Chapter 5
5
Patrick
I laugh to myself as the gorgeous blonde jerks her chin away from me so fast that her neck practically snaps. I know she saw my dick, and that she was shocked by its thickness and length. I saw how she immediately bloomed with arousal, pinkness lighting her cheeks as her big bust heaved. But it’s all well and good because she’s getting it. Before the night is over, my beautiful Miss Finnegan will be on her knees, slobbering on my tool as she looks up with me with adoration in her pretty eyes. Hell, she’ll be grateful to be tasting my cock. A lot of dudes have small ones these days from a combination of HGH, steroids, and who-the-fuck-knows drugs from Mexico. That shit shrivels your dick, and I wouldn’t be surprised if quite a few gorillas are Woody Woodpecker beneath their shorts.
Then again, their small dicks only make me look better. It’s a selfish sentiment to voice, but I’ve never pretended to be anything but a selfish prick. In fact, I’d say it’s my specialty. I’ve used plenty of female bodies during my time on this Earth, enjoying their curves while penetrating those hot, wet depths. But after I get off, it’s usually sayonara, wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Love ‘em and leave ‘em has been my style for two decades and it works for me.
But I’m not a total asshole because I leave the ladies with a little something. Not my semen, fuck no. I always use condoms because the ladies know I’m a billionaire, and more than a few want to get knocked up so that they can live a lavish lifestyle for the rest of their years on earth. Instead, I usually send them off with a small gift, whether a necklace, bracelet, or some kind of bauble to ameliorate their disappointment at being dumped. I still remember my latest fling. Mary was flushed and panting, her curves heaving with pleasure after I pulled out.
“That was nice, Patrick,” she purred, pushing her red hair from her forehead. “I swear, I’ve never gotten it so hard before. You’re so big!”
I grunted before pulling the condom off, careful to knot it closed before tossing the rubber in a nearby trash can.
“Happy to do the honors, sweetheart. I live to satisfy female dreams.”
She giggled, although my comment was a bit rude.
“I’m looking forward to our dinner on Friday night too,” she mewled, going up on one elbow in the bed. “Who was it with again? The King of Saudi Arabia? Or Oman? I get them confused.”
I shook my head, already reaching for my button-down.
“It was Saudi Arabia, but not the King, sweetheart. Most Middle East countries don’t allow alcohol consumption within their borders, although quite a few are relaxing their laws in that area. No, it’s with the Saudi Arabian Minister of Tourism. He’s the one I’m meeting with.”
Mary shot me a befuddled look. “But I thought you just said that Saudi Arabia doesn’t allow alcohol consumption, so why would you need to meet with anyone? What would you discuss?”
I shrug, pulling on my jacket.
“Shit changes. Like I said, standards and mores are beginning to morph, even in the Middle East. The region is opening up, and part of that is relaxing alcohol laws in order to attract tourists and foreign nationals. It’s definitely good for O’Lachlans,” I smirk. “I’ll be pouring beers down their throats by the pint by year’s end.”
Mary nodded, her eyes wide.
“So you’ll be selling alcohol to expats then.”
I shrug again, pulling on my overcoat.
“Maybe. Obviously, just because alcohol is banned doesn’t mean that there isn’t a healthy black market for forbidden goods. Our shit is smuggled into the country, one bottle at a time. Granted, this isn’t akin to the large-scale rum-running that took place during the Prohibition, but it’s not nothing either. What can I say? People like their drink, and O’Lachs is part of it.”
Mary looked puzzled by my brief educational talk, and a wave of disgust ran through my chest because the redhead just didn’t get it. She couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation about my business, nor any of my interests, without becoming utterly confused. I resolved then to dump her.
“So anyways,” I continued, grabbing my briefcase. “No need for your presence at the event on Friday, and in fact, I’ve gotten really busy, sweetheart. I’m afraid I’m going to have to call this off.”
Unfortunately, Mary’s lack of intelligence stymied me again.
“Call what off?” she asked in a confused voice. “What do you mean, Patrick?”
“Call this, whatever it is,” I said in a smooth tone, gesturing with one finger between our bodies. “Me fucking you. You waiting for me in lingerie at a hotel room, those big boobies encased in a tiny bra and your pussy already sopping with desire. No more of that.”
Mary still looked confused though.
“You mean, we won’t meet at a hotel? We’ll meet somewhere else? But where? Tell me and I’ll be there!”
I snorted with exasperation because some women really have a bag of rocks for brains. But Mary was referring to my penchant for using hotels as my rendezvous points for whores. It’s not that the ladies I date are prostitutes per se, although I have gone there. No, most of the young women I wine and dine are relatively normal, with wide smiles and open legs. I just don’t like to mix pleasure with the personal, and as a result, I don’t bring them to where I live. My family home is literally a historic castle in Ireland laden with history. The structure is imbued to the rafters with the spirit of my ancestors and I won’t insult their memory with the presence of the vapid women I date.
“No, I mean we won’t be seeing each other again, Mary,” I finish in a low growl. “I know you’re disappointed, baby, but our relationship has run its course, and you’ll be better off with someone else. A kinder, gentler, more considerate man who will be a better partner to you.”
The redhead finally understood what I was saying, and she clutched the sheet to her bare breasts as her green eyes filled with tears.
“No, Patrick!” she begged. “Don’t leave me! I’ll do anything you want! What do you want? Just tell me! Are you craving a threesome with another woman? I’ll lick her pussy and suck on her tits while you penetrate us both! Or another man? I’ll happily suck both of your cocks at once if it that’s what makes you happy.”
A migraine began to bloom behind my eyes and I pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger because Mary was simply not getting it. I put my hand down and gave her a direct look.
“Thanks for the thought, but it doesn’t matter what I want, or what you want. Our time’s up, sweetheart. There’s nothing you can do about it, and I certainly wouldn’t want someone as sweet and kind as you to change for a bastard like me. My admin will be in touch.”
Then, I strode out the door, my thumb hitting speed dial as I waited in the hall for the elevator.
“Yeah, hi Elena, can you pick out something for Mary?” I asked in a weary tone after my secretary picked up. “A bauble with rubies or emeralds. Or maybe sapphires. A necklace or ring. Thanks, Elena.”
With that, the relationship was over. Sure, Mary would cry a bit and maybe even bawl over a sappy movie with a college chum. But the minute the jewelry arrived, her eyes would alight on the precious stones while her pussy moistened. It’s pathetic, but a lot of ladies I know literally get turned on at the prospect of expensive jewelry. You show them a diamond, and their nipples harden as they begin to pant. Their heart-rates begin to accelerate and soon, they’ve forgotten my rude words altogether. All they want is a glimpse of their reflections in the mirror, draped in sparkling jewels.
But now, I have a beautiful blonde before me who seems smarter than your average bear. I don’t mean to insult the women I date because they’re not not smart. The ladies are clever and street-wise, even if they spent most of their academic careers on the Dean’s shit list. That fuckery doesn’t bother me though. Some people just aren’t the type for grades, degrees, nor any of that academic bullshit. As long as they’re curvy and luscious, then I don’t give a flying fuck.
But Miss Finnegan is different. The woman is ravishing, of course, with long golden locks, a plush pout, and the face of an angel. She’s also voluptuous, her curves practically busting out of her red dress with the vee at the décolletage showing off the inner sides of those big tits. But something tells me that she’s truly intelligent. It could be because she’s the only female here, at the high rollers table at the Degas, because they don’t just allow anyone to play at these tables. You have to be able to throw a significant amount of cash around. Then again, it could also be because she cased this joint yesterday afternoon, like a smart competitor determined to win.
Clearly, Miss Finnegan is not one to be underestimated, and I turn to my cards after they’re dealt. Hmm, the three in my hand are good but not great. Let’s see how the lady plays. She takes a peek at her cards, careful to lift only the corner, before putting them back down with a secret smile on those red lips.
“Anything good, darlin’?” the gruff Texan to her left asks. I have no idea why that fucker’s wearing a ten-gallon hat indoors, much less one that’s studded with gems at the brim, but to each their own. He’s barrel-chested and at least sixty, so the young lady merely laughs while shaking her head, golden tresses rippling.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” she says with a sassy smile. Then, the flop is revealed, and to my satisfaction, I have a pair of tens. The turn comes next, and then the river, and I finish with two pairs: tens and fives.
But the most intense psychological fuckery comes now because the serious betting begins. I’ve been observing each of the players as they ante up after successive rounds, and already have them figured out one hundred percent. These assholes have obvious tells, and should seriously consider filming themselves in order to improve their games. One dude has a twitchy left foot, whereas another’s pupils tend to dilate when he lands something tasty. Another reflexively pats his belt in moments of concern, as if reaching for the heft of a firearm. Or maybe he’s looking for his favorite pocket-protector. I don’t know.
But as the night continues, Miss Finnegan’s tells are the most obvious because the beautiful blonde tends to get aroused. It’s not that weird. Everyone has different kinks, and this little filly gets turned on by the game itself. She loves living by her wits, and her blue eyes flash and shine as the cards are dealt. She banters with the other players, knowingly distracting them by shaking her tits in their direction and making them wobble. She toys with her blonde locks, winding it about a finger while licking her glossy lips, and one by one, the other men drop out. They’re eliminated, and fuck, even I’m down to just a few hundred thousand. Shit, this woman has game and I never thought that I’d be bested at high stakes poker through sheer sex appeal alone.
But Miss Finnegan isn’t doing so great either. The other players have taken a significant chunk of her chips and before I know it, it’s just me, her and the dealer at the table. She smiles sweetly at me, licking her lips.
“Are you ready, Mr....?”
“O’Lachlan,” I say in a smooth tone. “I’m visiting from Ireland.”
“Oh Ireland, is it?” she smiles while palming her cards. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Emerald Isle.”
I stay calm while pretending to look at my hand. The truth is that it doesn’t matter what I have because accurately reading an opponent is a thousand times more useful than any cards you’ve actually been dealt. Sure, I lift the corner and flick my eyes downwards, but I don’t actually see what I have. Instead, I’m playing this hand blind because whatever Miss Finnegan thinks she knows ... she actually knows nothing about.