Continued from Smut Relay Part 3 – Decisions, Decisions by Violet Fawkes
Jay and Elly froze and watched Richard grip the bars thinking hard, calculating.
“Ok. You’ll get your money.”
Richard liked to think of himself as a good person. He gave old ladies his seat on the subway when he was forced to ride it, dutifully bought Girl Scout cookies every year, and gave an occasional $5 dollar bill to a panhandler. But really, he was an asshole and he knew it.
First there were his fraternity years at Dartmouth. His sense of entitlement was set loose on drunken co-eds looking to impress rich boys with connections and fancy cars. It was a year of questionable yeses and more nights than he could count convincing an alcohol-saturated girl to have “just one more cup” of room-temperature punch.
Then after college he moved to the city and began smashing around town like Godzilla. Anyone who didn’t want what he wanted was persona non grata. He was stingy with his time and his money, felt entitled to respect and sex and a good paycheck and generally saw others as adversaries or stepping-stones to a better life for himself.
He was tall-ish, pretty good-looking in a puffed-out sort of way, and had an Ivy League degree. His cush job was with his father’s development company – they were the ones who wiped out the parts of a city that had “character” in favor of sleek new strip malls or mixed-use buildings. He wore a suit well and his poker face was above reproach. He could play that game, too.
His friends enjoyed his showman antics – there was no one who could recite limericks better than him – but knew he was not the guy to call when they were dumped or needed help moving. Richard was like cotton candy: big and blustery, but ultimately a sad little sweet mess in your mouth.
Women seemed determined to find substance where there was none. He targeted mostly models and aspiring actresses and any woman who might otherwise be considered out of his league. He liked to reveal a story about hiking through the Andes on a summer break and coming across a little stone temple. He’d found God there, he’d tell his dates. Even the atheists took it as a sign he was worth at least one night of their time. He didn’t care; none of it was true.
Friends watched with benign resentment that he never suffered a consequence for treating people so frivolously. He seemed untouchable.
This went on for years.
The night he met Elly he was 40 and thought he had his life figured out: work a little, flash some cash, get naked with some woman who’d fallen for his smooth talk, rinse, repeat.
He quickly determined none of that would work on her.
She was British; bright, worldly, sexy as fuck. Shorter than the models he liked to collect, she wouldn’t win any magazine covers. She didn’t seem to care that his family had a house in The Hampton’s and she sure as fuck didn’t care that he had a view of the Park.
And it wasn’t just that she showed no interest, she showed a genuine distaste for him and his schtick and his Gucci blazer and Givenchy loafers he wore the night they met at his friend’s engagement party. “Are you trying to hurt my eyes?” she’d said, champagne glass dangling from her fingers.
He was shocked to realize he didn’t want her to dismiss him. It didn’t make sense. He had to investigate. They argued for two hours over fashion, politics, and the Oxford comma. She never lost a look of utter disdain for him and he was enthralled.
At the end of the engagement party he intercepted her departure. He wasn’t giving up without a fight. “Wait, Eleanor. You’ve forgotten something.”
He grabbed his crotch and made a little pulse with his hips. He grinned boyishly and waited. This always worked.
Coat half on she froze. Their eyes met and she burst into laughter.
“Ok then. Let’s go.”
Their courtship was swift and unexpected.
They lived in a fog of love-making and laced fingers all over the Upper East Side for two months. They agreed on everything it seemed except his fashion choices. She didn’t mind his extravagant spending or short work days or that he never let the conversation linger for long on her.
He couldn’t get enough of his scruff on her soft inner thighs or his dick in her face and he loved it when she’d curl into him when she came. He marveled at this turn of events. He felt like a hundred feet tall, like everyone else had been a test run for his time with Eleanor. He even didn’t mind she wasn’t as pretty as he preferred. She made him feel smart and important.
When he’d told her he wanted to marry her she hadn’t seemed surprised.
They lay bathed in afternoon sunlight, limbs entwined. He’d just fucked her with his signature “Dick Mash” move where he folded her in half and pounded into her with his eyes closed. She had screamed in pleasure until he’d spilled into her.
“Elly,” he said, tracing a line on her hip. “I want you to be my wife.”
She’d barely fluttered her lashes. “Of course you do.”
They were married at the courthouse two weeks later and this nightmare on a fucking pirate ship was their honeymoon. How could he have known that their shared dream of a remote island getaway would end up like this?
So, yeah. Of course he’d pay this asshole whatever he wanted in order to keep her alive. There was no question; he wasn’t heartless. Even stingy, selfish entitled bros want to keep their wives alive.
Jay grinned into Richard’s challenging glare as the words sunk in. Elly’s eyes sparkled in the darkness visible only to Jay and he knew what she was thinking.
To be continued… Smut Relay Part 5 by Molly Moore