Ella James - Unmaking Marchant

Marchant obviously has a reputation, but would he if he wasn’t doing drugs? Why didn’t Hunter know what was going on? Has he always done drugs, or only recently?

Why do I care?

It’s hard to say why. Maybe I don’t even know. It’s like…every time I’m near him, I feel satisfied. And every time I’m not, I want to be. There’s no logic to it. I’m not even entirely sure what I like about being near him.

He’s not exactly good company. But he’s funny. I like the way he smirks at me. The way he looks when he smiles. I definitely like it when he fucks me.

Thinking about having sex with Marchant makes me feel too hot, so I toss the covers off and flop over on my stomach.

That’s when the phone rings.

At least, I think it’s a phone ringing. It takes me a moment to see the phone, but then I notice a small, flashing green light on the bookshelf and localize the sound to there. I jump up and grab it, fumbling with the keys to find an “on” button. I press it before I realize I probably shouldn’t have.

I hold the phone to my ear, but it’s a second before I manage to say, “Hello?” I quickly add: “Radcliffe residence.”

There’s nothing but breathing on the other end of the line. “Hello?” Is that static, or— No, that’s definitely breathing. A million thoughts run through my head, from drug dealers to creditors to card sharks to rival pimps. I feel a rush of protectiveness for Marchant.

“Look, are you in trouble? Do you need something?”

The breathing continues, and I take that as confirmation of my suspicion. It’s someone who probably shouldn’t be calling here. “Leave us alone,” I snap. “Don’t call this house again!” I sit the phone on the receiver a little too hard, jarring the bookshelf, and something small falls onto the floor. I scoop it up and carry it over to the window, giving myself permission to check it out since I already knocked it off the shelf. In the moonlight, I blink down at the tiny silver frame. Inside is a grainy image: black and white.

I’m squinting down at it when I hear footsteps.

MARCHANT

I open the door quietly. Despite the state I’m in, I will go if she’s sleeping. As I turn the knob and nudge the door open with my knee, I pray I find her standing at the window. So vividly am I imagining the moonlight on her face, when I actually find her kneeling by the window, I’m sure it’s a dream.

Then she turns to face me. Moonlight glints off her hair like a crown. Her eyes widen. I step through the door and go to her.

I start gently. My hands on her shoulders. My fingers on her cheeks. My mouth on her mouth. She accepts me readily. Tilts her head back. Helps me lift her t-shirt when my hands delve underneath.

I lead her to the bed and lift her onto it. I spread her legs and stroke the soft skin of her thighs.

“I like these,” I tell her, with my thumb inside her shorts. Then I peel them off. She’s naked underneath; naked and perfect and soft. Already wet. She arches and moans when I slide my finger into her. When I rub my thumb down her slit, she grabs my shoulders. Her legs lock around my waist.

I’m so fucking hard, I’m worried I might come right now.

With my finger stroking inside her and my thumb teasing her clit, I suck her breasts. I’m so worked up, my cock is crying cum tears. My balls are hard and hot. I feel like I might explode.

She’s panting as I lick down her flat, soft belly, lower and lower until I’m flicking my tongue between her lips; between them she’s so slick. And salty. I love the way she tastes. I lick her up and down and stroke her till she’s pulling my hair and gasping like she just finished a marathon.

“Fuck me, Marchant! Fuck me please!”

That’s all it takes. I jerk down my boxer-briefs, palming my heavy balls and rubbing my aching cockhead in her wetness.

I look down at her face. It’s twisted almost to the point of pain. “You want me inside you?”

“Jesus, Marchant!”

“Say it.”

Her eyes flip open, and they’re wild as hell. “Fuck me.”

I grab her thighs and rock forward, pushing up into her till I’m buried balls deep. As I start to move, I swear to God I see stars.

Three and a half hours later when I lie back down in my sleeping bag, the workout room is peaceful and silent. So I sleep.

SURI

Is this what it’s like—waking up after a night of ecstasy? I’m twenty-three, and this is new to me. I feel…radiant. Warm and glowy. A little quieter. A little slower. Soft, like putty. Light as air. Like I might float through the roof and dissipate over the ranch.

I move about his room almost discreetly, taking care to choose my pink dress and green flats, dressing myself piece by piece: slow, as if I have a secret.

I have a secret!

I think I’m addicted to having sex with a pimp.

I giggle.

I grin into the mirror. Drunken grin.

Suri Dalton—sex addict.

That’s me.

I had great sex—cha cha cha! I had great sex! I shake my ass.

Another big smile, just for myself, and I slip my earrings into my ears. One half spray of perfume and I’m ready for the day.

I’m halfway to the bedroom door when the phone rings. I pause mid-step as I remember the call from last night. I’m not answering this time. It rings a second time, and then a third. I listen but the house seems quiet. What if it’s important? Four times. Five times. I expect an answering machine to kick in, but it doesn’t. Six. What’s the limit on a landline? Seven? It rings eight times. Wow! Nine times, and I lunge across the room, snatching the cordless phone off its base. It rings a tenth time while I fumble with the “on” button. I don’t have a landline at Crestwood Place. This phone is big and weird and—

“Hello?” I say.

Silence hums into my ear.

“Hello?”

My throat feels pinched.

“Hel-lo?”

Cue the goosebumps. Did you ever read an RL Stine book? Too many of them when I was younger. Maybe I should just—

“Hello.” The woman’s husky voice startles me. So much that I actually flinch.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” she says again. My hand around the phone feels colder.

“Hi, you’ve reached the Radcliffe residence. May I help you?” I sound like a receptionist, but I’m not sure what else to say. It’s not my business who calls him. Not yet , a tiny voice inside me whispers.

She hesitates. I can feel her hesitation, even though the line is silent.

“Is Marchant in.” It’s more statement than question somehow—like she doesn’t care what I say. Like I’m no one. One in a steady throng of women he probably parades in and out of his house like show hogs.

Her curt voice seems to echo in the silence after. Is there an accent?

“He’s not,” I tell her. And it’s not a lie. He didn’t answer, did he? Maybe he’s out, or busy. “I’m sorry,” I say—and that is a lie. I want her off the phone. But I’m also curious. “Is there something I can tell him for you?”

Another pause. This is probably where she sticks out her lower lip and feels forgotten. Because she is , my inner bitch whispers.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think so. Could you—” Several seconds tick by. When she speaks again, her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her. “Could you tell him that Marissa called?”

“Of course.” And, on a whim: “Is he expecting your call?”

“No. He’s not.” She sounds sad.

I promise to give him the message and press the “off” button, not sure if I actually will.

MARCHANT

Morning is always easier than night, but this one dawns especially bright. It’s been a long while since I’ve written anything, but before I even leave my sleeping bag, I write a quick poem about Suri’s body with my notepad app. Damn—those fucking curves.