Owned By My Best Friend's Dad (Single Dad and Virgin Romance) Page 12

  The man was everything Lacey had alluded to, and his photo in the newspaper did him no justice whatsoever. He was every bit the archetypal high-powered executive; cool, aloof, his broad-shouldered physique impeccably dressed in a suit even Armani would envy. His tanned skin complemented the rugged planes of his face that had probably been hot-towel shaved just this morning by a private barber. And said barber would have trimmed and groomed that full head of thick, dark hair, made even more attractive by a few flecks of silver, into that professional yet casual style typically sported by much younger yuppie types.

  But this man, more handsome than any middle-aged dude had a right to be, pulled it off brilliantly. On top of all that, behind those molten, chocolate brown eyes that pained me to look away from, was a cutting wit that I wouldn’t have expected from a stiff corporate type. Damn. He was the whole freaking package.

  To coin Lacey’s phrase: Hot. As. Fuck.

  God, is there something wrong with me? Is it unnatural or creepy that I’m attracted to an older man, instead of the useless pinheads my own age? Mind you that’s hardly a fair comparison; next to Bastian Kingsley, any man on the planet would seem like a homeless, uneducated cretin, unworthy of attention. But he has to be twice my age—around the same as my Uncle Doug—and that thought makes me shudder. I could be his daughter for fuck’s sake!

  The elevator cab squeezes to a stop on the main floor, and my foot taps in agitation waiting for the damn doors to open. Nope. I have to put Mr. Kingsley out of my mind. He’s a no-go; not only old enough to be my father but my employer as well. Those were lines you just didn’t cross. At least, ones that Mara Snow didn’t cross. Now, if we were talking about Lacey…

  The polished wall of steel finally parts and shoots me out onto the massive 24x24 marble tiles of the foyer once again. Straight ahead on the opposite wall are the elevators that will, sadly, transport me from the cloudlike heights of C-suite down to the darkened bowels of the basement. I chuckle at the ironic appropriateness of such a journey, considering I’m in the headquarters of an international mining company.

  The open maw of a waiting car seems to swallow me as I dash across the floor and leap inside. Jabbing the button for the B level, my stomach lurches as the car plunges downward. Is this what it would feel like to actually descend into one of GeoRock’s diamond mines?

  For a weird few seconds, I envision myself as one of the unfortunate workers who might have taken such a ride the day the Pretoria mine collapsed; oblivious to their impending doom and simply showing up for another long shift. I’d only just read about it, since it happened a long time ago, and as a fifteen-year-old, I would have hardly been interested in current events at that time, but now the enormity of the disaster fully impacts me. What a terrible end to meet—smothered and crushed by Mother Earth herself, her wrath utterly final and irrefutable. It was horrifying to even imagine.

  The gravity-defying bump as the elevator hits bottom shakes loose my morbid thoughts of death and destruction, and underscores my reason and passion for the field I chose. To understand and have a deep relationship with this place we call home; the living, breathing planet beneath our feet that we think we understand but have literally only scratched the surface of. There is more, so much more to know than geologic strata and deposits and fault lines and mineral seams. And I want to discover it all.

  The signage points me to the geotechnical analysis lab, and I scurry down the hallway and through the first set of doors. Further access is by authorization only, and I’m directed to the head lab tech. I feel like I’m in some futuristic DMV or a top-security intelligence headquarters, as my photo is taken and I’m issued a standard lab coat and a shiny new electronic ID badge. I clip it to a lanyard around my neck and run my fingers over its glossy laminated finish.

  I suppress a sigh of satisfaction. I’m official now.

  I scan the badge over the electronic eye and enter the privileged realm of GeoRock’s main laboratory facility. The technician shows me around, the space much larger than I anticipated, with multiple clean rooms and testing apparatus. Desktop computers with giant imaging screens fill multiple rows of countertop space, and banks of shelves and cabinets line the walls. The lighting is bright, and one end of the lab is a glass wall with a view of the outer reception area and connecting hallways.

  I’m shown to my workspace and introduced to Dr. Schilleman, the head geologist who is my immediate superior. He’s a studious but personable man, with a bald head and round-lensed eyeglasses that seem stylishly steampunk to me. I like him, and I like the sound of his lingering German accent as he runs through my assigned tasks for the day.

  The morning flies by, and my co-workers escort me to the commissary on the mezzanine level for a quick lunch. I glance around the place, the pleasant sounds of conversation and clinking silverware humming in my ears. So many faces, yet I find myself scanning the room with its signature cafeteria aromas of hot soup and dishwasher exhaust hanging in the air, for a particular visage that I hope I might see again.

  You dipshit, Mara. The company CEO doesn’t line up for mess hall rations with the great unwashed. He’s likely enjoying a catered, organic and gluten-free meal specially prepared for him by one of New York’s finest delicatessens and delivered by some exotic secretary that hangs on his every word and pines for his stellar body.

  Ouch. I surprise myself at how much that picture stings me inside, and what would have even triggered such a scenario in my mind. Of course, Bastian Kingsley would have a personal assistant of some kind; but that didn’t mean she was gorgeous or lusting after his bones or his millions. She could be a sixtyish matron with just a few years to go before retirement, or hell, not even a woman at all. There were male PAs, weren’t there?

  I finish my soup and head back to the lab, losing myself and my thoughts under piles of graded granular fills and cross-section images of core samples from sites all around the world. I find it fascinating, and giggle privately at the realization I’m exactly as Lacey described: an anomaly. But there was an old saying I’d heard, too: “Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” It’s true. This doesn’t feel like work to me, and now I know beyond a doubt I would do this whether I got paid or not. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

  After a few hours, I lean back in my swivel chair for a stretch. My back feels all knotted up from hunching over my computer and imaging screens, and I do a few seated yoga poses that I learned in school.

  I’m lucky that my workstation faces the wall of glass, making me feel less hemmed in. I gaze out to the main room and adjoining hallways, and my heart nearly stops. Not six feet away stands the impressive silhouette of Bastian Kingsley, leaning against a wall with his cell phone clamped to his ear.

  I see his lips moving and, coupled with the wrinkles on his brow, I sense the phone call is not a good one. He shifts his stance and starts to pace, one hand shoved in his pocket as he takes three or four steps then pivots and repeats. I’m not sure what he’s doing down here in “steerage,” but I can’t tamp down the spike of adrenaline that shoots through me. I watch his graceful gait; the crease and drape of his slacks absolutely perfect as he moves. I note his trim hips and sexy butt, his sculpted buns discernible even through the fine dark-gray material. I know I’m staring, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away. My tongue might even be lolling out without knowing it. I check to make sure.

  He pivots one last time and is walking toward me again, then stops in his tracks and thumbs the phone screen. Apparently, the call has ended as he shoves the device in his breast pocket and looks up. Straight. At. Me.

  I jolt upright as though a steel rod has been thrust through my spine. A goofy grin spreads across my face, and I raise my hand in a friendly wave. Seems like he could use a little friendly gesture after what appeared to be bad news. He stares for a second, his face expressionless, then blinks and turns away. Not a smile or even a nod of his chin in acknowledgment. A burning sensation creeps up my neck and bursts in
to tingling blossoms on my cheeks.

  He doesn’t even remember meeting me.

  I turn to my computer screen, fighting back the urge to throw up or cry, or both. You idiot. As if some lab groupie would make his day with a wave and a smile. I’m as invisible as the glass window that separates us.

  Separate. Disparate. Worlds apart. I am sieved from the likes of him just as surely as the varying grades of aggregates I’m studying. Cold reality hits me; I won’t be making any more gestures of friendship in the future to Mr. Bastian Kingsley. He can stay right where he belongs, in his tower of stone, and out of my foolish fantasies.

  Chapter Four

  Bastian

  Not So Simple

  “I don’t care what it takes, just get them out of the way.” I grind my teeth, trying to stave off a headache that’s been threatening to morph into a full-blown migraine all morning. I pay people to take care of shit like this, and I don’t want to listen to any more doom and gloom from my Ops manager. It’s the third day he’s called to inform me of a human blockade on the haul road up to the new North Cape mine.

  I’m not above sanctioning the use of force against those who stand in my way. But any perceived hostility or injustice toward South African nationals would have the human rights commission all over my ass, not to mention some opportunistic would-be warlord calling for my head on a spear.

  “By any non-violent means necessary,” I clarify. “Offer them work, food, livestock, a goddamn swimming pool if they want; whatever they’ll take to leave peacefully. I want us to be seen as allies, not aggressors.”

  It’s not the first time my OM and others have questioned the wisdom of another South African enterprise. There are far more vast and lucrative diamond-producing fields in the world now, and I intend for GeoRock to exploit them when the time is right. But regaining the trust and acceptance in North Cape is critical before any kind of expansion will be welcomed, or even possible.

  While my self-imposed exile hadn’t placed any significant stress on the corporation’s financial reserves, my low profile and questionable silence on the incident seven years ago certainly did. My face had been mostly forgotten, lost to the public memory behind a veil of suspicion. Hence my reappearance on the industry landscape was being treated with caustic apathy, especially on the part of investors. In short, no one particularly gives a shit about GeoRock’s faltering stock points or its has-been CEO anymore.

  That’s one reason to return to Africa. But I know it isn’t the only one.

  Deep down, deeper than I want to admit, the real reason for my stubborn fixation with North Cape is to lessen my deep-seated guilt. Guilt over failure; over professional negligence.

  Over loss and death.

  I disconnect the call, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to clear the pain in my skull. It doesn’t really work, and out of habit, I reach into my desk drawer for some pain relievers. Empty space meets my fingers. Frustrated, I glance around my office that takes up almost half the floor space on this level. It’s practically an apartment, with couch seating and a fireplace. It even has a bedroom with a separate bathroom large enough to land a surveillance drone on its glossy expanse of tiled floor.

  I’m guessing there’ll be something for my head in the medicine cabinet, and push back from my desk, my legs stiff from sitting for hours. And they’re not the only things stiffening up. My cock is chafing at the restraints of my tailored pants and underwear. I’d gotten used to short-sleeved linen shirts and Jamaica shorts while basking in the warmth of the French countryside. It would be so easy to go back there, lose myself again in blissful oblivion and raise my son without the concerns of the corporation constantly on my shoulders.

  But that’s fantasy. This is reality.

  The bathroom feels cold and sterile, like my heart. Against my better judgment, I allow myself to think of Celine as I pop two ibuprofen tablets into my mouth. My pain would be much better alleviated with a good blow job instead of drugs. God, I miss her still.

  On a whim, I lift the toilet seat and unzip my fly, freeing my throbbing dick from its confines. It feels good. I give it a few exploratory strokes, massaging the ‘kinks’ out, and I know I’m not going to stop. I brace one hand against the tiled wall and close my eyes, stroking and pumping myself to full mast. Goddamn it, I’m lonely and frustrated and pissed off, and if nothing else, jerking off will take my mind off all that for at least a minute or two.

  Fuck, it’s not happening fast enough. As the heat builds up from the friction between my hand and my thickening rod I have to visualize something else so I can get off quicker. To my surprise, it’s not Celine or some random porn image that enters my head; it’s the little brunette I met a few days ago, her pink lips parted in naïve, adorable ignorance. I picture shoving my dick down that little open space while I grip her pretty head by the hair and force her to her knees.

  I tilt my head back, enhancing the image in my mind, fine-tuning it like a radio signal. Oh yeah, she’s good. She’s on the floor, knees apart, her hands full of my balls and her mouth full of my cock, practically choking on it. Her blue eyes are wide, brimming with need and glossy with lust. I pull her head forward and back by the sleek brown hair that’s fisted in my hands. She’s undone her blouse for me, revealing the creamy mounds of her tits covered by lacy bra cups. What color? Red, I think—No, pink. Yeah—pink lace with a scalloped edge.

  Getting close now… She’s panicked about being in here with me. She’s just told her supervisor she had to slip out to the “ladies” but really came up here because I ordered her to. I’m glad she’s so obedient, but I’m expecting the members of the Board to come in any second for a big meeting… They mustn’t see us here. Gotta hurry. Come on, baby, suck harder.

  I’m squeezing and yanking my dick so hard I’m seeing stars… In a second I’ll be seeing goddamn fireworks when I blow this load… Shoot it all over that pretty face and watch her lick it up. Or maybe I’ll pull her off me before I come; turn her around, bend her over the fucking toilet bowl and shove that tight pencil skirt up to her waist. Pushing aside her matching pink thong, I take her from behind, my groin slapping the round moons of her delectable ass each time I drive inside of her, building up to detonation.

  Fuck, yeah… Fuck… Fuck! I let out a groan that echoes in the hollow, tiled cavern of the bathroom. My cock pulses as it fires the first salvo of hot cum over my hand and into the toilet. My skin is slick with it as I jerk the last few strokes to finish the job. God, that feels so fucking good, I don’t want it to end. I ride out the waves of glory as long as I can, emptying my mind at the same time I’m emptying my balls.

  In a minute it’s all over, and I can hear myself breathing like I’ve just run a marathon. Christ, I didn’t think it would take that much energy to get off; I must be out of shape.

  I zip up and flush, but the lingering image of… What was her name? I retrace the mental thread back to our first encounter. Mara. Mara Snow. Her picture is vivid in my mind now, especially that look of lust and supplication I pasted on her face in my fantasy. Pure as the driven snow.

  I chuckle at the irony of the old saying. Is she really so pure, untouched, untainted… a virgin, perchance? I doubt it, but maybe that’s part of my fantasy… an old man’s fantasy… deflowering some innocent blushing virgin who worships the ground I walk on. Unlikely I’ll find one of those in this day and age.

  And what the hell am I thinking anyway? I’m on the back side of my fortieth birthday. I’ve got no business entertaining visions of young pussy like Mara Snow’s. What is she, twenty-five at the most? Probably even younger, full of her own ambitions and ideals. I’m a widower with an eight-year-old son and a struggling corporation both reminding me there may be fewer days ahead than there are behind. My time for chasing corporate floozies and satisfying my own needs first is long past. If Mica needs a mother figure, it won’t be a modern-day Fraulein Maria singing and dancing her way from the nearest convent, looking young enough to be his big
sister.

  Add to that her resemblance to Celine, in more ways than one, and there’s an Olympic-sized red flag being waved in my face. Mara’s dark hair, pretty face and open, meek manner draw me in like a fisherman’s reel. But her enthusiastic interest in her field, and such an unlikely one as earth science, is a coincidental and painful parallel to my late wife I don’t want to think about. It’s setting off an alarm reminiscent of the horrifying sound of the emergency warning system that blared through the mine at Praetoria that fateful day seven years ago. The one that came too late to save my Celine.

  I remember with a pang of guilt how I’d purposely ignored Mara as she waved at me through the lab window the other day, partly because of the aggravating phone conversation I was engaged in, but more likely for all of the above reasons. Too young. Too smart. Too much of a reminder of my weaknesses and mistakes. Ones I can’t afford to make again.

  I wash my hands and straighten my clothes, and chastise the reflection of my conflicted, middle-aged self in the mirror. The striking profile and magazine-cover-featured good looks of Bastian Kingsley’s face will fade soon enough. There’s no room in my future for another woman, young or old. So, for the moment, I declare GeoRock’s basement laboratory officially off-limits.

  Chapter Five

  Mara

  Chivalry Isn’t Dead; Just Not Feeling Well

  “Oh, c’mon, Shirley… just a few feet more… don’t you die on me now!” I plead, coaxing my spluttering bomb of a car forward to the last vacant parking stall. Shirley is a gift from my Uncle Doug; he was about to call the local charity to come pick it up a year ago, but I convinced him she still had some life in her and would be perfectly suited for an unemployed student like me. He agreed and gave her to me free of charge, but today I’m forced to admit she may be on her last legs.

  Shirley, a 1992 Chevy Cavalier, coughs and rattles as she rolls on sheer momentum toward the paved slot that may be her final resting place. To my horror, smoke begins to spew out from under the dented hood, billowing into the enclosed concrete dungeon of the parkade. I roll down the window, and as I try vainly to wave away the clouds from my vision, I can hear her pitiful death cries amplified in the empty space. Dear God. I hope no one else is nearby to witness this; I’ll die of embarrassment, not to mention being arrested for crimes against the environment.