40. Brendan
CHAPTER 40
Brendan
T here’s nothing like your shiniest, most expensive new trophy, the trophy you boasted about to all your mates, letting you down in front of every last one of them.
The way Marlowe reacted in my office yesterday was the humiliation equivalent of my catamaran sinking like a stone during its own launch party, and it was a massive fucking middle finger to everything we’d signed off on in our introductory questionnaires.
I may have been tipsy, and I may have blindsided her, but that’s the nature of the job, I’m afraid, love.
It’s not like anyone is being exploited here.
I pay her north of a hundred grand a month to do whatever the fuck I want, and I damn well expect her to put out when the situation demands it.
I’m still seething at the way she looked at me in front of all my business associates, like I was some scumbag hell-bent on assaulting her and not the man bankrolling her lifestyle.
The problem is that when a woman is as beautiful and talented and unique as Marlowe, there’s always the risk that she’ll get under your skin.
That you’ll blur the lines and bend your own rules and forget that she is, at the end of the day, a whore.
I’m paying her for sex.
It’s as simple as that.
I’ll admit that we’ve both bent the rules in recent weeks, but that weird little midday slumber party I let us indulge in last week was a much-needed red flag.
When you veer off course, in business as in relationships, you course-correct.
You redraw the lines.
Yesterday was an attempt to do not only that but to scratch that familiar itch of mine.
The itch that yearns to show everyone how well I’ve done.
How far I’ve come. How fucking big I’ve made it.
Most of those dickheads yesterday are highly successful men.
Not as successful as me, mind you, but they’ve done alright for themselves.
We all enjoy the same trappings, just as we judge each other on them.
Strippers. Lambos. Yachts.
Strippers on yachts.
Snorting coke off strippers on yachts.
Spraying four-figure bottles of champagne over topless women at Nikki Beach in St Tropez.
It gets tired pretty quickly.
The toys lose their shine.
So when you have the best toy of all, you want to wheel it out, take it for a ride in front of all your friends until they’re half sick with jealousy.
But what you don’t want is your toy safe-ing out after you’ve promised the bros a show and then suggesting you blow your own friend.
Not cool, Marlowe. Not cool at all.
I was half minded to call up that Camille woman and complain, to just pull Marlowe’s contract and find me another seraph to replace her.
After all, they’re all interchangeable, aren’t they?
But something stopped me, and I’m choosing to believe that it wasn’t the thought of replacing Marlowe.
I was just sober enough to know that Camille wouldn’t take kindly to a drunken rant, and plenty sober enough to remember Athena’s threat to skin my balls with a rusty butter knife—or was it castration she threatened?
Either way, I don’t want to poke the bear, and her silence over the past twenty-four hours suggests Marlowe hasn’t gone crying to her.
Not yet, anyway.
So I’ll sit tight.
I’ll bide my time, and I’ll give Marlowe the chance to return in two weeks with her tail between her legs.
Meanwhile, I’ll employ some old tricks to ensure that I don’t spend the next fortnight moping around like Mark does when I’ve taken away his favourite bone.
F ernanda Luz da Costa is, objectively speaking, as big a trophy as they come.
And, unlike certain other people, she doesn’t mind me showing her off.
She’s a Brazilian supermodel working and living in London and, critically for my internal trophy value calculator, she was on the cover of British Vogue last month.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Marls.
Full disclosure: we’ve hooked up before, and, even if she’s physically flawless, she was one of the least interesting fucks I’ve ever had.
Lay on her back like a limp fish.
Nobody else needs to know that, though.
I shoot her a text and she agrees, with indecent haste, to be my escort to a lavish fundraiser for Great Ormond Street Hospital, of which Sullivan Construction is a patron.
Thank fuck there are people in the world who actually devote their time to caring for sick kids.
I may not be one of them, but I’m always happy to open my chequebook for a good cause, and I’m equally happy to show up when the paps are out.
Fernanda’s conversational skills may not be a huge selling point (just like her libido), but as far as arm candy goes, she’s top-notch.
And I have to admit, we look fucking hot together on the wide, pink-lit steps of the Natural History Museum, me in my Zegna tuxedo and her in a barely-there sequinned number that shows off her miles of satiny limbs.
The paps eat us up, and it’s a few minutes before we’re moved on to allow the next celebrities to take our places.
‘Your arms are so big,’ Fernanda purrs in her sexy accent, her slim fingers tucked into the crook of my arm as we make our way across the iconic space to the bar.
‘So hot.’
‘You know it, baby.’ I shoot her a smile—she’s so tall I barely need to dip my head—and, all at once, a memory hits me in a flash.
Marlowe, cradled in my arms on my bed.
Gazing up at me with those huge brown eyes.
No other guy has ever made me come before.
You’re the only one.
The shyness in her voice.
The intimacy of that moment.
Fuuuuuuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.
‘Let’s get that drink,’ I tell Fernanda through gritted teeth.
W hen your assistant-with-benefits is both AWOL and pissed off with you, and your supermodel date’s appeal begins and ends with taking her out in public to make every other guy on the face of the earth jealous, and your new Alchemy membership card is burning a hole in your pocket, there’s only one way to end your night.
I got Yan to take Fernanda home.
She pouted as I kissed her on both cheeks and put her in the car, but her bedtime game isn’t exactly compelling.
It’s enough of a win for me to know that I could fuck her if I wanted to, and God knows she can’t compete with what I’ve heard about Alchemy.
And first impressions tell me this place will live up to all my expectations, because holy shit.
The club is based in a white stuccoed villa in Mayfair, and, from the moment I walk in, the vibe is exclusive.
Opulent. The lobby is gorgeous, as is the woman manning the reception desk.
I’m still in black tie, and she eyes me appreciatively as she greets me.
If this is the welcome I get at reception, then things are looking up for the rest of my evening.
Through a set of double doors, there’s a pink-hued bar.
If we were anywhere else I’d be happy to linger here, nursing a scotch and sizing up my options.
But this is a sex club.
I don’t need to hang out at the bar to pull.
I neck a shot and, with a nod of thanks to the two brutes on security, head through the next set of double doors.
The Playroom.
The space I’ve been itching to experience ever since my bloody brother got a membership.
And on this Saturday night, it doesn’t disappoint.
My first impression is of high ceilings, white pillars, white drapes, pink lighting and naked bodies.
I feel like I’m at an orgy in Ancient Greece, and I’m fucking here for it.
The heavy beat of the dance music thrums in my veins.
This is more like it.
I’m restless and feverish, burning up with the need to make mischief.
To cause carnage. I reckon I’ve spent more evenings at home since Marlowe started working for me than I have in my entire thirties.
I’ve been in some little fuck bubble with her, and that ends now.
I’m a sought-after guy with real needs, and just because my otherwise perfect assistant has gone all frigid and left me in the lurch, that doesn’t sentence me to a life of celibacy.
My brother may have gone without sex for a decade, but there was only ever going to be one priest in this family, and it was never, ever going to be yours truly.
I strip off my jacket and fling it over my shoulder, holding onto it with a crooked finger and surveying the debauchery in front of me.
Where to start? The woman at reception told me that the female hosts wear little white dresses and the male hosts all-black.
I can see one brunette mounted on one of the St Andrew’s crosses, a little white scrap of fabric banded around her middle.
Her tits are out and her cunt is on full display and she’s being ravished by several gentleman.
She looks like she’s having the time of her life.
I look to my left and catch the eye of a gorgeous young Black woman who has to be a model.
Her scarlet dress is sinfully sexy and matches her lips to perfection.
She gives me a coquettish smile, but something about her immaculate appearance puts me off approaching her.
I’ve already put one flawless woman in a car tonight.
I’m not convinced these model types know how to let loose and have a good time.
Tonight I want something messy.
Something real. I wouldn’t mind some anal, come to think of it.
That’s another area in which limiting myself to Marlowe has curbed my ability to meet my needs.
There are times when only something utterly transgressive will quieten the incessant static in my head, and I’m pretty sure wedging my cock into the forbidden chokehold of a beautiful woman’s arsehole will be just the medicine I require.
Right. Now that I know what I need, I can search out someone whose entire demeanour screams I take it up the arse and I love every filthy inch.
Bingo.
Little white host’s dress.
Messy strawberry blonde hair and big blue eyes that make her a dead ringer for Kelly Reilly.
And such an incredible-looking rack that it makes me think tonight’s the night I could finally fulfil my Yellowstone spank bank favourite of Beth Dutton giving me a tit wank.
I just hope she’s less prone to random acts of violence than Ms Dutton.
Most importantly, she screams sex.
She’s the polar opposite of my blonde, classy and wholesome assistant about whom I absolutely will not think.
I need this, and I bloody deserve it.
Beth’s doppelg?nger is loitering by the bar, looking bored.
When I saunter over, she visibly perks up, pulling herself upright as she openly looks me over.
‘You look like James Bond.’
‘You look like you take it up the arse.’
She doesn’t miss a beat.
‘Charming. But not wrong. I should probably reward your powers of observation.’
She moves towards me, and I hold my hands up.
‘I should warn you, I’m just looking for a quick fuck.
Nothing more.’
The eye roll she gives me is quite something.
‘No shit, Sherlock. This is a sex club.’
‘I know, I’m just—this is my first time here.
I want to be clear.’
‘Aww. That’s sweet.
So I get to pop your Alchemy cherry?
Anyway, you don’t need to worry.
There seems to be a fascinating misconception by the punters here that we’re all trying to snag an engagement ring.
Do you know how many guys I’ve tried to ensnare here?
Zero. Do you know how many proposals I’ve had?
Three of actual marriage and fuck knows how many to be a fully paid-up mistress.
So don’t you worry your little cotton socks about me.
’ She drops her voice to a stage whisper.
‘Because I just want your dick.’
I laugh.
I like this girl. She’s funny and refreshing, and those tits really are a gravitational marvel.
I just wish my attraction to her felt less theoretical and more…
red-blooded. More immediately carnal.
‘Consider me reassured. What’s your name?
’
‘Ivy.’
‘I’m Brendan.
Can I fuck you?’
She shrugs.
‘As long as your fucking is better than your banter, Brendan, then sure. Knock yourself out.’
I laugh again.
She’s a hoot—assuming she’s not serious about my chat, which I’d say is pretty strong.
‘My fucking is excellent. Can I fuck your arse?’
She turns away from me and puts her hands up on a pillar.
‘Yep. Just do me a favour and lube up, okay?’
Holy crap.
She wants to do it right here, in the middle of the room?
Okay then. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
We are in a sex club after all, as she pointed out so sweetly.
Ivy moves her feet further back from the pillar and hinges forward so she’s bent over for me.
I step in behind her and push her short dress up so that her arse is bared to me.
She’s not wearing panties.
She has long legs and a fantastic, toned bottom and a bare pink cunt.
Everything about her is objectively a knockout.
But the strangest thing happens—my instant reaction is that she’s WRONG WRONG WRONG.
Just like that. It’s like my body is screaming at me: No!
This isn’t what you want!
You only like Marlowe’s body, remember?
Wrong woman!
Well, fuck that for a game of shits and giggles.
Just because I’ve allowed myself to get comfortable with one partner recently, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy mixing it up a bit.
I stare at Ivy’s lovely white arse as I give myself a stroke through my trousers.
Weirdly, I’m still completely limp.
Maybe it’s because I’m in public?
Maybe my dick hasn’t got the memo that it’s okay to fill up in this context?
‘Mmm, you’re very sexy,’ I tell Ivy.
She is, after all, and it feels like the polite thing to say.
Her little arsehole is right there, all tight and puckered and forbidden and mine for the taking after weeks of Marlowe keeping hers firmly out of bounds.
I want this. I do.
I need it, basically.
I exhale harshly through my nostrils as I rub my hand harder over the area covering my poor, sad, flaccid dick, as if it’s a bottle and I’m hoping this will awaken the genie.
Still NO fucking THING.
Nada. Maybe it has stage fright?
Maybe it’s scared of this strange new land and is reminiscing about more familiar terrain.
Another memory lances through me.
Marlowe on her hands and knees for me on the floor of my office, her incredible body braced to take me.
Whenever she’s in that position she exudes the strangest mix of vulnerability and courage and carnality.
I can’t explain it, but I wish I could bottle it.
Fucking hell. I need to give myself a serious talking to here.
This is not Marlowe.
Marlowe has fucked off for a few weeks.
Marlowe won’t let you anywhere near her arsehole.
She won’t even let you lick it.
This woman is gorgeous, and she’s literally bent over double so you can take her up the arse, so what the fuck are you waiting for, you wanker?
Ivy cranes her neck to see me.
She, presumably, has the same question for me.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I lie.
‘Just… warming him up.’
She frowns, then straightens up and looks down at the notable lack of bulge in my trousers.
‘Oh, mate. That’s not good.
’
‘It’s fine.’ I rub it so hard that my boxer briefs chafe against my poor dick.
‘I just need a minute.’
She bites her lip.
‘You want to get it out for me? I can have a go.’
I flinch.
I actually flinch, and my feet take a step backwards of their own accord.
‘No!’ I say. I think I may snap it, which is neither cool nor intentional.
She raises her eyebrows.
‘Okay, okay. Look, you’re obviously not feeling it.
No bother. I’ll just go and find someone who can rail me nice and hard.
’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell her lamely, watching her cut through the crowd.
I have never had to apologise for any lack of sexual prowess before, and here I am, falling at the first hurdle.
It seems my dick did not get the memo that we are here to have a good time tonight.
It seems my entire body is repulsed by the fact that this beautiful, willing woman is Not Marlowe.
And nothing about that is okay with me.
I look around in a panic to see if anyone is watching, if anyone is laughing at the guy who’s all talk and no trousers.
But they’re not.
No one is paying me any attention whatsoever.
I duck my head and make a beeline for the doors.
I can never show my face in here again. That’s for sure.