Page 7 of Van Cort

EVERETT

The journey back to her house is as quiet as it was last time, but there has been flirtation this evening.

I wait, as the car pulls up, for her to make a decision.

I could make it for her, I suppose. It wouldn’t take much more on my part to reach over, slide a hand over her thigh, and perhaps pull it towards me to open those legs.

Most women like me in that mode. And, in my experience, it doesn’t necessarily have to come from a sense of nicety either.

She looks around the interior for a few moments, unsure, and pauses her hand on the door handle. “Everett?”

“Yes, Andie.”

“You don’t have to stay in the car.”

“Andie?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.” She swings her head back to me slowly. “Ask me to come in.”

“I just did.”

“No. You told me I didn’t have to stay here. I’d rather a very sure statement issued before I commit to any amount of crossing that threshold.”

I see her breath catch as she looks to Andre. I don’t know why. Perhaps she isn’t comfortable asking me to fuck her in front of another man.

“This makes for a very awkward change in atmosphere.”

“Probably, but I still want you to say it.” She looks back at him again. He hasn’t moved an inch, nor will he. “It’s not like I’m getting you to sign an NDA, Andie. They’re just words.” The fact that he’ll be recording this part of the night isn’t relevant.

“Okay.” She looks back at me again. “Yes, I’d like you to come in with me.”

“For sex?”

Her eyes widen. “Good god, Everett.”

“Say it.”

“Yes. For sex. Possibly. Although with this change in direction, I’m not sure I’m feeling quite so enthused.

” I reach over to touch the back of her neck, enough pressure pushed onto her skin that she flinches but yields.

Our mouths meet. Sweet at first, gentle, something I’ve learned is useful, but the pressure builds to tongues, and then to her hand on my chest, and then mine on her shoulder.

“Enthused enough?” I murmur. She giggles, then moans.

“Yes.”

“Get in the apartment.”

I hold my hand up to Andre as we get out, indicating he should wait.

The doors get opened hurriedly, and the path through her space leads us straight to a bedroom.

I barely look at it. I’m intent on getting laid and not much else.

Clothes are stripped while we’re kissing, and my hands wander over her skin briefly – touching, feeling, enjoying its texture.

It’s soft, silken, yet not flawless. Which, for me, is an interesting moment to consider.

I smile through our mouths and hold her tighter, letting my fingers dip to her panties so I can get on with what needs doing. She moulds to me – not questioning, not fighting. She just lets me move her and use her until my fingers are buried deep and she’s moaning and yearning.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you.” She gasps a little and brings her eyes back to mine, tension stilling her fingers on my shoulder. “Don’t play coy. We’re both here for one thing. I want you to say my name.”

“Jeez.” She pants and I slide my hand down her arm and reach for her hand, putting it between us so she can find my dick.

“Tell me.”

“Yes.” She nods, feathering her palm around me. “Yes, I want you inside me, Everett.”

None of the rest takes long. Why should it?

We’re both being adults. She wants fucking, and I need to fuck.

There isn’t any sentiment on my part, nor will there be.

It’s perfunctory. I do whatever I need to do to get myself off with a fucking condom in my way, and I have a little fun with making sure she gets a few orgasms too.

She moans well, and, with a little help from my over-exuberant mouth, she starts getting some curse words out.

They’re good and dirty, and that straight-laced little financial analyst I’ve been having dinner with melts away to a damn fine fuck.

She’s exceptional really. Perfectly put together.

Perfect to fuck.

Her hair – long and golden – stays fisted in my hand when I take her from behind.

And her mouth – lush and wanton – stays wide and panting for breaths when I’m not using it to kiss.

I find myself enjoying the ride more than I thought I would, especially when she climbs over me and rains praises down on my stomach with her mouth.

I watch her go lower, and lower, and wait for her attempt at sucking me off.

Maybe she’ll get me hard again, or maybe I’ll make sure she does.

Nothing comes of it, which, now I’ve thought about it, pisses me off.

I want to announce that to her, but I don’t.

I let her crawl back up me and drop more soft, sweet kisses on my mouth again until she’s satisfied with the end result and is curling up beside me.

Done.

I want to stiffen at the emotive contact – push her away.

I don’t. I let her slumber on me and rest. Some memory in me enjoys the feel of having her there, but as my arm begins to think about tightening, and my eyes begin to think about resting, I force myself to stop both laments.

I listen to her breathe instead, and, when I know she’s fully asleep, I get up quietly and leave.

It’s the best thing for both of us.

***

Whilst it isn’t unusual for me to think of a woman a few days after the event, this isn’t exactly that.

This is like it used to be years ago. She’s constant in my mind.

At least, her excessively long, blonde hair is.

It must be more than that, but for the last fuck knows how long, that’s the main thing about her I’m remembering.

I can still feel it in my hands and still smell the sweet, light aroma of citrus fruits.

I’m almost infatuated with the thought of it. Which is not how it should be.

Devon comes into my office and places a stack of folders on the desk.

A puff of dry air wafts across my face, nothing but paper and cardboard in the odour.

“Your five pm just cancelled,” she says.

“There’s been a crash downtown. He can’t get here.

I told him I’d reschedule.” I nod, and, momentarily, the thought of Andie dissipates until Devon leaves and the air settles again.

My fingers twitch on my pen as my thoughts drift back to the glossy feel of her hair alongside the image of lemon groves.

Pale skin in that sort of heat? Damaging.

The corner of my mouth curves. This is ridiculous.

She’s just another woman. A highly attractive one, no doubt, but one with too much beauty and far too much intelligence for playing one-nighters every now and then.

Closing down my computer, I leave the office, walk for the elevator, and let it take me downwards.

It opens and I walk straight into a woman carrying folders of work.

She screeches, and I grab her before she falls sideways, but the folders go everywhere.

Reams of paper and documents scatter the lobby floor – untidy and in disarray.

My whole body tenses, hand on her arm included.

She tries to pull away, and whilst part of me knows I should let her go, the other needs something to direct my irritation on.

“Mr Van Cort?” she says, quietly. My head snaps round to look at her for the first time.

It’s an intern I briefly remember seeing.

“You can let go.” No. “Please. You’re hurting me.

” I look at my fingers around her arm, see the whiteness in them and the pressure they’re causing.

“Mr Van Cort?” My hand eases. “I’m so sorry.

I was rushing and…” I release my grip from her dark skin, staring at my own hand for too long, and look back at the floor – my floor.

“I didn’t see you.” How could she not fucking see me?

And now this because of her idiocy? It’s a fucking disaster zone, full of mess and disorder.

She bends to the floor and starts attempting to reorder the chaos, her ruddy face showing her embarrassment.

Her knees hit the marble, and her body reaches and stretches around her.

I should help. I don’t. Instead, I watch something immaterial to me enthusiastically do what it should to attempt placating me.

It doesn’t work, but what it does do is bring images of long, blonde hair back into my mind again.

She’d have to tie it up for this kind of endeavour or she’d trip on it and constantly wrench her own pain out.

My brow arches, a wry smile landing on a face that has no right to even consider such thoughts. I can’t help it now, though. Not while I’m watching this mediocre female grovel and crawl around on the floor for me.

“Everett.” I half come out of the fog I’m in and turn my head at the sound of Philip Renfield, my senior lawyer. “I’m glad I’ve caught you.” He reaches downwards and picks up some paperwork near my feet. “That deal with the warehousing is complete. It’s all yours. What are you doing with it?”

I look at him as he hands files to the woman who’s still fucking around down there. “Demolishing it.”

“I thought so. I’ve already contacted Hardy’s for a quote, and Pearson’s for planning.” The woman starts getting up, having crawled her way back to us, and shows too much leg via the split in her skirt. “What happened here?”

“Stupidity.” She looks at me as the word snarls from my mouth.

Fear and nerves skitter over her gaze, given her screw up.

I take it all in, enjoy it, and swallow.

No. “On my part as much as anything.” The last words brighten the look on her face, and I watch her turn, her head down again, and scurry off. At least the floor’s clean.

“Who was that?”

I begin walking again, hopeful I can get all these distracting views and images out of my head.

“No one. An intern, maybe.” Most men would have a drink right now.

They’d go and seek comfort in the calm that comes after the first few shots.

Or they’d get on with the very thing they were thinking about.

I don’t have that luxury, so hitting the gym until I’ve exhausted myself will have to do.

“Do you want her fired?” Yes. Immediately.

“No, Philip. Like I said, I walked into her. I wasn’t thinking straight.” I’m still not.

We say our goodbyes when we get out of the revolving door, and I stand, hands in my pockets, and watch the world go by for a few minutes.

Traffic struggles to move. People bustle and barge at each other on the sidewalk.

It should be noisy out here – it’s not. I’m too far in my own head again – still thinking, still imagining.

My thumb runs along the material of my suit pants, intent on feeling the slightest bumps and ridges – the imperfections and flaws in the seam.

Andie could’ve been under my thumb like that if I’d let myself go.

I could have enjoyed every ridge for longer, letting myself dwell in curves and heat.

There might have been some silence, some peace.

I could have even stayed over and woken next to her.

No one I know knows her, do they? She’s an unfamiliar; a woman I could enjoy without the need to think of how it looks to the wealth set.

I don’t like assumptions about me being circulated.

And I sure as hell don’t like my private life being mauled over by the wives who gossip daily because they’ve got nothing else to do.

She’s away from that, though. Separate. We could fuck for weeks if I was careful, and no one would ever have to see us together or know who I was using.

I could finish work and take the impending, regular frustration out on pussy rather than weights.

Every day, she could be mine – waiting for me, desperate for me.

My head shakes. The fact that I’m even thinking those thoughts and letting something come back to me is the very reason why I shouldn’t.

Singular fucks are always the way forward.

No attachment. No unhealthy obsession. No messy and difficult thoughts to manage or process.

Simple fucks. Straightforward and enjoyable, like it was the other night with her.

One night and then I find another, less interesting version of female anatomy to dispel any fascination. That’s the way it has to be.