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He parts my pussy lips and finds my clit expertly. I hear the rattling of dishes, the murmur of voices, but they’re all slowly being drowned out by my blood thrumming in my ears.
Pleasure shoots through me, and my hands grasp the arms of the chair so hard I’m sure I hear the wood creak.
Oh my god. He’s going to make me come right here in this chair, and there won’t even be time for me to collect myself. Every sound from somewhere in the mansion makes me jump, but so does every other stroke of Malcolm’s calloused fingers.
I look down at his bronze arm against the paleness of my leg, his hand under my skirt, and almost cry out.
Then, Malcolm reaches up to cover my mouth, “Shh, sweet thing. Just let me make you come.”
“You’re going to,” I tell him in a pant. “Oh god, you’re so going to.”
I feel little flutters in my belly, and I’m so far gone I don’t hear the commotion from outside the formal dining room. Malcolm does, though, and pauses, making me whimper in disappointment.
He barely manages to get his hand out from between my legs before the double doors slam open and a tall man with his cell phone held up, recording, busts in.
The household staff is trying to restrain him with hands on his shoulders, but the man is manic with the opportunity in front of him.
“Mr. Mayfield!” he yells, never losing his grip on the camera. “Mr. Mayfield! Is this woman your girlfriend? Is it true that she was previously your son’s girlfriend?!”
My stomach falls to the floor, all the pleasure inside of me immediately vanishing and being replaced by twisting anxiety.
Malcolm surges out of his seat, his hands in fists. “What the fuck is going on?! GET HIM OUT!”
More of his staff arrive and try to grab the man, but his grip on his phone is like iron. “Ma’am! Is your name Melody? Is Adam Mayfield your ex? Are you now sleeping with his father?!”
He’s a reporter, I realize, Or something similar. And he knows my name.
“Malcolm,” I squeak, mortified. “What do I do?”
He gently taps my arm, and when it becomes clear that his staff is going to be ineffective, Malcolm surges forward. He dwarfs the reporter, and his staff immediately scatter away to give him some space.
“Shut the damn door!” he shouts, and his staff does just yet, closing out the curious faces of Malcolm's peers who are so desperate to see what’s going on.
Now it’s just Malcolm, two staff members, the reporter, and myself. Malcolm backends the phone out of the other man’s hands, doing in seconds what no one else managed to do for the long minutes that this has been going on.
Then, he seizes the reporter’s shoulder and takes three huge steps forward until the man’s back slams up against the dining room wall. I hear the air leave his lungs from here.
I clutch my cloth napkin to my chest, shaking, as Malcolm hauls the reporter in the air, his hands twisted in his shirt to cut off the air without actually strangling him. Part of me is shocked that he’s even aware enough to do so.
Every part of me believes that Malcolm would kill this man right here and now if he wanted to. Instead, he pulls him away from the wall again and slams his back. The reporter’s head hits with enough force that it cracks the drywall, and he cries out.
Malcolm growls, “How the fuck did you get in?”
The reporter shakes his head, his face turning red and his legs kicking.
Malcolm twists the fabric harder, and the reporter goes from flushed to dark red in an instant. “Tell me now, and I might let you walk out of here.”
Finally, the reporter nods, and Malcolm drops him unceremoniously into a heap on the ground. The reporter clutches his neck and sucks in air between sobs, but Malcolm has no patience for it.
“Now, asshole,” he says darkly, crossing his arms.
“It was Adam,” the reporter gasps. “He gave me the code for the staff door.”
“Fuck!” Malcolm yells, kicking the nearest chair in rage. “That little prick!”
He collects himself and looks down at the man on the ground, up at me, and then back down. “Whatever he paid you, I’ll double it if you destroy the footage and release a story about how my asshole son tried to bribe you instead.”
The reporter swallows hard and shakes his head again. “I-I can’t.”
