Girlfriend By The Hour

Girlfriend By The Hour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Chapter23 (v.1) - The Lady Time

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: June 05, 2015

Reads: 1151

Comments: 3

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: June 05, 2015

A A A

A A A

Past experience told Andre that Imogen would wake up sweet and cuddly. He pictured a bit of high-school level fooling around before she left for a weekend outing with Sal.

She woke complaining about how gross and sticky he was, whined that she felt like death, and kicked him out of her room. He stole one of her blankets to wrap around himself so his shame didn’t have quite so many levels, perked up when she called to him a second later, and quickly agreed to her demand for coffee.

He stressed through preparing it, even dumping the first cup because he worried he hadn’t gotten the perfect ratio of crappy, store-brand creamer she loved more than life itself. At the risk of further irritating her by the delay, he also fried a couple eggs and chopped an apple. He added some pineapple juice to the tray, telling himself she was grumpy because she was dehydrated.

Not because her sleeping mind realized how poorly he’d treated her last night and wisely decided to ditch him.

She was asleep when he returned, so he set the tray down on her nightstand and kissed her forehead with the intention of leaving her to sleep off her anger. His touch woke her, though, and this time she apologized profusely for being such a bitch.

Girls were every bit as confusing for Andre at 33 as they had been at 13.

She gestured for him to come back to bed but was quiet, introspective, while she ate. She flinched when he patted her leg through the blanket mountain but politely offered him bits of her breakfast.

He accepted the apple slices but refused the juice. “You need that. It’ll make you feel better.”

She lifted it up to the light. “Did you lace it with percoset and a diuretic?”

He laughed until he thought about the words. “Wait, why would you need that?”

She grumbled, pulled a blanket up over her head, and curled up.

Her embarrassment gave the answer, and it was impossible for him not to tease her. She was his Ima again. “Aww, are you retaining water?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled.

He dug into the blankets until he found skin. “Are your breasts tender?” he asked as he stroked the underside of one, enjoying the weight of it in his hand.

“Stop!” she whined.

The top of her ear was exposed, so he kissed it. “They feel bigger.”

She shoved him away, but it was half serious at most. “Oh my god, why are you so mean to me?”

“Why are you so easily riled?” He stripped away the blankets and found her scowling. There was a time when he would have had to work to cheer her up, but she showed him her cards last night. She wanted lots of things—cute shoes that didn’t rub her heels, world peace, a late-night pizza place with vegan cheese—but mostly she wanted kisses. She tried to resist, but the moment their lips met, she was lost. He dug his hands into her hair and she kneaded his shoulder.

They managed a solid forty-five seconds of high-school level fooling around before she pushed him away, this time a gentle nudge. “I have to go.”

“You should stay.”

She grinned and ran her palm against the grain of the stubble on his cheek. “My employer has monopolized my schedule, and my girlfriend misses me.”

Girlfriend. Right.

So he spent his weekend in a sour mood, refusing to deal with the issues at work—wasn’t that what the boss was supposed to do? Leave the shitty stuff to the peons?—and pretending the situation between him and Imogen wasn’t getting really complicated. But ignorance and fantasy don’t solve problems, so Monday was a goddamn disaster.

It started at 9:17, when Andre was still shaking free from a nasty hangover and both Midas and Cipex sieged his office and got into a screaming fight. The argument sounded like one that had been going on all weekend. As best as Andre could figure out between all the obscure sci-fi references and irrelevant accusations, Cipex was pissed at just how much sensitive information Midas had taken home and Midas was furious that Cipex didn’t understand there was no way anyone could know where he lived.

It was a bit like watching a Laurel and Hardy skit, except millions of dollars were at stake.

“What does that even mean?” Cipex bellowed. “Do you live in a temporal rift? Are you straddling the orange and blue portals? Are you traveling through spacetime in the hopes that your next leap will be the leap home? Dude, they got our personnel files from the last theft.”

“It’s not the same guys!” Midas shouted back. “They couldn’t have gotten my address there, it wasn’t up-to-date!”

“And there was no way for them to, oh, I don’t know, follow your car home?”

Andre tried to break up the argument, but there was too much inertia behind it.

“Man, I’m all the way up in Canton. I would have noticed.”

“The fuck you doing up there?”

Midas kicked at the white carpet, leaving a gray scuff. “Sue kicked me out,” he muttered.

“Damn!” The way Cipex said that made Andre think he was listening to rap again, which was confirmed with, “Sue was tight, yo.”

Neither of them heard Andre snort over the slight foul in slang. Sue was attractive and had her shit together, but there was only one meaning to that term in reference to a woman.

Imogen was tight, amazingly, beautifully tight, but he certainly wasn’t telling them that.

In another couple seconds, he realized Cipex and Midas were staring at him. He cleared his throat, straightened the tie he was already itching to take off twenty minutes into the work day, and affixed a scowl on his face. “What?”

Cipex shrugged. “I’m not saying shit about that anymore.”

“I will,” Midas retorted. “Lookin’ awful proud of yourself there, Lachlan. That why Imogen never showed today?”

Andre’s eyebrows furrowed. He hadn’t heard from Imogen all weekend, so he was trying to hold off as long as possible before one of his ‘random’ visits to the Corral, just to make her antsy. He was unbothered by the fact that this was the most retarded game of hard-to-get ever, as his entire weekend had been pretty retarded. Now he thought he should have invited Midas over so he wasn’t alone in his drunk-moping over his screwed up love life.

It was best Midas wasn’t there for the porn binge, though. That was probably the low point of the weekend.

“She’s called out?” Andre asked, masking his concern as well as he could.

“Nope. Never heard from her.”

Hmm. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Once the boys left, Andre called everyone he thought Imogen might have contacted, but nobody knew anything. He called her and texted her with no response. He was sure she was fine, but this wasn’t like her at all.

And he hadn’t heard from her all weekend.

Don’t red flag, he told himself. She’s fine. He came up with a million plausible explanations, mostly of her trip running long and her phone battery running short, but he spent the rest of his day with one finger tapping his desk rapidly, irritating everyone in the room with him.

~..~

 

 

6PM meant nightmare rush hour on 285. Andre drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for the entire crawl, flipping off literally every single car that merged into his lane. Nobody expected anything else from the driver of a Lamborghini, so no feelings were hurt.

The gate was disabled at the apartment. As the two side entrances had no gates at all, it provided zero security, so Andre considered the open entrance a blessing—Imogen still wasn't answering her damn phone. He'd called her countless times that day, first just to see if she was back in town yet and wanted a casual night out and then to make sure she was okay and finally to yell at her for ignoring him.

And he would not be ignored.

He had to park several buildings away from hers and glared sternly at several teenagers eying up his car. There was an off chance the kids would assume he was a successful drug dealer and leave the car intact.

The door to Imogen's apartment opened as he climbed the stairs. A short, lean, black man with well-maintained dreads, a thin gold chain, and jeans sagging halfway to his knees walked out. There was muffled yelling from inside the apartment, to which the man yelled back, "Bitch, I told you twenty minutes, and you know that mean a goddamn hour!"

He shook his head and slammed the door behind him. On the stairs he acknowledged Andre with a quick nod. "Man, white bitches be crazy, yo."

The statement itself wasn't odd; Andre wasn't one for using vernacular but if anyone in this complex engaged him in conversation, he wouldn't hesitate to spice his vocabulary up with every slang term he knew. The odd thing here was the man spoke to Andre in the same tone his CFO used in board room meetings. Added to that was the faint lilt of a British accent.

So Andre returned the nod but said nothing.

He let himself into the apartment and closed the door gently. Apparently not gently enough, as the next thing he heard was Sal yelling, "You best not walk back into this living room without that goddamn pint of Haagen Dazs, else you gonn' have two psycho dykes all up on yo ass!"

Andre considered walking right back out of the apartment and going home—psycho dyke number two was likely fine—but eastbound was going to be even worse. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and walked to the living room.

Sal and Imogen were both curled up on the ratty sofa, buried under at least a dozen blankets and watching a generic romantic comedy. The coffee table was littered with candy bar wrappers and a nearly empty bowl of popcorn. Imogen had a half sandwich in one hand, a tissue in the other, and Sal was stroking her hair.

"I just don't understand it," Imogen was sobbing. "All she did was lie and say they were engaged when she didn't actually know him and now everybody hates her and she totally loves him!"

Andre cleared his throat.

Imogen continued sobbing. Sal spun around as she said, "Nigger, I done told—oh shit." Her eyes widened when she realized who was standing there. "We never say nigger."

Imogen glanced back, but didn't look nearly as surprised to see him. "I'm not a psycho dyke," she clarified. "Why are you here?"

"You're not answering your phone. I was worried. Should I even ask about the racial slurs?"

"Gary just got a roll in the new Tyler Perry," Sal explained. "And he's, like, Mr. Rogers levels of white normally. We're getting him into character."

So that was Cookie Gary. Definitely not what Andre had pictured from Imogen’s stories. "You might want to back off on the R in that word,” he suggested.

"That's my fault," Imogen confessed. "Nigga was sounding kind of forced, so I thought if we got used to the R, we could later work on making it less offensive. Also, this is my night off. We agreed on this."

Andre leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted to spank her hard, both for not answering the phone and for enunciating properly, but she looked so pathetic with her tear-streaked cheeks and lime green blanket wrapped around her head like a scarf. No, no yelling or spanking today, but he'd remember this for their next trip to Hell.

"We have multiple arrangements, you'll recall. I thought we could go out on a date. Dinner, a movie. Something casual. Or a night in."

The look Sal shot him was soul withering. "I don't see how a night in would apply to either of your arrangements."

Andre glanced to Imogen for some support, but she was busy munching on her sandwich. Bleach white goop oozed out the back of it, dripping onto the top blanket.

"I suppose not," he muttered. "What the hell are you eating, Ima?"

"Peanut butter, fluff, coconut, and pecan. I ran out of banana like three sandwiches ago."

"That sounds revolting."

Her glare perfectly mirrored Sal's. "My uterus is trying to devour my soul right now. I will eat whatever the fuck I want to eat."

Andre held his hands up in defense. "Hey, I get it. How about you go get dressed and we'll go to that Thai place you like?"

Imogen's glare lasted another three seconds before she burst into tears. Sal hugged her. "You pay her to be your perfect little girlfriend during the day and your perfect little toy at night. She's not gonna be able to perform either of her jobs right now, so you should probably let her have a sick day."

Andre smiled as sympathetically as he could. Sal must be sacrificing a lot in this arrangement, he didn't want to piss her off. "Here, let me have her," he said as he slipped his arms beneath Imogen.

Sal nodded skeptically and backed away.

"Which room is yours?"

"Err, mine's around the corner, but Gen’s is there on the left."

"Oh, okay." Imogen had never mentioned she didn't share a room with Sal. He hoped it wasn't because of him—Imogen deserved a happy home life.

Her room was small and crowded, filled with books and knickknacks. The desk was cluttered with notepads, mail, discarded jewelry, and two massive monitors. Her bed was small, a twin, its brightly colored bedspread faded from age. He laid her down on it and rolled her onto her stomach.

"That is so not happening," she grumbled.

"I'm glad you assume I'm someone who looks at a pathetically whiney, crampy, crying girl and thinks butt sex." He stripped away the layers of blanket to find her dressed in oversized sweatpants covered in a Halloween print and a threadbare terrycloth robe. "Oh yeah, I'm hard as a rock now," he said sarcastically.

"Oh my God, did you come here just to torment me?"

He smiled and kissed her temple. "Yes, you've discovered my dastardly plan. Torment and butt sex. Let me get you out of that robe and I'll make you feel better."

"How could you possibly know what will make me feel better?"

He eased the bathrobe down and suppressed his usual sound of appreciation for her long, graceful neck and smooth shoulders, speckled like a magnificent palomino. "Three sisters, remember? There was a particularly horrifying year in my life when all their cycles synched up. Trust me, as a teenaged boy stuck in their estrogen nightmare, I learned how to make myself useful quickly."

She dropped her arms down so he could pull the robe away. She grabbed it before he could discard it on the floor, though, and tucked it underneath her chest as a pillow. "I want to die," she moaned.

He found some discount brand lotion on her dresser and squeezed a dab of it out. It didn't smell too horrid, so he set it down next to her and straddled her legs.

He wanted to touch her shoulders, feel the powerful muscles clench beneath his fingers before melting down to nothing. He wanted to kiss the nape of her neck and catch a peek at the smile that always spread across her lips then, the one she thought he couldn't see. He wanted to lightly run his fingers down her spine while her toes curled and her throat purred. But now was not the time for that.

He flexed his wrists, found his targets—an inch below the small of her back, two inches from center—and dug the heels of his palms into the flat, solid plane.

Imogen whimpered at the pressure. Her thighs clenched, a flow of tension he was sure was being dissipated via a curl of those dainty toes although he didn't look. He'd be lying if he said the sound she made didn't cause a stirring in his pants; the last thing he needed was encouragement from her feet.

He moved his palms in slow circles, digging in with his thumbs as well until Imogen's whimpers melted into much silkier sounds. He succumbed to her, running a trail of kisses down her back.

"Andre?" she said in that frustratingly sexy breathless kitten voice. If she had any idea how that sound affected him, he was absolutely positive she would beat the crap out of him. "Andre, this can't...not..."

"I know," he murmured against her shoulder. He slid his hands around to her abdomen, applying pressure more gently to her pelvis. And damn her for responding to it with an inviting lift of the hips.

Maybe he didn't know after all, maybe he'd strip those ugly pants off her and give her a proper fuck finally, make her see what she was missing, and hard limits and lady time and everything else be damned.

But of course he'd never do that, so he rubbed her belly and kissed the faint ridge of her bicep and pretended his pants weren't getting increasingly uncomfortable.

"Andre?" Her voice was just as sexy this time, but slightly confused.

"Hmm?"

"Is this how you massage your sisters?"

"Shh."

"I mean, the kissing is nice and all..."

"Shh."

"What concerns me is the erection poking me in the rear."

"Shh, that's just your imagination."

She sighed. "You really are incorrigible, you know that?"

"And you're in serious trouble next time we're in Hell. You're gonna get spanked so hard you won't be able to sit on your fantastic ass for a week."

She tensed beneath him. "What are you talking about? I told you this was my day off."

"Not from everything."

She shot him an irritated glare. "Twenty-four hour notice on social occasions. If you wanted to do something tonight, you needed to tell me yesterday."

"You know that's not what I mean," Andre snapped as he lifted his leg so she could roll over, hopefully to admit she'd acted unprofessionally although he didn't expect it. "Midas says you're doing great on his crew, but fucking hell. I don't think I was overboard in being worried about you not answering the phone after not showing up today."

She flipped over then, and Andre allowed himself a casual glance at her pale, silky soft breasts and puckered nipples before returning to her far more frustrating face.

"I called out," she huffed. "What more do you want?"

"What are you talking about? Nobody's heard anything from you all day. Not Midas, not HR, not even the damn front desk. I checked everyone."

"That's ridiculous! I--!" Her eyebrows dipped low in thought. "Sal?" she yelled. "Sal! Salina Joann Rodriguez!"

Sal rushed in. "Christ, we're full naming now after--?"

Her words stopped in her throat when she saw Imogen's breasts. She was not pleased. "Really? What, you want me to watch whatever the hell you guys are about to do? I don't have a contract for this shit."

Imogen pulled her robe across her chest, ruining what little pleasure Andre was getting out of this moment.

"You're seeing this totally out of context. Back massage, rolled over afterward, tits. Tell him I called out of work today."

Sal shrugged. "You didn't."

"Oh my God! I totally did. We even talked about it."

"Yeah, we talked about it. And then that SPCA commercial with that godawful song came on and you lost your shit."

Imogen looked confused, clearly not remembering any of this. Then her eyes widened and her lips sank. "Oh my God, I'm such an asshole," she whispered. Her lips trembled as she looked up to Andre. "Are you firing me? You can. I deserve it."

Sal's presence made kissing those soft lips impossible, or any other contact for that matter. It was hard keeping his hands off her, though. She needed a hug or a squeeze of the hand, something comforting.

A trail of kisses from her ankle up to her hip, over her sternum, across her jaw, up to her forehead.

He shifted uncomfortably. Thankfully Sal was behind him and Imogen was too distraught to pay attention.

"It's fine," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound too distressed. "I took care of it."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I told Midas my girlfriend is on her period and out of sorts. And I was right. Yay, me."

The color drained from Imogen's face. "Oh my God, you did not." At his confirmation, she covered her eyes. "Oh my God, Andre! Jesus, now he's gonna be all weird with me the rest of the week. And then he's gonna remember this next month and he's gonna be a goddamn menstrual calendar."

Andre shrugged. "Then if you pull this stunt next month, he'll know why."

Sal huffed out an irritated breath. "Am I done here?"

"You want a massage?" Andre offered. "It'll make you feel better."

Her eyes shot deathly lasers. She flipped him off before slamming the door and marching back down the hall.

"Well that seemed excessive," Andre commented dryly.

"Don't take it personal. Sal doesn't like being touched." Imogen looked away and took a heavy breath. "I'm sorry I put you through that today. And not answering...I lost my phone. In the sofa or something, I don't know. I don't do well on these days, but that's no excuse."

With Sal gone, Andre didn't hesitate to bring her hand to his lips. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're okayish."

"Are you still planning on punishing me?"

"You know I am."

She closed her eyes as a lazy smile spread across her mouth. "I'm okay with that."

It was impossible not to kiss her then.


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