by Lana Sky
“Honestly?” He looks me over, his frown thoughtful. “A grand for the four hours,” he says—but from his tone, I can tell that it’s not a boast. It’s an honest gosh darn guess.
“R-Really?”
“You’re confident which betrays a familiarity with high-class clients,” he deduces, stroking his chin as if interpreting me is a task requiring his full concentration. “I’m sure your agency keeps a list of your references, and judging from your outfit, you have the financial stability to be discerning.”
My outfit. It’s one of the few things I splurged on with my first few alimony payments. A hot pink faux fur jacket with a genuine Sergio Demassi red silk cocktail dress that cost so much money I couldn’t even look at my bank account after. My shoes are vintage Chanel in a rare royal purple I managed to score from one of my mother’s socialite contacts. As far as jewelry, well, the diamond necklace was a present from Uncle Conroy from about ten years back, but it still cuts a striking figure with the right outfit. One could say I’d gone overboard. On the trip here from my less exclusive, more modest hotel across town, I’d caught plenty of women glancing at me with barely concealed smirks.
I hadn’t even blushed. Who cares? I’m free, and freedom comes with the ability to wear whatever the hell you want. And apparently, some rich, beautiful man thinks that I’m worth a grand for just four hours. The joke’s on them.
“Wait!” I don’t even realize he’s halfway across the bar until I finally regain my senses enough to choke out a strangled, “Thank you.”
He cocks his head, his steps slowing. “Please tell me you’ve reconsidered?”
Biting my lip, I think through my options. Explore this avenue a little more or go crawling back to my hotel room? Or, take my chances with baldy across the way. There is no competition.
“Come sit.” I sink back onto my stool and crook a finger, beckoning him with a confidence that sends my inner Bible-self reeling. “You didn’t even finish your drink.”
I snatch up his glass before the bartender can clear it. Held beneath my nose, the smell packs a punch. It’s well beyond the cheap stuff a teenage Tiffy might have smuggled from Mommy and Daddy’s drink caddy. It’s the good stuff. Very good. Uncle Conroy-trying-to-impress-wife-number-six-with-his-wealth good.
“You could finish it for me,” Vadim suggests, appearing by my side. Dutifully, he regains his stool, copying my position with his back to the bar. “I should keep my head clear. I have a meeting in not too long.”
Curious despite myself, I take a sip and promptly sputter. It tastes like nail varnish. Damn expensive, quality nail varnish.
“So, you’re just passing through? Where are you headed?” I ask, my ears still ringing from the booze. Way, way more dangerous than a glass of wine. Slow down, Tiffy, my inner voice warns. But that voice isn’t face-to-face with a man so pretty it hurts. I find him sexier the more I appraise him. After another tiny sip of whiskey, I’m wondering why I ever considered him unattractive in the first place.
There’s something about his eyes that I find the most enticing. They’re…shadowed. Like he has an invisible wall up, and I’m only seeing a sliver of what lurks underneath—what he wants me to see. And right now, he wants me to see a sheepish, devastating smile.
“Have you ever been?” he wonders.
“Huh?” Another sip of whiskey and my brain is practically buzzing. He could have drugged it, or so says the rapidly diminishing voice of good Bible-Tiffy. But I doubt it. You can’t disguise a roofie in classic, rich bourbon—another one of Uncle Conroy’s pick-up lines. God, I need to get out more.
“You asked where I was headed,” Vadim points out, his voice soothingly deep—stern enough to anchor my floating brain. I shiver as he drags a finger over the back of my hand, and excited goosebumps erupt. He feels electric. “‘The East coast. Then onward to the south of Italy,’ I said. ‘For business, not pleasure, unfortunately. Have you ever been to Europe?’”
“Oh!” Had he really been speaking all this time? I try to look away and form some semblance of a conversation. “Italy? No. But I did some of my schooling in the south of France.”
“Really?” He sounds so amused. The tipsy, redhead “prostitute” summered in Leon for a while. Go figure.
“My mother insisted,” I add with a giggle, facing him again. “She thought it would culture me.”
All it did was put me on a crash course for a quickie marriage and a one-way ticket down heartbreak lane, smack-dab in the middle of wasted potential central.
“Does thinking about it upset you?” Vadim wonders. His voice is starting to sound way too suave. Persuasive. Enough that I might begin spilling my guts rather than offer them up to any millionaire in exchange for a lesson in kink.
“You said I might have spared you the effort of looking for a companion,” I murmur to distract him, kicking my legs out as I observe him again. Damn. My eyes linger over his face this time, and my next breath catches in my throat. His eyelashes go on for days, his lips alarmingly pink. Again, my brain turns to dirty, dirty things. But a part of me almost feels ashamed for putting him in that light—even in my imagination. He looks so innocent.
“For the night, yes,” he says, continuing the conversation and putting my assumption to the test. A wicked grin ignites his soft features, enhancing their intensity. “I have a few agencies I prefer to choose from. I can have my records sent to you via any method you prefer. As long as you are on regular birth control and clean, I prefer not to wear a condom.”
I almost choke at how blunt he is about a subject most people in my life would clutch their pearls at the horror of discussing. More than that, he makes it sound so…orderly. So business-like.
Awed, I find myself murmuring, “You do this often?”
He nods, and I’m instantly suspicious. Someone so pretty, presumably rich, and yet he hires escorts rather than troll for celebrity arm candy? I smell bullshit. He’s young enough—early-thirties I’m guessing—that a desperate actress would hitch her wagon to him in a heartbeat and supply all the sex he could ever need.
Unless relationships aren’t his style.
“I prefer the ease of it,” he says after a moment, seemingly proving my point. “Less hassle. Less potential for any…mess. Simple and clean.”
Simple. We have that desire in common. I inhale sharply, nodding in agreement. Yes, this could work… Only, there is one tiny matter that might prove to be a hitch. “What if I’m not a prostitute—”
“Escort,” he corrects.
“Escort then.” I’m amicable to the name change—it sounds so much classier.
“If you agree to my conditions, then who am I to tell the difference?”
“Conditions?” My eyes narrow. That sounds like a potential speed bump. For instance, Uncle Conroy’s “conditions”—which sent him burning through six consecutive marriages—are that he enjoys threesomes, booze, and little else. Since he’s one of the few millionaires I know personally, I’m hoping his proclivities don’t serve as a template for the lot. “Like?”
“Hmm.” He reaches out and gently pries the nearly empty whiskey glass from my hand. Then he downs the remaining sip in one go. I gape, riveted as his throat works to swallow. Meeting my gaze, he slams the glass onto the counter, resembling a cowboy throwing down a gauntlet. “Come to my room and find out for yourself.”
I stop breathing. Could it truly be so easy? A sexy businessman on my very first attempt?
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Uncle Conroy would warn. Take your shot, girl. Luck doesn’t strike twice.
“Where to?” I murmur, rising to my feet.
His eyes widen—have I caught him off guard? Perhaps not. Already, a beautiful, mischievous expression erases anything else. He cocks his head and stands, offering his hand to me. “To a diversion,” he says. “But first things first…”
He pulls a cell phone from his pocket, and with a series of swipes, he brings up a screen that he tilts for my inspection. I
t takes me a second to interpret what I see—medical records, digitized for easy access. In crisp, clinical jargon, they proclaim him to have a clean bill of health.
“Oh!” I reach into my purse and withdraw a folded slip of my own dated, printed records, drawn up by my PCP just last week, along with a copy of my birth control injection administration. He looks them over and nods.
“Shall we?” Even as he smiles that charming grin, I sense a warning in his words—that of a firm boundary being drawn between us.
He’s offering up a diversion. Nothing more.
And nothing less.
Chapter Three
The rest of the Six turns out to be even fancier than the lounge—not that I manage to take in much of it, considering that I can barely walk in a straight line. My heels have absolutely no grip against the plush, lush carpeting of the upper floors. I flounder gracelessly. When I nearly careen into a potted plant, a stern figure captures my wrist, pulling me against his slender frame for support.
“Easy,” Vadim murmurs near my ear as I melt into him, relishing his body heat. “Are you alright?”
“Better than alright,” I slur with growing determination. The alcohol running through my veins just makes me more eager for whatever Mr. Pretty might have in store. With the added bonus that if I’m terrible, or if he’s terrible, or if everything is terrible, I probably won’t remember by the morning.
Win, gosh darn win.
“It’s here,” Vadim says, stopping before the only door lining this hallway. When we exited the elevator we turned down one of four halls. We’re on the topmost floor of the hotel. The level reserved only for the crème de la crème. Rooms more expensive than most people’s mortgages.
Rooms well beyond my modest target price range of “millionaire with thousands to blow on kink.”
“Are you trying to impress me?” I giggle, patting his chest. It’s surprisingly firm, and I fan my fingers over him in curiosity. Despite his slender shape, I suspect he’s solid muscle underneath. “Very funny. Where are you really staying?”
I’d already scoped out the hotel layout before infiltrating the lounge. So I know for a fact that the business and executive suites are between the tenth and thirtieth floors.
This floor sports just four suites, all exceedingly exclusive. Visiting princes and dignitaries’ level of exclusive.
“Here.” Vadim shoots me an odd look while reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. He withdraws a silver key card and swipes it through the reader beside the sleek, modern door.
And it opens.
“My, oh my.” I cover my mouth with my hand as I stagger forward, too curious to pretend to be unimpressed by luxury—I’d read in an online guide that to snag a rich guy’s interest, pretending to be unfazed by his wealth is a must. Though Uncle Conroy seems to enjoy any pretty woman he can woo with a Rolex, so to each their own. “You must be quite the businessman to afford this. Don’t tell me I’m in the presence of a millionaire.”
I have the impression that Vadim intentionally stands back, allowing me to lead the way inside.
“Billionaire, perhaps,” he says with a charming laugh that obscures if he’s telling the truth or not. I hear the door close behind us, and his footsteps echo, advancing. “Please pardon the mess,” he murmurs near the nape of my neck.
It’s decided. He is officially sexy. Sexy in both appearance and in his mannerisms. The mess he’s referring to seems to be a single black leather briefcase left open in the entryway of what appears to be a branching suite, complete with a spiral staircase leading to an upper level.
“Holy beans,” I mutter, craning my neck back to take in the vaulted ceilings and modern architecture. “Do you always stay in the most expensive suite when you’re just ‘passing through’ town?”
He laughs again, and my skin tingles at the sound. Actually tingles. Either that, or I am beyond tipsy and inching into drunken mess territory. Whatever, I’ll worry about the consequences later.
“I have a standing reservation for convenience’s sake,” he says, as though it’s completely normal to book a hotel room for a few hours. Could he be lying to impress me? Most likely.
Do I care?
No.
“I bet the bed is huge,” I suspect, flicking my gaze toward the staircase. I slink over to it and palm the railing, feeling ten times braver than I had just minutes ago. I look over to find Vadim watching me, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Do you prefer missionary?” he inquires.
I turn away as my cheeks burn. Stop it, Tiffy. I’m no longer the repressed prude, but an unleashed sex kitten. For good measure, I pinch myself on the wrist.
“You know what, I’ve been dying to try something new,” I purr, whirling around to face him. “I’m sure you have tons of experience to draw from.”
That makes him smile one of those secretive grins. “I may…”
“Like?” I shed my coat as I wait for his response. It’s warm in here. Too warm. Sweat is already misting over my skin, and the faux fur clings to my fingers as I set it aside.
Vadim is still standing, watching me.
“I’ll let you set the pace,” he says dismissively. I frown only to lose my train of thought as he runs a finger along his collar, loosening it. He’s even pretty underneath the tailored fabric—his chest gleams like marble, hairless—but there’s a flaw so glaring I sway at the sight. A jagged scar claims the left side of his throat, clawing down to his shoulder. With his collar done up, I’d missed it before.
“What happened?” I blurt out.
His eyes flicker, suddenly icy. “A minor accident.” A deliberate note in his voice conveys a chilling bit of doublespeak—so don’t concern yourself.
Fair enough.
Shaking my head, I refocus on the rest of him and try to recall his first directive. Set the pace.
Okay. Meeting his gaze, I attempt to advance toward him, slow and steadily like I’ve seen women do in pornos. But those women weren’t drunk, most of them weren’t wearing stilettos, and their costars weren’t fully clothed, observing their every single move.
I stagger, and he practically teleports to my side, just in time to grab my arm, righting my balance before I can fall.
“I’m beginning to wonder if I might be taking advantage of you, Ms. Connors,” he says, sounding annoyingly serious.
I giggle—one of those stupid, tattered drunk-girl giggles. Oh, dear, it’s happened again. Well, it’s too late to back down now.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “In fact…”
Grab the world by the balls, Uncle Conroy would say.
So I drop to my knees and fumble for the fly of his slacks. The first thing I notice is how luxurious the fabric feels—very expensive. My second realization is how he stiffens. His body tenses beneath me, and I jump back as if burned.
“It’s alright,” he snaps, but irritation taints his voice like clouds obscuring a dazzling sun. Sudden and alarming.
“Sorry,” I murmur, peeking up at him. “I just really want to see your—” I have to physically bite back the word “manhood”—my mother’s term drilled into me since childhood. This moment calls for something dirtier. “Cock,” I say instead, loving how filthy it sounds. “I really want to see your cock.”
His expression shifts, neutral once again. I probably caught him off guard by how sloppy I am, and I make a concerted effort to gently brush the fastenings of his pants.
“Can I?”
“You may,” he says, playful instead of serious.
I bite my lip as I work at a delicate silver clasp. With some finagling, I get it open and tug the waistband down his hips. Solidly cut muscle greets me, and I suck in a breath. He is built—as if chiseled from stone. I could cut myself on the ridges of his hips and defined thighs. But again, something detracts from the otherwise perfection.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, fingering a small, white patch placed on his abdomen, right over his hip. A thin, clear tube snakes from it, apparentl
y connected to a rectangular device, roughly the size of a deck of cards that he withdraws from his pocket.
“Oh,” I say, recognizing the device for what it is—an insulin pump. “You have diabetes?”
One of the little girls at my church had a pump, though far less high-tech than his seems to be. As I watch, he removes the patch, taking out the cannula as well. A frown tugs on his mouth as he turns and sets the device on an end table. Annoyance?
“Cold feet?” he wonders as I hesitate.
I blink, and my brain switches instantly back to sex. “I’m anything but cold,” I murmur, returning my eyes to the prize—a pair of black boxers is the only remaining thing shielding him from me now. “No… I just want to savor this moment for a sec.”
Impulsively reckless or otherwise, this is it—my moment. My first time ever sticking to a plan—no matter how outlandish—and seeing it through simply because I wanted to.
It feels damn good. Too good.
Everything is falling into place so perfectly. Usually, that only heralds bad news. Either I passed out in the lounge, and this is all a vivid hallucination, or something bad is on the horizon to dampen this moment. Either way…
I don’t want to turn back.
Vadim stands utterly still as I work my fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and tug. The moment I see all of him in full, stark glory, disappointment crashes through me so painfully I groan out loud.
This definitely is a dream.
“Something wrong?” he wonders, still so damn unaffected. Amused, even. “I must admit I’m rarely met with this reaction by the opposite sex. Though sometimes shock is expected.”
“I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “I… I’ve just never seen a beautiful cock before.”
And I’ve seen a lot of them. In porn, obviously, but still. Those enormous, suspiciously always erect penises were at the high end of my wildest expectations for what endowments I might discover along my new sexual adventure. But for the most part, I’ve kept my hopes grounded at least in the “better than Jim” range. Not too stubby, not too short, and way more willing to be placed in my mouth.
