Faeling

Merritt led Oz into his penthouse, keeping a friendly chatter going to disguise his motives and growing nerves. It couldn’t be helped, of course—he’d been looking forward to this night, to sealing his fate, for his entire life. A bit of tension for the otherwise cool and collected Merritt Peters was allowed on this night if never again.

“What will you have, Oz?” Merritt inquired as he walked to his bar.

“You don’t happen to keep any orange juice on hand, do you? For some reason a Screwdriver just sounds perfect right now.” She laughed and came up behind him. “What’re you having?”

“I’m more of a gin and tonic man, myself—but you’re in luck, you won’t have to join me. There’s orange juice in the refrigerator.” Oz wrinkled her nose at the mention of gin and went to fetch the orange juice. Merritt tried very hard to not watch her walk away. “You can take off those heels now, you know,” he told her when she returned with the juice.

She heaved a sigh of relief and immediately bent down to remove them. “Thank you, I know I said I wanted to come here so I could take them off but I didn’t want to be rude!”

Merritt handed Oz her drink and smiled his most charming smile down at her. There was something he liked about being able to look down a few inches into her eyes. “Feeling better?” he asked, a hint of smokiness seeping into his tone.

“Yes, it feels amazing,” Oz chirped brightly, rising to her tip-toes and lowering herself a few times. “I can’t stand those shoes.” She took a sip of her drink, made a pleased noise and thanked him.

Merritt was feeling slightly less pleased. Most women fell into his arms with no hesitation and any that held back completely gave way the second he spoke with the suggestive tone he’d just used on Oz... With no result whatsoever. He took a large gulp of his gin and tonic and nearly spit it out when he heard Oz ask to be shown around. He cleared his throat as quietly as possible. “Of course. Last time you were here there wasn’t time.” He didn’t really want to think about the last time she’d visited him. This time things would go better. Merritt gestured for her to follow him as he walked through his home, stopping to answer any questions Oz has about décor or art—though it was almost exclusively the latter. “And this is the master bedroom,” Merritt added nonchalantly as they came to the room he’d purposely kept for last.

Oz padded in on bare feet, taking in the massive room. “It’s beautiful,” she said, moving straight to the walls to admire the artwork Merritt woke up to every morning. Oz stopped in front of a photo of some exotic bird that had been a gift from a woman he’d dated when he was moving in. Merritt had only kept it because it was one of the few splashes of color in a mostly monochrome room. Oz inspected the photograph for a few moments before taking a sip of her drink. “Is this a quetzal?” she asked, watching him carefully.

Merritt blinked a few times. Of all the women he’d invited into his room, he couldn’t remember a single one who had so much as glanced at the art hanging on the walls, much less asked the name of that particular bird. Merritt wasn’t even totally certain that she meant the species of bird and not the photographer. “I- I’m not sure,” he barely controlled a stutter. “It was a gift,” he recovered. Oz frowned a bit to herself before shrugging. She turned back to the photo for a moment before taking a few steps to the bedside table and setting down her vodka and orange juice. She reached her arms up and began fiddling with the zipper at the back of her dress. “What are you doing, Oz?” Merritt asked, only just keeping the tremble from his voice. He felt his stomach rise up into his chest as if filled with helium instead of gin and champagne. Maybe that was it—he was tipsy. That’s why his arms felt like lead.

Oz didn’t reply to his question, instead pulling the zipper of her dress all the way to her lower back and letting it slide off of her pale shoulders to pool on the carpet. Merritt felt like his ribcage was collapsing and someone had shot his veins full of fire. He could only watch Oz as she moved toward him in only her underclothes, reaching out those slender fingers to push his jacket off his broad shoulders in mockery of her own undressing. He realized he must have closed his eyes when he noticed Oz’s hands were no longer on him. He turned to where she was now making her way into his walk-in closet, his jacket dangling from one delicate hand. He watched as she carefully placed a hanger inside the jacket and left it on a hook.

She crossed to him, a small smile on her face that wasn’t quite teasing or seductive—it was half-sad. Merritt opened his mouth to tell her that she didn’t need to do this--that sleeping with him wasn’t part of their business transaction, that he’d never wanted her to feel forced into anything—before realizing that while it wasn’t some unwritten part of their deal, she did need to do this. He needed to secure his future. He needed the prophesy to come true—he needed to win her. As he came to this realization, Merritt felt his stomach clench and try to drop into his feet. Merritt was determined to bring about his fate.

He smiled at her—that knee-weakening smile that he’d tried a hundred times—and this time she blushed prettily. Something about that blush felt wrong, but Merritt pushed it away. Oz stared up into his sea green eyes for a long moment, inscrutable. Merritt was relieved to see no desperation or obligation in her eyes before she dropped them. After that, he was happy to watch her small fingers deftly unbutton his shirt, pull up his undershirt and run across his stomach. Oz didn’t look at him now.

Finally, Merritt placed his hands on her soft, pale skin. He danced his fingers over her, reveling in every inch. Oz pushed Merritt onto his bed, reaching behind her back to unfasten her bra as he whipped off his tie and threw it on the floor. Merritt took Oz in his arms. He was finally going to win.