2. Gibson

2

GIBSON

H er hug is too quick. Too impersonal. Not enough.

“What time are you going upstairs? I have Avery coming at six.”

I turn to watch the retreating figure of my wife as she crosses the living area to her hallway. “Is that your way of saying you’d like me gone by then?”

“Stay as long as you like, love. Avery’s a friend.”

I arrive in her bedroom as she’s stepping out of her heels. “Unzip me?”

I run my hands up her arms before sweeping her hair over one shoulder and locating the top of her zipper. I brace myself for the surge of need about to overtake me, but I’ve already touched her as much as she’ll allow, causing her shoulders to tighten with tension. Guilt sets in immediately.

“Christian said you haven’t been out all day,” she says as I reveal her back and waist, the top of her ass.

“I slept in and worked from here,” I tell her.

Unzipped, she disappears into her closet and continues to talk while I have a seat on her bed. “Any closer to closing the Bowery deal? ”

“It’s closed,” I inform her. “We’re in escrow as of today.”

“Bravo, love! That miserable prick wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do with a gem like that. Thank you for taking my advice. I have a good feeling about that property.”

I’ve long since lost track of Marianne’s list of enemies. “That miserable prick” she’s referring to is Ben Levin and as far as I know he’s just another Manhattan real estate developer. In terms of an investment, the building I bought today is a good one—a blossoming neighborhood, structurally sound, and in foreclosure. It was a steal and guaranteed to make us plenty of money once the renovations are done. I’m already in discussion with Trader Joe’s to lease the lower level. Who wouldn’t want to live above a Trader Joe’s?

“So that’s the good news,” I say, sensing this might be my only opening to address a perennially sore subject.

“Oh? Is there a but coming?”

“Jessica quit.”

Silence on her end.

I sigh, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. I fold my hands. “So that makes three assistants in three weeks, which I think is a record.”

She doesn’t say a word.

“It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, but I think I might like to hire my own assistants from now on. Male, preferably.”

At that, she laughs.

I shake my head.

Marianne and I are still partners in many ways, particularly business. But her history of hiring assistants for me only to fuck them, or toy with them, or whatever she does to them that makes them leave me without notice is a practice I’d like to see end. She’s been on a tear lately. I usually get a month or two out of these women, but lately it’s like a revolving door.

I’d ask if anything is wrong, but I doubt she’d tell me. I can watch, but I can’t ask questions .

Not that I watch. While I’m an unapologetic voyeur, I draw the line at watching my wife take pleasure from someone who isn’t me. I only have so much sanity left to spare.

Like I said, we’re partners. She’s my best friend. But we haven’t been lovers since before we were married. The last time we had sex, she sobbed the entire time. I’ve yet to forgive myself for not stopping when I realized what was happening, but I deluded myself into believing they were tears of happiness and relief because it had been over a year of therapy that even allowed us to try again.

But the tears weren’t happy. They were trauma.

Afterward, she was inconsolable.

In a way, I’m glad to see her moving on with her life. I only wish it could have been with me.

I suppose I still have her in all the ways that count. Yet, I miss her every day.

“You know who you should ask?” She appears in the closet doorway in La Perla lingerie.

I avert my gaze. “Who?”

“Christian.”

“Sands?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“Why not?” she asks.

I shrug, considering our blond, deferential doorman. “He seems content.”

“He’s worked for us for years. Surely he can squeeze in a modicum of more responsibility with his poetry. Does he want to be a doorman forever?”

“It’s a good job,” I say. “Union.”

“What would Bruce say?”

Bruce Sands was Christian’s father—a high school friend from back home. “I get the impression Chris is done accepting handouts from me. ”

“It’s not a handout. It’s a job. He’s smart. Has a great memory. Discreet. I’d hire him.”

“It’s not about whether he’d be any good at it—I’m sure he’d be wonderful, it’s about whether he’d want it.”

“Do you want me to speak to him?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t want you having anything to do with it.”

She laughs again and turns around. Her dark hair brushes her lower back, and her ass sways temptingly as she leaves my sight again.

One minute of looking at her in lingerie, and I have a pounding erection.

In terms of sex, we have an open marriage, which she talked me into about ten years ago, a few months after we opened the club. She claimed we weren’t sexually compatible, and she was no longer interested in me or men in general. Instead, she’d developed an appetite for beautiful, submissive women. An insatiable one. But that was the first I’d heard about it.

I spent the following year miserable, celibate, and contemplating divorce, but when I finally mentioned I was considering one, she put her foot down, insisting she loved me as fiercely as ever. She convinced me we could have our separate needs met and stay together—because “we belong together.” The problem was, I needed her .

She’s kept her word, though, and I’ve grown used to the arrangement. Not happy, per se, but I’ve adapted. In many ways it’s better than the ten years prior where I waited and hoped and wondered, faithful to her and my hand. Now I get to look and touch, just—not her. Never her.

“I’m going to shower before heading upstairs,” I say.

“Have a nice night,” she calls back.

“Same to you,” I mumble, leaving her room and crossing the apartment to my own. While it’s tempting to get myself off in the shower, I decide to save my load for my new pet. She’ll be hungry. It’s been two nights since she’s been fed.

Someone put a sex chair in the amphitheater—one of those curved chaises that allow all manner of creative fucking. It annoys me because Marianne has one in her playroom. I can only imagine the way she displays her cunt for licking, and the women only too happy to cleverly position themselves to manage it.

On it currently, one of my employees Gavin is riding the CEO of a major airline. He’s recently divorced his wife, in his fifties, modestly hung, and sweating like a boar. But Gavin—my prettiest twink—is putting on a grand show like he’s never ridden better cock.

Pet nudges her forehead against my calf, and I stroke her hair absentmindedly. I stopped naming them after my third. This is my sixth, and I chose her for her neediness. And her tongue piercing. I do very much enjoy that, as well.

Emilia, the club manager, approaches and takes a seat on the arm of my chair. Her smooth, ebony skin is strapped head to toe in black leather, revealing much and hiding little. Her shaved head gleams in the reddish light, and her impossibly long eyelashes make her look like a deadly anime character. For a moment, we’re silent, surveying my side hustle from the raised VIP area along the rear side of the converted penthouse.

Catering to the needs of the rich and horny, The Penthouse is a secret sex club I started as a reminder of the good old days. While the amphitheater is for public performance and play, a dozen private rooms provide more intimate areas for my members to explore their kinks or indulge in illicit affairs. On the other side of the club is a full bar and lounge area for mingling, a dance floor for getting to know someone better, and a DJ to set the mood.

My employees run the gamut of experienced sex workers to open-minded college students who keep the drinks and service moving. My members include rappers, elite athletes, physicians, Broadway royalty, and CEOs. The only requirements for membership are the exorbitant dues, a non-disclosure agreement of sorts, and a residence on the Upper East Side.

“I’m told you were looking for me?” Emilia says.

I’m still scowling at the CEO under Gavin. “I don’t look like that do I? You would tell me.”

She lets out a rich laugh and runs a hand through my hair. “Not a single gray. I assume that holds true elsewhere?”

“It does,” I tell her.

“And if I brought over a walnut, could you crack it between those thighs of yours?”

It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t know about that…”

“You’ve never looked better. Even the sad eyes somehow work.”

“I have sad eyes?”

Pet runs her pierced tongue along my wrist. I gently shove her face away, and she bows her head. “We’ve talked about licking. Do it again, and I’ll make you take a turn on the chair.”

She’s forbidden from fucking anyone else if she expects to fuck me, so it’s a threat as much as it can be.

“Is this about Marianne?”

Very few people know that I have an open marriage with Marianne, or the way it gnaws at me. Emilia is one of them. My older brother in California is the other. As far as everyone else is concerned, either they’re clueless, or they assume I’m happily married with an indulgent wife, when the truth is I’ve never felt so unnecessary. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself that our bond is more important than sex. My heart is broken, but it’s forever faithful to her. “I suppose,” I tell Emilia.

“When was the last time the two of you went out? Just the two of you?”

“A date night?” I ask. “Really?”

“Are you still having breakfast together? ”

“Most days.”

“But you’re still hoping something will change.”

At that, I’m silent. The CEO grunts an orgasm, and Gavin turns to face him with rosy cheeks and a smirk. The chaise will soon bring out the exhibitionist in someone else, and I may need to take Pet into my private room and tie her up to entertain myself for the next hour. But tonight, there’s an undercurrent of anger in me, and I don’t trust myself with restraints or impact play. She’s too new for that.

“I lost another assistant today,” I say instead of answering Emilia’s question.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“What does she do to these women?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“I feel like you should want to,” she says quietly.

I ignore that. “She suggested I offer the position to Christian.”

“The doorman?”

I nod.

“Why?”

“How the fuck do I know?”

Emilia makes a noise of disapproval. “If you insist on taking her advice, it’s not the worst she’s ever given you.”

“You think?”

“I like Christian. I wish he would smile more, but maybe that suits you.”

“He’ll say no.”

“He’ll be flattered.”

“And still say no,” I argue.

“Then you’ve done a good deed, and you move on to interviews.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I tell her.

“Am I excused? I’d love a turn on the chair. ”

“Of course. Have fun.”

“I will. You should try it sometime.”

I narrow my eyes as she heads to the amphitheater. I glance down at Pet who’s looking up at me mournfully. I give my head a small shake. I don’t trust myself. “Let me put you to bed. I’m not in the mood tonight.”