Page 8 of Power Games

“Harder, please!” the brunette under him begged, and he obliged, his whip descending on her ass again, as he pounded it wildly.

His tastes had changed a lot over the last year.

For one, now he favored brunettes—not redheads like his wife, or blondes, as he had in the past.

Secondly, he found a certain predilection for submission. For making the women he bedded shut up and take as many orgasms as he was willing to give.

An acquaintance had introduced him to The Tower, a select BDSM club, where he rubbed elbows with celebrities and businessmen on the Forbes list. Everyone admitted into that club was trustworthy, discreet. They also had clear expectations and desires. Laura, for example? The brunette underneath him? She was European royalty. Danish, if memory served. The Tower gave her a safe place to have her fun. There were plenty of British and Spanish members of the haute, too.

Laura liked it in the ass. She’d made that clear when she’d approached him half an hour ago. She wanted him to play with a whip, a cane, and fuck her from behind. Who was he to argue? Charles didn’t like extreme plays—but a little teasing, a spanking, some edgy intercourse, he could deal with. Actually, that was inaccurate. He liked it these days. There was no better distraction.

Izzy wasn’t part of The Tower, one of the main reasons why it had become his sanctuary. A place she couldn’t touch or taint.

He finished with Laura after another hour or so. He took a shower in her suite, and kissed her forehead. “You’re magnificent, lady.”

“Aren’t you the charmer, Charles,” she replied, beaming. “Thanks for tonight.”

After the hour of guiltless, uncomplicated relief, he went home.

He had his own room now. He locked it at all times when he was in, so that Izzy wouldn’t come in uninvited. When he wasn’t, to ensure that she didn’t fuck strangers on his sheets.

“Hey, handsome,” she greeted him when he walked in.

It was late, perhaps one in the morning, but she’d also just gotten home; she was still wearing her jacket. Under it, she wore a tight mini dress stopping right below her pussy; it was red, with diamonds encrusted everywhere. Gaudy, like most of what she wore these days.

When she came to kiss him, he smelled sex on her. He wished she’d taken a shower like he had. Not that it mattered. He felt nothing at the idea of her in bed with someone else now.

It was their normal.

They still fucked occasionally. He used a condom each time. He didn’t do, or receive oral from her anymore, because unlike him, she didn’t take precautions to stay safe.

Still. It worked.

“Are you coming to the gala next week?” he asked her. “I could use a date.”

And that’s what she was: his public date. The woman who made him look respectable when he did business with old school guys.

Really, how many men were so lucky? He had a beautiful woman who wanted him to get his dick as wet as he wished.

“Thursday, right?” she frowned. “Do you mind if I bow out? A friend has invited me to a yacht party Wednesday to Sunday.”

He should have seen that coming. He’d been invited, too: Wayne Ross, the most notorious playboy in NYC, was having one of his select orgies, disguised as a birthday party. Of course she’d prefer to attend that over a charity gala held to help the survivors of a hurricane.

“No worries.”

It really wasn’t a problem. She appeared at about nine out of ten of his events; what more could he ask for?

For the next few days, he considered asking someone out; anyone would do. It helped to have a companion on his arm, to diffuse conversations he didn't want to have, for example. But he was still chairman at Jacobs Enterprises, and he didn't doubt that there would be some whispers, should he take a woman who wasn't his wife out in public. So he went alone.

It wasn't the first time he attended a party hosted by the McNamaras. Each time he saw their name on an invitation, his mind travelled back to a brief meeting one night. A long pair of bare legs, a bouncy ass barely covered by denim shorts. Her dark eyes.

But Vanessa hadn't shown her face at her parents' party that night: she'd stayed in her room. She hadn't been seen at any other gathering since. He had no reason to believe that this gala would be any different.

The first thing his eyes went to, the very moment when he walked in the busy room at the Ritz, was a pair of long legs, dark eyes, and raven hair.

Fuck me.

It was as though she’d wanted to make a mockery of Izzy, and she managed. Vanessa was wearing a red dress, like his wife had the last time he'd seen her, but in Vanessa's case, it was a conservative, full skirt, floor-length affair with a sweetheart neckline. Izzy had looked fuckable; Vanessa was the woman you’d take to your parents. The woman you married.

---