Cherry Pie

…I’m hard a steel.

I’m panting, muscles bunched and shoulders heaving with breath, when suddenly, the door crashes open behind me.

“Mr. B, I am so fucking sorry. Can you please let me take care of the dry clean—”

I turn, shirtless, and our eyes lock. But then, mine drop to her hip again, my gaze zeroing in on the little cherries inked there. And hers? Well, her eyes drop too… right to the crest on my ribs.

…She’s seen it before.

She saw it on our webcam chat, when I was shirtless with my cock out, stroking my thickness as she played with her little pussy for me under her messy panties.

And just like lightning, it hits her just like it’s already hit me. I watch her words falter. I watch her face drain of color. I watch her lips fall open and her eyes go wide as saucers.

“Oh fuck…” We both say it at the same fucking time, the words tumble from both of our mouths together. Our eyes slide back up, locking, and suddenly, I know I’m fucked.

Fucked, lost, and hard.

…And it’s all for her.

Chapter 2

Kendall

How is this even possible?

My mind goes blank, my heart racing and jumping into my throat so fast that I feel like it might actually defy science and medicine and leap right out of my mouth. My mouth which is totally dry and hanging open in abject horror.

How is this possible? Of course, it’s possible. I put my freaking virginity up for sale on a private, exclusive website for wealthy men of means. Did I ever, in a million fucking years, imagine one of them would be Marshall freaking Bane?

Fuck no. But here we are, and I swear, my heart’s about to break my teeth on its way out of my mouth.

My eyes drop back to his bare chest—his insanely chiseled, muscled, not-a-freaking-ounce-of-fat-on-him chest. I mean are you kidding me? There are guys half his age who would kill for a body like that. My eyes slip lower, to his ribs, and when I see it again, I feel a hot flush tease through me.

I know that symbol. It’s the mark of the club—The Red Society… the place where I went to sell my damn v-card to a rich guy. And through their exclusive website, I did sell it—to a man who I only ever saw from the lips down. A man with tailor-fit shirts that came unbuttoned easy on camera. A man with a perfect, sculpted body. A man with a tattoo of the crest of the club on his right-side ribs. A man who had me strip for him, and who sent shivers down my spine when he told me to come for him. A man with a cock so big that I actually went numb for a second the first time he pulled it out. A man who’s supposed to take my virginity, tonight.

…A man who I’ve known since I was five.

My best friend’s dad. My neighbor. I sold my virginity to Marshall fucking Bane.

Part of me wants to scream at myself. I want to be furious with myself for not knowing who he was. But then, how the hell would I have? I’ve seen Mr. Bane shirtless before, but I guess not for a few years—during which time, he must have gotten the new ink. And in our video chatting, he always just unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall open across his perfect chest and rippling abs. It never came off entirely, which is why I never saw the tattoos on his bicep and shoulder which I know I would have recognized.

…Believe me, over the years, I have spent a lot of time examining Mr. Bane’s body. From a distance. Through sunglasses. When I knew he wasn’t paying attention. Because the thing is, if money wasn’t a problem? If my life was like everyone I know thinks it is, and not actually falling apart from the inside out? I mean if that were the case, forget selling my virginity to Mr. Bane. I’d freaking give it to him.

Because Marshall Bane is a god. He was my first crush—the first man to ever give me butterflies before I even knew what the feeling was. He was the first man to make my pulse race, and my skin prickle, and my body… react. Tall, built, gorgeous. A body like Thor, and a James Bond smile that does all sorts of things to a girl if she’s not careful and stares at it too long. And that voice.

Fuck me, that voice.

His voice alone could get me pregnant; I swear. The bottom line is, I’ve lusted after Amy’s dad—feeling like shit about it too—for years. I’ve fantasized. I’ve daydreamed. I’ve woken up soaking and aching for him from fever dreams. Marshall Bane was the first man I ever thought about when I touched myself. He’s the one I pretended I was kissing when I kissed other boys. He’s the man I was prepared to close my eyes and imagine tonight, when I met with the man who’d bought what I was selling.