“I’d much rather get this over and done with, if it’s all the same to you.” My mind is on overdrive right now. And for some demented reason, I’m wondering what sex would be like with him, and it’s a thought that brings an immediate frown to my face. I don’t think about shit like that. Sex is my job. Not a fucking hobby. I don’t fuck for shits and giggles. But my lower abdomen does flips anyway, clenching reflexively at the weight of his unwavering gaze and I’m robbed of all moisture from my mouth. He seems to favor silence because he doesn’t say anything. I wish he would fucking say something. He’s running the show here. I’m just providing the entertainment.
“Let’s go.” I guess he finally remembers how to speak. I don’t let him pull out the chair for me this time. I’m on my feet before he can reach me and I’m walking behind him again. The elevator ride is hell on a wire. Enclosed in such a small space, I become hypersensitive to him. He’s such a potent force that I find myself inexplicably drawn into his unmistakable gravitation. Luckily, the elevator stops at the designated floor before I’m pulled too far in.
He inserts the key card in the door and I follow him inside. It’s not too dark because the hotel staff left the lights dimmed. It’s more luxury and pomp than I’m used to, hell, most tricks I’ve performed were in the back of someone’s car, completely removed from the utter splendor of a place like this. The living room and dining room are one space framed by furniture that looks outright inviting, but I know I’m not here to lounge. I watch him take off his coat and lay it carefully on the back of the deep mahogany wingback chair that’s facing away from me. I’m still standing at the door but a look from him pulls me out of idleness. I slip out of my boots, not wanting to track snow and dirt on the plush, honey carpet. I’m really nervous. I don’t know why. I’ve done this more times than I can count. But this is just too…weird…different?
“I…” Get your shit together, Lacey.
“Take off your jacket.”
Take off my jacket? That’s the last thing I want to do because my pocketknife is in my jacket. Safety is always a top priority for me, but in this particular situation it seems almost imperative. The guy, quite honestly, gives me the willies. He’s standing on the other side of the room. The door is just behind me. He’s a big guy, big probably meant clumsy and slow so I’m sure I can make it out to the door before he can catch me. I’m pretty fucking spry when I needed to be. On the other hand, if I leave, if I run from this room, from the brooding giant across the room, I might as well plan Dante’s funeral. Fuck.
I’d resolved to do this, and do this I will. At least I don’t have to deal with his friends. Just him. Fuck—just him. He’s over by the phone with the headset at his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying but he seems preoccupied. The knowledge of that alone should’ve made it a little easier for me to relax, at least to settle into my groove. But it doesn’t help at all.
My hands won’t cooperate, they’re shaking so hard that I have to curl them into fists a few times before I bring my fingers to my zipper. It catches, because shit can’t get any more awkward… It takes a few forceful tugs before the jacket scrapes open. It comes off without further incident and I hold it in front of me like a barrier, as if it’s going to shield me from his acute blue-gray gaze. My heart picks up speed when I realize he’s actually staring at me now. It’s an unhurried sort of perusal from heavy lidded eyes, thoughtful in a way that makes me feel like a mouse in a maze. I am all that he is focused on and I want to hide. Hide because what I’m wearing is suddenly no better than bare skin and he’s able to see everything I’m not wearing, because, really, the dress reveals more than it’s concealing. The wave of heat that starts beneath my skin and makes its way to the surface makes it hard for me to look him in the face.
“Sit.” The quietly worded command doesn’t go unheeded.
I’m relieved to take a load off as I sink into the nearest couch, but I am the furthest thing from relaxed as I feel the weight of that impenetrable stare. I barely move an inch as he approaches. Panic becomes sweat and tingles. Is he going to sit next to me? Is he going to touch me now? Why does the thought of his touch provoke these tremors? My legs are bouncing violently up and down beneath the jacket strewn across my lap.
“How old are you?” The unexpected inquiry forces me to look at him.
“Old enough,” I reply, and I’m proud of myself for getting the words out. All too quickly, my celebration is short-lived as his eyes pierce through me like a lance and I’m impelled to speak further. “Eighteen.”
“Do you do this often?” He doesn’t come any closer to me but rather settles down on the armrest of the sofa directly across from where I’m seated. Relief floods my veins as I suddenly find the zipper on my jacket very fascinating.
“I do whatever I need to do to survive,” I murmur, with my head downcast.
“Like offer yourself to a complete stranger in order to pay off your brother’s debt?”
“More or less.” I shrug. “If it means he won’t end up dead.”
“And if you end up dead?” The inquiry sends chills down my spine and I can’t help the shiver or even the goose bumps that pebble along my skin. There is no warmth or even a sense of security in the hollow, dead resonance of his hushed tenor.
“I can protect myself.” I don’t think I can. Not from him. And it dawns on me with sudden screeching clarity that I’m probably in real danger. It’s not something I’m completely unused to, the danger, but I know my other clients. I know they’re more interested in getting off than hurting me. In this situation, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to act.
There’s an edge to this guy, an undefinable and unpredictable edge that lurks beneath his immense physique and it’s that edge that makes me feel like I’m completely over my head on this one. I’m feeling for the knife, trying to be subtle, trying not to give him a hint that I’m armed until I’m ready. The fact that he doesn’t know I have it gives me an advantage.
“I’m not sure that’s going to be an effective form of protection,” he says, with a small cock of his head at my lap, shattering my element of surprise.
“It has before...” I barely get the words out before I find him looming over me. He has me caged in. His left hand grips the couch bracing the left arm, effectively trapping me from one side. But it’s his right hand at my neck that stops the air in my lungs. My heart is in a mad dash in my chest and I can feel my pulse fluttering crazily against his calloused palm. His long, overused fingers are like a sandpaper-covered choker wrapped snuggly around my neck. I’m not breathing. He blocks out everything. I can’t avert my eyes because there is nothing in my line of sight but him. He’s immense, intense, and lethal. His eyes…God, his eyes are the most frightening and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. There is no escaping them. No escaping him. But escape is the furthest thing from my mind. Because something irrational, something completely out of my character wants nothing more than to dive in the gray storm of his gaze and lose myself in the torrent. Jesus, I’m not fucking breathing.
He leans in closer. “Breathe,” he directs, and my body responds like it’s been waiting for that order. But my next sweet, glorious breath is a sharp gasp that coincides with the widening of my eyes as I feel the back of his left hand between my shaking legs. I don’t know where my jacket disappeared to. I don’t care. Nothing exists but the journey of that large hand. My thighs fall apart like a flower thirsting for the sun. But then he changes everything and I catch my breath again when that hand gets replaced by something else. The cool, sharp edge of metal scrapes languorously upwards, his painfully slow pace fueling the wild pounding in my chest. God, it’s my pocketknife! The coolness of the blade is a sharp contrast to my radiating core. I’m wet, alarmingly so, the slickness soaking my panties. The urge to close my legs is strong but his hand and the knife are wedged there preventing me from doing anything but squirming and struggling to breath.
“You should be careful who you offer this to.�
� He strokes me through my damp panties, using the hilt of the knife to rub slowly up and down my soaking slit. “Not every man is going to just want to fuck you.” His voice is lethal in that perfect husky growl and it makes my head swim and my pussy throb, growing even wetter. It doesn’t seem possible. But it is with him. I’m sick. I’m fucked in the mind because I’m enjoying this. I’m reveling in it. I want the panties gone. That barrier decimated so that he can impale me with the hilt of the knife. So…fucking…sick! “Do you understand, Lacey?” His breath is my breath and he smells so incredibly good. It’s drugging. I’ve never tried drugs. Never wanted to. But his breath could kick-start an addiction.
His right hand is still a vise around my neck, settled in place like it belongs there, and it tightens just a little as he waits for my reply. A reply that doesn’t come because we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. He’s gone in the blink of an eye, so fast that if I wasn’t still feeling the impression of a knife against my pulsing clit, I would’ve convinced myself I’d imagined everything. He is on the other side of the room, walking to the door, utterly composed. A total hazard to my equilibrium. I’m completely shaken right now. Everything in my body is screaming, “What the fuck just happened, Lacey?” And sadly, I don’t have an answer. All I know is that my panties are wet, my breasts are full, and my nipples are pebbled into sensitive buds, chafing against the dress I’m wearing. And I’m frustrated as fuck.
It’s room service. He accepts whatever is offered with concise gratitude before I hear the door closing again. He’s only been gone for a few minutes, but I still haven’t grasped the speedy act of composure. So I know I don’t look half as self-controlled as he does when he comes within view again. I’m incredibly embarrassed. My legs are clamped shut, my arms are crossed tightly against my chest, and my eyes are fixed on the floor. Toes that have never known the luxury of a pedicure are curled and buried in the dark carpet beneath my feet; this is a far more intriguing sight than the giant extortionist who just dry humped me with my own fucking knife.
“Here.” I hear crinkling and my eyes instantly shift to the fancy, cream and gold paper bag that he’s set at my side. There’s a delightful aroma wafting from inside and my senses are completely awakened for another reason now. My stomach chooses exactly that moment to rumble at the thought of food. Mouthwatering food. I can’t help it, I look up.
“What’s this?” Does he want to use the food in some kind of foreplay? Eat a porterhouse off my stomach?
“Your dinner. Take it home and eat it.”
Wait. What’s happening? I’m confused. Is he…?
“I don’t get it.” I’m not dense, but in this case I think he needs to make himself clear. Why is he even buying me food? My family owes him money and he buys me food?
“You can leave.”
I can leave. “You’re...you’re letting me leave?”
“There’s the door. You’re free to go.”
“But what about…?”
The first real reaction I get from him is the creasing of his brow and the frown is mild at best, but the look in his blue-gray eyes is a little scary.
“Would you rather I fucked you?” My mind recoils, but my body jolts reflexively at the words. I have a very graphic imagination and it’s conjuring up scenarios that would make a porn star blush. If the knife action was any indication, then being fucked by him would probably blow my motherfucking mind. And I can’t have that.
“What about my brother’s debt?”
“I will handle it,” he says, returning to reclaim his seat across from me again. Everything he does seems calculated, even the way he moves. His steps measured, yet swift and quiet, too quiet for someone of his size. Like an animal. A predator.
“You’ll handle it?”
He frowns. “You are not an echo. Stop it,” he quietly admonishes before continuing, “I will take care of your brother’s debt. And because you seem to be in the habit of coming to his rescue, you will work off that debt.”
I lick my lips. “Work…how will I work off ten thousand dollars?” I ask nervously, curious despite knowing better.
He doesn’t reply but comes abruptly to his feet. “You will hear from me.” He carefully takes his jacket from where he’d left it on the couch and smoothly slips it back on.
Clearly confused, I ask, “Why are you doing this? Why not just…” I trail off, the words sticking to the roof of my mouth as he stalks toward me. Instead of shrinking back and taking shelter in luxuriant couch cushions, I jerk forward like I’ve been tugged by invisible strings, its tingles of awareness ricocheting through every inch of me, responding undoubtedly to his carnal potency. I feel my knife again, he sets it beneath my chin and gently coaxes my eyes upwards until they come in contact with his. He makes sure I don’t look away, but even if I wanted to, it doesn’t seem like a viable option.
“There is more to what I want than just ramming my dick between your legs, Lacey. Far more than I think your age will allow.” His voice is a temperate growl as he speaks, trapping me into his spell. “Don’t question me. Be grateful that for tonight you will go home safe and unharmed, yes?”
“Yes.” ‘No’ is not in my vocabulary right now.
There is a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that I take for a smile, but really, it can’t even be called that. “Good. Here.” He extends the knife back to me. “You need a better blade.” He’s at the door before I can blink, and my mind is temporarily cleared of the haze. “Enjoy your dinner, Lacey. No lobster.”
***
The trip from the hotel room to my car is a complete blur. But by the time I get home, shower, and settle down for the night, it’s nearing ten. With damp hair and a pair of ratty pajamas, I come out of my room and head to the kitchen. Dante is waiting for me. He hasn’t questioned me yet, but I know it’s coming. Part of me wants to keep him in the dark. Make him suffer for letting me go out on my own. I remain quiet as I carry the fancy plastic bag into the living room. I set it on the unstable dining table and curl my knees beneath my butt before taking a seat. There’s tension-filled silence as I unpack the food. It’s a huge burger with a bundle of golden fries surrounding it. He even added a side of dessert to go with it. A thick slice of strawberry cheesecake with big, juicy strawberries on the side.
“Damn, Cece, you fucked for food?” That’s how he decides to break the silence— with that monumentally idiotic comment.
If looks could burn… I really want to incinerate his ass. “You’re a fucking dick, you know that?”
“Shit…shit, I’m sorry…what happened?” He nibbles on a piece of fry and looks at me expectantly.
I shrug and focus instead on cutting the burger in half with the plastic knife they provided. “Nothing,” I murmur.
“What the fuck you mean nothing?”
“Exactly that. Nothing happened.”
“Don’t be so fucking vague!”
“I’m sorry, did you actually want to hear what I had to do to bail your ass out, while you sat here like a little bitch?”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you, Dante. Fuck you for letting me whore myself out to those guys for your mistakes…”
“What the fuck is the big deal? It’s not like you haven’t done it before!” He couldn’t have hurt me more if he reached over and punched me in the face, at least then it wouldn’t have sucked that much.
I can feel the tears and I hate myself for crying. For being such a fucking girl. I climb to my feet unsteadily. “Glad to know how very little you value me.”
“Cece...”
“Enjoy the meal.”
“Lacey!” I slam my bedroom door in his face and twist the lock to keep him out. “Shit, Lacey, I didn’t mean it! Come on, Cece! Open the door and talk to me.”
Not fucking likely. I didn’t want to see his face, let alone talk to him. I fall onto my mattress, pull my covers over my head, and press my face into my pillow. I scream and scream and scream until my throat is raw and t
he tears subside. Dante had stopped trying to talk to me a long time ago. Asshole! I hope he chokes on that burger.
I’m curled on my side, my arms are wound tightly around my knees, pressed to my chest. My pillow is soaked, but I don’t really mind the dampness. I can’t stop thinking. And thinking leads to self-reflection, which I hate. I’m angry at Dante and hurt by what he said, but his words wouldn’t have cut so deep if they weren’t true. Sex is all I’ve known. My body is the only thing I have to offer, so I use it to sell sex. Rationalizing it does not change the fact that I’m a prostitute. It’s the only way I’ve ever known how to get what I wanted—money. In every case, it has always been money. And that’s exactly how Dante expected me to get him out of trouble. No big deal as he said. Sex for money. My own get-rich-quick scheme. I’m no fucking different than Dante or my mother.
My mother. My thoughts always come back to her. I’m worried. Anxious. She hasn’t pulled a disappearance act like this in years. I don’t want to imagine the worse. I don’t. But at this point—anxiety is winning over hope.
I don’t sleep well when I finally close my eyes. My dreams are violent ones filled with distorted images. Darkness, flashes of blue-gray eyes, with an intensity that melts my bones, and a knife…my knife, searing between my legs in the most frightening way possible. My reaction to it all is beyond intense. I writhe and arch, moan and plead for the menacing carnality I’m subjected to. It’s not me. It’s not what I want. But in my dreams, I crave it, crave everything he does.
I wake up with a jolt, drenched in sweat. My legs entangled in my sheets. My heart racing. But nothing is more noticeable, more discomforting, than the slick wetness between my thighs. What the fuck? I don’t have wet dreams, for Christ’s sakes! Hell, that wasn’t even considered a wet dream. It was more of a nightmare, and I what..? Enjoyed it?
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