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There’s my mother, of course. The albatross around my neck. The bullet through all my plans. Liz loves that job of hers, and I have to admit she’s really fucking good at it. Does she think that getting involved with me, especially if Mother and I are estranged in a couple days, would hurt her position there?
But something about that feels wrong. As easy as it is to always blame everything on my mother, I have a sinking suspicion that this has more to do with the fact that I just bought a van to sleep in.
Liz has made it clear that she’s not superficial like that, but maybe she still sees me as a layabout. It’s hard to prove otherwise in the short time we’ve had together, especially with how resistant I’ve been to helping.
Fortunately, if there’s any truth to her claims of victory over Marie, there’s a small chance that I might be getting a second chance. I know I don’t deserve one, but up until this point the only people I’ve wanted to impress are my parents. And unlike the never-good-enough attitude of my mother and the impossible-to-live-up-to ghost of my father, there’s a chance I could actually make Liz happy.
I could run the bank, right? It’s in my blood. If I can control a bike speeding around a track with the grace my father had in the cockpit, I can schmooze clients and wrangle investors the way Mother seems to be able to. The way Liz can.
We did have a pretty good time yesterday. We’d make a good team.
I glance in the back of the van. It’s roomy, but definitely not as roomy as my penthouse. And even though Liz isn’t superficial, I’m sure she’d much rather curl up next to me in a king-sized bed than lie on top of me beside a bucket I use as a urinal.
I grimace at the thought. If we’re going to avoid that possible future, I need to get on top of things. Tomorrow at the fundraiser, I need to be on my A-game, which I suppose means distracting Bill and Paul while Liz negotiates with Marie.
We need a game plan, a war room in the hotel room. I can already picture Liz’s scrunched brow, those slender fingers tucking brown hair behind her ear as she weighs the pros and cons of her plan. Our plan.
But first… Is it indulgent to have a little fun first? Like most guys, I’m not thinking my best when my blood is being redirected. So maybe first we should take care of what’s been building between us ever since that first time I saw her in Mother’s office.
As Chicago’s skyline comes into view, I call the hotel.
“This is Rhett Westing,” I say. “I’d like to book a private steam room. Please send a call to my room when it’s ready.”
* * *
I toss the dingy van key to a surprised valet and head straight to the steam rooms.
The halls are quiet in the spa, empty other than a few people enjoying the Sandor’s amenities while their significant others sit through the conferences in the other wing of the hotel.
I’m a little nervous the closer I get to Liz. She’s the only woman who’s ever made me feel this way — on edge with anticipation, unsure of what she’ll say or do next that will take my breath away. And a tiny part of me is worried that she declined the invitation, that she’s sitting in a bathtub upstairs trying to figure out how to break it to me that we just won’t work.
All my fears slip away when I see the door that I reserved, a sign hanging on the handle saying “Occupied”.
I grin stupidly in the empty hall, already feeling my cock rise.
I open the door to the private changing room outside the sauna. The glass door is steamy, the interior shadowed. But Liz’s little black shoes are positioned on the mat and on the wooden bench are her clothes. And her underwear.
I strip in record time, glance briefly in the mirror, and command my dick to relax a bit. Does walking in at half mast make me look too eager?
Then again, I’ve never worried about these things before. Maybe I shouldn’t start now. There’s nothing wrong with being clear about what you want.
And what I want is Liz.
I palm a condom and open the door to a blast of heat.
Liz is sitting on the far side of the room, her legs crossed, lady-like. Her breasts are free and perfect, small but perky with rosy nipples hardened to peaks. A trickle of sweat runs down her collarbone and between the valley. My eyes follow it as it travels past her navel before disappearing.
“How was the drive?” I ask.
She pauses. Her own eyes were locked to my cock and it seems to take effort to pull them away to meet my own.
Liz considers the question. “Interesting,” she lands on. “I haven’t driven in over a decade.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“I wanted you to say ‘yes’ yesterday.”
“Do you even have a valid license?”
