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I shrug and run my fingers down her cheek and across her bottom lip. “I don’t care, darling.”
She gasps as I run my fingers along her collar bones, pulling open her top. Bingo, fake tits. My favourite. I pull the black satin bra down and pop out her tits, plucking at the nipples. She moans so loud I expect her to orgasm on the spot. So fake, a classic porn star moan. Wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, I grab a handful of her hair firmly, gently tilt her head to the side and run my teeth down her jaw line. “On your knees now. I won’t ask again.”
She drops to her knees on the plush carpet of the bedroom and undoes my button and zip. I look down at her, a smile playing around my lips all the while. I knock her hands away and push down my boxers and jeans. Pumping my dick once in one hand, I hold her head in the other. I tap the head of my cock on her lips, smearing the lipstick around her mouth, and smile wider as she stares first at my face and then down at my cock, transfixed by the reverse Prince Albert piercing.
“Open wide, honey.” I push my cock forward as she opens her mouth, and watch as she runs her tongue along the underside and around the head and piercing before sucking me to the back of her throat. Her head bobs backwards and forwards as she fondles my balls and relaxes her jaw further to take me deeper. I feel the back of her throat and she gags but keeps on sucking.
“That’s it, darling.” She moans, going faster and sucking harder. The sound vibrates on my piercing and I groan, letting her get to work. Dropping my head back and closing my eyes to fully enjoy her rhythmic movements. “Play with yourself,” I growl at her and she moves her hand from my balls to push her skirt up around her hips, leaving her naked from the waist down. “Let me see you. Spread your knees wider.” I don’t look at her face, anonymous works for me. Letting her take what she wanted gives me what I need. It’s just a means to fulfil a basic function.
She moans again, sending shivers up and down my dick. The urge to thrust harder is too much to bear and I grab her head in both hands, moving my hips in and out, fucking her mouth. The base of my spine tingles and my balls pull up. “Say now if you don’t want to swallow.”
She just sucks harder and moves her hand more aggressively on her clit. My cock swells and I start to cum, pulses of release shooting down her throat. She swallows like a trooper then pulls away to lick it up what she missed.
My cock smeared in her lipstick is a great visual.
I pull her to her feet and kiss her mouth, tasting myself on her lips. “Now go get me a fresh whiskey.” I turn her around, pushing her gently towards the door, wanting her out of the room as fast as possible. She looks at me, mouth agape. “On the rocks,” I smirk and reach around her to open the door. “I’m showering, leave it out here.”
I move away and walk into the shower room, not looking back, still in full rock star arsehole mode.
Chapter
Three
Marcus
Mick raps on the door and walks in, knocking my feet, telling me we’re starting to descend. I feel like shit, head pounding, stomach roiling. I look even shittier, regardless of my shower. I need a shave. My three-day old stubble is itching like a bitch. I know I won’t get time to sort it, though. As soon as I land in the UK I need to get going to meet Xan at a club. He wants me to take a look at a band playing there before I meet my family tomorrow. Because he knows once they start in on me, he’ll get no sense out of me, and my head will be filled with family drama and politics. Fuck me.
The band in question is a four-piece twenty-somethings country rock style. I think Xan’s finally lost his mind, but he’s always looking for diversity. Ensuring we reach different audiences and are not just seen as a rock label. Apparently, we have to be current and spread our wings into other genres.
All these things are still running around my head as I enter the hotel lobby. I breathe in the smell of lavender and lilies, and smile. I can’t face my family’s London home as I know it would be, well, full of my family. So, I booked into a boutique hotel in Soho. ‘The Elizabeth’ is an amazing place to stay, right in the heart of the city action, but small enough that the staff know me and help to keep me out of the public eye. As I walk in, the receptionist hands my keys to Mick. I continue to walk forward behind the reception desk to use the staff lifts up to my room. Like I said, intimate and knowledgeable. It’s what keeps me coming back time and again.
Our rooms are on the third, and top, floor. A suite for me with three bedrooms, kitchen, lounge area and lots of space. Mick’s in a junior suite with two bedrooms and a lounge—have to look after the old man. He looks after me and I couldn’t function without him. There’s another room down the hall, a suite the same as Mick’s, that sits empty. I don’t want anyone I don’t know on our floor, so I made sure I booked the room, even though we’re not likely to use it. However, you never know. Party time could strike at any time with Xander around. And now we’re back in London, it’s more or less guaranteed.
I’d hide out here as long as I could get away with, but my phone has already started to blow up with my family calling, especially my mother. She frustrates the hell out of me. The woman has made a career out of putting everyone in their place. And keeping them there. Including me. My responsibilities can’t be shirked forever, but they can be delegated for a long fucking time.
I dump my stuff in the lounge area as Mick is sorting a drink for me. He hands it to me with the messenger bag I’ve been hanging onto for weeks.
“Have you had a chance to look at any of the new information from that useless private investigator yet? He needs to go, Marcus. Let me get someone else. Three years of payments and you don’t know any more than when you hired him.”
“Yeah, I should have known any friend of Giles’s would just rip me off. I’m sure he used my cash to go on holidays. The leads in Australia, Singapore, and Bangkok seemed to last for six months. His Instagram looked like a travel guide to the best resorts the countries had to offer.”
I grimace at the thought of him stealing my money. My desperation to find a woman who seems to have simply vanished from the face of the earth has cost me thousands of pounds. But to be fair, it’s nothing to the hours of torment when she’s on my mind. It would be worth every fucking penny if I found her.
“Did he find out who owns her old house in your village?” Mick asks. It was his idea to start there, as all other leads had been dead ends.
“Not had a chance to see. Is it in the documents?” I nod towards the files he’s now holding.
Mick flips through the information. “Rookwood Properties,” he reads, “registered in the Isle of Man. No chance of finding out who owns that then. People only use the Isle for tax purposes or making it difficult to see what they own. But it’s a subsidiary of The Bowman Group. Again, registered there.”
I frown. “Rookwood, Bowman. It’s obviously someone who knows the area. They’re place names from my estate. What else do they own?”
“Ten properties and a farm,” he reads from the notes provided by the useless P.I.
“A farm? Which one?” I hold my hand out for the papers, but he ignores me and reads on.
“Greystone Farm, and all the land. Must be worth a pretty penny.”
My heart starts to beat faster. “Fucking Greystones. I thought the family still owned it and tenanted it out. Didn’t know they’d sold it. I knew the family well. Kept in contact until they had a falling out with my dad, a serious legal issue. Then they all moved.The kids had all gone off to work or uni. Last I heard the family had shipped out, took up farming in the south. Dorset I think.
