Claimed

by Portia Moore

  “You look comfortable, Rain,” he says. “I like that. I want you to be comfortable.”

  “This is all…really kind of you,” I say slowly as I sit opposite him. “And really unnecessary. Vincent, you really don’t have to…”

  “That’s the thing,” he says softly. “I want to.”

  There is no argument that I can think of that won’t sound ungrateful or immature. A handsome, sophisticated man wants to spoil me, and when will I have this opportunity again? He’ll get tired of me at some point—a man like him has to—but in the meantime, I’ll enjoy what he wants to share. I just can’t fall for him.

  The lights in the cabin dim. “Get some rest, my little flower,” Vincent says softly. “We’ll be in New York soon.”

  The sweet alcohol, dancing, and general excitement have all combined to make me exhausted. I can only find the energy to nod, reaching to pull the cashmere blanket up around myself before the vibrating of the plane’s engines thrums through my body, soothing me to sleep as my eyes slide shut.

  I’m awakened by Vincent’s gentle hand on my shoulder and his lips at my ear, brushing over my jaw as he whispers, “Wake up, little flower, we’re here.”

  I’m going to have to talk to him about his nickname for me, I think sleepily as I open my eyes.

  “There’s another change of clothes waiting for you in the washroom,” Vincent explains. “I’ll be waiting for you up front.”

  Jesus, did he buy me an entire department store? I blink as I sit up, letting the blanket drift to the floor as I yawn and try to pull myself together. I stumble to the washroom, the black shopping bag sitting on the counter becoming a familiar sight.

  There are dark blue skinny jeans, a teal wrap-style top made of some soft peach skin material that slides through my fingers, and flat brown leather sandals in the bag, along with a small box. I know without opening it that it’s jewelry.

  I open it and find a pair of black studs—diamonds or onyx, I’m not sure, and I won’t ask. They have a small diamond at the bottom of each one, and as I let my hair down, brush it, and tie it back in a wavy ponytail, I have to admit they sort of suit me. The style of the top looks perfect with my curvy bustline and waist, and the jeans are fitting me perfectly.

  He assesses me as I walk towards him, his eyes sliding over me with a kind of possessive approval that flatters me and makes me nervous all at the same time. “You look stunning,” he murmurs. “Everything looks good on you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, embarrassed, but I take his elbow and follow him down the steps.

  “You’re far too hard on yourself, Rain,” he says soothingly as we walk towards the waiting black car. “No one has told you how gorgeous you are, how perfect. I intend to make you feel that way every day.”

  Every day? I think as I get into the seat next to him. I half expect him to kiss me, or try something more, but he only holds my hand as the car moves out into traffic.

  “We’ll go to the hotel,” Vincent says as we stop at a light. “I’ve got meetings this morning, but you can sleep in, rest, whatever you like. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock, and we’ll go to a show and dinner, and then fly back late this evening. If we have time, I’ll take you to another of my clubs.”

  The hotel is a beautiful pre-war building, the lobby all done in marble and bronze, most of the fixtures and furniture looking as if they are actually from the early 1900s, or at the very least excellent reproductions. Vincent checks in and then steers me towards the elevator, which takes us up to the tenth floor, and into a moderately-sized but astoundingly luxurious room with a king-sized bed, a small sitting area with a velvet settee in front of a fireplace, an antique wardrobe, and a door leading into a marble and bronze bathroom with a claw-foot soaking tub, a separate shower, and an antique vanity.

  “Sleep,” Vincent demands, gesturing towards the bed. “We’re going to have a lot to do tonight.”

  “Aren’t you going to sleep at all?” I peer at him curiously. It is just after six a.m., and I don’t know how he isn’t tired.

  “I got some rest on the plane.” He smiles at me indulgently. “I have meetings starting uptown in thirty minutes. I’ll see you tonight, Poppy. Six o’clock sharp.” My eyebrow shoots up. Did he just call me by another girl’s name? He sees my confusion, and a brilliant smile spreads over his face. He takes my chin in his hand. “My little flower,” he says before giving me a soft but lustful kiss on the lips. Oh. Poppy, flower, his little flower…I start to make a joke if he’s a gardener or something but decide not to. His hand slides to the small of my back over the soft material, his teeth lightly nipping at my bottom lip as his tongue makes its way into my mouth, claiming me, reminding me that he is making me his, promising even more pleasure to come later. He leaves quickly after and I remember I should have asked what to wear but I think I know the answer already. At some point in the afternoon, I will be provided with clothes, and probably someone to get me ready again, too. It seems strange to assume, but I also don’t want to ask, as if I am beginning to expect it. I’d happily wear the sparkling dress I wore to his club again, but I know Vincent is going to want to see me in something new.

  I change back into the pajamas and get into the bed, reaching for my cell phone. There are a series of messages from Mallory, wanting all the details of everything that’s happened.

  Oh my god you have to be kidding me. New York?!?!

  Rain text me back right now.

  Rain!

  Rain I swear to god you’ve got to be kidding me! I’ll call you after work! I want to know everything!!!

  The day passes exactly as relaxingly as I imagined. I dug into the breakfast when it arrived, curled in bed with my book, and when I’d read several chapters, I shed the pajamas and wandered into the bathroom for a long soak in the deep tub, shaving my legs until they were smooth as silk and washing my hair with the lemon and rosemary-scented shampoo and conditioner the hotel provided. There is vanilla and honey lotion on the marble counter, and I rub it into my skin from head to toe, lying naked across the clean, cool sheets on the bed for a long time as it soaks in.

  I wrap the fluffy hotel robe around myself when a knock comes at the door, and I hurry to open it, one hand up to keep the towel wrapped around myself.

  It’s the concierge, followed by a tall man in a half-open button-down shirt and tight black jeans. The concierge is holding shopping bags, and he extends them to me. “Compliments of Mr. Jamison,” he says smoothly, nodding to me before letting the man in with his black duffel bag.

  The man smiles widely at me. “You must be Ms. Carlisle!” he sings enthusiastically. “Mr. Jamison has sent me to do your hair and makeup. Please get changed, and then we can get started.”

  There isn’t a selection this time, just one outfit. The dress is an emerald green satin with a reinforced sweetheart neckline, cap sleeves, and a fitted bodice and skirt that flares out just above the knees. It’s very pinup-style, and I love it from the moment I unzip the garment bag. In another shopping bag is a pair of matching seamless satin panties in the same emerald green, a garter belt and thigh-high silk stockings, nude with a seam up the back. The next bag contains another shoebox of Louboutins, this time a nude color, and the last is more jewelry. I swallow hard as I open the box, wondering what would sparkle out at me this time. I can’t believe that in the last two days, I’ve worn an outfit that could pay my rent for months, and I silently think it just might have to because if Vincent really doesn’t clear things up with Benny, I’ll have to sell the dresses too.

  I hold up the pair of emerald drop earrings, the post set behind a sparkling diamond, as well as a large, sparkling radiant-cut emerald cocktail ring, with a series of diamond baguettes running down the band. I stare at it all and start to feel completely overwhelmed.

  How long is this going to last?

  Will he be done with me once we’re back? Of course, he talks in terms of forever and me being a permanent fixture in his life, but the reality is we hav
en’t even known each other a week. Sure, he’s older and may know more of what he wants right offhand, but he still barely knows me. I remind myself to keep a level head because none of this is mine and can be snatched away in a second. I make a note to call Benny and make sure I still have a job when I get back to real life.

  I zip up the dress, step into the heels, and open the bathroom door for the man, who introduces himself as Ziggy and leaves the jewelry on the counter to put on when he is finished.

  You’re going home later tonight. Will he call you after that? Is this it?

  I watch as Ziggy works the same magic on me that Marco did. He puts my hair in pin curls, and then does soft makeup on me, transforming me into what he calls a Dita von Teese-esque pinup, complete with softly blushed cheeks, delicately outlined eyes, and bright red lipstick. When he undoes my blonde hair, it falls out in a soft, perfect fifties waves.

  “You’re a vision.” Ziggy stands tall as he smiles widely at me. “Absolute perfection.”

  Looking at myself in the mirror as I put the earrings on and reach for the ring, I’m beginning to believe him.

  I look beautiful.

  Elegant.

  Someone who deserves to be on Vincent Jamison’s arm.

  To my surprise, the car that picks me up doesn’t include Vincent. I ride alone, all the way to the Theatre District, where the car drops me off at a speakeasy-style joint just across the street from one of the theaters showing Hamilton. I walk in, clutching my gold purse, looking around for Vincent. Before I can so much as take more than two steps in, a host is at my elbow, guiding me towards one of the velvet-backed booths where my date is waiting.

  “Rain!” Vincent exclaims, standing up as I walk towards him. The heels and fitted dress put a sway in my step, a swing to my hips that makes me feel sexy and alluring. I pout my red lips at him slightly, feeling the confidence that came with the outfit sliding over me.

  “I missed you in the car,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes in a way that I hope lets him know I’m thinking about the night before, him thrusting into my mouth as his fingers slid into me.

  “And I missed you.” Vincent’s voice takes on a deeper, gravelly note as he takes my hand and draws me down into the booth next to him, me closest to the wall. There is a drink waiting for me already, in a fragile coupe glass with a lemon twist on the rim. “A French ’75,” he says. “An appropriate drink for how you’re dressed tonight.”

  You’re a doll, I think suddenly, looking at the clear liquid in the delicate glass. He chooses a theme, and dresses you up, and gives you the right accessories. He’s playing dress-up with a toy.

  I dismiss the thought immediately as I feel his fingers entwine with mine. He is spoiling me beyond any woman’s wildest dreams. If he has certain fantasies—seeing me as a fifties pinup with an era-appropriate drink, for instance—what is so strange about that? It’s no different than me being turned on by thick beards, or a nice body.

  “We’re seeing Hamilton tonight,” Vincent says, taking a sip of his Scotch.

  “You’re in for a treat,” Vincent promises. I feel his hand on my knee, and then his fingers moving up my thigh, beneath the hem of my dress. “More than one tonight, I think.”

  I pause, my glass at my lips, suddenly breathless. His hand is on my inner thigh, his fingers creeping up towards the lace tops of my stockings.

  “I want to be sure you’re wearing what I sent up for you,” Vincent says, a wicked smile on his face. “But you wouldn’t neglect that, would you, Poppy?”

  His fingers pass over the lace, gently rubbing against it for a moment before climbing higher, and I feel them slide over the warm satin of my panties, directly between my legs.

  I gasp softly, the glass still hovering at my lips, and Vincent leans close to me as his fingers press harder against me, inching towards the edge of the silk. “Take a sip, Poppy,” he whispers warningly. “This is our little secret.”

  Somehow, I manage to take a sip of the drink and not choke on it as his fingers slide under the edge of my panties and dip between my lips, a satisfied hum in his throat as he feels how wet I am. The tips of his fingers slide up and down for a moment, brushing over my clit and back down to dip ever so slightly inside of me, a tease that has me nearly panting. Suddenly something as simple as sipping my drink requires all of the concentration I can muster.

  “So wet,” he whispers in my ear. “I love how much you want me. You are perfection,” he murmurs, as two of his fingers push inside of me, his thumb circling over my clit.

  I see the waiter walking towards us, and gasp. “Vincent…” I say, but his fingers move faster, in and out, his thumb finding that perfect friction against my clit that quickly has me seconds from flying over the edge, from coming right now.

  He shakes his head, giving me a warning glance. I know I’m flushed red, my breath shallow as I somehow finish my drink. I am going to come, I know it, I can’t stop it…and then the waiter is here.

  “Are you alright, miss?” He looks slightly concerned as he reaches for my glass.

  No! I’m about to have an insane orgasm in public, do you think I’m okay? I want to scream, but somehow, I nod, Vincent’s fingers never losing their rhythm as I hand the waiter my glass.

  “Another miss?” he asks.

  “Y-Yes…” I manage, and then Vincent’s thumb presses against my clit, rolling it as his fingers curl up inside of me, and I drive my hips down onto his hand, my free hand gripping the bench in a superhuman effort to keep from convulsing at the table, somehow magically managing to not move above the waist. The orgasm washes over me, waves and waves of pleasure, and I can feel Vincent’s fingers slowing as the waiter nods and turns away.

  Vincent glances at me as he withdraws his fingers, discreetly wiping his hand beneath the table as he smiles. “How was that, Poppy?”

  I stare at him. “I can’t believe you just did that,” I say, still breathless. “I could have embarrassed us. I could have lost all my control. That was—”

  “But you didn’t,” Vincent says calmly. “And I knew you wouldn’t.”

  “How?” I blink at him, still dizzy from the force of both the orgasm and keeping it quiet.

  “Because you’re perfect.”

  I flush. I’m far from perfect, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like a goddess.

  I should be humiliated, embarrassed, irritated. But I feel strangely proud of myself, womanly, happy to have pleased him, and blissful in the afterglow of the orgasm. This is a whole new world that he’s showing me, and as nervous as it makes me, I’m beginning to relish in it.

  The show is every bit as incredible as I’ve heard, and when it’s over, I’m amazed at how quickly the time went by. We stand up and applaud at the end, and then Vincent is whisking me out to the car, out to a five-star French restaurant where he’s made a late-night reservation.

  We eat things I’d never thought I would like escargot, duck in a fresh blueberry sauce, herbed quail, and pastries so delicate and fine they melt in my mouth, all paired with the best wine I’ve ever had, or probably will ever have again. All the while, Vincent tells me bits and pieces about his meetings, about a new hotel he is potentially investing in, about how he will have to come to the city more often, how he’d like me to come with him. All I can do is nod and smile, trying not to take him seriously. It still remains to be seen whether or not he’ll still be interested once he’s deposited me back at my apartment, and the is whirlwind over.

  After dinner, we go to one of his clubs in the city. This one is a jazz club, fitted with antiques from the era, velvet booths similar to the ones in the bar from earlier in the evening, a checkered dance floor and a live band. He orders us a plate of food even with my insistence that I can’t eat another bite.

  I’m not surprised when he pulls me onto the dance floor even though I don’t have the slightest idea of how to swing dance. He leads me masterfully through the steps, twirling me away from him and back into him, close against his
body, and I can feel my heart speeding up with every brush of his skin against mine, my blood heating every time I feel his hips sway and press into me, every time I feel him against my thigh, half-aroused with the closeness of our bodies and the memory of what he did to me earlier.

  The whole night, beginning to end, is a whirlwind, and before I know it, we’re back at the jet, and he’s leading me up the steps. This time, a leather weekender bag sitting by my seat, and he gestures at it. “All of the clothes I’ve chosen for you this weekend, the jewelry and shoes, everything is in there. It’s yours to keep, Poppy.”

  I stare at him. I feel the throbbing of the engines start as the plane readies for takeoff, and I bite my lower lip. “Will I see you again after tonight?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, Poppy,” he says. My heart is beating frantically at his statement. Could this continue? Will the dream continue? Could Vincent, the toe-curling sex, and everything he has be a piece of my reality just a little longer?

  “Now, come here.” He takes my hand and directs me over to the seats, sitting down as he looks up at me. “No one will come in,” he says softly. “We’re going to do something else you’ve never done before. Take off your dress.”

  I feel my pulse speed up, my balance unsteady as the plane begins to take off, but I reach behind me, sliding my zipper down as seductively as I can manage. I let the sleeves fall off, the cups of the dress still modestly clutching my breasts, and then turn, letting the fabric fall and slide over my hips so that he can see my ass sway as I let it fall, see the curve of it outlined by the seamless emerald green satin as I let the dress fall to the floor. I turn then, my hands covering my breasts, and I watch his eyes slide over me, from my perfectly done hair and makeup to my cleavage, to the curve of my waist and the emerald lace on my hips, holding up the silk stockings, down to the high heels.