"Let me get this straight," Rudie drawled, crossing her arms, "An old white man left us an inheritance. What the fuck is this, Dad? Life isn't a Dickens novel."
The men sitting around the table chuckled as they gazed appreciatively at Jason's daughter.
"When I was working in landscaping, I became close to Mr. Beaumont," Jason said with a shrug, "His daughter was in D.C., and his son never came to see him."
"Aw, so were you like the Asian version of his son, Dad?" Rudie asked, "He just left his entire private equity company to you on a whim? What's the catch?"
"There is no catch."
Rudie glanced at the man sitting at the head of the table as a slow blush rose to her cheeks. He had black hair curling softly over his forehead; he had warm bronze skin close to her own brown shade; he had a scar slashing straight across the bridge of his aquiline nose. But even more unnerving were his intent gray eyes.
"Who exactly are you?," she asked peevishly.
"I'm Sheikh Ahmed Al-Hussain," he drawled, "I was Fred Beaumont's business partner."
"Oh, you're a prince," Rudie snorted, "Like the Nigerian ones?"
"Rudie," Jason said, massaging his temples, "This company is a windfall, and since I don't exactly have a finance background, Ahmed has graciously agreed to show me the ropes."
"Show you the ropes? More like show you a scam," Rudie snorted.
"Why so skeptical?," Ahmed asked, tilting his head like a bird of prey, "You and your family are rich now."
"Joy," Rudie said flippantly, "I can finally afford a boob job."
She wondered if she were imagining the way his eyes darted towards her cleavage, taking in the swathe of skin and the undone buttons of her white blouse.
"Rudie!," Jason snapped, "Sorry, Ahmed. Her behavior's an unfortunate side-effect of her name."
"Don't listen to him, my sister's way worse," Rudie muttered, "I have a mock trial tournament to get to. Bye Dad. Bye, Mr. Al-Hussain."
"I'll show your charming daughter out while Tim shows you to Fred's office," Ahmed said, standing up. He was easily over six feet, and Rudie felt her heartbeat speed up as she smelled his intoxicating cologne. He held open the door for her with a tight smile.
"Listen," she said as they made their way into the lobby, "I don't know who you are, but there are easier people to scam."
"What makes you think I'm scamming you?"
"I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, Sheikh," Rudie said harshly, "I don't buy this at all and I don't trust you."
The soaring, bustling lobby felt suddenly airless as Ahmed regarded her, expressionless. His muscles flexed beneath his suit as he crossed his arms.
"It's a lot to take in," he said quietly, "I'm sure you'll come to trust it in time, though."
"That remains to be seen," she said coldly, and pushed past him towards the door.
~
Ahmed stared at the stock chart for the thousandth time, still not comprehending it. He was sitting in his sprawling penthouse on Central Park South as he tried to concentrate on work.
Joy. I can finally get a boob job.
"Shit," he muttered, shifting in his seat. He couldn't get Jason Navarro's daughter out of his mind. The sardonic way she pursed her rosy lips. The way her long black curls hung over her bare shoulders as she shrugged off her blazer. The way her plump ass swayed as she walked. The faintly mocking way she spoke to him, looking out at him from under her enticing eyelashes, the attitude begging to be tamed.
"She's eighteen years old, idiot," he seethed. He stood up and shoved the laptop away from him. He opened his desk drawer and found a roll of boxing tape. As he started down the stairs to his gym, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Jason had text him on Whatsapp about some meeting or other, but Ahmed couldn't help but stare mindlessly at the man's profile picture. It was him, Rudie, his older daughter Lisa and his ex-wife Maya. They were standing in front of Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. Lisa was wearing her college graduation robes, but Rudie was wearing a short lace body-con dress and high heels. She leaned on her mother's shoulders with a wide smile that he imagined was directed at him. He gazed at her long, toned legs and her cutely wrinkled nose, the way the dress was stretched across her hips. He let out a sigh and surrendered to his libido, forgetting all about the gym. He went into the bathroom and pulled out his stiffening cock. He started stroking himself lightly as he imagined Rudie bent over a spanking bench, her slit dripping with arousal as he brought a paddle down onto her round ass over and over. He thought of the way her cheeks had been flushed from the winter wind, and envisioned that same redness covering her ass as he brought down a paddle. With a grunt, he tightened his grip and started stroking faster. He came with a groan as he imagined her screams filling the air.
"Fuck," he sighed as he sat down on the toilet, "What's wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with me?"
He felt a surge of pulsing resentment as he recalled Asma. His wife. He had been twenty-two when he broached the subject tentatively to her. It had been an arranged marriage, of course, and they were still shy around each other. But she was his wife and he wanted to share himself with her. They were lying in bed after a round of dismal sex that disastrous night.
"Asma," he murmured, "Have you ever heard of BDSM?"
