Page 10 of Unwrapped

“You never talk about your family.”

“That’s because I don’t have any—not like how you mean, anyway.”

The silence gets awkward. I’ve never spoken to her like this before. The holidays are fucking with my head.

“Right. I’ll get right on booking your reservation.”

I hang up and sit in my chair. I need to forget the world for a while and the only way to do that besides going balls deep in a woman is to work.

Before long, I’m drawn into the financial reports my Chief Financial Officer prepared for the end of the year. I highlight a few figures and continue reading. It seems as if a whole day has gone by, but it is only ten-fifteen.

It’s going to be a long-ass day.

She’s beautiful.

There’s no denying that. But my cock doesn’t stir at her touch. I gaze at her over the rim of my wine glass as I tilt it to my lips. The ends of her caramel colored hair graze the tips of her breasts, brushing across her pebbled nipples every time she moves. The fabric of her dress stretches tight over her paid-for-by-daddy D-cups. She’s perfect. But just not for me. I almost snort as I sip my scotch.

By the way she watches me I can tell it’s all a deliberate ploy in her effort to get what she wants from me. But that shit is not happening. I’m not some tween looking to dip his stick every second. My will is ironclad. No woman has every made more than a dent in the armor protecting not only my heart but my mind. Seduction is something I’ve mastered not ever fallen prey to.

I tap my fingers on the table waiting for the check impatiently. Isabella is everything I thought I wanted: beautiful, poised, a socialite; born and bred for the role of wife to a powerful man like me.

She smiles, circling the rim of her own wine glass with her index finger. Little does she know I’m about to dump her in twenty minutes.

“My place or yours?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sighing, I signal for the waiter, signing the air with my finger, mimicking signing my name on the check.

“Let’s go for a walk, instead.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, why not. Downtown looks good at Christmas time.”

“It’s very romantic.”

Her eyes light up with hope.

Fuck. This isn’t going to end well.

The waiter finally appears handing me the bill and I hand him my black American Express card without even glancing at it. Averting my eyes, I glance everywhere but at the bombshell sitting across from me while every other man in the room covets what I have—what I’m about to get rid of.

She just doesn’t do it for me. She never did. I tried to ignore her annoying habits: like how she always tilts her head as she applies her lipstick, giving herself“fuck me”eyes in the mirror. Or how she hates morning sex, insisting it’s gross and never wants to kiss. Or how she hates cum; never lets me finish in her mouth.

Truthfully, sex with her has become mundane. She just lays there, as if just the sight of her body alone is enough to get me there. No, honey. Not anymore. If I wanted to fuck a robot, I’d order a state-of-the-art one from China.

I want a warm-blooded woman in my bed; the kind with curves and real breasts that jiggle as you thrust into her warm body. I want a woman who won’t retreat when I fuck her mouth but savor every last drop of me.

Christ.

I sign the check with a flourish, feeling my dick finally stir. It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman like that. I lost myself somewhere along the climb up the corporate ladder. It was easier to look up when you wanted to forget you came from the down. I was born to a teenage mom who would’ve sold me for her next hit if she could’ve. Child Protection Services took me away from her. Thank fuck. But the home I went was just barely a step up from living in a shack.

My maternal grandmother took me in; wanting the checks the state would pay for her to keep me after she formally adopted me. She got eight hundred a month and spent it wisely on cigarettes, cheap wine and god knows what. But my grandmother lived in Springdale, Oregon. A place sometimes I want to run back to instead of run from. Just like I’m about to in under twelve hours.

“Darren?”

Isabella looks at me expectantly. Sighing, I push my chair back and finally meet her eyes. “We need to talk… about us.”

“Good. Then we are on the same page, darling. Mummy and Daddy are expecting us to Christmas in the Aspen at the family ski chalet.”

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