Maggie 5-4 (Patreon)

She wouldn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror. Avoiding her reflection, she washed her hands in the spotless bathroom where she had gone during their food tasting last weekend. Outside the heavy wooden door, she knew Cole would be waiting.

She’d left him at the table to settle the bill and came in and pressed a cold paper towel to her cheeks, digging her fingers into the muscles under her eyes. Touched up her makeup then, her amber eyes darting over the Maggie in the mirror and unsettling her. How would she stop them from doing something that would be a mistake? They were helplessly tumbling that way. Cole cleared everything from her path, let her see him put cushions along the route and she knew, if she wasn’t careful, they would end up tumbling into her bedroom. How terrible would that be?

On a scale of 1 to 10, it was a nine. It was Max’s greatest fear. He’d told her. They wouldn’t laugh at him but it was without him. Just the other night they’d already gone too far, and in the aftermath she could feel her brain struggling to make it okay, twist her indiscretion into something that would be for Max’s erotic benefit. She could do it now too. Tell herself that as hurtful as it would be to sleep with his best friend, her loving Max would reap a benefit. How would she reveal it to him? In bed, maybe riding him...? She could picture that, getting on top of him, his hands on her breasts, she could control their lovemaking and tell him every detail. He would love it. In a way it would be for him, it would be a present she could slowly unwrap for him.

“Shit,” she sighed, grasping her neck with both hands and boldly looking at her slutty face now. Where Maggie? At home? Your parents will be there. In your dad’s precious Mercedes? Bad idea. The Poirot would be booked. Where else? Find a hotel somewhere along the way? They needed to knock this off. Quit it. Put the jets in reverse and blast back some of this forward momentum before they both did something they regretted.

She snatched her clutch off the marble counter and opened the door. He was there. Waiting. Posing as he was last weekend. It had been okay then. Why not now? Really...why?

His uneven smile made her toes clench inside the points of her Gucci’s. Easing off the high, marble-topped table, he crossed the hall to her. She didn’t smile, just watched every move he made the whole painstaking voyage to her. They met face to face, her taller in her heels than she had been the last time they’d come together in this hall. It was quiet in here, but from the restaurant side they could hear the murmur of patrons, the clink of silver on china. He leaned to her, his hand going over her shoulder again, palm against the wall to her right. She sucked her lips into her mouth and looked deep into his eyes. He kissed her. Slow and delicate, his lips came in and took command of her. She softly grunted, her head tilting back weakly on her neck as she succumbed her lips, succumbed her heart. Hands staying at her sides, one elbow bent to hold her clutch tucked to her waist. His mouth worked on hers, soft lips suckling and biting at her, rough beard scratching her porcelain skin. She moaned into his mouth and the sound broke her in two.

“No. Cole, don’t, please,” she whimpered. Her eyes swelled with the threat of tears.

The tickle of her hem being lifted danced up one shin, across her knee. He stared in her eyes and she didn’t stop him. She bit her lip and in her mind she had the strength to say stop, had the power to say no. The hem danced up her thigh and neither of them wavered, their eyes locked on one another, not even darting suspiciously up and down the hall to make sure they weren’t discovered. Her hand moved to his wrist. Felt his cuff, his cufflink, gripped him but didn’t stop him. His fingers touched the bare skin of her thigh and she gasped. Then he ran them higher, up underneath her dress, dancing along the hollow again in the space where her hip met her tummy. It fluttered, and she held her breath.

When he finally touched her her knees gave for a moment and she bobbed, her eyes went lazy and in that moment he took her kiss again and she let him, her head tilted back until the crown touched the wall, his finger stroking through her wetness, dipping inside her body.

She let him finger her, his other hand moved up her back, gripped her neck. He fucked her deeply with his finger, alternately kissing her, then looking deep and longingly into her eyes.

“Stop, stop, stop,” she whispered desperately, though if he continued she may have just urged that too. She felt so lost, so twisted. “We can’t,” she cried, and now a single tear spilled from an eye and down her cheek. He brushed it away with a knuckle.

“Come with me,” he said, and he took her hand, let her dress fall. She followed along with him as a party of six came through the double doors ahead of them, laughing and regaling, oblivious to the exciting show they missed by a second.

They passed through the doors at the end of the hall, under the staircase and balcony above, to find themselves in the lobby of the Poirot. It was at one time the dining room of the mansion before it was renovated as a hotel, and reception was on their right. The concierge was a pretty woman in her thirties, blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, wearing a dark suit; sitting by herself behind an ornate walnut table with carved, double-scroll legs. A fire in the fireplace next to her crackled.

The room was extravagant, but small and intimate and they had her attention.

“Mr. Cantarella,” she said, nodding to Cole.

Instead of walking left and taking her out to retrieve the Mercedes and take her home, he pulled her to the right, towards the staircase that rose to the balcony above.

“Cole,” she whispered. This was crazy. They would be booked, and what if they recognized her here?

She stumbled along with him, smiling, but tucking her chin down and hiding her face from the woman. They passed her, came to the bottom of the stairs that led to the mansion’s second floor, turned and mounted the first step.

She stopped him. “Where are we going, Cole?”

“Come on, Maggie. Come with me.”

She threw a glance to the concierge but stopped, afraid their eyes may actually meet. Turned her head away and came up next to him as he continued to ascend the old wooden stairs carpeted in rich pile.

She whispered, “Cole, where are we going?”

“We have a room.”

“A room? No, Cole. How did you get a room?”

“I got us a room.”

“How?” she whispered, her tension turning it to a hiss.

“I booked it last week.”

“Cole,” she sighed, her brows going high in the middle, her face twisting like she might cry, but her feet kept pace with him. At the top of the stairs she panicked, yanked his arm when they were out of sight of anyone.

She frowned deep, said, “Not the Bridal Suite?”

He shook his head, his eyes soft and caring. “No, Maggie. No. I wouldn’t do that.”

His hands went to both sides of her neck and he held her. Her hands went over his and she looked in his eyes hoping he would be the one to come to his senses first.

* * *

Their room was the Regency Suite, and it looked out over the garden and then the black of the ocean beyond. The room was paneled in rich oak, set with complex linenfold. A leather couch sat in front of a fireplace and the fire was already crackling, lighting the dim room in rolling amber hues. Past the fireplace and the couch, the room raised two steps and there were the windows that looked out to the water, and a balcony with four chairs. On one side, in the raised half, was an enormous oak four-post bed with a canopy, clad in rich bunting and a drape that undulated over top. On the right loomed a massive oak armoire with heavy curved legs, and to the right of that a bathroom door, slightly ajar, and she could see it was tiled in rich, chocolaty marble.

Cole’s hand pressed on the small of her back, urging her farther into the room. She took another step forward, and he closed the door behind them. When his hands embraced the narrow of her waist she moved away again, deeper into the room, pausing at the couch, dropping her clutch on the arm, then laying her hands over the cushioned backrest.

“I can’t do this, Cole,” she whispered.

“We’ll tell him when we’re done. We’ll sit him down and we’ll break it to him.”

“No, Cole.”

“We won’t hurt him, I swear, Maggie. He’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know if he would be.”

His hands rested on her again and this time she didn’t have the strength to walk away. She felt their warmth, their size, how small and slim they made her. His presence behind her was enormous, this looming thing hunting her down, a predator so powerful its prey succumbed, threw itself down and exposed its neck, hoping the other animal would make it quick. Though Cole was no bloodthirsty predator, he’d brought her here by cunning rather than physical prowess, though he had that too. No, her being in this room was less about Cole’s predatory skills and more about her willingness, desire, to thrust her jugular up to be taken. She tilted her head, exposed her neck, literally, to him. He kissed her and her toes gripped the soles of her shoes again, her girl parts tightened and a spate of sweat rose interiorly.

“I will give you what you want. I’ll give you what he can’t.”

“Cole...”

“Do you love Max?”

“I love him so much.”

“Does he love you?”

“I know he does.”

“Let it happen, Maggie. Let it happen.”

Now his hands dipped lower, sliding the palms down over the curve of her slim hips, angling to her bottom. It hit her like electricity. His touch on her ticklish and sensitive spot brought something terrible to life.

“Oh, don’t,” she sighed.

A tragic and overwhelming wave passed over her and she found the strength to stumble away from him. She crossed the room, her hand clutching her warm forehead. Her heart beat a rapid pulse up the sides of her neck. Moving from him, from the fire, she walked to the raised half of the room, her heels quiet now on a velvety carpet. Between the armoire and the bed, in the rough hand-stuccoed space between the two windows there was a dresser with a mirror and she paused there, put her hands on the cool, wooden top and bowed her head before her reflection.

His footsteps approached and her heart rate quickened. When they fell silent on the carpet he was close. Chin tilting upward, eyes forced to raise, she watched him then—growing larger in the mirror, coming over her shoulder. His hands were in his pockets, the warm hue of the fire lit him from behind, putting an orange line that drew his masculine silhouette. The ambient light from the night swimming in the two windows cut cold shadows on the stubbled hollows of his cheeks, his sharp jawline. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

Cole in the mirror was the one who put her insides on fire. Her good friend... He was a boy she loved as a friend but in the mirror she could glimpse the man he would become. And while she loved him as a friend, and only as a friend, she was afraid she might be in love with that man he would become. A devastating fear that, while she loved Max now, it would be Cole she loved in the future.

His body touched hers and she shivered, closed her eyes. Slowly her skirt was being raised, the hem lightly dancing up the backs of her calves, touching the ticklish backs of her knees.

She opened her eyes, saw his gaze lowered, looking at her bare legs as they were revealed. Muscles tensing, toes pivoting, she posed her legs for him, showed him what he wanted, what he’d asked for. He admired her legs and the look in his eyes, one of deep appreciation and fondness, burst her. She bit the inside of her mouth.

The hem came higher.

Her calves flexed, the muscles raising and arcing; still she watched his eyes. The hem slipped up over the curve of her bare rump and her breath stuck in her chest. Her heart beat loud in her eardrums.

One hand held her skirt at the small of her back, the other touched her skin and she gasped. The sound of her arousal made him bolder. He caressed the cheeks of her ass, each globe such a small thing in his masculine spread. A finger slipped between her legs and she gasped again. Her ankles twisted sideways in her shoes as she spread her legs just a little wider, just enough for him to slip a fingertip along her sex.

“Do you know how wet you are?”

She nodded quickly, her head turned to the side, keeping him in her periphery, but her gaze cast down.

“Such a naughty Margaret. My little girl didn’t even wear her panties tonight.”

She shook her head no, desperate for more of his touch, wanting his finger sinking inside her again. It slipped back and forth, each oily grazing tingling the top of her scalp and making her feet feel like they were leaving the floor.

“I’m such a bad girl,” she whispered.

“You are,” he agreed. Then he found her tight, wet aperture, and she felt his wonderful parting, his finger pushing her flesh aside and her body accepted him, wanted him. He worked her like that, touching, teasing, fucking her. Her sex made wet and excited sounds. She lifted her whole body up on her toes—avoided the mirror, but flashed a look at his handsome face when she was strong. He watched her face in the mirror while he pleasured her. Every time she glanced his eyes were on hers, waiting for them to open. His eyes were confident, dominant, and they made her eager to be his plaything, eager to find out the pleasure he might give her if she didn’t stop him.

Reaching back, she took her own hem now, lifted her skirt high for him, bent at the waist and showed him the round curve of her ass. Their eyes met again but this time she held his gaze. Eyes flashing over one another, her lips sucked into her mouth, she screamed to him what she wanted, what she deserved, at the same time as her mouth choked off the words. Silently screaming with her pleading expression. Her chest heaved with wanton breath; he’d brought a high and bright shine to her, white light running in a warbling line along the raised blades of her collar and neck.

One strong hand gripped her narrow wrist, held her palm firmly pressed to the dresser top, her mouth falling agape. She lifted her skirt higher, her brows raising to a peak in the middle.

His open hand drew back and her knees trembled... He slapped her ass hard and she cried out. A high and thin feminine sound, not pain but an exultation. Her head nodded so slightly for him. He slapped her ass again, harder, the sound sharper. Her flesh shook, her thin thighs jiggled. “Oh,” she cried out again, and her tummy tightened, her sex flexed, a warm wetness trickled on the inside of her thighs. Now he gripped her ass cheek, coddled it and smoothed it, his eyes on hers in the mirror.

“Again,” she whispered. “Eight more.”

He kept her eyes, his expression even and unwavering. His hand drew back again, and he struck her hard across her bottom. The pain was white and bright, rippling an electric tingle across her skin, making her numb from her cheeks to the backs of her knees. He struck her hard four more times, making her yelp with each one. He never wavered. His eyes stayed locked on her, his brow lowered, not in meanness but in determination.

“Am I...” she gasped, paused, continued, “Am I a... disappointment?”

A cocky smile pulled up one corner of his mouth, denting his cheek. “We’re going to set you straight tonight, Margaret. We’re going to teach you a lesson.”

“Yeah,” she softly cried.

He finished. A silver cuff link winked in the firelight each time his hand drew back, becoming a liquid blur as it sped towards her flesh. Ten times he spanked her. Ten times his masculine hand came in contact with her innocent and misunderstood flesh. Each strike an erotic plunge through her heart and brain. She hated that Max couldn’t do this. Hated that she wanted it. Loved that she had a man who could do this to her insides.

When the count ended at ten he released her wrist and helped her to straighten. Then he kissed the hollow of her neck and she melted into him.