I was proud of how steady my voice was; it wasn't how I felt at all.

"Brat." There was amusement in his tone.

He thrust like he couldn't help it. I didn't even want to consider how good it felt. His hands were all over my skin and it seemed like he just kept getting harder inside me. His kisses were hungry. My fingers bit into his back.

"You're close," he said, his teeth gritted.

"You're closer," I answered.

His stroke came harder and my hips met them. My body wanted to rise. I struggled against my orgasm. Finally, half a dozen hard thrusts later, he dove into me as deeply as he could go and stilled.

"Fuck, Nora, yes," he moaned, his hips twitching and he finished in me. When he was done, he withdrew, breathing hard.

I was a little shaken at what I had just done but I pushed it away. I met his eyes, hoping he couldn't see any of my misgivings. "What was that name again?" I asked. "The one that's the source of all of your pleasure?"

"Nora," he said, like he resented it. I smirked at him. "You didn't come," he informed me.

"I know. I was there when it didn't happen."

He got off of me and sat next to me. "Touch yourself."

"Are you serious?"

It was his turn to smirk. "I want to watch you come. Touch yourself."

I was throbbing and very aroused. Still, I hadn't ever tried to make myself come while someone was watching. I looked at him and he lifted an eyebrow at me.

I opened my legs and reached between them, never feeling so awkward. I was still wet from the sex and his ejaculation and my continuing arousal, so holding myself open was slippery business. I let my fingers play over me and closed my eyes.

"Look at me, Nora," he said immediately. I did. He stood up off of the bed and pulled a chair to where he had the best view.

He watched without blinking and I kept my eyes on him. Seeing his flush and arousal did stoke mine. I started a pattern of penetrating myself with fingers and then and circling myself with the fluids. The first time my fingers disappeared, he made a little sound. When I started a rhythm, he started handling himself. It didn't take long for him to get at least partially hard again.

I thought being watched would slow me down but hot admiring eyes are an incredible turn-on, it turns out. The more he stroked himself, the more I rose. He didn't have to remind me to watch him; I could take my eyes off of him. I quickened and it was a relief to not fight it. I moaned and my fingers worked faster.

"Is this how you do it when you're alone?" he asked, slowly stroking himself, clearly not trying to climax.

"No," I said.

"No?"

"I'm usually on my knees."

"Well, well," he said, licking his lips. "Let's see that."

A little heat came into my face, but I did what he told me to. I got on my knees, spread them as wide as they would go, and bent over, my forehead against the comforter. My ass was in the air. I reached between my legs and resumed where I left off. My sex ached; which was at least distracting enough to ease my embarrassment.

I worked myself harder, still watching him watch me. He liked my new position; his dick was completely rigid. It unexpectedly turned me on more. I was so close. My fingers flew and my legs widened. Finally, I trembled and moaned loudly, peaking and then pulsing.

While I struggled to catch my breath, he said, "Don't move." He went around behind me, putting his hands on my ass, feeling the skin and cupping the shape. "You do realize you forgot something, don't you," he said.

"What's that?"

"My name? When you came?"

"You weren't the cause of my pleasure." He issued a stinging slap to my flank and I smiled. "Well, you weren't."

He caressed where he had slapped. "By the way, this is quite a view."

"I didn't peg you as an ass-man."

He separated my cheeks a little. A soft finger ran between them. It circled my anus. My heart sped up. I knew where he was going with this. "I'm not usually," he said. "But I seem to be tonight."

"Wonderful." I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice.

"Tell me the truth," he said, stroking the puckered flesh. "Has anyone ever fucked you here?"

I gritted my teeth. "No.

"Really."

"Yes. Really."

And don't think it hadn't occurred to me to get very, very drunk, pick up some guy, and have it done with so Charles wasn't the first one. I thought of it every day for the last two weeks. But I couldn't do that either, so here I was.

"You don't have to stay," he purred. His hand slid between my legs, catching the moisture, and moving to the back with it. "We can call it a night. I'll give you an extra two weeks for this lovely evening. We can meet again to go over the books downstairs in a month."

There was something almost hopeful in his voice; I guessed he wanted to stretch out my torment. I would be damned if that was going to happen. "Fuck off," I said in a dry voice. "I agreed to whatever you wanted. I know that you're used to twenty-two year olds with limited imagination, but the idea that you might want this did occur to me."

He swatted at my flank again, more playfully this time. Then, he walked away and I think he went to his overnight bag. I couldn't see. Then he came back to me. "This is going to be cold," he said.

The lubrication he squirted on me was cold and seemed viscous, sliding slowly between my cheeks. His finger started moving through it, warming it up, sliding over the muscles, and not applying any pressure.

"The first thing you should know is that this doesn't have to hurt," he said.

"And you know that because of all the dicks that have been up your ass?"

I think I heard him sigh. "I should have brought a gag with me," he said, not sounding at all serious. "But to finish my point, this doesn't have to hurt. Despite what you might think of me, I don't want to harm you."

After everything, the reassurance was what nearly undid me. It took me a moment to respond; he applied even more of that viscous fluid while he waited. "All right, Charles," I finally said. "Thank you for that."

The hand that wasn't stroking me caressed my leg, up and down a couple of times. It was tender, which was unexpected. He patted my ass.

"We're going to go very slowly," he said.

He applied a little pressure and I opened. His finger slipped into me a little and out before I could gasp. He did it again. He dipped a little deeper and hooked a finger on the rim, pulling on it a little, slipping around the outside, and widening me. A low throb started that was deeper than usual.

My breathing picked up; his finger went deeper. With the lubrication it just slid into me. Invasive, certainly, but not painful. And I was having some sort of pleasurable response to it. That deep throb spread from my anus all the way to my clit. Every part of my sex wanted attention.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice very husky.

"Yes."

"It's going to get a little more intense. It still won't hurt."

A second finger was added to the first. He was right; it was more intense. I knew, with so much lubrication, even the tight ring of muscle couldn't deny access. My throbbing increased and I took a long, shuddery breath. He worked his fingers into me and out of me, twisting them, making the muscle relax.

It was so strange. I either wanted him to stop what he was doing or do it harder.

He added more lubrication. "Tell me if this is too much," he said, adding another finger. He put his other hand under me, touching my throbbing sex gently. I felt my anus contract around his fingers. The sound I made was kind of a whimper, but mostly a moan.

We stayed like that for minutes, his fingers twisting in and out of me, his other hand stroking too gently. My hips started moving in time with his fingers. It was so, so intense. My vagina contracted, as if it didn't like being ignored.

His fingers exited me. It left me feeling hollow.

"You're going to feel pressure," He said. "And I'm going to stretch you. Say so if it hurts."

I heard more lubrication being squeezed before something much larger than a finger pressed against the stretched entrance. Everything was so slippery; it wouldn't have mattered if I was tense. The tip of him slid into me seemingly without effort. Then he paused.

"Take a deep breath," he instructed. "Exhale when I tell you to." I inhaled. He seemed to position himself better. "Now," he said.

As I blew out a long breath, he pushed past the remaining resistance and entered me. He did it slowly, one long inch at a time, and he didn't stop until he was completely buried. He held himself there.

"How does that feel?" he asked.

"Like your dick is up my ass," I replied.

"In a good way or a bad way," he asked, a smile in his voice.

I hesitated a minute but decided to throw him a bone. "In a good way."

He made a little pleased sound before he withdrew and thrust slowly back into me. I had never felt anything so powerful. He did it again, holding himself inside of me for a second. My sex was pulsing and throbbing. He moved smoothly, but slowly. Electric thrills went over me when he withdrew or slowly entered.

"You can go faster," I told him.

He moaned and reached around to the front of me, strumming me. He started thrusting without restraint. It had to be this new kind of penetration; I was ready to orgasm right away from the stimulation.

"Oh, God," I moaned.

He thrust harder. "That's not my name."

His fingers worked with new purpose. I was on the edge already; I wasn't sure I really even needed his touch to get there. That extra push just made it all the more potent when the pleasure did grip me. My legs trembled; my orgasm had never been this intense.

"Charles....yes," I moaned. I had two handfuls of the hotel comforter. His hand didn't stop and the pleasure wouldn't ebb. "Please, Charles, harder."

He stiffened more inside me and while I was still in the final grasping seconds of pleasure, he moaned my name back at me. It was actually a string of moans that were my name, something that gave me orgasmic aftershocks. When he was done, he let himself deflate a little before he pulled himself out. Still his withdrawal was shocking to my body. I flinched.

He pushed me forward, until I wasn't kneeling anymore. I was just face down on the bed, feeling like my ass was a gaping hole. Then, he lay on top of me, his lips on my shoulder blade. He kissed up to me ear. "You've definitely earned yourself a bookstore," he said.

I couldn't answer. It was like everything in me relaxed. I was done with this ordeal. I could hire Bette back if I wanted to. I didn't have to endure sexual harassment on a weekly basis. Then his hand trailed the length of my body, he made an appreciative little sound, and I wondered if a tiny part of me might not miss the excitement a little bit.

#

Back in my white dress, I sat in a chair waiting for Charles to sign his name or initials dozens of times on the documents. He did so slowly, glancing up at me from time-to-time. When he was done, he put the documents in a manila envelope and handed them to me.

"There you go, Nora. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

"I'll bet."

He opened a portfolio and pulled out a business card, handing it to me. On the back there had to be six phone numbers.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Ways you can get in touch with me, if you'd like to."

I held the card for a second, then grinned at him. "Fuck off, Charles," I told him. But he saw me slip it into the manila folder before I left and I saw his answering smirk.