The Best Revenge

It's well past two in the morning, but it's still hot outside. Here in Vegas, in the middle of summer, it's like the sun gives up for the day, but all the warmth lingers behind. It's not muggy like in the east, but an arid, open heat. So we walk up the Strip. The fountains at Bellagio are done for the night, but the lake glitters from the surrounding lights and we stroll by casually. Cars and taxis still drive by, but the daytime congestion has eased. There are people on the streets. Some drunk and wandering, some as chipper as though they've just woken up and the pulsing neon of each hotel jockeys for their attention. Mike holds my hand as we take the main entrance back into his condo's complex, La Casa Nostra, but instead of going upstairs, he offers me a nightcap and I accept.

We stop into The Speakeasy, a relaxed bar just off the main floor. I hadn't been in this nook, yet, but I like it. It's quiet, with some Sinatra crooning in the background. It's done up like the rest of the place, with a modernized throwback '20s style. It has a black marble bar with a brass rail and plush, red velvet, high-backed stools up against it. Soft, chandelier lighting and the mirror behind the bar is beautifully etched with "Speakeasy" across the top. The bartender wears a pinstriped, button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and suspenders.

Mike orders us drinks as he takes a seat, but I stand by his side. As the bartender walks away, Mike goes, "I don't fucking believe this." I follow his line of sight across the bar and see him sitting there, Andy, nursing a highball. Mike says, "That fucking guy."

"We can go," I say.

"No. This is my place, not his," Mike answers with more steel in his voice than usual. He's not amused. "And you're my girl. Not his."

I should be offended at being described like a possession, but I'm not. Quite the contrary, it gives me a streak of pride. Andy's my ex, and he drives Mike nuts. Mike looks at me and cups my cheek in his palm, then moves his fingers into my hair. After the bartender drops off our drinks, he asks, "He came out here for you, didn't he?"

"He says so," I tell him. Andy showed up here two days ago begging me to take me back. Talk about too little, too late. I know Mike can't stand him because he thinks Andy never treated me very well. And Mike's right, Andy didn't treat me well. I tell Mike, "But I think he's only interested in me again because someone else is."

"Why'd you break up with him?" he asks me.

I look down, embarrassed. "Technically, he broke up with me."

"You're joking."

"No. It was a while ago. We'd been off and on for years, though." I laugh to myself as I remember what set Andy off that last time. "He was mad at me because I called out someone else's name while we were, um, you know."

"Wow," Mike says. "That is harsh."

"He repeatedly cheated on me, Mike."

Mike takes a swig of his drink. Across the bar, Andy hasn't noticed us yet. I sip on the martini he ordered me, luckily swallowing before he asks, "Whose name did you call?"

I just can't. I just cannot admit it. So I say, "George. I was thinking of George Clooney."

Without hesitation, Mike says, "You're lying."

"What?"

"You didn't sell that one at all. You're lying. Why?"

"I'm not lying," I lie.

"You're really not making me believe this one," he says. Playful now, he coaxes. "This should be good. Who was it, really?"

I take another sip of my martini and avoid eye contact with him. Saying, "You're so smart then you tell me."

"Just because I can tell you're lying doesn't mean I can tell what the truth is, Isabella."

I sigh, realizing he's not going to let this go. It makes me uncomfortable to admit the truth, because it makes it so obvious that I had a crush on him long before we hooked up. "It's weird," I tell him.

"Weird how? Like Wilford Brimley? That'd be weird. Dane Cook? Please, Iz, tell me it wasn't Dane Cook. Dick Cheney?"

I don't see him stopping soon, so I look him in the eye and say, "Mike. I said the name Mike."

His smile fades, but then comes right back. "Mike as in...?"

"Yes. You."

"That is the single sexiest thing I've ever heard," he says.

"Egomaniac," I say. "And not to him, it wasn't sexy."

"No wonder he came here to get you back," Mike says. "This has to be driving him nuts."

"I don't care," I say and then take another long drink of the martini, enough to feel it warming me up in the belly.

"I care," Mike says, again stroking his fingers through my hair. With that, he pulls me in for a kiss. When I open my eyes to pull back, I see Mike's eyes already open, but not looking at me. He's looking across the bar, and I follow his line of sight and see that he's looking directly at Andy. And Andy is looking back at us. His eyes flit from Mike, and then land on me, glaring.

Before I can say anything, Mike nuzzles my ear and whispers, "You know how they say the best revenge is living well, Isabella? They're wrong. The best revenge is living well and knowing that the other person is aware of it. And knowing that he's filled with envy about it."

I smile. "I think we've just accomplished that, then," I tell him.

"Almost," he whispers to me. He calls the bartender over and orders us a couple more drinks, nodding for me to finish mine up. I oblige, taking a big gulp, feeling the booze seep down to my stomach, warming me inside and out. While we're waiting for the next round, Mike turns in his seat and pulls me closer so that I'm standing right between his legs. Putting his arms around me, he leans in and really kisses me. I keep my eyes open, but he closes his, and when he parts my mouth and sucks on my lower lip, I give in and close my eyes, too.

He goes at my mouth, holding me tight around the waist as I take hold of his arms for support, his tongue and the liquor mixing to make me weak-kneed and swoony for his attentions. Just as I think he's pulling away, he moves back in, hard and deep, tongue-fucking my mouth, stepping over the line of decency for public affection. But I don't stop him. I'm warm and tingly and there are only a few people in here. The bartender who's mixing us drinks, I'm sure he's seen this on a nightly basis. There's another couple at a table across the room, not even in our sightline. And Andy. And screw him.

Revenge is sweet, I realize as Mike moves away from my mouth and sucks on my earlobe, sending tingles of pleasure all down my neck. I should push him off me, but it feels so heavenly, his strong arms and tickling warm breath. Just as I'm deciding to push him away for the sake of etiquette, he stops and pulls back. He still holds me steady with one arm, but I scrunch my neck in reaction to the cool air hitting me where he had just warmed. I know why he stopped as the bartender slides our fresh drinks in front of us.

I blush and duck my head, realizing he saw that whole display. But then I realize it's about to get worse as Mike releases me completely to reach in his wallet and pull out a few bills. I'm not sure how much he hands to the guy, but he says, "How about you refill that gentleman's glass." He nods to Andy across the bar, now looking down in his drink instead of at us. Mike says, "And then could you stay busy down at that end of the bar for a little while?"

The bartender just nods and takes the bills, tucking them in his shirt pocket as he reaches for a fresh highball glass and fills it with ice. I look at Mike and frown. Tell him, "Don't get carried away, Mike."

"Here's your drink," is how he answers me, pushing the full martini glass closer to me. I pick it up and take a dainty sip from the rim. It's a good one. Nice and dirty, savory with plenty of olive juice, the oil from it creating ribbons throughout the vodka. I know what he's up to. As my alcohol intake rises, my inhibitions drop. I know Mike's keen on this knowledge. But in front of Andy? I don't think so.

I set the glass down. Mike raises his and takes a long drink. Setting it down, he pulls me in front of him so my back is against the bar. He reaches over and hands me my drink. I scan the room behind us. There's no one. I turn my head, see the bartender placing the fresh drink in front of Andy. The bartender points to us and Andy raises his glass and nods, so I raise mine. After he swallows, Andy smirks. I didn't realize how much buried resentment I had against him until that second. I should feel bad about flaunting my happiness in front of him, but I don't. Like a bullwhip cracking through my skull, in a flash, a hundred tiny, supposedly insignificant things he's said to me come together and piss me off.

He always did make cracks about me being too slutty, and I was downright composed with him as opposed to how I am with Mike. And Mike loves every minute of it with me. I turn away from him and take another long gulp, relishing the heat as it slips down my throat. I look in the other direction and see that the bartender has moved to the other end of the bar, busying himself washing glasses. The other couple at the table is partially obscured around that same corner, and they aren't paying any attention to us.

I can feel Mike looking at me so I face him and return the gaze. It's partly the martinis making me giddy, but not completely. Every thing that Andy said to me to knock me down, Mike has said the opposite to build me up. His tongue peeks out briefly, and I know he really wants this. Why shouldn't he have that ultimate satisfaction over Andy? I smile at him and stretch up for a kiss. Closing his eyes, he returns it. I feel him taking the martini glass out of my hand and then circling my waist with that arm. He tangles his other hand in my hair, but kisses me gently.

I place my hands on his knees and run them up his thighs. As I get to his crotch, he releases me and grabs my hands and stops kissing me. I look at him questioningly. He just goes, "Not me. You. It's your turn to live well."

I wonder if he's joking, but then that slow smile breaks across his face, and I know he's not.

"I can't," I say.

He doesn't answer me with words. Instead, Mike releases my hand and slips his under my skirt, slides his long fingers beneath my panties and uses his index finger to part my lips. I gasp with it and realize to my dismay I'm wet from his kissing. It's ridiculous how quickly and easily he gets my juices flowing when he makes out with me, but even though I'm not dripping or tuned up, I'm clearly slick and he's got no trouble getting his finger positioned with firm pressure against my hot spot.

I shake my head, but with his free hand, he again hands me my martini and then leans close, breathily whispering in my ear, "For me," he says. "Show him how happy you are."

I gulp on the drink and shift my weight, but he moves too and keeps the pressure. Very slow, languid, he undulates his finger up, and then back down. It's not great, but it's definitely good. I finish my drink, taking another look around. There's no one behind us to see, and with my back to the bar, Andy might not even be able to tell what's going on.

I look up at Mike again, watching me. He does have a nasty, pervy streak, and I never realized until I was with him how much I got off on the risky and risqué. I finish the cocktail and he takes the glass from me and sets it behind me on the bar. Then he kisses me again, soft at first, his finger applying pressure. But as he picks up the pace on my mouth, his finger glides again, making it pleasurable down there.

I lift my leg and place it on the lowest rung of his barstool as he wraps his other arm around my waist. Two fingers now, sliding between my lips, pressing against my clit, gliding with sinful pressure across it. I sigh, unable to respond to his kissing as the sensations intensify, making my heart beat hard.

He nuzzles my neck, and I wonder if his eyes are closed or if he's looking across the bar at Andy, but I don't really care, either, because I'm doing it for him anyhow, so whatever gives him the most satisfaction I can deal with. I feel safe huddled close to him. It's deviant what I'm allowing him to do in public like this, but I'm closed in his arms and shielded from view, and as he picks up the pace, I get flushed and fevered with it, feeling so fucking good.

That's when he pulls back from me, again allowing a cool draught of air to hit me on the neck where he was, his fingers pressing maddeningly against my clit but no longer moving. "Turn around," he says to me.

My head spins and my jaw drops.

"You can do this," he says. "Let him see you."

"Mike," I say, begging. He presses his fingers more firmly against me, making me squirm with pleasure and frustration.

"You're so beautiful, Izzy," he says. "Let him see what he's lost." A beat, then, "Show him you're mine. Show him how happy I make you."

"Oh Mike," I say. He rubs me again, slowly a few times, then more insistent, making me drip and grind against his touch and itch for more. Suddenly, he stops and pulls his hand away. He puts his hands on my hips, turning me around, and I don't stop him or even resist. That line of decency for public displays? I realize we've catapulted over it.

Once I'm facing the bar, he places one hand flat against my tummy, the other immediately up my skirt and under my panties, gliding to part my lips. I check the bartender, still at the other end of the bar, and then look across to Andy, who looks at us but then back down to his drink. I lower my eyes, staring at the bottles lined up in front of me and raise my leg again, this time placing it on the brass rail running across the bottom of the bar as a footrest.

Mike goes for it. He nuzzles against my neck, warming me again, wrapping himself close against my back. Gliding and sliding, pressing and rubbing right at that knot of tension he's created, making it both worse and better with every stroke. I thrum with it, my clit pulsing with pleasure as he strokes. My hands hold tight to the upper rail on the bar as he works me manually, manipulating my clit and making it pulse with heat. I feel myself panting and bite my lip to catch my breath. Glancing across the bar, I see Andy looking at me, watching.

My eyes flit back in front of me, but instead of the bottles, I look higher, to the mirror behind the bottles where I can see my own reflection. The reflection is darkened but crisp, so I can see enough detail to notice that I'm obviously flushed, my face strained. Mike meets my gaze in the mirror. He takes his hand from my stomach and moves it up my side, under the fabric of my halter top, plants it firmly against my breast. He says, "You look so sexy."

No, I don't. I look wanton. I close my eyes and lower my leg, squeeze my thighs together, trapping his fingers so that he stops movement. It's almost unbearable; I've already let it go too far and I'm dying for release down there. Under his other hand, I can feel my traitorous nipple hardening against his palm. But I can't do it. I inhale sharply, exhale slowly, but Mike presses harder between my legs, pushes himself up against me from behind, and drags his palm across my nipple. I catch his gaze in the mirror again and he smiles at me. Then his eyes flick over to Andy.

I can't look at him. I can't do this. I can't let Mike get me off and have Andy watch every reaction play across my face. But even as I think about that humiliation, my crotch throbs with need.

"Open your legs," Mike whispers to me, and I don't know why I do it. I put my foot up again, my body betraying me and begging for more. Mike presses hard and I shiver, shamed and turned on at the same time. I lock eyes with him in the mirror as he goes at me hard, making me grind against his insistent touches. He smiles at me, reassuring, presses up behind me, lets me feel his erection against my ass as he cups my breast. I glance over. Andy has both hands around his glass, his eyes locked on my face. I gasp and lurch as Mike hits my every nerve, rubbing furiously, pressing me forward, my mouth dropping open. Mike thrusts behind me again, I grab the bar for support, knocking over my empty martini glass, send it crashing to the floor.

The bartender turns at the noise but then looks at us, me straining with pleasure, rising on tiptoes to evade Mike's demanding strokes, but Mike goes harder, faster. Under the thin fabric of my shirt, concealing nothing, Mike pinches my nipple as he drives his fingertips against my clit. I gasp. The bartender blessedly turns his back. I look at Andy, glaring at me as I strain. I can't believe I let it go this far, too far. Now I can't stop it because I need it, I need the release and Andy's going to see that ultimate pleasure in every detail. I can't stop, and I can't stop Andy from watching, but looking at him doesn't help me at all. So I look back in the mirror, Mike watching me, licking his lips, and that's what puts me right on edge.

He tells me the exact right thing, growling in my ear, "I love you, Isabella. Come. For me." He's whispering encouragements in my ear, but he doesn't have to, because I can't stop now. I have to come. I have to come right now. I grind down and press back against him, arching my back with shameless need, and Mike keeps hold with firm pressure, making me explode. I groan aloud and shake with it, coming against his hand. Mike knows me well enough already to know my body's reactions and that he can draw it out. And he does. Unrelenting, pressing against my clit, slowly rubbing out the aftershocks, his other hand now pressed against my heart.

I close my eyes and slump as I come back down, Mike now just gently cupping me below as he takes his hand out of my shirt and wraps his arm back around my stomach. Still pressed close, asking me, "You okay?"

"Oooooh," is all I can answer. Then, as the swimming in my brain recedes, "I can't believe I just did that."

He kisses my shoulder, his erection still pressed against my back. I straighten up and turn in his arms, ask him if he wants to go upstairs. He licks his fingers but before he can answer, Andy taps him on the shoulder and he turns to him. "Nice show," Andy says.

"Oh that wasn't the show," Mike says. "That was just the preview of coming attractions." He stresses the word coming as he says it.

Looking at me, Andy says, "Vegas suits you, Izzy. The land of shots, slots, and sluts." Then, he reaches out with a folded bill in his hand and stuffs it down my shirt, his hand grazing my breast, making me recoil. Mike lets go of me and grabs Andy's hand before he can move away, but Andy just looks at him and questions, "Isn't that custom here? Pay for the whores?"

My face flames, but Mike does the outrageous. He stands up and with the same hand he'd just gotten me off with, he punches Andy in the jaw.

I squeal, covering my mouth, and Andy goes down to the floor with the hit. "Get up," Mike tells him. Splayed out like an upended turtle, I can see that Andy isn't just pissed about our vengeful, lusty display, and that Mike isn't the only one turned on by it. Andy's frustrated hard-on pokes against the fly of his pants. I know Mike doesn't miss that fact, either. Reaching down, Mike offers him the same hand he used to punch him and helps pull him to his feet. He simply says, "Go upstairs. Tomorrow, go home."

Andy holds his jaw and doesn't even dare shoot me a look. He just turns and goes. As he's walking out, a security guard walks by. "Need some help, Mr. Nolan?" he asks.

"We're fine, Tim," Mike answers him, so the guy nods and then walks away.

"He got here quickly," I say.

Mike points up to the security cameras. I blush, realizing people did see us. "Relax," he tells me. "It's Vegas. They've seen it all."

"But they didn't have to see me." What dismays me the most is how relatively un-dismayed I am by the fact I've now become a full-blown exhibitionist. I reach down my shirt and pull out the crumpled bill. "Buy you a drink?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he says, smirking as he takes his seat.

"I can't believe you hit him," I say, which is probably what's making me forget about my sleazy behavior that started it all. I know he loves me, but that was out of sight. Turning back to Mike, I say, "And you told him to leave town!"

He laughs. "Like a fucking sheriff!"

I kiss his cheek, but when I lean close, I can feel that the confrontation did nothing to deflate his fully hard dick. "You sure you don't want to go upstairs now?" I ask him.

"Buy me a drink with your tip there," he says, nodding to the bill. "Let's live well on his dime."

I smooth out the bill. It's a five. "Jesus," I say.

"Not only is he an asshole," Mike says. "He's a cheap fuck, too."

"Also?" I look him in the eye, knowing it'll make his night. Rubbing my hand up along his crotch, feeling his shaft hard against my hand, I tell him, "In case you hadn't noticed, your dick is bigger than his."

"And?" he asks.

"You use it much better."

"Oh Iz," he sighs. "Are you trying to make me come in my pants?"

"Yes," I say, pressing and rubbing his erection through the material of his pants.

"Screw the drink," he says. "Let's go upstairs." He kisses me with urgency as I continue to rub him. Him saying, "He's going to have to jerk off alone."

"Sweet enough revenge," I say, squeezing my hand around his hardness, making him shiver.

Mike pants in my ear. Promising, "And I'm gonna fuck you 'til dawn."

I nod in agreement, knowing he can do it, stroking him and telling him, "And that's definitely living well."

Susan DiPlacido...hot erotic fiction, scintillating novels and anthologies. For more, visit Neon Fiction

Max - Portrait Of A Serial Fucker 2: Clip 1