Devil In The Waters, Book 5, Chapter 12 (complete) (Patreon)

The address was near Yonge and Lawrence, a fifteen minute drive south from the office. Traffic was heavy and she waited almost two minutes to make the turn across Yonge to get on the side street and find the concrete sign with the thin and serif-less font reading: 1700 The Winchester. A short drive through a manicured green space brought her to the parking lot of The Winchester, a sleek black steel and concrete apartment building.

Devlin’d called her an hour and a half ago for a meeting saying he needed her expertise, wanted her at his side for a negotiation, and to meet him at this address. Wasn’t even supposed to be in Toronto today, and yet here he was playing games. And now given that the Winchester was an apartment building, her imagination began to work down the path of Devlin’s dark proclivities. That this wasn’t a meeting at all, that he’d borrowed a friend’s apartment to encourage from her a lunchtime tryst. Could picture some hotshot like Devlin living here, some UCC prick Devlin met at U of T, Devlin saying he needed to bang this lawyer he hired and, since you’re in the Bahamas, what say you, old friend, give us your pad, and maybe the keys to your Fifty Shades room . . . or maybe this was a legit meeting. You never knew with Devlin. One minute all business, the next some incredible ruse meant to get you to suck his cock on your knees. Problem was, her stomach wasn’t exactly tightening with dread. It was exciting not knowing. It was exciting to get the call, hear his voice, play along, say you’d meet him at apartment 2101, 1700 Winchester, 1:15 P.M. Let’s see what happens . . . 

As she guided the Leaf into a visitor’s spot she weighed the odds. A tryst was a pretty good bet. No guidance from Devlin when he called, no suggestion of what to brush up on, or telling her to pull some company or some character’s file. No past data to worry about. So maybe it was someone new. If it was business, perhaps it was a new customer seeking help they were already familiar with. Most likely, though, it was a tryst.

And since that was most likely she’d removed her panties in the bathroom at work. Pretty terrible thing for a married woman to do, but this was the way it was. It certainly looked like she was going to bend to Devlin’s weight, and engage in a few-times-weekly hookup behind Josh’s back. And do it on the cushion of some weird rationale that Josh knew how hot it was—so much so it made her husband hard as a rock to even fantasize about it. If she was wrong, and this wasn’t a tryst, she’d now have to engage in a business meeting with no panties, and it provoked another terrible realization: this wasn’t the first time she’d done legitimate work with sex heavy on her mind and not wearing any panties. Coming into this employment opportunity she’d been armed with morals and virtue and yet somehow Devlin’d allowed her to cloak herself in righteousness and still spread his filth in front of her, a middle ground where she played in his dirt patch and still wear her vestments. An erotic rapprochement. A (place of ) where she indulged the enormous sexual capabilities of her rich and handsome and powerful boss; where Devlin was satisfied getting his big dick wet inside her; and where she’d also kidded herself into thinking her own husband would somehow appreciate his wife spreading her legs for a man as well-hung and obviously gorgeous despite being the asshole who bullied him in high school.

The lobby of the Winchester was what she would expect, complete with black lacquer, austere cement faces, stainless steel accents, and polished mahogany furniture. The concierge was a bright-smiling African in uniform who met her with enormous pleasantries—maybe coming on to her. Which was exciting to consider. When she’d worked in immigration, all the clientele was too scared to consider her attractiveness, or too powerless to act on it. Plus, back then she’d never worn makeup, dressed professionally but mostly in earth tones. Things had changed, that was for sure. But it wasn’t just in the style of dress. That was a reflection of the change inside her. Gone were the days of monumental paperwork, bureaucratic nonsense . . . No, that wasn’t true. Her new job was also about bureaucracy. Only, for some reason now it seemed streamlined, coming at it from a whole different angle. She knew what it was: Profit. That was the different angle. And when you came at the same old problems from this new direction everything sure did look different. And people looked at her differently, too. Just like Ella who’d administered her IV in the Royal York the day before yesterday. It was respect. Admiration, maybe—admiration mixed with a few drops of mystique. Not knowing what she did for a living, but knowing it was beyond them given her wardrobe and (she like to think) the steely look in her eye.

“One-fifteen appointment with Devlin Stone. 2101,” she told the concierge.

“Okay, okay,” he said humming, checking his LCD screen. “Devlin Stone,” he said, “there you are, 21st floor and then you turn left. It’s the apartment at the very end of the hall, Mrs. Chang.”

She thanked him, the good-looking young guy keeping his smile the whole time, maybe even checking her out as she walked from the concrete bunker of a desk to the three black lacquer and stainless elevator banks. She pressed the up-arrow, never looking back. It was a quick and silent ride to the 21st floor, and turning left she saw a woman headed her way, eyes down, fingers dancing on her phone. As they came nearer, the woman’s expression changed, going from iPhone concentration to immediate good humor, tucking the phone in a skirt pocket. She wore a black jacket and skirt, a white dress shirt, and carried a black briefcase. She approached to greet, holding out her hand. She said, “You must be Devlin’s lawyer.”

“I am,” she said shaking hands.

She said, “Very good to meet you, I’m Betsy Shapiro.” Nowa business card was passed, and she took it with both hands to read: Betsy Shapiro, broker.

Betsy said, “Mr. Stone’s in the apartment. I have a few phone calls to make, you can tell Mr. Stone to take his time.”

She told Betsy she would, gave a curt nod and a restrained smile. Tucked Betsy’s business card into her jacket pocket and watched the woman at the elevator banks, pressing the button and snagging the same cab she’d rode up in before it had descended.

A broker. So, not the tryst she’d thought. Business. But what kind of business?

She adjusted her suit jacket as she resumed her path to the apartment at the end of the hall, headed for 2101. The black door was ajar, and she entered.

No surprises, much like the lobby, the decor of the apartment was what she would have presumed. Gallery-like, also austere; big, bold and graphic paintings, similar patterns on the bright cushions that padded the ivory couches; ebony furniture; a glimpse in the kitchen showed her all stainless top-of-the-line appliances. The view was southward toward the city, sunny out there today, a spacious blue sky, a sliver of the CN Tower piercing into the horizon. She adjusted her jacket, put hands in the pockets of her skirt, let her heels click around on the floor. Devlin would call her, she wouldn’t call him.

Then Devlin’s voice at last, coming from down the hall: “In here.”

She found him in the apartment’s bedroom, standing in that masculine and familiar Devlin pose. In a steely suit, shirt in pale blue, royal blue tie and matching braces; fisted hands placed on hips, suit jacket open. He stood by the bedroom’s huge window wall, admiring the view of the city.

She asked, “What, pray tell, kind of meeting is this one today?” She leaned casually on the doorframe.

Devlin turned, amused, eyes bright and happy—unmistakably pleased to see her here. How times had changed. When she thought of Devlin, she thought of him as menacing. But here he was today, calm, confident, and capable, but no menace. It was a subtle shift, and an exciting one. He said, “What do you think?”

“About Betsy, or about this apartment?”

“Think she’s pretty?”

She chuckled. “You probably do.”

Hands off hips, he crossed his arms now and studied her. “Is that jealousy?”

“What do I have to be jealous of?—I’m married.”

He nodded, said, “I’m asking what you think of the apartment.”

She sighed, said, “I appreciate the gesture, but I already have a place to live.”

He smiled, enjoying her banter, uncrossing his arms and putting hands in his pants pockets, slowly strolling across the hardwood floor toward her. She raised her chin.

She said, “It’s not for me, is it?”

“It’s not.”

“Why do you need an apartment?”

“You tell me,” he said.

Here was what was obvious: you called me here, so I’d guess you want an apartment for a fuck pad. She said, “I would say you’re tired of driving back and forth from Kingston to Toronto.”

“I told you I was.”

“So now you want a place to crash here. Tired of Toronto hotels?”

“I’m tired of Toronto hotels,” he said. “I’d like something a little more permanent.”

“Abandoning old Kingston, our home of origin?”

“It’s about time I joined the rest of you.”

“Josh and I? We only made it as far as Ajax.”

“For now,” he said, closing the distance further, practically joining her in the space of the open doorway.

She said, “I’m afraid to say what I think this apartment really means.”

“You’re that insightful—you know why?”

“I think so.”

“I think the future is in Toronto,” he said, pushing away from the doorframe now, heading toward the view at the window again. She watched the breadth of his shoulders in his suit jacket, the way he moved gracefully even with his arms crossed. She followed, coming to stand behind him at the foot of the bed. It was low, modern in a Japanese way, no headboard, it looked like a black lacquered ebony platter with a pure white mattress, white duvet flat on top with a wiggling black line as if paint’d been dripped high from above. The painting that hung above the bed was simple and geometric, black and white with spots of red.

She said, “You want to expand the Toronto office.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“The shipping’s been changing, I’m not arguing with you. And I only see it diminishing further.”

“I’d be crazy not to be here. There’s more than shipping, anyway.”

“So Stone would change its head office?”

“Stone?” he said, “Stone Brokerage?”

She frowned—Devlin being coy for some reason. “Right,” she said, “the company I work for.”

“Oh,” he said, “maybe. Maybe the company you work for.”

Her frown deepened. She asked him what he meant.

“I’m moving to Toronto. I’m moving for brokerage . . . and that’s all I’m ready to say right now.”

She studied his face, registered the confidence but looked deeper to find meaning and resolve. From his insinuation, she saw bigger and bolder moves than she’d ever even expected from him. A coldness throbbed at her core at the implication, but a light amusement still flickered at the forefront of her thoughts.

“That’s very bold,” she said.

He said nothing in return, only held her gaze, smiling, sucking on his lower lip a moment than letting it go. His smile deepened on one side, and his eyes narrowed. There was that menace again, and she liked to see it return.

She said, “I didn’t know what to expect when you called me here.”

“I’m glad you came.” Then: “Because I do want you at my side . . .” A simple statement, but in conjunction with the possible independence he was insinuating they held more weight. She nodded, unable to hide the wow from her eyes, thinking how huge this might be if he were serious. But also registering the disappointment that this wasn’t as simple a meeting as she’d bet on. Things had been much easier when she thought he’d borrowed a buddy’s apartment so they could have sex. She palmed her forehead a second, smoothed her hair, fingertips exploring the shape of her tight bun. Maybe it was all too much. No wonder he’d offered her the job. Was he looking for an ally all along? Why hadn’t he been more honest from the beginning? . . . 

Now he changed the subject, saying: “Back to my first question: what do you think of the apartment?”

She asked how much it was and he told her four-K a month.

She said, “Do you have terms a term sheet, or something for me to look over?”

“I can get you whatever you want.”

“Okay,” she said, “email it to me. I’ll let you know.”

“But what do you think of the apartment?”

“It comes furnished?”

“As is.”

“It looks like Ivan Boesky’s mistress’s apartment,” she said of the eighties design.

Devlin’s smile spread even wider. “Should I change the artwork?”

“No,” she said, “somehow it’s all very fitting.” She crossed her own arms now, inhibited, looking around and taking it all in.

“I need you to like it,” he said in a low voice.

And there was the truth she’d suspected all along, Devlin’s coyness hiding it from her, his method of dominance. He didn’t care about terms sheets, or her educated opinion on the paperwork. He wanted her to know what she thought of the place where she would cheat on her husband a few times a week . . . 

“I like it,” she said.

He nodded. “I’m going to take it.”

She allowed him a moment of command, but then took some control of her own. “I don’t want you to come to Cayman.”

He nodded again, not looking her way, eyes out the window taking in the stellar view.

When she’d taken the job, in her heart it was to make money. Maybe way in the trunk of her mind there was the knowledge she would submit to his sexual advances. One time. Now it was obvious it wouldn’t be only one time. A desire had built. One she hadn’t anticipated. If she didn’t make the effort to create new barriers, new rules, ones she could adhere to for once, where would it lead her? What would it do to her and Josh. And what about poor Josh? What about his heart? God, his sanity?

Still not looking her way, Devlin said now: “No?”

“I’m going with Josh. It’s my time with him.”

“Your call.”

She unbuttoned the collar of her shirt, hands moving to the next one down. The sound drew Devlin’s attention and he turned to face her.

She looked at him, said, “But I need you to fuck me now.”

His expression went steely, his eyes warming with sudden lust. She was giving him what he wanted, but she was getting what she wanted too, doing it on her own terms. If she let Devlin dominate her it would end her way of life, she knew it in her heart. He would sever her relationship with Josh—he would crush Josh. If she fucked around with Devlin she would have to own it, do it on her own terms.

Devlin chuckled. “Here?”

She said, “On your new bed.”

He chuckled, looking her up and down. “Going to be a long weekend without a real cock.”

“I’ll make do.”

“Josh does other things for you.”

“He does indeed.”

“Did he fuck you last night? Was he eager to show you how much he appreciated the party you threw to hide your guilt?”

She shook her head, admonished him with her gaze, still unbuttoning. “We had great sex last night.”

“Did you come on his cock?”

“I did.” Her shirt was unbuttoned, the strap of her black bra drawing Devlin’s eyes. “Does it surprise you?”

She could see his devious mind at work behind his black eyes, looking for a way to get the upper hand, looking to spark her lust and to diminish Josh all at once. He found it, and it was the truth. “Josh asked about my bulge again.”

“Maybe,” she said, untucking her shirt, letting the tails hang over her skirt. Her eyes were drawn to the movement of his hand, watching it go between his legs and heft the large shape of his genitals. It was clear he wore no underwear, clear the unbuttoning of her shirt and her request to be fucked had begun to arouse him. He smoothed the fabric underneath the bulk of his cock and balls, made a hammock for his manhood, showing off the size to her. The sight thrilled her, gave her a tight string of anticipation between her legs and a tingling in her fingertips and stomach.

He said, “What did you tell him?”

“How big it was,” she said, her voice softer than she anticipated. Devlin liked hearing her say it. Liked to know she would tell Josh that. Devlin loving his own cock, his lawyer loving it, even his lawyer’s husband loving it. There was his power; that was how he got off. His own natural entitlement, his endowment by birth. A thing so powerful other men’s wives turned their backs on their spouses to interact with it. And seeing it his way, seeing how Devlin saw it suddenly aroused her too. Like a license. A pass. Devlin’s undeniable masculine appeal so apparent that even a cuckolded husband would accept the truth and kneel before his dominance.

Now she straightened her spine, shook her head to disengage the awful tractor beam of that lustful thought, reminding herself not to submit to him.

Devlin closed the space between them, her eyes lowered to watch the shifting movement of his cock behind the cradle of fabric. Face to face now, he guided her hand to caress the bulge, holding her wrist while she palmed the weight of his cock.

He said, “You’d rather go to Cayman with Josh? You’re sure?”

She fingered the girth of his hardening cock, fingertips tracing the flared shape of his bulging cock head. “That’s why I need you to fuck me now.”

“Fuck, Kimmy,” he groaned, “yes, that’s hot.”

Fingers still appreciating his cock under the fabric, she said, “I want to go with Josh because I like spending time with him. I want to hang out with my husband, I want to do couples things . . .”

“Yeah,” he asked, liking her words, betraying to her the source of his arousal, his own kink becoming apparent. He unzipped, tugged out his cock and put it in her grip. It was huge, hot and gummy, and not even hard yet. “Your pussy ready for me again?”

She stroked, hefted, teased his cock. “I need it. I need your big cock before I go away with my husband.” Her eyes moved from the wicked sight of his monstrous penis in her hand up to his ravenous eyes. “I need you to fuck me with your huge cock.”

The words’ effect on him was obvious in his eyes. And his cock surged hard in her grip, his rate of arousal increasing with her dirty talk.

“You didn’t get what you wanted last night?”

“From Josh?” She shook her head no.

“You need a real cock.”

“I need a big cock. Not his little dick . . .”

Devlin closed his eyes and his cock went to wood in her grip. She whispered, “I’m not wearing panties . . .”