I repeat the address in my head, reversing the car and looking for a street sign, some indicator of which part of Posh I inhabit. Nothing. This ridiculous excuse for a neighborhood doesn’t believe in street signs or house numbers, something so ghastly as numerical digits having no place in their architectural façade.

I glance in my review mirror, terrified that flashing lights and an overzealous cop man will appear and start another round of questioning. I plug the address into my car’s GPS; it, and my iPhone’s map informing me that I am, technically, in the middle of nothing, a blue dot in the midst of brown dirt. Apparently rich people privacy includes exclusion from modern directional satellites. I grit my teeth and call Mother’s cell.

“You’re late.”

“I’m lost. You’re neighborhood refuses to make any helpful overtures when it comes to directing strangers.”

She sighed. “Where are you?”

I look at the house before me, barely visible behind the large gate and landscaped foliage. Then pull slightly forward, to a slightly different gate, with another well-hidden home. “I see gates. Big ass gates and little bits of home.”

“Watch your language, Madison. I did raise you to be a lady.”

I avoid that conversational landmine, driving farther, until I see a house that is actually visible, behind yet another imposing iron gate. “I’m in front of a white house. Spanish style, with an orange tile roof.”

She huffs impatiently into the phone. “You know, the food is getting cold. And I don’t have every home in this neighborhood memorized. Our house faces west, and we are in the back of the neighborhood. I’ll send one of the help down to stand by the gate.”

The help. I bite back a response, schooling my brain as my mouth opens. “Thanks Mom. I’ll be there soon.” Movement catches my eye as I end the call, and a white SUV pulls up behind me, its roof flashing red and white. I let out a groan, watching the door open and a uniform emerge.

RANCHO SANTA FE, CA

I watch my mother carefully. Watch the slight tremor in her hand as she reaches for her drink. Watches the polite smiles she gives her husband—smiles one would give an acquaintance—not a loved one.

I don’t mind Maurice. In terms of a husband, she could have done worse. He is polite, respectful, puts her on a pedestal her beauty dictates but her behavior doesn’t deserve. He belongs to the proper clubs, has the acceptable nine-figure balance sheet, and gives her complete freedom, not that she uses it for anything other than drinking.

But he’s ancient. Oxygen-mask, Depends stuffed in his nurse’s apron, might-not-make-it-to-Christmas, ancient. And Mother, despite the tremor in her voice, and her inability to do anything other than mourn her past life, is beautiful. Half natural-beauty, half enhanced by the team of world-class plastic surgeons who she has employed her entire life. She looks thirty-five, with smooth skin, cosmetically perfect bone structure, and a body that most twenty-year-olds would kill to have, myself included. I don’t know why she fights so hard to keep up her appearance, since she never leaves this house, never visits the country clubs they belong to, or the restaurants they could buy ten times over. Her friends all abandoned her around the time that our money ran out. I think she thought, when marrying Maurice, that they would all come back. Welcome her into their perfect little fold. But she was tainted, their blue blood unable to forget her fall from grace, her drunken wander through the Spring Charity Gala, our home, with overgrown grass and no housekeeper. Her daughter’s exclusion from the debutante ball. They had seen her weakness, and wanted no part of her return, despite the new wardrobe and prestigious address that accompanied it.

“Have you given any thought to returning to school?” Mother’s voice interrupts my depressing walk down memory lane, her eyes cutting me across fourteen feet of fine dining.

“No.” Short and sweet is the best policy with her. It is likely she won’t remember this meal tomorrow.

“And why not?”

“I have a job, Mother. I am doing just fine.”

“Still single?” she asks, her perfectly waxed eyebrow raised.

My relationship status is her gauge of my personal success. A wealthy boyfriend, with husband potential, and she’ll cross me off her ‘things to worry about’ list, however short it may be. In her mind, a man is all I need. Someone to take care of me. Whether or not love is involved is a moot point.

“Yes, Mom. Still single.”

I’m not going to go into my dual relationship status with her. Not in front of Maurice, and not when I’m not going to talk to her for another six months. It’s easier to hear her lecture me about my singleness than hear the reaction that the truth would cause. And if I only told her about one, then she’d want to meet him, would probably surprise me in Venice, clad in Chanel, ready to play Dutiful Mother for an afternoon, before being driven back to her alcohol-infused life.

“Do you need money?”

Her eyes have noticed my car. The clean lines of my clothing, the Chanel J12 watch that decorates my wrist. She knows I don’t need money, but I think the offer makes her feel superior. It is proof that she has succeeded. Pulled her life together and risen from the ashes of my father’s crash. “I don’t need money, Mom. I’m good.”

Maurice interrupts our awkward exchange, asking about books, and our lunch takes a pleasant turn, discussing the latest bestsellers and our thoughts on them. Maurice is a reader, his library one that I would get on my knees and suck dick for. I’m talking fourteen-foot ceilings, worn paperbacks and hardbacks filling deep bookshelves that take up three walls and reach to the ceiling. I’ve spent hours curled into the deep leather chairs in front of the fireplace, a stack of books before me. It is where I escape during holidays, parties, and any other occasion that dictates my presence in this household.

After the table is cleared and Mother switches from mimosas to Arnold Palmers, I help Maurice to his feet, and we make the long and slow journey to the library. I’ve brought a stack of new hardcovers—knowing his taste in reading. We sit down before the fireplace, and I walk him through the selection, stacking them in the order that I think he’d prefer.

Then we read, in companionable silence, for two hours, until I notice the time and stand to leave. I walk over to Maurice, who has fallen asleep, his head tilted back at an awkward angle, and I gently place a small pillow under his head and lightly kiss his cheek. Love is a strong verb for my feelings for him, but appreciate is a more accurate term. I appreciate that my mother has someone to take care of her, even if I don’t understand the dynamics of their relationship, or what it is that he gets from her. I think, at a certain age, loneliness is the biggest battle to fight, and I hope my mother, in her inebriated state, at least provides companionship for him.

I find my mom in the front parlor, sitting back in a chair, also asleep. I set a book next to her, the last one in my bag, a romance I know she’ll enjoy. I head for the front door and smile at the uniformed girl who holds out my jacket. “Thank you. Please thank them for the brunch.”

She nods politely and opens the door for me. I take one last glance at my mother and then step out, the cool spring air reminding me of the jacket in my arms. I shrug into it and job down the steps down to my car, ready to get back home.

Life in luxury can be stifling.

VENICE BEACH, CA

I walk into our home, greeted by the delicious view of the backside of Paul, a wet suit unzipped and hanging from his hips, baring his upper body, hiding his bottom half in skintight vinyl. He turns, a bowl of what smells like Kraft Mac & Cheese in his hand, a spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Back so soon?” he asks me through a mouthful of food, setting the bowl on the counter and stepping over, wrapping a hand around my waist and pulling me tight to his hard, wet body.

I resist the urge to push him off, the wet feel of him sinking through my clothes, the scent of salt water hitting my nose. “It was a quick visit.—one to appease my mom before their trip to Italy.” I smile up at him, his hand gripping me tighter, and as he presses me against him, I feel an entirely different type of hard muscle. My smile widens, and I laugh, dropping my bag on the floor and wrapping my arms around his neck. “God, you are impossible.”

“What can I say? I’m addicted.” His words are soft, so sweet and sincere that they tug my heart in a way that cannot be described. I reach between us and tug on the zipper of his suit, dragging it down, his breath increasing, ragged against my mouth as he releases my waist and grips my face, pulling it to his with both hands, and walks me backward until I hit the counter.

I cup him in my hand, pulling him out, the weight and rigidity of him beautiful, causing a weight in my pussy, a need in my core. His mouth softens against me and he takes his time, dipping slowly into my mouth as he thrust forward with his hips, begging me for more with his body, his c**k sliding in and out of my hand, wet vinyl cool and itchy against my thighs.

“You’re wet,” I whisper, coming off his mouth.

“So are you,” he replies, pressing forward, pinning me against the wall as he takes another taste of my mouth.

It is a fact I can’t deny, my panties sticking to me, his hands reaching down and pulling up my dress, the thin material contrasting with the cashmere sweater that I wear over it. I move his cock, placing it between my legs, my boots putting me at a height that makes us fit perfectly together, the warm space between my legs squeezing his cock, the slow in and out of his bare thrusts creating a delicious friction between my legs. “I love you,” he says, tucking my hair behind an ear and staring into my face, my eyes closing as the slide of his c**k draws a long pull of pleasure against my clit. “I need you.”

“I need you, too. Right f**king now.” I open my eyes, catching the full brute of his ocean-blue eyes, the skin around them tan despite the cool air, flecks of gold in his hair, bleach blond brows furrowing as he squeezes my cheeks, pulling my pelvis tight to him, the fit of us causing his breath to hiss.

“As you wish,” he growls, lifting up with his hands, my legs leaving the floor, a shriek of surprise leaving my mouth. He kneels, with me in his arms, lowering me to the kitchen floor, setting me gently on my back, the hard floor cushioned by my sweater, his hands pulling my skirt up and sliding my panties to the side, a finger slipping into me, his eyes lighting up at the touch.

Then he is inside me, f**king me on the floor, our legs a tangled mess of boots and bare feet, his wetsuit wreaking havoc against my legs but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything other than the perfect, slick pattern he is f**king into me. His face stares down at me, framed by the flex and pull of his shoulder and chest muscles as he takes me with his cock.

It is fast, it is messy, our bodies bouncing in unrestrained passion, his breath hard on my skin, his hands bracing against the floor, the deep thrusts that cause me to wrap my legs around him and gasp with every stroke.

He rolls, keeping me inside of him, my sweater now hot, and I yank it off, my arms tangling in it, his hands helping to pull it free. I grin down, his playful smile matching my own, his length twitching inside of me, a subtle hint for me to move. I lean forward, resting my hands on his chest and ride, up and down, each downward pump grinding my pelvis against him, his hands running lightly over my breasts, his eyes glued to mine. I f**k him until I come, crying out as I clench him tight and sink onto his chest. He takes over, pumping his c**k up into me, holding me tight with his arms, his mouth hot on my neck, my body stilling as he hammers out swift, quick fucks.

Then he comes. I love to hear him come. He is vocal, moaning my name as he thrusts hard and deep, his arms tight around my body, his actions almost frantic in their movements. He needs me. He loves me.

He stills his hips, his arms reaching up and pulling my hair to one side, his mouth soft against my skin as he kisses my collarbone. I close my eyes, enjoying the trail of his fingers against my skin, his c**k getting soft inside of me, the cool air from the open window floating over my bare ass. I love him. I need him, too.

BALDWIN HILLS, CA

My relationship with Stewart is a catch 22. If he didn’t work, or didn’t have a slave’s addiction to the work, our relationship would be a success. We would have the fabulous sex life, and the relationship to accompany it. We would drink champagne in bed and share our hopes and dreams, stories of our past. We would spend weekends in bed and drive to the beach when the sun was out. We would have children and watch them grow up, argue over bedtimes and house rules. All that is not possible because of the full-time mistress that is his job. But if he weren’t married to his work, if he was a normal man with free time and a clear mind, then he wouldn’t be my Stewart. He wouldn’t have the same intensity, the confidence and satisfaction that he gets from his job. He is the job. His entire being, the traits that I love, are all cultivated and created on that phone, through deals and negotiations. Stewart without his single-minded devotion to work... I wouldn’t even know that man. He would be a stranger to me. And if I had a full-time Stewart, then I wouldn’t have Paul. A full-time Stewart would have no reason, no need for Paul. A full-time Stewart would want me all for his own.

He wakes me with his mouth, interrupting a dream with a reality far sweeter. His mouth awakens my passions as well as my body, and he claims me, sliding his warm body atop mine, nudging my knees apart and grinding his body against me, the smooth slide of na**d skin causing me to shiver beneath him. His c**k grows hard between our bodies, and we are both ready when it bumps lower, thrusting inside of me.

It is the perfect way to wake up, the perfect way to start my day. Stewart knows what I need, knows the insatiable pull within me. And, wrapping my arms around his neck, I let him fulfill me.