Here I share with you my collection of erotic stories in my keeps. Also can be found at
www.juicysexstories.com
The contents is 100℅ not from me, just added some local flavours to enhance the story.
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Chapter 1
Mackenzie Lewis brought his BMW to a crunching halt in the Horseshoe and Castle’s gravel carpark and sat for a moment with the engine running. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and his steel-blue eyes looked back, weariness outlined in half-circles beneath them. What a difference six months could make. How they could drain a man.
“Sometimes it’s best to cut your losses,” Alan Sinclair had said on their most recent meeting. “You’re not a vindictive person, Mac. I know you feel stitched up here, but realistically you’re not going to win this. You could lose more, potentially. Make the offer – I’ll draw up the papers here today – and if she accepts it, put the whole business down to experience. Move on with your life, my friend.”
When a lawyer as astute as Sinclair provided advice of that kind, you knew it was time to settle. The competitor in Mac hated to let Miranda win, but she’d played him supremely well. Had she not burned him so badly for so long, he might have found himself admiring her style.
He switched off the ignition and listened one more time to her phone message, the voice less clipped and more warm than it had sounded in over a year. “I’ve been considering your offer, Mac, and I think maybe we can both live with it. Perhaps we could leave out the lawyers for once and meet you-know-where? Our one-time favourite place. Call me sentimental. Why don’t we put it to bed, darling? Hey, maybe we can do that in bed. Or is that just my wishful thinking? Let me know...”
Mac’s cock stiffened and stretched against his boxer-briefs. He wouldn’t have felt the anger so keenly if that voice didn’t still turn him on. There was no denying it – the thought of a full-on grudge fuck appealed to him. She’d always enjoyed his tying her up, whipping her ass and taking her hard. Hell, she’d goaded him into doing it, burrowing deep beneath his calm exterior with precision-tooled taunts to access the volcanic stuff lurking beneath. Maybe she’d be up for that again if she got her way financially. And maybe it’d be adequate consolation for him. It had been a while, after all, since he’d had any kind of action – by necessity. Except for that one sneaky occasion with his temp…
“Keep it in your trousers,” Alan had insisted. “You can’t afford to hand her any more ammunition.”
Mac paused, his fingers on the door-release. When had a man’s failure ever served as aphrodisiac to Miranda? She was playing him again, surely, the one woman in the world who could truly fuck with his head. Had he imagined the sincerity in her phone-voice? Dammit, he could sit in the car all night trying to second-guess her, to no avail. And what would be the point in that?
Okay, let’s do this. Departing his vehicle, one of the items she was apparently willing to leave him, he made his guarded way into the pub-restaurant they had once enjoyed together. Or maybe the enjoyment had only been his. Its antique brass trappings and the array of rustic implements dangling from its rafters failed to charm anymore. Dread was burning like acid in the pit of his stomach.
He glanced around and spotted her, seated serenely in what had been their ‘usual corner’. The sight made him shudder like he was revisiting the ghost of his past. This was the first time he had seen her since the legalities had kicked in properly – a full ten months of blood-sports-by-proxy, with Mac doing most of the bleeding.
She looked as striking as on the evening he’d first met her, and lust was the first emotion that surged through his body, resentment hard on its heels. Her thick crimson locks had been wrangled into a ponytail and her silk blouse only suggested the cleavage of her formidably gorgeous breasts. He knew what was packaged away beneath her casual-formal attire, and the degree to which he still desired her provoked his irritation further. She appeared unaware of his presence as he approached the table, her gaze fixed on the screen of her mobile phone and her finger tapping its surface. He had to cough to gain her attention.
Miranda paused her texting, and there was a flicker of emotion in her expression. Not guilt, exactly – Miranda had probably never been troubled by that emotion in all her life – more like that of a woman alarmed at having being caught. The expression transformed immediately, however, replaced by a warmer smile than he remembered since the early months of their marriage. “Mac,” she said, beckoning him to the table with red-lacquered talons. “Please, join me.”
He drew out the chair opposite her and sat down like he was about to dine with the Devil. She put their greeting on pause to complete her text message and then set the phone into her handbag. It was a cheap device, he noticed briefly, and he was sure he could see her regular cell, the dusted-silver iPhone, lurking elsewhere in the bag. Were there signed divorce papers in there as well? She hijacked his attention again, before he could think on any of it further. “It’s good to see you, truly,” she said. “Thanks for agreeing to this. I wasn’t sure that you’d show up.”
“I wasn’t sure myself,” he admitted, “right up to the moment I set foot in here.”
“Well I’m glad you did. You’re looking well.”
Liar. He had no doubt how easily she could read the stress that the past months had written into his face. But there was an unfamiliar kindness in her eyes and he went with the moment, holding to his lawyer’s advice. “Thank you. So are you. Seems like you’re thriving.”
“If you mean on what’s been going on between us, you’re wrong,” she said. “It doesn’t give me the pleasure you probably think it does. But, I’m a woman who believes in getting her due. Put it down to a deprived childhood.”
Getting your due indeed… and deprived childhood my arse. Was this going to be an evening of quiet goading? It took all of Mac’s self-control to let the remarks roll over him without rising to their bait. “And do you feel you’ve got your due?” he asked with consummate calm.
“I invited you out to dinner,” she replied simply. “I’m trying, here. You know, making an effort.” There was a buzz from her phone – the second, cheaper device – and she lifted it, irritation creasing her smooth brow as she looked at the message. “Myminions,” she said by way of explanation. “Sometimes I wonder if they have anything in the way of initiative.”
“Maybe if you hired them on the basis of their ability rather than how they look…” Mac remarked, as lightly as he could manage. Miranda did like to be surrounded by a coterie of pretty young things, most of them female, and now that she ran the entire Vanguard clothing company, she made sure all branches were run by such types.
“Now Mackenzie,” she said, her smile an arch one, “I do try to strike a balance between professional acumen and aesthetic appeal. For the most part. Okay,” she admitted, “I can think of one or two who are substantially more pretty than they are smart, but even those girls have their uses… as I’m sure you appreciate.”
“I certainly do.” Mac well knew the kinds of games Miranda liked to play with her sexy employees of an evening. He was privy to so many of this woman’s secrets, but there had been no proving the truth behind the darkest ones, as Alan Sinclair had all too painfully pointed out. All it had taken was for him to slip up once, however, to become this woman’s punch-bag.
Miranda completed her text while she chatted, flinging the phone casually this time back into its resting place. “Now – enough business during leisure time. What do you say we order?”
“I think that would be a good idea.” Anything to distract from the evening’s fundamental awkwardness. Not that Miranda gave the appearance of feeling awkward in the least…
They ordered a bottle of Chablis, and Mac sipped from his glass with caution, while she drank freely, saying blithely that she’d take a taxi home. He wanted to take the edge off his nerves and at least fake relaxation, but it never paid to lose one’s focus when dealing with Miranda French. His appetite was shot, and excellent as they were, he had to force his way through the Horseshoe and Castle’s lamb-kebab starter and poached salmon main. His wife – how bizarre did that word seem now? – was the warm, inviting, animated version of herself, the one that he had briefly thought he loved. All chilly professionalism was gone, as she recounted moments from the early days of their time together, like no hostilities had occurred in the intervening time.