The Drazen World: The Tryst (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

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  THE TRYST

  By

  MILANA RAZIEL

  To Lobster and FLL,

  Thanks for putting up with me.

  You never make me sad.

  JON

  MISSY

  JON

  MISSY

  JON

  MISSY

  JON

  MISSY

  JON

  MISSY

  JON

  MISSY

  JON.

  MISSY

  JON

  MISSY

  JON

  Epilogue

  PLAYLIST

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  TRYST: (n) a meeting by lovers at a secret time or place.

  JON

  That ass. It was mine to do with as I pleased. Round, firm, luscious, and so, so pale. Well, it wouldn't be pale for long, once I had my way with it. Missy faced away from me, nude, her long, dark hair gathered at the nape of her neck, save for a tendril that snaked down her bare back and brushed against her skin. The cool spring breeze was full of the smell of fresh cut grass, while the dugout smelled of sweat and leather.

  "Turn around, straddle the bench, and stand still." With a flick of my hand, I directed her to the aluminum bench running along the front of the dugout.

  As I pulled my raglan-sleeve jersey over my head and tossed it on the bench, she gave me a saucy look over her shoulder and straddled the bench, which earned her a firm hand at her neck. I forced her face to the bench.

  "Wrap your arms around the bench and grab your elbows. Keep that ass up." I slid my uniform belt off and lashed her forearms together, effectively pinning her upper body and face to the bench. I slid my sweaty jersey under her cheek—part of our agreement was no visible marks and the grooves of the bench would definitely leave a welt.

  Since I was right there, I nipped the soft flesh under her ear. She tried to rub her ass against my thigh—more bratty behavior—as I caressed the pristine flesh on the small of her back and ass. The involuntary shiver my calloused hand elicited was intoxicating. I loved making her apprehensive and off-balance—it made everything that followed that much sweeter. As the perfume of her arousal became more apparent with each caress, I wound up and made contact, leaving a bright red handprint on her ass. It was followed by at least a dozen more, all along her ass and upper thighs. As she got wetter and wetter, her whimpers morphed into breathy yelps and finally frustrated sobs. I smacked her ass for what seemed like forever, but my arm never tired.

  Groaning, I yanked my rock-hard cock out of my baseball pants, found her soaking wet slit, and rocked into her. But rather than give her what she wanted, I just stood there, my cock all the way in and my balls brushing her lips. I smacked her ass sharply, eliciting a scream, as I pounded into her cunt relentlessly. I only got harder as I watched the teeth of my zipper rub along her strawberry-red ass, leaving a tiny cross-hatch of welts imprinted on her skin. Her sobs turned into keening as she strained to push back against me, panting and writhing, and coax an orgasm out of both of us.

  Her pussy rippled against my cock before it clamped down hard, wringing an orgasm out of ─

  I woke up to find my cock clenched in my fist and the sheets spattered with my cum.

  I got up, changed the sheets, and started a load of wash. No need for the housekeeper to know I'm having wet dreams like a twelve-year-old. Fuck. That's the third night this week. This needs to stop.

  Thank God it was Friday. I only had an early workout with the pitching coach and errands on my schedule. Another perk of being a senior athlete was no Friday classes. Thinking about the way this past week had gone, I was shocked that was still the case. To say that the aftermath of Beau's visit was not pleasant was an understatement. The athletic director had been building next year's team around Beau before he even set foot in Philadelphia, and my failure to get Beau’s signed contract before he went home meant my ass was on the line. I was amazed I'd been able to sleep at all, let alone dream.

  The sun had woken me on Sunday morning after the best sleep I'd had in ages. Ever since my stay at Westonwood, I was lucky if I got three hours of sleep a night and was usually up before the sun. Sleeping soundly was rare, mostly because I couldn't stop my mind from churning. For reasons I didn't completely understand, Missy and Beau managed to calm my thoughts. So much so, I slept soundly for one night. That was the only silver lining in the storm clouds that gathered. It turned out that I’d slept so soundly Missy managed to leave before I could have her one more time. When I woke, Beau was already late for his flight. Not the ideal way to start my day.

  After a mad dash to the airport, I’d spent the better portion of Sunday on the hot seat about my recruiting efforts and the likelihood of Beau signing. I wasn't about to betray Beau's confidences, and my non-answers and evasions did not sit well with the AD. When word got back to him that Beau and I had been missing in action at the expected places and activities, I got dragged back into his office for another round of interrogation. Apparently, our failure to drink and whore with the usual suspects was frowned upon. That drama ate up my entire Sunday. Once again, it was all on me to close everyone else's deals. I loved the game and I loved my teammates, but the business of college sports was leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

  The rest of the week hadn’t fared any better. Between the recruitment drama that seemed to play on a continuous loop, fires popped up on every front. Wednesday featured panicked calls from Theresa. She was running into problems with the bursar's office. Her tuition hadn't been paid, and when she went to use her credit card, it was declined. I talked her off the ledge, cleared up the issue with the bursar, and spent the rest of the day on the phone with Margie, trying, unsuccessfully, to get some answers about what the hell was going on in the Drazen empire. Margie was cagier than usual and half-heartedly blamed the missed payment on changes at the accountant's office. The check's in the mail? Seriously, dear sister? She blew off the issue with the declined credit card completely. The quality of Margie's bullshit was slipping, which couldn't be a good thing.

  Thursday was filled with trying to find an upper-level humanities seminar I could late add, thanks to the team's former academic advisor. Apparently she neglected to read the full list of graduation requirements and the course planning she did for the team was incomplete. Without that course, I wouldn't be able to graduate on time. So I spent the afternoon running around campus and sucking up to half of the liberal arts faculty before I finally managed to talk my way into an Art History Seminar on Impressionism and Modern Art. Nothing like starting a class I didn't want to take two weeks behind. Taking it Pass/Fail wasn't an option either.

  My Friday afternoon coaching session was the first productive thing I participated in all week. Thanks to a few small refinements to my stance and an adjustment to my weight placement, I was able to get my fastball to consistently clock in at eighty-eight mph with less effort and stress on my elbow and shoulder. I was feeling so good I took an hour in the batting cage for good measure, then I settled in for some massage therapy in the training room. If nothing else, chaos hasn't invaded my life on the mound.

  As I cut through the com
mon areas of the field house to the training and locker rooms, I caught a glimpse of Missy leaving Coach DeMaio's office. She was back to her ill-fitting khakis and oversized turtleneck, but her hair was down. I wanted to stop her and talk but thought better of it. The inkling of an idea began to take shape.

  Saturday night rolled around, and I found myself walking through the brisk night air toward Kovac's. It was almost too cold for snow—almost. As the snow began to fall in hard, sparkling shards, I told myself I wasn't hoping to see her—I was just looking for a wee dram and the advice of a friendly neighborhood bartender who happened to have decades of experience in the kink community. I needed to figure out a way to scratch this itch before my housekeeper decided I had a medical issue.

  I wasn't in a position to date anyone. In fact, that was the last thing I wanted. But Missy wasn’t a "hook up" type of woman. I could feel that in my bones, so she was out. Or was she? I wanted her all to myself in a private, little debauched bubble—on my schedule and my terms. Totally separate from the chaotic clusterfuck my life was becoming. Would she be willing, or would the idea of being "my dirty little secret" insult her? Could I make that happen without looking like a psychotic, rich boy stalker? Could I create a mutually fulfilling sexual arrangement outside of a club setting for more than a night without it becoming an open-ended, emotional commitment? Would she be receptive? The idea was fascinating and repulsive by turns. It seemed positively medieval—negotiating a sexual quid pro quo. I didn't doubt that it was something dear old Dad would approve of, as long as it came with a confidentiality agreement and a background check. My sisters, on the other hand, would excoriate me for treating any woman like chattel. And they’d have a point. Not to mention that Missy seemed to be cut from the same cloth as my sisters—smart and strong and principled—unlike most of the co-eds I slept with. I wasn’t exactly proud that my taste in bed partners skewed toward vapid and self-absorbed, but it certainly made emotionally disengaging that much easier.

  On the other hand, Missy and I both had a need for privacy and discretion, not to mention complementary appetites. Laying out our expectations and needs at the onset could be the way to make this work. The trick would be to make my pitch without coming off as the entitled, self-absorbed dick I could be—something I hadn't had much practice with since my Westonwood days. That experience had pretty much reset my default to self-absorbed when it came to women and sex. Surely, with all of his experience, Mike could give me some pointers on how to negotiate an arrangement with a sub and make sure I closed the deal on my terms.

  "Fuck. It's cold." I stamped my feet in a futile effort to keep warm while I rooted around in my pockets for my gloves—only to find her black beret smelling faintly of berry tarts, leather, and smoke.

  The light finally changed, and I dashed across the street, my gloves temporarily forgotten and the beret clutched in my hand. A half block later, I found myself in front of Kovac's. I caught the outer door as it was about to slam shut and scooted into the vestibule around a couple of regulars making their way home after an afternoon of Big 10 basketball and several hours of beer and trash talk.

  I stopped in my tracks. She was here—and nursing a double from the looks of it. I ducked into the shadows, formulating a plan on the fly. I took inventory of the "tools" at my disposal—a rudimentary knowledge of the rituals and rules of domination and submission, my less-than-wholesome reputation with the ladies, and the Irish charm that seemed to be the blessing and curse of the Drazens. In a nutshell, I was pretty much fucked. She was too smart to fall for my smarmy patter.

  The outer door flew open again, which gave me the perfect opportunity to step out of the shadows and trail the newcomers into the bar proper. My usually glib charm went on autopilot when I laid eyes on her. She seemed wrung-out and a little bit lost, absorbed in the music coming from the jukebox, which seemed stuck on morose.

  I murmured in her ear, drinking in the scent of her and nuzzling her silken hair, "You forgot something." As she turned to me, I ambushed her, drawing her into a gentle yet insistent kiss designed to drive any doubts out of her head. "You left without saying good-bye."

  "No, you forgot something. We agreed. We can't—"I caressed her lips with my finger, reveling in their softness. Then she sucked on it ever so gently, sending a jolt straight to my cock, and the only thought in my head was Don't fuck this up. She needs you to be sincere in order for you to get what you need.

  "We agreed that we have to be discreet. That's it. And I have been and always will be. The last thing we need is for the team or my family to find out what we are to each other. The fallout would be epic."

  "What are we - to each other?" She spoke so softly, as if she were afraid to find out.

  The charm took over, and I babbled away, making sharing a hard limit for me and begging her to come to my apartment to talk. I couldn't tell you whether sincerity went out the window because my brain and mouth disengaged.

  The next thing I knew, I was paying her tab, helping her with her coat, and leading her by the hand out the door.

  MISSY

  As we stepped into the cold night air, Jon pulled me close, tucking my arm under his, and started down the street. There was no sign of his ridiculous, over-the-top Mercedes troop carrier. That earned him a quizzical look.

  Apparently he could already understand my looks, because he said, “I walked over.”

  “There’s snow, the temperature is in the twenties and falling, and California boy decides to walk. Are you insane?”

  “I like winter. The novelty hasn’t worn off.”

  “Frostbite will supersede novelty in about fifteen minutes without gloves. Coach will definitely not be happy about that.”

  “Well, it’s only a ten-minute walk, and I have some ideas for staving off frostbite.” That bit of information came with an appraising glance and a dimpled smirk.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My place.”

  I stopped in my tracks so abruptly that Jon’s forward momentum almost made him face-plant—which was well-deserved if he planned on me being this week’s convenient, last-minute fuck. Damn. Just because he can play my body like a virtuoso doesn’t me that he’s going to play me.

  “Hang on a second, Mr. Trust Fund Sex God. Don’t think for one minute that last weekend means I’m a sure thing this weekend. That was a one-off. I don’t need a boyfriend, and I’m not looking to be some jock’s booty call. I'm not some slut,” I snapped. “Just because I was honest about what I wanted—”

  He locked his eyes on mine, his gaze sharp at first, then softening. “Trust me. This is no booty call and I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life. You intrigue me, and I’d like to know more. You understand what I need, and you need what I can give you without judgment. I think we can find a way that we both gain some pleasure from those facts. Honestly, I just want to talk. Everything else is completely in your control.”

  There was what may have been desperate sincerity to his words, or maybe it seemed that way thanks to the dark circles under his eyes that the glow of the streetlights only enhanced. Either way, he moved me literally and figuratively. I was beginning to think that the past week had been just as challenging for him as it had for me. Naked vulnerability showed in his face for a split second, then it disappeared as I pulled him forward on our assumed route.

  A nearby bar spit a crowd of rowdy patrons into the street, their banter and raucous laughter a counterpoint to the quiet which hung between us. It lasted but a moment before they dispersed into the night.

  The wind kicked up, and the tiny glittering shards of airborne ice bit our cheeks as Jon urged me down a side street at a faster clip. No gloves and no scarf do it every time.

  The soundtrack of nightlife and traffic drifted away as we walked deeper into the velvety night away from the Square. Soon our only accompaniment was the crunch of our boots on the half-cleared sidewalks and the hiss of icy snow slicing through the air and leafless trees like diamond dust.
It was one of those clear, cold nights when you could actually smell winter. I was tempted to linger and soak in the quiet, but before I knew it, Jon had hustled me though antique, brass-trimmed doors into a stunning lobby full of dark wood, polished stone, and mullioned glass.

  How did I not notice he lived at the Drake? Jon and the doorman exchanged pleasantries as the man moved to secure his domain against the cold night air and swirling snow.

  "Mario, this is my classmate, Messalina Corradi. Messalina, this is Mario. He runs things here. Anything you need, cab whatever, he's got you covered." Jon emphasized that with a clap on the back and a sharp look in my direction.

  Apparently my early morning departure is an issue.

  "Pleased to meet you, Miss Corradi. Family from Naples?"

  "Chicago by way of Rome."

  Further exchange of niceties wasn't on the agenda apparently, because Jon propelled me toward the bank of elevators, through a locked door, and into a small foyer that contained another key-operated elevator—scratch that, his elevator—effectively cutting the conversation short and postponing my gaping for another time. The Spanish Baroque lobby was amazing—all dark panels, coffered ceilings, and stained glass insets. I felt like a pirate's wench in an old Errol Flynn swashbuckling epic as he dragged me through the lobby. Role-play. That might be fun.

  "You live at the Drake?" Astonishment crept into my voice as we entered the penthouse elevator and the door slid tight. "It's amazing."

  "You've been here before. You knew that."

  "We came up through the garage and had other things on our minds." Which is a polite way of saying I wasn't noticing much thanks to the haze of lust.

  That earned me a sidelong glance and a cheeky smirk. "Yeah, I guess we did."

  We weren't touching, but the space between us crackled with delicious tension—not quite sexual but somehow momentous. We were on the brink of something, dancing on the edge of a cliff. I resisted the urge to reach out or even make eye contact because I couldn't bear to break the spell. I wanted to revel in that exact moment when we stepped off the cliff into the unknown.