Getting Down Page 3

  Chapter 3: Naughty Girl

  Ruby

  “You know what I need right now?” Bancroft wraps his arm around my waist. He also tries to press his chest against my back, but I’m still wearing the fairy wings, so he can’t get that close.

  “Another glass of scotch?” I’m being snarky. Mostly. Even I opted for a second glass of wine at dinner and I’m not a big drinker.

  “Now that Armstrong is gone I can manage without alcohol.”

  “What does it say about him as a person that no one can deal with him without drinking?”

  “That he’s an asshole.”

  “Who you happen to be related to,” I point out.

  “And who your best friend is going to marry. Can’t you do something about that?” He fiddles with my wings, making them flap against my back. “You’re a fairy, you should be able to make magic happen.”

  “What kind of magic do you think I’m capable of? I can’t tell her not to marry Armstrong just because we don’t want to hang out with him.” I finish washing the last wineglass and set it in the drying rack.

  “What does she even see in him? He’s a pompous dick.” That Bancroft talks this way about his cousin speaks to his absolute disdain. Bancroft doesn’t often have nasty things to say about people without some serious provocation.

  “Well I’m pretty certain his dick is not part of the allure, so I’m at as much of a loss as you are.”

  Bancroft rests his hip against the counter. “Wait a second. What do you know about Armstrong’s dick?”

  I peel off my rubber gloves with a shrug. “Amie said he’s average in the penis department.”

  “You’ve talked about my cousin’s dick?” Bancroft makes a face as if he’s eaten something offensive.

  “Just in the general sense of size.” Prior to dating Armstrong, Amie and I used to share sex stories. I have the disconcerting feeling that he’s not only average in size, he might also be very average in ability, based on the lack of details she provides these days. I’ve tried to temper my sharing so as not to appear as though I’m gloating.

  Bancroft crosses his thick arms over his defined chest. It’s been hours of glances and soft touches. Now that our friends are gone we’re gearing up for playtime. I was extraordinarily careful while I ate dinner so as not to ruin my lipstick. It’s deep purple-pink and sparkly. I think it will look quite hot in smeared marks across Bancroft’s cock. It’s a weird fascination I have. I really like to wear lipstick before I blow him. One of these days I’m going to get the glow-in-the-dark stuff and give him a ghost BJ.

  “Have you talked to Amie about my cock?”

  “Not in great detail, but she’s aware that you’re well above average.” I assess the look on his face. I can tell he’s trying not to smirk at the compliment. Bane knows he’s well-endowed. His cock is like the rest of him, big and beautiful. I pull the plug from the drain and toss the dishcloth on the counter.

  Before I can turn around again Bancroft starts fiddling with my wings as if he’s trying to fold them out of his way. “How do these come off?”

  “They’re attached with snaps.”

  “Well, they need to go. They’re obstructing my ability to rub my huge, hard cock against your ass,” he complains.

  I laugh and turn in his arms. “Wow. You do such a great job embellishing phrases such as ‘above average.’”

  “I was just helping with your descriptive word choices, ‘above average’ sounds boring.”

  “What exactly is your plan once you get the wings off?”

  “Well, since I just spent the last four hours listening to my cousin tell me how awesome he is, I feel like me and my dick deserve to rub against something nice and warm.”

  I run my hands up his chest. “As nice and warm as the inside of my mouth?”

  Bancroft’s gaze drops to my glittery lips. “That would be an excellent place to start.”

  “I think so, too.” I slip his belt free from the clasp. Bancroft braces his hands on the counter, eyes on my fingers, as I pop the button. The head of his erection strains against the elastic waist of his boxer briefs, which barely contain him.

  I pull the band back and peek inside. I bite my lip—gently so as not to mess with my glitter lips—and glance up at him, skimming the slit with my finger. A bead of wetness pools there. I lift my finger and bring it to my mouth, carefully sucking the tip. Bancroft groans when I slip it back out, a deep purple-pink ring and some glitter now decorating it.

  “For fuck’s sake, Ruby.”

  I slip my hand under his tie, fisting it to pull him down to meet my mouth. I bite his bottom lip, dragging my tongue across the smooth skin. At the same time I reach into his underwear and wrap my hands around his hot, hard cock.

  Until Bancroft, I hadn’t really been a huge fan of the blowjob. I mean, sure, if I was in a relationship I’d bite the BJ bullet because to get oral you have to give it. But Bancroft turns it into quite the event. And the lipstick thing adds a strangely erotic twist. Also, he loves them. And watching his face when I’m on my knees, or in a variety of other positions, is enough to keep me coming back for potential lockjaw.

  As I pull back he wipes at my bottom lip, purple-pink and glitter staining his fingertip. “Should we get this off first?”

  I shake my head.

  He rubs his fingers together. “Isn’t it going to stain? It seems to be on pretty good.”

  I drop to my knees. “That’s what makeup remover is for.”

  We’re right in front of the sink. My knees hit the padded mat he put there so he can hump me from behind when I’m doing dishes. It’s supposed to be good for your back. The mat, not the humping.

  I shimmy his pants and boxers over his hips until his erection juts out. Bancroft wraps his fist around it and strokes a couple of times. I run my hands up under his shirt, sighing as my fingers pass over the hard ridges. I wait until he angles his erection down before I press a tiny kiss to the tip, leaving glitter behind.

  “Fuck, babe. You’re killing me here.”

  I grin, because of course this is ultimately my plan; to give him a killer blow job that he will repay in kind with some amazing oral of his own. And then he’ll get inside me and fuck as many orgasms out of me as he can. He often treats sex like a rugby match—the more I come the better his mental running score.

  I kiss all the way along his shaft, leaving lip prints. He’s quick to unbutton his cufflinks and loosen his tie enough to get it over his head. The top button of his shirt pings on the hardwood in his zeal, but then he’s yanking his shirt over his head and the thin white tee underneath follows, revealing his glorious chest.

  God, his body is magic. His abs ripple and flex as I take him in my mouth.

  “Motherfucker.” He shoves his hands in my hair. Bane is very good at controlling his dirty mouth unless we’re having sex. “You always look so good with my cock in your mouth. Even with this fucked-up makeup on.”

  I try to smile, but my mouth is pretty full.

  Bancroft’s expression grows serious as I stop playing around and start sucking in earnest. His hands stay in my hair, guiding, stroking my cheek, telling me how much he loves my pretty, sexy mouth.

  He eases me off after he comes, his blissed-out expression quickly morphing as his eyebrow rises. He sweeps his finger under my bottom lip, and then does it again, his mouth turning down at the corner. He nabs a paper towel and wets it under the tap. “Jesus. It looks like you blew a unicorn.”

  I motion to his cock, then use the counter to pull myself up. “So does that mean it looks like you fucked a unicorn?”

  “I feel like I need to retract the whole unicorn statement, because I really don’t want that image in my head before we have sex.” He wipes at my mouth, gently at first, then more vigorously. “This isn’t coming off.”

  “I just need makeup remover. We can worry about it later.” I grab his tie and try to get him to kiss me, but he turns his head.

  “Oh, fuck no. You
look hot and that blow job was incredible, but that lipstick has got to go before anything else happens.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re really ruining the spontaneity of this, you know.”

  He gives me the eye and crosses his arms over his naked chest. It would be effective if his half-limp cock wasn’t hanging out of his pants, covered in purple-pink lipstick smears and glitter.

  “It wasn’t a problem when my lips were wrapped around your cock,” I point out.

  Said cock twitches like he can hear us and would like to give some input. I gesture to his penis. “I think he agrees.”

  “I think you need to see what I’m talking about. It’s pretty distracting right now, and when I’m inside you, like I plan to be very soon, I’d like to able to kiss you without feeling like I’m in some whacked-out sci-fi movie.”

  “Fairies are fantasy, not sci-fi.”

  Now it’s Bancroft’s turn to roll his eyes. He spins me around, tears my wings off, and pulls me back into his chest.

  I know what’s coming. He’s going to take me to the bathroom so I can get this lipstick off. I’m pretty sure he’s overreacting. Bancroft likes to show off just how strong he is and picking me up like I’m an oversized doll and toting me around is one of his favorite pastimes. Okay. That’s untrue, sex is probably one of his favorite pastimes. But I actually quite enjoy throwing down the stubborn card just so he’ll pull this move on me.

  Except he doesn’t wrap an arm around my waist and carry me away. Instead he cups me, fingers pressing against my clit through the unfortunate barrier of shorts and panties. He slides his hand farther back. Oh my God, what is he—and then he lifts me up. By my crotch.

  “Seriously, Bane?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  It does nothing to deter him. In fact, his left palm finds my right breast, presumably to make me more secure. And honestly, the way his palm presses against my clit is rather enticing. As I result, I don’t struggle to walk my own ass to the bathroom.

  He uses his shoulder to turn on the light. He’s slow to set me down in front of the vanity, and even when my feet hit the floor, he doesn’t move his hand away. Either one. Although the one between my legs shifts, and the pressure to my clit becomes more direct and purposeful.

  “See the problem?” Bancroft’s mouth is right beside my ear, lips brushing my cheek.

  I’ve been so caught up in sensation, and the anticipation of what’s coming, that I almost miss the issue. “Oh, wow.” My eyes go comically wide, which with the current eye makeup makes me look rather demonic. Purple-pink lipstick and glitter are smeared all over my chin. It appears I’m a bit of a sloppy dick sucker.

  While I get to work on the lipstick smear removal, Bancroft makes a show of getting naked behind me. He’s about to start on clothing removal for me, but I clear my throat, looking pointedly at his black socks.

  “I’ll get to those when I’m not standing on a tile floor.”

  He hates cold feet almost as much as I loathe socks during sex.

  “You should probably do the same to your unicorn horn.” I toss a pad soaked in makeup remover at him and he stands beside me at sink, rubbing it up and down his quickly hardening cock, swiping away glitter and the purple-pink lip prints and smears. After a minute of rubbing and three new cosmetic removal pads apiece it’s better, but I still have all sorts of glitter stuck to my face, and there’s a very distinct pink hue to my chin.

  “Do you want me to take off the eye makeup, too?”

  “No. Leave it.” Bancroft yanks my panties and shorts down my legs.

  “Because it’ll take too long and you’re impatient?”

  “That and it’s hot.” He slips his finger between my legs and any snarky comment dies. “Come on, naughty fairy, I’m hungry and you’ve got exactly what I’m starving for.”

  * * *

  Two days later I’m sitting in the lobby of the Concord hotel, waiting for Amie. I’m pretty much glitter-free, although I swear there’s still a pink tint to my chin, and I haven’t needed lipstick at all for the past couple of days.

  Bancroft hasn’t tried very hard to remove the remaining purple-pink streaks from his dick, proudly wearing the remnant of my lipstick smears. Not that anyone other than me is going to see it, but he seems to think it’s rather funny.

  Anyway, the purpose of lunch with Amie today is twofold: we must sample their appetizer selection for the Halloween soirée, and any excuse to hang out in the middle of the week is a good one.

  It’s already one in the afternoon, but I’ve only been awake for little more than an hour. My performance schedule means I don’t go to bed at regular hours and I sleep late. Amie, on the other hand, has likely been up for at least seven, if not eight hours. Since five forty-five, I’ve received at least fifteen text messages with thoughts on this party we’ve been given the go-ahead to plan. My fun Halloween get-together is turning into a huge deal. I hadn’t fully considered the implications of what this would become if we were given access to things like the Inception Ballroom, and Armstrong’s apparently endless pocketbook.

  Yesterday we were officially given the green light, which means Amie’s already in full-on party planning mode. While the soirée—the official, pretentious label given to this event—is still weeks away, we honestly don’t have a lot of time to get things organized. Typically these events take months of planning. Or so I’m being told by Amie, whose messages have grown increasingly frantic and detailed in the past two hours, but stopped suddenly just over an hour ago.

  While I wait for her to arrive, I send messages to Bancroft. Well, not so much messages as emoticon vegetables illustrating what I plan to do to him when I get home from my performance tonight. Often I’m going to bed just as he’s starting his day. It’s been quite an adjustment for both of us. But Bancroft has learned how to appreciate being woken at five in the morning by my vagina alarm most days of the week.

  I don’t hear back from him right away, which means he’s probably in a meeting. I check the time. It’s after one. It’s very unusual for Amie to be late for a lunch date. She’s typically waiting for me.

  Less than a minute later she comes bustling into the lobby. She’s carrying her purse and a gym bag. Windblown hair frames her face, which is also atypical. Not her face—that’s gorgeous—but her unkempt hair. Amie is usually very polished, and more so since she started dating Armstrong.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late.” She drops her gym bag and comes in for a hug.

  “It’s fine.” I give her a squeeze. “Is everything okay?”

  She releases me from her death grip and adjusts her skirt and blouse as she explains. “I thought I could fit in a yoga session and still be here on time, but two of the showers weren’t working and there’s this woman who always hogs the mirror after the lunch classes, which I don’t understand since she doesn’t even work up a sweat.” She swoops down to reclaim her bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she nearly takes out a woman carrying her Chihuahua in her purse. The tiny dog expresses its displeasure in yippy barks, scaring her owner and several people close by, including Amie, who skitters behind me.

  “What’s up with you? Did you do too many wheatgrass shooters this morning?”

  “I’ve been up since two. I couldn’t sleep last night. I think I may have overdone it on espresso shots this morning. I honestly thought the extra yoga session would help calm me down. Maybe I should’ve done cardio instead.”

  Amie is a big fan of yoga and running. She goes a minimum of four times a week. While it’s great that she likes to stay active, I think she might be going overboard these days, although maybe it’s her way of managing stress. When I’m stressed I wash a lot of dishes and eat a lot of takeout. Since moving in with Bancroft I’ve developed new stress management techniques that often include his penis. I’ve found it has a one hundred percent effectiveness rate in stress reduction. At least temporarily.

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?” Amie’s always been an early riser. She’s one of
those people who can get only four hours and still look fresh the next morning. If I get less than eight the bags under my eyes are so big I can fit the entire contents of my closet in them.

  “Thinking about the party.” She slips her arms through mine and we head for the restaurant where Bancroft has made us a reservation for lunch.

  As we pass a mirrored wall Amie grimaces and pats her hair. “I’m going to have to do something about this before I go back to work this afternoon.”

  “You look great.”

  “I’m having dinner with Gwendolyn tonight. She wants to talk about the guest list for the wedding again. I’ll definitely need to fix myself up before I see her.”

  “As long as it’s not the kind of fix-up she seems to be fond of.” Armstrong’s mother’s face doesn’t typically move apart from her lips. It’s a little unnerving how infrequently she blinks, to be honest.

  “She suggested I go for a Botox treatment a month before the wedding.”

  I snort. “What could you possibly need Botoxed?”

  “She says I make this face when I’m nervous and it’s creating lines in my forehead. Armstrong said it’s not a bad idea. I’m only twenty-five and I don’t want wrinkles yet.”

  I really have to bite my tongue against the scathing comments just itching to fly. In all the years we’ve been friends, Amie has never been this concerned about her appearance. She works for one of New York’s leading fashion magazines, and they perpetuate the “you’re not good enough” ideal at every turn. Buy this cream, use this technique. Fix yourself. How to be prettier, sexier, a better wife, a better girlfriend, a better lover. I think she might be brainwashed.

  Obviously her soon-to-be mother-in-law is exacerbating Amie’s newly developed insecurities. In fact, I think this entire wedding is pushing her insecurities. Broaching the subject without upsetting her is impossible, though. I tried in the beginning, but soon learned it wasn’t worth the stress it seemed to cause her.