The helicopter blades chopped the sky into pieces as we lifted off the downtown pad. Victor sat up front with the pilot, headset on, barking numbers into a satellite phone. Isabella and I shared the rear bench, knees touching despite the wide leather seat. Her hand rested on my thigh the entire forty-minute flight, nails tracing idle circles through the wool of my new slacks. Every circle climbed higher until her pinky brushed the ridge of my erection. She never looked at me. She stared straight ahead, sunglasses reflecting the Long Island Sound sliding beneath us like blue steel.
We landed on a private lawn that rolled green to the edge of the Atlantic. The house rose three stories of cedar shingles gone silver with age. Staff in crisp white waited with iced cucumber water and smiles that never reached their eyes. Victor clapped my back hard enough to jolt my spine.
"Welcome to the real office, son. No phones. No emails. Just deals and ocean air."
Isabella's fingers brushed the small of my back as we walked inside. A promise. Or a warning.
They gave me the east guest suite. Windows open to the dunes. Bed big enough for sin. I unpacked the single bag she had allowed: three linen shirts, two pairs of swim trunks, and one tuxedo for the Saturday gala. Nothing else. She had packed it herself the night before, kneeling naked on my bedroom floor while she folded each item with military precision. When I asked why so little, she only smiled and said, "You won't need clothes."
Dinner that first night was lobster on the terrace. Victor drank magnums of Krug like water. Investors circled him, laughing too loudly at jokes older than me. Isabella wore white silk that clung to every curve the ocean breeze could find. She sat at Victor's right. I sat three seats down, between a hedge-fund wife who smelled like gardenias and kept trying to feed me oysters from her fingers.
Isabella watched every bite I refused.
At midnight the party drifted inside to cigars and brandy. Victor pulled me into his study, walls lined with dead animals and first-edition Hemingways. He poured two fingers of something older than my father.
"You're doing good work, J." He swirled the glass. Ice clinked. "But remember whose table you eat at."
I nodded. Throat dry.
He studied me for a long second. "My wife likes you. That's useful. Don't let it become expensive."
He left me there with the brandy and the mounted marlin staring down like it knew my secrets.
I found her on the widow's walk, three stories up, wind whipping her hair into black flames. She leaned on the rail, white dress plastered to her body, nipples dark shadows beneath silk.
"Come here."
I obeyed. She pulled me behind her, hands gripping the rail. Lifted the hem of her dress. Nothing underneath. The wind tasted her before I did.
"Down."
I knelt on the teak decking. Salt stung my lips. Spread her with my thumbs. Licked slowly from clit to entrance, over and over until her thighs trembled. She braced one foot on the lower rail, opening wider. I slid two fingers inside, curled, pumped. She came silently, hips jerking, juices slicking my chin. I kept licking through the aftershocks until she hauled me up by my hair.
"Inside. Now."
She led me down the back stairs, past guest rooms where moans leaked under doors. The house was a hive of affairs. We reached the indoor pool, glass walls fogged, underwater lights turning the water turquoise. She locked the door behind us.
"Strip."
Clothes hit the tile. She pushed me onto a lounge chair. Straddled my face reverse, ass toward me. Ground down hard. I ate her like a starving man while she bent forward and took my cock deep in one motion. Sixty-nine suspended over chlorinated air. Her throat worked, humming. I tongue-fucked her until she flooded my mouth again. She spun, sank onto me, and rode slowly. Water lapped the pool edge in time with her hips.
"Look at me."
Eyes locked. Grey ice melting into something dangerous.
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Louder."
"I'm yours, Isabella."
She came clenching, nails raking my chest. I followed, pumping rope after rope inside her. She stayed seated, rocking gently, milking every drop.
After, she traced the scratches. "Victor will see these."
"Let him."
She laughed softly. "Brave boy."
We swam naked. She floated on her back, breasts breaking the surface like islands. I swam between her legs, licked her underwater until she wrapped her thighs around my head and dragged me under. We surfaced gasping, kissing chlorine and come.
Back in my room at three a.m., she slipped in through the connecting door I hadn't known existed. Locked it behind her. Crawled under the covers.
"Sleep."
I curled around her, cock nestled against her ass. She reached back, guided me slowly. Fell asleep joined, her walls fluttering around me in dreams.
Morning light woke me. She was gone. Bed cool.
Breakfast on the terrace. Victor in linen, sunglasses, reading the Journal. Isabella is in a modest one-piece, hair wet, sipping green juice.
"Sleep well?" Victor asked.
"Like the dead."
Isabella's lips twitched.
Tennis after. Doubles. I partnered with Victor against a senator and his twenty-year-old mistress. Isabella watched from the sideline, legs crossed, sunglasses hiding everything. Every time I served, her gaze burned hotter. We won. Victor hugged me sweaty, laughing.
"Kid's got killer instinct."
Lunch by the pool. Bikini bottoms are only for women. Isabella untied hers slowly, let it fall. Dove in naked. Surfaced slick, water beading on skin. Victor watched her with possession that looked a lot like pride.
Afternoon free. She found me in the library.
"Boathouse. Ten minutes."
I waited on the dock, sun searing. She arrived in a sundress, no shoes. Pulled me inside. Smell of salt and gasoline. Bent me over the speedboat's bow, yanked my trunks down. Spat on her fingers, worked them into my ass slowly. First one, then two. Prostate pressure is building.
"Ever come like this?"
"No."
She curled her fingers and stroked my cock with the other hand. Milked me until I shot across the polished teak, knees buckling. She kept going until I begged. Then spun me, pushed me to my knees. Fed me my own come off her fingers.
"Good boy."
Evening gala prep. Tuxedo. She zipped me herself in the mirror, hand sliding inside to cup me.
"Save it for later."
Dinner formal. Crystal and candlelight. Victor toasted the firm, the future, and me. Isabella's foot found mine under the table, travelled up, heel pressing my balls, a gentle threat.
Dancing after. String quartet. She in backless black, diamonds cold on my palm. Victor watched us spin.
"Careful," he murmured as he cut in. "She bites."
I believed him.
Midnight fireworks over the water. Guests on the lawn. Isabella pulled me into the maze hedge. Pushed me against prickly leaves. Dropped to her knees in an evening gown, took me deep. Fireworks exploded overhead, red, blue, and gold reflected in her eyes. I came down her throat to the sound of applause.
Back to the party. Lipstick perfect.
Sunday lazy. Brunch. Mimosas. Victor hungover, affectionate. Slapped my back again.
"Stay another night. Storm coming."
Isabella's eyes said yes.
The storm hit at dusk. Thunder rolling in off the ocean. Power flickered. Generators kicked on.
Victor passed out early, scotch and sun.
She came to my room, soaked from the rain, dress plastered translucent. Pealed it off slowly. Crawled up the bed dripping.
"Fuck me through the storm."
Lightning flashed. I entered her in one thrust. Thunder covered her screams. We rode wave after wave, sheets twisted, bodies slick. She clawed my back bloody. I bit her shoulder hard enough to bruise. Came inside as lightning struck the dune outside, illuminating us frozen mid-thrust.
After, she traced the bite.
"Mark me where he can see."
Morning. Storm gone. Sky washed clean.
Victor drove us to the helipad. Hugged me goodbye.
"Back to the grind tomorrow, son."
Isabella kissed my cheek chaste. Whispered, "Check your pocket."
On the flight home, I found the pregnancy test wrapper. Empty. But the stick was missing.
She stared out the window, sunglasses hiding everything again.
Two weeks late now. She had said nothing.
Money hit my account on Monday. Another fifty.
I bought nothing.
That night, the penthouse. She waited with the test on the counter.
Positive.
Two pink lines clear as gunshot.
She smiled slowly. "Yours."
Victor knocked on her door an hour later. Found the stick in the trash.
But that was next week.
For now, the Hamptons house faded behind us. Salt on my skin. Lies in my mouth.
And the life we made, growing secret.
The storm had only begun.