Lane One: Temptation Read online

  Lane One

  Temptation

  Justine Elvira

  Edited by: Eileen Proksch

  Cover by: Robin Harper

  wickedbydesigncovers.com

  Published by Justine Elvira

  Smashwords Edition

  ©2015 Justine Elvira

  [email protected]

  All rights reserved. This book contains material under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any Unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Cover image used under license from shutterstock.com

  Table of Contents

  Temptation

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Lane One: Seduction

  Justine Elvira's books

  Acknowledgements

  Changing His Game

  About the Author

  Temptation:

  Something that causes a strong urge or desire to have or do something and especially something that is bad, wrong, or unwise.

  Prologue

  Entry #1715

  If I were able to define beauty it would be simple. I'd just have to say her name. The way she smiles at the simplest of things, or the way she crinkles her nose when she doesn't like something. There's beauty in her laugh, her love of children, her kindness towards others, and her painful past full of despair and heartache. The pain she hides from the rest of the world is the most beautiful of all. It makes me want to protect her until my last breath. If the world got to see what I see every day, she would no longer be just mine. Every man who was lucky enough to be in her presence would want her.

  "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

  The fasten seat belt light flickers off, letting me know that it's okay to move around the plane cabin after the long stretch of turbulence ends. I stand up, stretching my legs out in front of my first class seat. There are two hours left on this eight-hour flight to London and I'm already itching to get back to Chicago.

  "No, thanks," I reply, brushing past the petite woman and making my way to the small lavatory located in first class. It's unoccupied so I squeeze myself inside and lock the door behind me.

  After relieving myself of the several cups of coffee I've consumed on the flight, I zip up my pants and wash my hands in the tiny sink, briefly glancing at my appearance in the mirror.

  The man staring back at me looks worn out and fucking old as shit.

  I've noticed the subtle changes in my appearance these past couple weeks and at first I thought I was going crazy. I was convinced I was seeing things that weren't there, but when the first few gray hairs started to appear near my temples, I couldn't pretend to imagine it anymore. The stress of everything having to do with her has made me age.

  I hate leaving her, even for these little trips where I'm gone for less than forty-eight hours. Although I've hired the best team around, I don't trust the care she's under. If I'm not there to supervise the daily schedule, I live in fear that someone will make a mistake or mess up, and I'll be forced to live the rest of my life without her.

  A life without her is not a life I'm willing to live.

  I press down on the faucet and cup my hands, letting them fill with water before splashing my face. The cool water is refreshing against my skin, and in an odd way makes me feel slightly better and more awake. As I'm drying my face there is a knock on the lavatory door. I toss the paper towel in the garbage and unlock the door, ready to go back to my seat but instead someone walks in.

  "Are you sure there's nothing else I can do for you, sir?" the eager flight attendant asks. I've always had this effect on women and even though I look the worst I've ever appeared, apparently women still want me.

  She's looking up at me, her eyes coated in heavy make-up. She can't be older than twenty. Her button up flight attendant top is open, revealing her perky, young breasts and while her offer might have been something I would have considered a while back, it's no longer a desire of mine when I'm in the right mindset.

  She clicks the lock behind her and moves towards me in the confined space. The small toilet is pushing against the back of my legs so I have nowhere to move. Her firm chest brushes against mine as the palm of her hand slides against my stomach and lowers to the front of my trousers. She rubs the small palm of her hand up and down, attempting to get a reaction from my cock. I'm too stunned at the moment to stop her, too tired to think straight.

  "I can be very helpful," she offers.

  She undoes the button of my pants and slowly unzips them, lowering them past my hips. She places her delicate hands over my cock again and begins to stroke me over my boxer briefs.

  It's been so long since I've been touched. I can't remember ever going this long without my dick receiving some kind of attention from the opposite sex. I need to stay focused. I need to remember why I'm here, why I'm on this plane. I run on a strict schedule. I like my detailed to-do lists and today's list is an easy one. There are just four simple steps.

  *Go to London

  *Sign the necessary paperwork needed at my business meeting

  *Get my ass back on the plane to Chicago

  *Go see my girl and make sure those incompetent assholes don't fuck up while I'm away

  I'll be home in less than forty-eight hours. I can get through forty-eight fucking hours.

  As I'm repeating the words over in my head I almost forget about the young woman in front of me until I feel my cock stir to life. Warmth spreads through my body and the desire to fuck something so I can come suddenly takes over my thoughts.

  I look down at my dick but can only see the fiery, red hair of the flight attendant as she pulls my boxers down and devours my cock with her mouth.

  Fuck me. That feels incredible.

  I forgot how nice a soft set of lips and a warm mouth can feel around my cock.

  As soon as I think it, a visual of the argumentative, fun-loving brunette I love pops into my head and I groan in agony instead of satisfaction. The redhead takes this as encouragement and she gently bites down on my long, hard length before dragging her teeth up to the head and sucking the tip. As great as it feels, I'm forced to push her off of me. She falls back against the door and I quickly zip myself back up while looking at her stunned face.

  She's pretty, gorgeous really, but she's not her. No one will ever come close to her.

  "That was sweet of you to offer, but I'm afraid I'm a one woman man."

  "I can be discreet. No one will know," she whispers huskily.

  "And I don't like repeating myself. You're a young woman who probably has more to offer a man than a blowjob in the lavatory of first class. You should focus on your job, while I focus on getting back in my seat. Excuse me."

  I gesture towards the door and wait for her to stand up and adjust her clothing. She unlocks it and steps out of the small, enclosed space. I follow behind her to go back to my seat. The large leather seat is comfortable and I recline back, shutting my eyes to try and forget what just happened.

  Forty-eight hours. I just need to get through the next forty-eight hours.

  One

  Entry #1246

  My fascination with her started in the lap lane
s of my exclusive five star health club. I'm not sure what drew me to her. It wasn't sexual or lustful, just pure infatuation...

  I don't normally behave like this. It's sickening, really, and I probably should be sprawled out on an uncomfortable couch waiting for a psychiatrist with an Ivy League education to prescribe me something, or to lock me away in a white padded room for the rest of my life.

  I feel this way because I've hit the ultimate low.

  Do you see the guy standing behind the chrome, three-tier towel rack, staring out at the long length of the lap pool like a creeper, or pedophile? The devastatingly handsome man with short, dirty blond hair, but long enough for you to hold on to while he's fucking you? That dumbshit is me.

  Over the past year I've gone from being the most eligible bachelor in the Chicago land area to a dwindling, pathetic version of that man.

  I hate the man I've become. I'd beat the shit out of me if I could.

  I'm arrogant, cocky, rich, and sexy as fuck. Women can't wait for the chance to try and seduce me so they can jump into bed with me. My good looks draw them in and my light blue eyes deceive them into trusting me. So why the hell am I hiding behind a towel rack stalking a woman I don't know, and who is most definitely not my type?

  I guess to figure that out we need to start back at the beginning: The first day that my dick started to disappear and I began growing a pussy.

  I'm one of those men addicted to healthy eating and fitness. My workout routine is just that, a routine. I arrive at the health club around nine every morning, right after my morning meetings. I run for an hour on the treadmill, weight lift for thirty minutes, go to the mats and pound out five hundred sit-ups, and finish off with a trip to the sauna.

  My body's a well-oiled machine; I like it that way.

  This has been my routine for a long time. I've worked out six days a week for over fifteen years, only resting on Sundays because of family obligations. Truthfully, Sundays are when I need to exercise the most. My family would drive anyone crazy, and physical exertion is the only way I can relieve my stress.

  So you could say I was surprised when I received the results of my annual physical last year.

  I was a thirty-four-year-old healthy male. I knew I had nothing to worry about. Men wish they were in the physical condition I was in. My doctor, who also happens to be one of my closest friends, hooked me up to the treadmill and started my annual stress test; the results were more than disappointing.

  Apparently, I have issues knowing how to handle and deal with stress. I didn't need to pay the fucker and have him hook me up to a machine to find that out. I knew this already, and so did he. The treatment plan he put me on? Participate in more activities that help relieve stress.

  What the hell did he want me to do? I already spend my mornings at the health club, and in the evenings I worked out my stress in the bedroom. There's Melissa on Mondays, Jenny on Tuesdays and Saturdays, Mercedes on Wednesdays, Bailey on Thursdays and Sundays, and I always left Friday nights open so I could fit in whatever girl met my standards when I was out at the bar with the guys. I never went home empty-handed.

  Why am I telling you this?

  I'm telling you this so you can see why creeping on some chick I don't know, like I'm a fucking predator, is pathetic and uncalled for. I'm better than this. I shouldn't be stalking her; she should be stalking me.

  The female population has been after me since my first trip to the sandbox when I was just two years old. My mother loves to tell this story. You see, I was minding my own business and filling my bucket up with sand, when an older boy stole my shovel. I started to cry (not my best moment) and then two little girls went over to that older boy and got my shovel back for me. The details are fuzzy, mostly because I wasn't old enough to remember and my mother likes to embellish when storytelling, but that day I left the sandbox a new man.

  I had received my first and second kiss that day. For a boy who still wore diapers and was probably sitting in his own piss and shit, this was a huge moment in the history of Theo.

  Oh yeah, my name’s Theodore Rosely, but everyone calls me Theo.

  I've never liked my name. My parents are stuck up elitists and named me Theodore after President Franklyn Theodore Roosevelt. My father is a senator and his life-long wish was for me to follow in his footsteps, so I obviously chose another path for my life to go down.

  I became a rich, successful businessman who refuses to settle down. I'm no longer invited to any of their social gatherings. This is mostly because I've fucked a daughter, a niece, or babysitter of almost every guest invited and never called her afterwards.

  Instead of being pissed at me they should tell the less than fortunate women in their lives to close their fucking legs. I didn't force them to hop on.

  This is just a little backstory, but we'll get to more about me later. Right now I want to focus on what brought me to the low place I'm in today.

  After my visit last year with the good old doctor, I decided to change up my exercise routine a little. The following Monday morning I arrived at the gym and ran for an hour before weight lifting and doing my sit-ups, but when I got back to the locker room I threw on my swim jammers and decided to swim some laps in the pool before I sat in the sauna.

  You see, I was a competitive swimmer all the way through college. Growing up the way I did meant I had parents that were too busy to spend time with me, so I spent my time with the staff and participating in every extracurricular activity you could imagine. It was natural talent and great genes that made me great at everything I did, but I excelled in swimming.

  I took to the water like I belonged there. Swimming felt more natural to me than walking. By the time I hit high school I was the number one swimmer in the state and colleges all over the country were scouting me and offering me the world if I chose their school. I ended up choosing a school at random, because at that time I didn't care about a future in school, I only cared about pussy and I was getting loads of it.

  I still am.

  When I walked into the pool area that Monday and approached the lap lanes, only lane two was open, the rest were occupied. With my goggles secured on my face I dove in and swam a few warm-up laps, reacquainting myself with the water. It had been several years since I swam laps in a pool, but it's just like riding a bike. After just a few laps I felt home again in the water.

  At the end of my tenth lap I stopped, pulled my goggles off my head and dampened them with water before reapplying them over my eyes. When I look back over the past year I realize this is when it happened. This is when my life started to change and I became my own worst enemy. I became infatuated with one woman, and it would take me an insanely long time to realize it.

  Somehow I was oblivious to what my mind was constantly focused on this past year. My thoughts were always on her.

  With the goggles secured back on my face, I let my eyes drift over my surroundings. The lanes were active with bodies seeking the same physical release I was. My eyes appraised every lane and although each person swam at a different level, they all seemed to be in great shape. Some might even possibly have a similar background in the sport that I did, except for her- the woman in lane one.

  This is what drew my attention to her at first.

  She was frumpy. I'm not just saying that because she was significantly overweight, which she was. I'm saying it because her bathing suit was old, worn and didn't fit her right. The only positive thing about the blue synthetic material she called a one-piece, was the built-in push-up bra that her ample breasts toppled over. Although, the only reason she had ample breasts was because of her weight so it's not necessarily something I should drool over.

  I'm not good at guessing a woman's size if she's larger than a size eight, mostly because I've never fucked a woman over a size eight, but this woman was much larger. Shit, I don't know, maybe a size eighteen or twenty?

  You see my problem? This was the first time I'd seen her and I was already spending too much time thinking abou
t her. She was already demanding my attention longer than any other woman ever had. A size eighteen was definitely not my type. Plus, she was just average-looking. Okay, maybe a little above average and I'm only conceding to that because in those first couple seconds she caught my eye.

  She noticed me looking at her and gave me a shy smile. It was just a small smile before she focused back on the water and started swimming again, but in that smile I saw something... beautiful.

  Of course, that's not what I thought in that moment, but looking back at that first encounter, I'm more aware of the fact that I thought she was breathtakingly beautiful from the moment I laid eyes on her.

  Now I know what you're thinking about my previous comments and it's true; I'm an asshole. Men should never comment on a woman's weight or whatever, but I'm not saying it to be a douchebag or to get a laugh. I commend her for getting in the pool and working out that day.

  I'm saying it because it's a fact that I observed when I saw her.

  After she looked away from me and started to swim again, I forgot all about her and focused on the lane in front of me. I swam for the next forty-five minutes, enjoying the calming effect the water had on my body, before pulling myself out of the pool and heading straight into the locker room and towards the sauna. I didn't look around for her before leaving the pool area because I had no need to. I'd forgotten all about her in those forty-five minutes.

  The rest of the week went exactly the same for me. I adapted to my new workout routine and quickly remembered how much I enjoyed swimming. I was even grateful for the results of that stress test because it brought back my love of the water, but every day that week when I went down to the pool, she was there.