HOLLYWOOD, CA

MADISON

I don’t know what it is about a wealthy man that women find appealing, but I, Madison Decater, socialite turned beach bum, am victim to it along with the rest of society. And Stewart wears wealth as well as any man I know.

The backdrop of finery always complemented him, his large frame settling into expensive leather chairs; crystal chandeliers casting dramatic shadows that highlight the beautiful lines of his face, and sparkle the brilliant blue of his eyes. His Patek Philippe watch glints, the edge of it barely visible under the cuff of his dress shirts. His custom suits move easily beneath my fingers, sliding over his broad shoulders, the hard definition of trained muscles rippling under pale skin. His skin never sees the light of day, his hours spent indoors, his workouts done under the muted lights of his penthouse gym and directed by a blonde bombshell named Tiffany. We have fucked on the rubber floor of that gym, my back bare against the soft floor, his shorts yanked down enough for his cock to pull out, his intensity extra beautiful under the glow of gentle lights and a sheen of sweat on his bare chest.

Tonight, I only have to step inside, my entrance interrupting a set of pull-ups, his muscles popping as he suspends and lifts himself with easy efficiency. The additional light of the open door causes them both to turn, his eyes locking on mine with laser focus, and he drops lightly to his feet. “Tiffany,” he says between hard breaths. “That’ll be all.”

I drop my bag as she hurries past, barely noticing the sound of her exit, my focus on Stewart, as he strides forward and grips my arms, lifting me easily and silently placing me on the counter, his lips pressing against mine quickly, before interrupting us with the cloth of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. He skips a greeting, focusing on my bare breasts, pressing me backward and taking a hungry mouth to my skin, his hands yanking and pulling on my shorts, sliding them down and off of my legs as his tongue plays a soft rhythm against my nipple.

He moves lower, tasting me, inhaling deeply between my legs. “God Madison, you taste so good.” He groans against my sex, his tongue dipping inside and fucking me thickly, his need pouring through his mouth and his hands, which travel over my body like I am their final meal to feast on. They curl under my body, lifting me, and he carries me to the bench and lays me down, his eyes dark and wild as he stares down at me, pulling down the cloth of his shorts until his cock pops free.

“This,” he murmurs, “is going to be for me. I promise, I’ll take care of you later.”

I smile, spreading my legs apart and stretching out on the bench. His brand of fucking is relentless, strong fucks in which he devours my body without restraint. It is what I have come here for, it is what I want. I need the domination, the edge of insanity that he barely holds in check. I need the madness in his eyes, the pure need that breathes through his body, the need that only I can satisfy.

And there, on the leather bench, he rides us both to exhaustion.

I wake in his bed, two sheets between me and the down comforter, the soft voice of Estelle somewhere to my right. I roll over, blinking sleepily as her kind face comes into view.

“Are you ready for breakfast Ms. Madison?”

“What time is it?” I prop myself up, holding the blanket against my bare chest.

“It’s after ten, ma’am. Mr. Brand told me to wake you after-“

I nod, smiling slightly. “Yes. I didn’t mean to sleep this long. What time did he leave?”

“Six-thirty ma’am.”

I look around for my clothes, trying to trace back the moment at which they had become victim to Stewart’s hands. His office. “I asked you a year ago to stop calling me ma’am,” I mumble, a yawn slipping out of my mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.” She frowns regretfully, before starting over. “I’m sorry. I mean Madison. Would you care for breakfast?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got to get going. My clothes from yesterday-”

“Were in the office. They have been gathered and are in the laundry room. I will make sure they are hung in your closet once clean.”

“Perfect. Thank you. Do you mind asking the valet to bring up my car?”

“Certainly. I’ll be close by if you need me.” She smiles brightly before backing into the hall and closing the suite’s doors.

Almost ten. I yawn again, blinking the sleep from my eyes and slide from the bed, walking into the granite-filled bathroom and turning on the steam shower.

VENICE BEACH, CA

I step from the bedroom a half hour later, jeans and a tank top on, my wet hair twisted into a bun. I swing by the kitchen on my way out, waving a goodbye to Estelle and snagging a red apple and bottled water from the fridge.

I hop on Santa Monica Boulevard, moving through lanes of traffic with ease, my car knowing the route as well as my soul, my thoughts wandering as I drive. My Audi was a gift from Stewart, my twenty-ninth birthday present, probably picked out by his assistant. Regardless of who chose the vehicle, I love it. White exterior, blood red leather inside, it is sleek, sexy, and just begs every degenerate in my neighborhood to steal it. I am shocked it has survived for the last five months.

It’s fourteen miles between Stewart’s home and mine, but it might as well be different countries. Stewart lives in the fast-paced world of downtown Hollywood, rarely leaving the blocks of the city unless jetting off for work. He doesn’t own a plane, he doesn’t spend his money on much other than his home, his clothes, and me. He doesn’t have time to spend money, and doesn’t believe in purchasing things just because he can. He works a hundred hours a week, sleeps six hours a night, and fucks the hell out of me the rest of the time. His needs are minimum: food, sleep, and sex. I take care of one of those. Estelle and his bed take care of the rest.

I get off on Lincoln Boulevard, the road traffic lessening, frustrated drivers continuing their zip along the freeway, anxious to continue their painful life . I wish, for a brief moment, that I had put down the car’s top, needing the wind in my hair and the sound of the surf. Leaving Stewart’s, I sometimes need the wash of fresh air. A strong breeze to release the intensity he carries with him.

I pull off the road, turning down our street and press the garage release button, entering the dark space that is my spot and killing the ignition. I step out in dim light, the overhead burnt out, Paul promising for the last five months to get around to it.

The steps are worn concrete, this townhome complex built before developers knew what they had, before they realized that this close to the beach they shouldn’t build shit housing. Back before property values hit ridiculous figures, and a six-figure income still puts you in the projects, dodging street beggars and used needles. We don’t make six-figures. Paul brings in anywhere from fifty to sixty thousand surfing. And I bring in far less than that, running a bookstore that operates out of a bar on Venice beach. For California standards, it’s practically poverty, but we don’t need much. For Paul and I, we never did. We’re lucky to have this place, my stepfather blessing us with a rent payment low enough to both piss our neighbors off and ensure that we still can cover food and utilities.

Paul and I met two years ago, at the Santa Monica pier, when we were side by side in the singles line for the rollercoaster. We had all of six minutes in line, the shuffle moving quickly, singles getting split up among the empty seats in a bored and orderly fashion.