9. Oliver
Oliver
Iwait until the door closes behind Lissa before I rise and start to reset the office. My cock is straining in my pants, aching for release, but I ignore it.
I like this part, methodically putting everything back to the way it was.
I’m not sure what possessed me to buy quite so many ‘objects’ for my office this time. I’ve had a supplier for several years and I buy things from time to time. The seat is something I’ve had for a while, too, but a lot of the other items are brand new.
I’d never used the sculpture before, until today. I’m not sure why I held back; maybe it never felt right, or her proportions were just the right shape for it.
Either way, I’m glad I waited. Jesus, that was hot. And her body is flawless. I could stare at it all day.
I think of her sitting naked in front of my desk as I take back-to-back calls, staring at that alabaster skin for hours on end. My cock starts to leak.
Not helping.
Cleaning everything and placing it back the way it was takes about ten minutes, and by the end, I return to my desk, glancing at my inbox.
As usual, I have several work emails that I haven’t looked at yet, and there’s a request from Thomas Burton, the managing partner, to meet in a few days. I’m hoping that means they’re considering me for EP. Finally. I’ve waited long enough.
I go back to my work, my erection deflating fast as I read the angry exchanges between my clients demanding things from one another. A whole life together distilled down into what they can get at the end of it. Like marriage is only about the money and possessions, not love.
I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Relationships are things that happen to other people.
Glancing at the door, I let my eyes drift back to the sculpture, now safely back in place so that no one would ever know what it was used for.
I enjoy things like that—having objects around that have a dual purpose. A partner could sit in my office and never know that dozens of items inside it were intended for pleasure.
I stare at the door, thinking about Lissa.
She’ll do for the time being. She’s responsive and follows orders, and that is all that matters.
She’s also nothing like Melony, the last escort I had, who drove me nuts within three minutes of meeting her.
Lissa is almost too far in the other direction. Too quiet. Too nervous.
But I plan to work that out of her as soon as possible.
It’s important to me that she gets off as often, if not more than I do. Seeing a woman come apart for me is the best part about these arrangements.
Plus, it means she won’t have to see me naked any time soon, which suits me just fine.
After a few more minutes, I rise, deciding that I’ve had enough work for the day, and cross the room, collecting my jacket from where I hastily threw it over a chair.
Before I leave, I double check I haven’t left anything incriminating in plain sight. I don’t want to scare Adelaide when she comes in tomorrow morning to drop off files.
I leave the office, take the elevator down to the ground floor, and step out into the reception area.
Walking into the parking deck, I unlock my Bugatti Chiron with a flick of my wrist. It’s all black, sleek, and beautiful, and immediately makes me feel good as I slide into the seat.
The roar of the engine in the confined parking deck isn’t half bad either, and I enjoy speeding around the corners on each floor until I reach the exit and move into the New York traffic, heading toward my mother’s house.
My hands skim over the wheel as I weave through the traffic, not even caring that every road is snarled to a halt today.
I’m in no rush.
My mom lives in a beautiful neighborhood opposite Central Park.
When she first moved in, it was just a two-bedroom apartment.
But since then, I’ve bought the apartments on either side of hers, and we’ve completely rebuilt the space.
She lives alone except for the Ragdoll cats she keeps accumulating.
At last count, there were seven of the little fluffballs.
I pull to a stop beside the steps up to her place and get out, enjoying the feel of the sun on my face and listening to the squeal of children running through the park behind me.
Trotting up the steps, I let myself in as I hear meowing from all sides. The cats know the click of the door generally means food, and they swarm around my legs as I pick one up. I’m going to get hair all over my suit, but I don’t care.
The cat—I’m pretty sure her name is Belinda—starts purring, her bright blue eyes closing as I rub her head. She has a pink diamante collar and looks completely ridiculous.
I walk along the cream carpet through the hallway, glancing into the living room for any sign of my mom as I admire the bright flowers on almost every surface. She has always loved springtime.
“Ollie? Is that you?” she calls from somewhere.
“Hey Mom, where are you?”
“My art room.”
I drop the cat onto a chair and make my way to her, all of the little beasts running past me eagerly trying to trip me up.
“You should really feed these animals,” I say with a small smile as I lean against the doorframe to my mother’s art studio. She loves painting, but her charcoal sketches are my favorites.
She’s working on one of me, my back to her, just my chin and nose in view. It makes me look a lot more attractive than I am.
“I haven’t fed them in almost six hours; the poor things are obviously just wasting away,” she says sarcastically.
She rises from where she’s sitting in front of one of the easels and pulls her walker toward her. I resist the urge to help; she’s perfectly capable of getting around, but I hate to see her struggling.
“Is Natalia still here?” I ask as she glares at me.
“Yes. You shouldn’t be paying her seven days a week. I told you I don’t need her on Sundays. I’m at church, and it’s a waste of her time and your money.”
“She’s paid seven days a week, in case you need her, Mom. That’s the point.”
“Listen to the boy,” comes a voice from the other room as a small, Hispanic woman barrels past me and takes my mother’s arm, steadying her against the frame. My mother glowers at her.
“Stop fussing,” she mutters.
“Stop arguing,” Natalia snaps back, and they bicker playfully back and forth like two mother hens. We go down the hallway toward a small sitting room at the front of the house.
It’s a beautiful view out the window, the colors of spring all over the park now that the trees are beginning to get their leaves.
My mother sits down, frowning as Natalia scurries back out of the room again. She’s back in a flash with coffee and an assortment of cookies.
“You should be at home with your family,” my mother insists, and Natalia gives me a weary look as she shakes her head and leaves.
“Do you want a pay raise?” I shout after her, and she cackles with glee.
I already pay her more than the top rate for full-time help, and I don’t care. I would pay her three times as much to put up with Anne Heath. As much as I love my mother, she’s a belligerent and opinionated woman who never allows anyone to help her.
My mom pushes her walker aside, and I rise, moving it behind her so it's within easy reach. There’s a fire in the fireplace even though it’s no longer winter, and it crackles happily between us as my mother pours coffee.
It’s decaffeinated, like all the other drinks in the house, and smells amazing.
She’s filled one cup and is starting on the other when her arm begins to shake. I gently take the pot from her grip, and she waves me off and sits down.
My mother has so many injuries, courtesy of my late father, that I can barely remember which ones bug her the most. Her spine is the main concern, and has caused her more problems this year than anything else.
I pay for physical therapy twice a week, and a chiropractor once a month.
She constantly complains that she doesn’t need them, but since she started following their recommendations and doing more regular stretching and exercises, the pain has lessened a little.
Natalia doesn’t let her get away with not doing her daily routines, and I love her for that.
“She’s too expensive,” she says as I pick up two cookies and place them on my plate. They’re my favorites: chocolate on the outside, caramel just under the surface, and buttery-soft shortbread. Delicious.
“The money doesn’t matter, Mom. She's here to stay unless you fire her, which would break her heart in two.”
“She spends all her time talking to me. She barely does anything in this house,” my mother protests.
“Do you need her to do more cleaning?”
“What? Of course not. This house is immaculate.”
“Well, what are we arguing about then?”
“I don’t like it,” she grumbles. “You should be spending money on a nice young lady.”
“Who says I can’t do both?”
She looks up but shakes her head with a scowl. She knows me too well to ask about my love life. There hasn’t been anyone ever. That’s the brutal truth. No woman would want me long-term.
“How’s your back?” I ask, the question familiar and comfortable, like a weight between us that instantly irritates her again.
“It’s much better. The therapist is satanic, though. He is clearly on this earth to give me a heart attack.”
“Good, good,” I mutter, sipping my coffee as she glares at me.
“How is your work? Have they set up the meeting?”
“Tom asked for a meeting in a few days.”
“You’ll tell me how it goes?”
“Of course.”
“Are you staying for supper?” Natalia’s voice calls up from the kitchen, and I glance at my mother, who rolls her eyes in defeat.
“What are you making?” I shout back at her.
“Go and speak to her if you want to ask a qu?—”
“Chicken pie!”
“I’m staying,” I holler back, settling into my chair comfortably and watching the fire.
“You will both be the death of me,” my mother murmurs as she sips her coffee, then she gives me side eye, her forehead crinkling. “I love seeing you, Ollie, but you need other things in your life besides your mother and work.”
“I have my cars,” I concede, and she chuckles.
“Is that black monstrosity outside yours?”
“Yes.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Thank you.”
She shakes her head again, smiling at me affectionately, and we sit in contented silence for a moment.
Belinda saunters into the room and jumps up into Mom’s lap.
“Thank goodness for my babies. At least they understand me.”
I roll my eyes and chuckle while Mom scratches Belinda under the chin while she purrs like a chainsaw.