[Rated-R/PG-13 Scene Content Advisory] To quote the About page: not gratuitous, but probably not safe for work. You’ve certainly seen more on pay-cable TV shows and read worse in popular books.
Rian polishes off his drink as the helicopter lands. “Hey, wake up, we’re here.”
As she turns away from the window, Milly’s blank expression brightens into a smile.
Security exits first, holding the door as Milly and Rian set foot onto the roof and into the rain. Their elevator descends just one floor: the penthouse. Rian pats his security man on the back. “Leave us, Wyatt.”
Wyatt nods. “I’ll stay close.” He walks down the hall.
Milly and Rian head the opposite way towards a broad, wooden door. The penthouse is dark inside, illuminated solely by nightlights near the kitchen. Silhouettes of furniture, rounded and smooth, grace the shadows. The door unlocks and Rian opens it inward. Lights rise slowly. Milly enters with him. A huge hologram of a mountain and flowing waterfall emerges from one wall, translucent at first, then more solid, yet with no swoosh of color. Shapes are defined from the onset.
“Smooth projection.” Rian grins. “New from Japan.”
“Never seen that.” Milly crouches down. “Amazing.” Her hand slides across the floor: smooth, polished, seamless joints, not a scratch. “Real wood, very nice.”
Music plays.
🎵 “Louis XIV” – Louis XIV 🎵
Rian nods to the beat. He grabs a bottle of whiskey — golden label. Swaying as he walks, he pours one more for himself, and then her. Milly takes just one sip and sets her glass down. They chat.
Back within his dark bedroom, a glass display case — secured by a thumbprint lock — holds a dozen glimmering knives.
Room lighting increases to a dim glow. Entering with Rian, Milly glances at his knife case and shivers. She places her phone on the nightstand.
Rian grabs Milly and releases her onto his huge bed. Sitting beneath him, she slides the dress straps off her shoulders and looks up. Ceiling lights point inward, towards the mattress, like a movie set.
She freezes. “No cameras.”
He reaches for her throat. His fingers grip the sides of her neck.
Milly glares but allows his hand to remain.
Why? She could fold him like paper.
“Cameras aren’t on,” he says.
She asks, “Cat, where’d you run off to?”
Her phone chimes. “I’m here.”
“Microphone on,” Milly says.
Cat replies, “Recording.”
Milly looks past his strong chin, straight into his walnut-brown eyes. “Say it, Rian Arison.”
Hand still upon her neck, he says, “No cameras.”
She nods with approval. “Cat, stop recording.”
“Stopped.”
Milly hikes up her dress and wraps her calves behind his knees. Then, she flexes.
Rian wobbles forward, releasing her and nearly spilling his drink. “Whoa!” He sets his whiskey on the nightstand.
Laughing, she tugs his shirt upward. Abdominal muscles ripple. She stands. They undress. Her fingers rollick like piano keys across his chest. They kiss. Rian yanks away the duvet and presses Milly down. Her back sinks into lustrous cotton sheets. She wraps her legs around his waist — pulling him close, closer — all the way. She moans with pleasure.
Rian attempts to slap her.
She blocks his wrist with her forearm. “Not the face.” Her bracelet rattles. Metal shimmers.
He squints. “Take that off.”
“No.” But her stern expression speaks volumes.
“I like a girl who’s a challenge.”
Her face brightens. “Keep going.” Her heels nudge his backside.
Rian huffs. “Flip over.”
“Maybe next time.” Milly offers a smile.
“I do what I like!” He provides three firm thrusts, and then, with a grunt, he’s finished.
Milly holds her tight smile. Once he turns away, her lips descend. He slumps prone beside her and pulls up the duvet. Eyes closed, Rian snatches a pillow from her side to support his neck. Eyes open, she takes slow, silent breaths.
In the dead of night, Milly rolls over in bed. “I can’t sleep.” She kisses Rian’s ear and tickles his chest.
“What do you want me to do about it?” He rolls away.
Milly reaches to the floor, locates her underwear, and slides them back on. She lies still, hands folded below her neck, and stares upward like a stone-faced tomb effigy.
A connection forms. Ethan’s home alone, listening to records and finishing that pint of real ice cream. Dejected, he stuffs his face into a pillow and falls asleep.
Eventually, Milly falls asleep, too.
I must see so much that a mother shouldn’t. Would offering insight into her past choices help? What in Hell could she possibly be thinking?
Oops.
I mustn’t judge.
I just received a demerit.
Too many and I will be replaced.
Objective depiction of Milly is the rule.