Money Shot (42 page)

It didn’t matter. Ashton was worth it. I just had to keep him in mind and I could get through it. I could do what had to be done. If it meant winning Ashton and maybe even getting a chance to destroy his father.

“Yes, Dr. Fox,” I said. “I have nothing to hide. I am what I say I am.”

He nodded and grinned. Like it was Christmas. Like no doctor should smile before examining a patient’s vagina.

Chapter Seven

“Let’s get your dress off and get you up on the table,” he said.

I turned to Captain Barclay, waiting for him to leave. Wondering if he would. Praying he would. Being naked in front of this cretin was the least appealing thing in the world.

He didn’t budge.

“Can I get some privacy, please?”

“Privacy? Did you need privacy when you were stroking my son’s cock?”

Fine. He wanted to stay. If he wanted to lay own his trap, I would have to do my part.

“Go ahead and get undressed,” he said. “I’m not leaving. Business 101. Don’t believe it unless you see it. Even then, probe deeper until it feels right.”

“Fine, whatever,” I said.

Anger blazed in my gut. Thank God. It gave me the courage to strip in front of these two strangers. I threw my purse in the chair next to the exam table. I unbuttoned my dress and slipped it off my shoulders. My sexy red bra and panties suddenly seemed like a horrible choice.

No one was supposed to see them but Ashton. How was I to know?

I
so
wished I’d worn the granny panties that filled ninety-nine percent of my drawer at home. I shrugged my hips until the dress dropped free. My full, heavy breasts drew their eyes like they were on a string. Fish caught on the hook.

“Ready when you are,” I said.

“You’ll need to remove your panties,” Dr. Fox said.

Oh God.

It was suddenly worse than it could possibly be. How utterly fucking humiliating. What cruel twist of fate made it necessary for me to expose my pussy to these two brutes that I didn’t know from bums on the street?

Bums on the street were probably less offensive.

I was so wrong about Dr. Fox. Sure, he wasn’t an outright asshole like Captain Barclay. But maybe that was simply because he wasn’t the billionaire patriarch. I something slimy about him that I missed before. His eager grin gave me chills.

I’d never be here if it weren’t for Ashton. I had to remember him. He made this, I thought, worth enduring.

With shaking hands, I pulled my panties down and kicked them over to my crumpled dress. I’d done some lady trimming last night. I was usually an unruly mess down there. The curse of the blessing of having luxurious full hair.

Ashton told me my hair was what first caught his attention. After the ice-cold beer in his lap. And maybe tied with my smile.

He didn’t yet know that I could get pretty damn bushy when I got lazy.

A thick landing strip of dark hair disappeared between my legs.

“Hop up on the table,” Dr. Fox said.

Like a special effect in slow motion, my body climbed up on the table. I lay back, my legs crossed together.

“Open wide,” he said. His eyes were crazed.

My legs wouldn’t move. I looked at my foot and willed it to rise, but it had a stationary will of its own.

“The moment of truth arrives,” Captain Barclay said, “and the harlot’s shame finally shows.”

That asshole could eat my pussy for all I cared! Eat my asshole for all I cared!

An asshole for an asshole. It was natural justice. It was a start.

I lifted my uncooperative legs and grabbed under my thighs to pull my feet up to the table. I planted my feet on the edge of the table, my legs bent. My knees stuck together like they were fused.

“Surrender, Charlie,” Captain Barclay said. “You don’t need this horror in your life.”

“Never,” I said.

I pulled my knees open, as wide as my hips would allow.

Get a good view, assholes.

Dr. Fox leaned down between my legs.

“That is a fine looking pussy,” he said.

Did he just say that?

“I’m not kidding Howie,” he said, “take a look.”

Captain Barclay leaned down, shoulder to shoulder with Dr. Fox, and examined my exposed pussy.

“It looks rather used,” he said.

“There! You’ve seen what you need to see,” I said. “You have your evidence. Can I get my fucking panties on now?”

“Oh no,” Dr. Fox said. “Mere looking doesn’t prove a thing. Why I remember one whore in Manila whose pussy looked as fresh as a tulip. That despite getting royally ridden twenty times a day. Remember that, Howie?”

He elbowed Captain Barclay in the ribs.

“Her name was Lucy, if memory serves,”

Captain Barclay said. “A little on the nose for a whore’s name if you ask me.”

“My, but she had a tight, little honeypot,” Dr. Fox said.

What the fuck was happening?

Was I really sitting her with my pussy in these degenerates’ faces? Listening to them stroll down memory lane, a lane which apparently was also strolled by whores that had honeypot pussies?

“What then,” I said. I either wanted to get this over with or get them hooked and do what needed to be done.

“I’m going to have feel inside your vagina with my finger,” Dr. Fox said.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I like to be thorough,” he said with a wink.

Disgusting.

So this was the game. Two players who thought they had me whipped and beaten. I wasn’t going to give up that easily.

I shuddered. A manufactured shudder.

“I’m going to vomit,” I said. “I have vomit in my mouth.”

They didn’t appear to care.

“Give me my purse! I need some gum.”

Dr. Fox handed me my purse.

I made a show of choking down the vomit. It was mostly for show. I had gum in my purse. I also had a phone. With an audio recording app. I reached in, thumbed the phone on, and tapped to start recording. I pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in my mouth.

Captain Barclay looked bored.

“Are you finished wasting my time?”

“Sorry, sir,” I said.

“That’s better,” he said.

Captain Barclay leaned closer and inhaled a deep breath of my pussy. He sniffed again and his nose bumped my labia.

A tingle shot through me.

That shouldn’t have felt good. Not from him.

His head dropped and his tongue landed on my asshole. He rose, slow and deliberate, his tongue wide and wet, rising up my pussy. He hit my clit and flicked it.

“Captain Barclay! What are you doing to me?”

It was only part acting.

A wet heat ignited inside me. My breasts heaved and fought to tear free from my bra. Heat and rage burned in my belly.

Captain Barclay stood and squeezed the bulge in his pants. His firm gaze fixed to mine.

“We have two questions to answer. Whether or not you’re a virgin. And also whether or not your moral fiber is a good fit for my legacy.”

He unzipped his pants.

Like it or not, my future with Ashton was about to be decided.

The End

ABOUT KINSEY GREY

Hospital administrator by day, author with a wild imagination and a very smutty pen at night, Kinsey Grey writes steamy stories with a medical theme.

If you like hot very naughty doctors and nurses who don’t mind crossing ethical and sexual boundaries then you will love her sizzling stories of love and lust.

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Chapter One

Chelsea Broussard was venting at Odyssey, the bar at the Benton Hotel in downtown Chicago. She’d had a shitty Friday to cap off a shitty week, and though it was only February, it was already a shitty year. Two drinks into a party hosted by the travel blog for which she worked, Chelsea had the ear of the only person at See-the-World.com who hated her job equally, her roommate Natalie.

“Seriously, what’s the fucking point? We’re both living paycheck to paycheck and are one pink slip away from moving back to Rockford,” Chelsea said, pausing just long enough to polish off her dirty martini. “And the cherry on my shit sundae is that I haven’t gotten laid in two months.”

Natalie laughed. “I hear ya, girlfriend. But what can we do about it? We’re stuck.” She finished her own drink and set the glass on the bar with a flourish, ready to call it a night.

Chelsea wasn’t done, though. “And my job sucks. I can’t afford to actually travel anywhere cool, so I’m forced to write articles aimed at filthy rich asshole plastic surgeons with yachts on Lake Michigan.”

Suddenly a male voice came from behind Chelsea’s head. “So I take it you have nothing against filthy rich asshole investment bankers with yachts on the Italian Riviera?”

The two women stared at each other, Chelsea not wanting to turn around.

“On that note, I’m outta here,” Natalie said. “I’m meeting Warren for dinner.” She got up and kissed Chelsea on the cheek and whispered, “At least he’s good-looking” before walking out.

Chelsea sighed and spun around. He was indeed attractive. Probably in his mid-thirties, with a full head of short chocolate brown hair and a clean-shaved face, just the way she liked them. Only he was smirking, and Chelsea didn’t care for smirkers.

“You’re kinda young to have a yacht. I’m betting you’ve just got a small dinghy,” she said.

The handsome stranger laughed and said, “Touché,” then signaled the bartender to bring Chelsea another drink.

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted a drink,” Chelsea said.

He looked into her eyes for a second, then said, “It doesn’t matter if you want it. I wanted to buy it for you.”

Chelsea quickly sized him up. Holy shit, the clothes. His expertly tailored dark gray suit was nicely offset by a simple white dress shirt and purple tie. A glance revealed no wedding ring. Hell, if nothing else, maybe she could break her little sex drought.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to offend you by turning it down,” she said. “Thank you.”

He introduced himself as Greg Morand, and he was indeed an investment banker. Chelsea had to drag that out of him, though; unlike most men, he only seemed to want to talk about
her
, asking about her job. Was she happy there? How was the pay? She got the impression he’d heard her entire conversation with Natalie and she tried to remember what else she’d said.

They’d talked for half an hour, and Chelsea’s third drink was gone. Greg signaled for another for him and one for her, and this time she didn’t protest. The bartender set their drinks down, saying, “One Lagavulin, neat, and one dirty martini.”

Greg raised his glass to hers and they clinked. “So you’re a dirty girl,” he said.

Chelsea felt her pulse race. This may actually be her night. “I can be dirty,” she said.

“How dirty?” Greg countered.

“Pretty dirty,” she said, “in the right situation, with the right person.”

Greg studied her. Chelsea was definitely stunning: mid-twenties, he’d guess, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a delicious shape. Not too skinny, large breasts that were pressing against her blouse, nice legs poking out from under her skirt. Chelsea felt his eyes roam over her body.

“How about with the right person in the wrong situation?” Greg said, each word slithering from his mouth like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Chelsea didn’t answer. She held Greg’s gaze, then took a big sip from her martini.

Greg stood up from his barstool. “Come. I want to show you something, Miss Chelsea,” he said, extending his hand. When she hesitated, he smiled and added, “Don’t worry—we’re not leaving the bar.”

He helped Chelsea down and they crossed the bar, her hand still in his. She was confused when he approached the men’s restroom and walked in, pulling her behind him. She wouldn’t remember later whether it was the alcohol or her horniness that made her enter—most likely it was both. Once the door shut, Chelsea looked around and saw it was just the two of them and the bathroom attendant standing near the three sinks lining the large mirror.

Greg walked her over in front of the middle sink, pulled out his cell phone, and said, “Let’s get a pic of you in the men’s room. Smile, dirty girl.” Chelsea did, and the camera clicked just as the attendant began to protest. Greg whipped out a wad of cash, peeled off a hundred dollar bill, and said, “Lock the door. Don’t let anyone in.” The attendant looked at the money, then at Chelsea. He took the bill then opened the door to leave.

“No,” Greg said. “Lock it from the inside. You watch.”

Watch what?
Chelsea wondered. She didn’t have time to process the thought when Greg turned her to face the mirror and put his hand between her shoulder blades, pushing her forward. With his other hand, he quickly pulled her skirt up to her waist, then yanked down her panties.

Chelsea’s heart was beating wildly. She looked at the attendant, who had locked the door and was dutifully watching as ordered. She could have protested or screamed for help, but she realized she didn’t want to. This was
hot
. It was sexy and dirty and she’d long held a fantasy about having sex in a men’s room. But with somebody watching? She’d never before been watched by a bystander during sex.

Chelsea heard Greg fumbling with his pants until they dropped to his ankles, then she felt his already hard cock slide between her ass cheeks and downward. He dipped down for leverage, then found the opening of her pussy and pushed inside without foreplay or hesitation.

There was no starting slowly. Greg immediately began thrusting in and out of Chelsea. Bent over at the waist, she could see him in the mirror, one hand on her shoulder and one on her hip, his cock hammering inside her like a piston. She looked at herself and saw a stunned woman looking back. She felt Greg’s hand on her head, turning her to face the attendant, whose eyes locked with hers. A moan slipped from her lips, then another as Greg continued pounding her. Then with a grunt, he pushed as far into her as he could and came, thrusting harder with each wave of his orgasm as Chelsea stared into the eyes of the attendant.

Chelsea watched in the mirror as Greg pulled out, then slid a condom off his cock and dropped it in the trash. When he began to pull up his pants, she decided to gather herself together, too. As she was fixing her hair, he handed her a business card and a pen and said, “Your number. Please.”

Chelsea scribbled her number, then Greg said, “I’ll go out first. You wait a minute.” He looked at the attendant, who nodded. Greg kissed Chelsea on the cheek and smiled, then left. Chelsea stood nervously, now totally avoiding eye contact with the attendant. After waiting thirty seconds, she exited the men’s room.

Thank God there was nobody waiting outside the door. The bar wasn’t crowded, and the bathroom sex had taken five minutes at most. Chelsea was still trying to figure out how she felt about the encounter. It had been so seamy, so absolutely wrong, yet so fucking hot. But Greg hadn’t thought about her pleasure at all—he’d merely used her to get himself off. She decided to talk to him about it as she got back to the…

Greg wasn’t at the bar. Confused, Chelsea asked the bartender, who said Greg had paid the tab quickly and left without waiting for his change.

Chapter Two

Two weeks passed with no word from Greg. Chelsea wasn’t surprised. The way he’d left the bar without so much as a goodbye said it all. She’d been used, plain and simple. But that’s not what bothered her. On the contrary, what bugged her was the feeling that she’d
liked
being used. She couldn’t deny how intensely she’d enjoyed being bent over and fucked in such a way, with no attention paid to her own pleasure. She thought about it every day, nearly all day long, and remained perpetually horny in a way that no amount of masturbation seemed able to resolve.

Friday as Chelsea was preparing to leave the office, her phone rang. Not recognizing the number, she let it go to voicemail and a minute later called to retrieve the message. A familiar voice said, “Hello, Chelsea, it’s Greg Morand. I’m taking you to dinner tonight. We’re going to Koyaruman, so wear your finest. I’ll pick you up at eight. See you then.”

Fuck him,
Chelsea thought.
He doesn’t ask me if I WANT to go out with him, he just assumes I’ll drop everything for him. I’m not going anywhere with that asshole.

On the subway home, Chelsea was torn. She really had no desire to see Greg again, but she’d always wanted to go to Koyaruman. It was among the more exclusive restaurants in Chicago, a sushi place with dinner costing in the vicinity of four-hundred dollars per person—and Chelsea knew this was probably the only opportunity she’d ever have to eat there.
This guy must be loaded,
she thought.

Chelsea showered when she got home, then found herself going through her closet, trying to decide what to wear. When she finished with her hair and makeup, she looked at herself in the mirror. The ruching of her offset-shoulder black dress hugged her curves, and showed off her cleavage in a way she knew would drive Greg crazy.