Cream of the Crop

by Dominique, Dawné

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  CREAM OF THE CROP

  Copyright © 2013 Dawné Dominique. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Cover Art Designed By Dawné Dominique

  Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  Cream of the Crop

  by

  Dawné Dominique

  cream of the crop

  As she stood in front of the posh hotel room door clenching her scarlet purse in an ironclad fist, Amy swallowed hard and almost choked. Her mouth was as dry as the Mojave Desert, but the ball of nerves coiled tightly in the pit of her gut took the cake. Worst case scenario? If she threw up now, would she feel better? Probably not.

  The brass numbers that read 1608 on the door glimmered in the low light of the hallway. As a couple walked by, she pretended to look for the key card in her purse. When she heard the elevator ding, only then did she exhale.

  What the hell am I doing? she thought for the hundredth time. Trying to maintain a three point seven GPA, that's what.

  In her final year of corporate law, she needed money to complete her degree and get out of debt. The string of student loans she'd acquired the last three years hung like a noose over her head. She despised owing anyone, least of all the Government. Debt did strange things to a person's self-esteem. It made them make decisions that perhaps weren't too smart. Standing here now, she was certain this was one of them.

  It didn’t matter how people worded the profession. Call Girl. Prostitute. Lady of the Night. There was no denying what she was doing. The bottom line—she escorting for money, and this hotel room could be either a barrier or another path down the long, winding road Amy Radcliffe called her life.

  Not that long ago she’d stood in the office of Patrice Marshall, owner of Cream of the Crop Escort Agency. The older woman had sported an air of smug-importance. The business suit she wore over her rail-thin body cost more than Amy made in six months working as a waitress at Santino’s Diner. And that was including tips.

  Patrice made her twirl in one spot as she scrutinized every inch of her body. When she'd asked Amy to take off her clothes, panic had set in. The monetary gain Trisha had raved on for months about proved too difficult to resist, however. Standing in the buff and feeling foolish as hell, she couldn't help but wonder whether the job was worth it. Then again, she wouldn't know unless she tried. It'd be a rainy day in Hell if she ever backed down from a challenge. That's just who she was. Being raised in group homes and making her way in life alone, she'd learned early that whatever life had to offer you either worked hard in order to achieve it or you ended up as a waitress at some five-and-dime diner for the rest of your life. She'd vowed long ago that wasn't going to happen to her.

  With an impatient nod, Patrice had motioned her to dress. Then she began writing in a gold leather bound book. “You’ll do fine,” she said, glancing up over her glasses that were attached to a chain around her neck. “We always have requests for natural blondes. It’s not every day that the cuffs match the carpet, if you know what mean.”

  “Um, exactly what does the job entail?” Amy dared to ask.

  The woman’s inquisitive stare drilled through her, making her feel more naked than she'd been a minute ago. Feeling like some dissected bug under a microscope, she shifted from foot to foot.

  “That depends on you and the amount of money you want to make. I’ll be in touch.” The woman pursed her pencil-thin lips and dismissed her just like that. To add insult to injury, she gave a nonchalant wave of her fingers as if to tell her to hurry up before resuming her attention back to that damn book.

  *~*~*

  A month later, as Amy walked the sunny trails of NYU’s campus on her way to criminology class, Patrice called again. She'd been putting the woman off for two weeks now. She had no choice but to deal with the situation.

  The cold, sugarcoated tone in her ear made her stop dead in her tracks.

  “Look, Ms. Radcliffe,” Patrice began. “I hired you to do a job. It’s a simple task with lots of potential.” A drawn out sigh echoed through the phone. “Look, I understand school comes first, but you either take this one or—” The unsaid threat hung between them.

  “I-I’ve just been busy with exams. Are you sure I'm right for the job? You know I've never done anything like this bef—”

  “There’s a first time for everything. You meet the client at his hotel. You go out for dinner. He talks. You listen. Yadda, yadda, yadda. You're to be his charming escort. This particular customer is one of our highest profile clients. The only reason I suggested you is he has a thing for natural blondes. Unfortunately, Trisha is out of commission with her hysterectomy. He’s also a first time client who's been recommended to me by someone I trust explicitly. If you're worried about your identity being shared, don't be. Wear a wig. Dress in something you don't normally wear. Be someone else for one evening. The confidentiality of our clients is as stringent as yours. I want him treated with the utmost respect and attention. If you're lucky, he'll be a big tipper. When hotshots like him want something, they'll pay big bucks to get it...and keep it. You know what I'm saying?”

  Her voice suddenly softened. “This is a perfect opportunity for you, Amy. If he likes you it’s not uncommon to get slipped a thou.”

  “You mean, like in a-a thousand dollars?”

  Patrice's cold monotone returned. “Do you want the job or not?”

  Damn! I could work the rest of the semester and pay off my student loans with money like that. Before her brain caught up with her mouth, she said, “Yeah, I'm in.” She did a frantic search in her knapsack and found a pen and paper to write down the time, hotel, and what he was expecting from her.

  *~*~*

  So here she was standing in the corridor on the sixteenth floor of the Regency, one of the city's most expensive hotels, wanting nothing more than to toss her cookies right there on the plush carpet. The money didn’t seem so attractive now.

  She tugged down the tightly fitted black suit jacket and smoothed out a couple of imaginary wrinkles on the matching pencil-thin skirt. The final payment for the outfit had been less than a week ago from a year's worth of tips she’d earned at the diner. Her "power suit" she called it. She’d bought it to wear to her first interview with some high-powered law firm the day after graduation. Never in a million years would she have imagined she'd be standing here wearing it for this reason. She hoped the fake pearls around her neck added the perfect touch of sophistication. Patrice had instructed her to wear "classy business attire with a sexy edge". The red stilettos, no nylons, and matching handbag screamed risqué. She'd twisted her flaxen-streaked hair into a tight French bun, which was now giving her the biggest headache in the world. "Whatever the client wants, we deliver," she mumbled the motto. Personally, she thought she looked more like an uptight secretary with a b
ad case of gas than a paid escort.

  Summoning up courage, she ran her tongue over her lips, took a deep breath, and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  The voice sounded like a mixture of English suave with a bark. Her heart kicked up a notch and began thumping a bongo number. Swallowing past the brick in her throat, she waited a few moments after hearing the click of the lock before entering.

  As her eyes adjusted, she noticed thick brocade drapes covered the massive window that ran the length of the entire room. One small table lamp tried its best to supply light, but failed miserably. She squinted through the gloom. The second thing she noticed was that the air smelled amazing. She peered right. Sitting on the center of a coffee table that could have served as a desk was the largest vase she'd ever seen filled with freshly cut flowers. In fact, she noticed bouquets scattered all about the hotel room. A man who likes flowers can't be all that bad, right?

  Movement on her left snagged her attention. She turned toward the entranceway of what she assumed led into a bedroom. No lights were on there, but the silhouette of a man leaning against the doorframe came into focus.

  She gulped. Shrouded in shadow, there was no mistaking those gun- metal blue eyes, muscled frame, and stock of dark hair. Her heart jumped. Why did a guy like that need an escort service? From where she stood, he was the hottest man she'd ever seen. Something about him was familiar, though. His hair was longer than most, with wisps that look as soft as down. His unbuttoned silk shirt revealed a hairless chest and washboard abs. Before she could stop herself her gaze roved down to his black silk lounging pants and muscular hips.

  Wait a minute. He's not dressed for dinner. Shit!

  With her thoughts a muddled mess, she stood in the foyer praying she didn't faint dead away.

  “I see I’m not what you expected,” he murmured with a shrug. His voice carried a gravelly, lilting English accent that made goosebumps rush up and down her spine.

  It was then she realized her mouth hung open. Okay, you twit. Look professional. She stared at the floor. “I have to confess. I’m kinda new to this.”

  “Then that makes two of us.”

  She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. The fire in his stare nailed her to the spot.

  “As you can see, I’m not dressed for dinner. The hotel is full of people I’d rather not have to deal with. Would you mind if we ordered in instead?”

  Is terror written all over my face? God, I hope not. However, eating dinner in his suite seemed a far better idea than trying to act like a pro in front of a roomful of strangers. At least in his hotel room, she only had him to contend with. Actually, the more she thought about it the more this version scared her, too.

  He smiled and the brilliance of his white, even teeth seemed to glow in the gloom. The small gesture eased a little of her discomfort, but just a miniscule amount. The guy was a poster boy for GQ magazine. She’d always assumed the men who used escort services were pudgy, married, and rich, preferring to have discreet affairs with beautiful women who kept their secrets safe. Why does someone like him have to pay for a woman’s attention?

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  She shook her head, refusing to trust her voice, let alone the contents of her stomach. She sensed an air of authority about him. Obviously a man of wealth and power. He certainly wasn’t pudgy—or ugly. Why did Patrice recommend him to me?

  Then cold water rushed through her veins. He wants to order dinner in? The realization of what her services were actually going to include made the room spin. Panic set in. Will I be able to do this?

  “Are you okay?”

  All she could do was nod.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head. Please don't throw up. Please don't throw up...

  “Shall we begin then?”

  “Really? Now?” She drew a shuddering breath and began again. “What would you like me to do?” You blubbering idiot! Just shut up. Say nothing and nod.

  A coy grin played across his lips. Lips she definitely wanted to taste. “The bedroom would be a good start.”

  Trying to slow the wild beating of her heart, she walked toward him as demurely as she could, but her knees wouldn't stop shaking. I probably look like a bow-legged donkey. When she caught the scent of his sweet cologne, a wave of lightheadedness hit. Then she stumbled on her heel just as she went to move past him at the doorway. Shit! Everything about him set her on edge. Worse, desire moved through her like molten lava.

  “Stop.”

  She halted inches from him.

  “Go back to the door.”

  She opened her mouth to ask why only to meet his finger pointing to where she'd stood moments before. On a sigh, she returned to door and waited.

  “Get on your knees.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Saying nothing, he titled his head and crossed those muscled arms across his chest.

  She cleared her throat, but could think of no witty retort to throw his way. Anything the client wants, right? She placed her purse on the table beside the door and dropped to all fours.

  “Perfect. Now come here.”

  This guy was definitely on glue. “You want me to go to you? On my hands and knees?”

  “Is there another way to crawl?” His stare lingered on her cleavage now emphasized by the position of her body.

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she started forward.

  “Slower.”

  She raised her chin and moved forward again.

  “Slower. Head down. Look at the floor. Not me.”

  If he makes me bark, I'm leaving! She studied the weave of the carpet and began again, inch by inch. Submissiveness. She'd read about it, but never actually performed it. Then panic reared its ugly head again. She wasn’t into whips and chains. A little biting and pinching was okay, but what was this guy into? He didn’t seem like the leather type. Then again, dominators didn’t walk around with signs hanging around their necks announcing it either. At least she didn't have to look at him. That steely stare of his and his drop-dead, aristocratic good looks made her feel like she was ten years old. When she neared the entrance of the bedroom, he leaned closer and ran a finger down her spine. Her entire body ignited.

  Thank goodness the bedroom was darker than the rest of the suite. She suppressed a sigh of relief and continued toward the king-sized bed. At the mattress she stopped. She was about to turn and ask what he wanted her to do next, but that sexy voice of his shot every reasonable thought out of her head.

  “Stay just like that.”

  With her ass in the air, she was thankful for the longer skirt, but more so that wash day had been yesterday. Being caught wearing her granny-panties would have melted her into the floor in embarrassment. The red lace bra and thong had been for her benefit. She'd didn't think she'd be sharing it. At least not on the first night.

  When her limbs began to ache, she went to shift more comfortably.

  “I said stay like that.”

  Patrice had warned her never to question a client. Whatever they asked for they received. Too bad she was a slow learner. The question popped out before she could stop it. “Why?”

  “Because the view is breathtaking.”

  She'd received compliments before—not a lot, mind you—and certainly not like that one. The rustling of cloth sounded behind her.

  “Stand and face me.”

  She did so and discovered him lounging on an ivory divan that was situated against the wall beside the doorway. He crossed one leg over the other looking far too smug.

  “Ordering woman around? That's your pleasure?” She tried not to sound like a bitch, but the words came out exactly like that.

  “My pleasure began the moment you walked in.”

  Is this guy for real?

  “I'd like you to undress, but do it slowly. I'd like to watch you...pleasure yourself,” he added almost as an after-thought.

  Everything about him confused the hell out of her. And that re
quest of his sent her lust bubbling. This was something new, and exciting. However, the notion of stripping for him wasn’t. She’d tried her hand at topless dancing, but it'd been a disaster. Plus, the long nightclub hours weren't conducive to her studying regime. Most men she dated were students. In other words, beer guzzling idiots. Or she picked from the other spectrum—computer geeks. More often than not she ended up teaching those boys a thing or two. Here was a real man with some delicious ideas she'd only dreamed about. Not only was her curiosity piqued, so was her libido.

  She sensuously bent over pretending to fix the strap on her shoe. When she heard his quick intake of breath, she smirked. Keeping her back to him, she straightened and began leisurely unbuttoning her jacket. She slipped it off shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Next came the zipper of her skirt, which she pulled down ever so slowly. It fell to join the jacket. She stepped away from the pile of clothes and faced him. Judging by the protruding bulge in his pants, she was doing something right.

  “Let your hair down. Then I want you to sit on the edge of the bed and do whatever it is that you do to please yourself.”

  A surge of unadulterated boldness overcame her. Perching her bottom on the mattress, she closed her eyes and began working her fingers through her hair. She pulled out the pins holding the bun firmly in place while imagining herself as some 1950’s sultry movie star. Soon her hair tumbled down across her shoulders.

  Keeping her eyes tightly shut, she kept up the fantasy as her hands did delicate caresses over the red and black lace bra. When her fingers brushed over her nipples, pleasure spiked through every nerve. Damn! She was enjoying this far more than she thought she would.

  With deftness she knew many a men wished they possessed, she unhooked her bra with one hand and eased the straps off her shoulders. She held up the front so that the material still covered her breasts. Millimeter by millimeter, she lowered the lace until her breasts were bare. Her nipples peaked even more from the coolness in the air.