God, it has been a long day.
Meeting after meeting with clueless board members; timid, mousy interns scurrying up and down the office halls; a stack of paperwork in his inbox ten inches high.
The height of a man's inbox should never surge so far as to equal the length of his cock,
Aiden thinks wryly to himself, enjoying his own confident humor.
But he supposes that all came along with the territory. Just as he had surpassed his third decade, so too the company he had inherited from his father before him had surpassed their fiercest competitor on the market, and so Aiden's bank account had finally surpassed nine digits. His "birthday billionaire blowout" as he liked to think of it, had been an alcohol-soaked blur of breasts and booze, such to the point that Aiden soon couldn't tell the difference between the strippers and the women on the guest list, so desperately they all threw themselves at him in their uninhibited daze.
Yes, that had certainly made everything worth it. He still isn't sure who had been the one to finally bring him to release, or how it had even happened, but that night of debauchery had cleansed him.
Today, though, he craved a different manner of cleansing, and if the hands on the clock were correct, he had better hurry up and prepare for it.
Aiden wanders down a modern hallway speckled with expensive artworks specially chosen by his Senior Art Consultant. He makes his way into his bedroom, the enormous king bed perfectly made and stocked with decorative pillows.
With deft fingers, Aiden undoes the windsor knot holding his tie in place, sheds his suit jacket to the floor where it falls in a charcoal gray puddle. Melinda will pick it up later. Those same nimble fingers work their way down his shirt, undoing the buttons with dexterous ease to reveal a toned abdomen over a deep pelvic V.
This, too, he sheds, along with his pants, the belt buckle clanking. And finally the boxers, constricting elastic waistband finally torn from his hips.
His cock hangs down and he tugs longingly at it, but there's no time before Marie arrives and he so hates to be interrupted. He wouldn't want to take his
frustration
out on the young woman.
A loud peal rings through the air as the doorbell rings and Aiden hurries to don his bathrobe-navy blue and silken-cinching the belt around his waist and tying it in a knot as he strides back down the hallway to the foyer where he can see through the privacy glass windows framing the oak door, that Marie is hovering on his doorstep.
His cock is still half hard from those few long strokes and the thought of sliding it into something warm and wet, but he's already kept her waiting.
So he opens the door wide, a glow of pleasure warming him as he catches the flash of her eyes down to his pelvis and then back up again.
"Marie?" he asks.
"Yes, sir," she replies in a small voice, and Aiden suppresses a grin. She's got good instincts. Or perhaps the agency had sent a memo. Or maybe Collette had passed on knowledge of his preferences after he let her go. Tardiness cannot be permitted.
But Marie had the makings of a fine replacement.
The v-neck of her agency-issued dress dips just low enough to expose the gentle arc of her cleavage, its soft material hugging her every curve. She regards him timidly, but eagerly, and he knows instantly that she must be a new hire. The new ones were always eager to please.
"Let me show you the terrace," he tells her, turning and gesturing inside. She steps forward and Aiden drops a hand to the small of her back, allowing it to slide down just a little too far, and guides her inside the house, her small satchel carrying her oils clanking at her side.
"We'll be working on a terrace?" she asks, clearly not used to the concept of delivering her service outdoors.
"Oh, yes," Aiden replies, with a slight upward twitch of his lips-more a suggestion of mischief than a smile. "Don't worry, though. It's quite secluded. You'll enjoy it, I'm certain."
"I'll take your word for it," Marie quips back, something in her tone making Aiden think there might be more to her than just a timid girl. Another side, perhaps.
He guides her out the french doors to the terrace, keeping his hand there in that too-low spot, satisfied when they make their way all the way to the massage table without her squirming away or asking him to move it. But this was a practiced game for Aiden. A natural ease for finding out just how far he could go.
Marie turns away as he disrobes, but Aiden knows the effect he has on women. Certainly she's curious if nothing else.
The area is lush and verdant, trees and shrubbery turning the backyard area into what many women he'd brought here had described as a "fairy garden."
He lays down on the table and a moment later, Marie lays a blanket over his lower back and buttocks and goes to work on his muscles, working her tiny but strong fingers into his knots, kneading them until his body arches upward into her touch and she must guide him back down.
Her hands work so fast and so expertly, bringing deep bodily pleasure that whirls his head. Longing rises in him for her hands to roam beneath the blanket she had draped over him when she began, and so too something else rises.
It is as if the pleasure and yearning encapsulating his muscles has nowhere else to go, his body has no other way to cope with it than to send blood rushing down, turning his cock rigid and hard, aching for release.
It takes every bit of Aiden's willpower not to grind into the bed beneath him, just to get a bit of the satisfaction that his cock is calling out for.
He moans as Marie digs deep into the curve of his shoulder blade, running her fingers down, down, down.
"Does that . . . feel good?" Marie asks cautiously, but Aiden swears he can detect a hint of intrigue there, a double meaning to the question that he knows is Marie probing, seeing if the rumors are true. If he'll ask her.
