by Bec Linder
And I was nervous about the sex. It had a been a while for me. Not since my first months in New York, before I started working at the Silver Cross, before I decided that going all the way with clients wasn’t worth it.
Turner wasn’t helping. I wanted him to take control of the situation, to tell me to come sit on his lap or whatever. That would make it easy: I could just do as I was told. But the longer he stared at me, the more nervous I got, until finally I couldn’t deal with it anymore.
Time to take action.
I kicked off my flip-flops. They made quiet smacking noises as they hit the floor. Turner raised his eyebrows, like he didn’t approve of going barefoot indoors.
Too bad.
I took a deep breath, and then I unzipped my shorts and shoved them down my thighs.
Oh, I had his attention now. The shorts fell to the floor, and I stepped out of them. I was wearing a lacy, hot pink thong, and I turned slowly, letting him get a good look at my hips and ass. By the time I’d done a full rotation and come back around to face him, his eyes had that dark sex look I was getting to be so familiar with.
“There seems to be something that you want, Sassy Belle,” he said.
“I thought it was what you wanted,” I said. “You didn’t bring me over here to admire your lack of interior decorating, did you?”
“No,” he said. “Turn and show me your ass again.”
I did it, heart pounding. I wanted him to be pleased with me. Which was stupid, because he was obviously pleased already if he was willing to pay me a quarter of a million dollars to hang out with him for a month. But I wanted him to be so pleased with me that he didn’t have any reason not to give me the other half of my money when the month was up.
“Very nice,” he said. “Now take off that awful t-shirt. I can’t believe you walk around like that in public.”
“You have a problem with Iron Maiden?” I asked. “I bet you listen to, like, classical music and that easy listening shit they play in elevators.” I stripped the shirt over my head and tossed it onto the floor with my shorts.
I wasn’t wearing a bra, and my nipples tightened from a combination of air conditioning and arousal. Having an audience, it turned out, was just as effective when it was an audience of one. I swayed my hips, raised my arms above my head, and slowly gyrated back around to face him.
He ignored my jab about his musical tastes. “I can’t imagine that’s legal,” he said. He had crossed his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, and I took it as a sign that he was turned on and trying to hide it. Good. I wanted him to want me so much that he couldn’t think. We would be on equal footing, then.
“What, not wearing a bra?” I asked. “Actually, women can go topless in public in the city. Weird law.”
“It doesn’t surprise me in the least that you know that,” he said. “But I don’t want you going topless for anyone but me.”
The note of hungry possession in his voice made me flush hot. “I won’t,” I said. “Not until the month is over.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Now come here.”
I padded across the room to the sofa, my bare feet sticking ever-so-slightly to the waxed floor. Turner watched me as I approached him: motionless, unreadable as the Sphinx. Or the Mona Lisa, really, with that little half-smirk of his, like he was amused by everything but not enough to bother with the effort of laughing.
I stopped a foot in front of him, just out of arm’s reach, and he said, “Sassy, you know that isn’t close enough.”
Okay, fine. I took another step.
He uncrossed his legs and spread his thighs so that I could see the bulge of his hard-on in his trousers. “Closer.”
My tongue felt too big to fit inside my mouth. I took another step, and felt the fabric of his trousers brush against my legs. The heat of his body radiated through the thin wool and made me think of how much hotter he would be when we were pressed together, skin to skin.
It wouldn’t be long, now.
There was nothing to be scared of, I told myself sternly. It wasn’t like this was my first time. He was just a man. I understood men. I knew what made them tick. They were uncomplicated creatures: all they wanted was a good fuck and someone who knew what was in their secret hearts. The first part of that was easy to provide, and the second part was easy to fake.
But as I stood there and looked down into his dark eyes, I knew I was a fool to pretend he was anything like my other clients.
What was the saying? I was playing with fire. Turner burned hot, and he would scorch me right down to my bones.
He broke eye contact, finally, and raised one hand to stroke my hip, sliding from the curve of my waist over the lacy band of my thong and then down to squeeze at my ass.
“You’re an ass man, aren’t you?” I asked.
“I’m an everything man,” he said. He looked up at me again and said, “You know, I had planned to draw this out until you begged me to take you, but it seems I don’t have the patience for that. Wait here.” I was forced to stumble back a few steps as he abruptly rose from the couch and then headed down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
Alone, I smoothed my palms over my hot cheeks. I liked the idea of begging—probably more than I should have. What kinds of things would a man like Turner do when he was too impatient to wait for me to beg?
I would find out soon enough.
He returned too quickly for me to freak out and do something stupid. He held a length of silky black fabric in his hands, like a scarf, but it was too long to be a scarf, and not the sort of thing I could imagine him ever wearing.
I knew where this was going.
“Do you want to tie me up, baby?” I purred. “I’m game.”
He twisted the fabric around his hands and frowned at me. “Spare me the theatrics. We both know you’re acting. I don’t want you to do that ridiculous posturing when you’re with me.”
Fine. I let the dopey, heavy-lidded look fall from my face. “So what do you want me to do, then?”
“React,” he said. “Honestly. Genuine sensation. If I wanted to pay for crummy acting, I would watch porn.”
He was a jerk, and his disdain turned me on. We made a perfect dysfunctional pair. He jerked his chin at me, ordering me closer, and I stepped toward him, one foot in front of the other, until I was close enough to touch.
He held the scarf in one hand and caressed me with the other. He started by cupping my chin, and then drew his hand down my neck and ran his fingers along the sensitive arc of my collarbone. I shivered, and he smiled, predatory, and dropped his hand to my right breast. He cupped it and squeezed my nipple between his fingers. I gasped as pleasure shot through me. He moved to my other breast and gave it the same treatment. My nipples were tight, oversensitive, and when he bent and used his mouth on me, I flinched away without meaning to.
“Hold still,” he said, hand on my waist, holding me there, and so I curled my hands into fists and used the small pain of my nails cutting into my palms to distract me from the molten pleasure flowing through my body.
He sucked on my nipples until they were red and swollen and my hips were unconsciously rocking back and forth with every motion of his lips and teeth. I started to think that maybe I could come just from that, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing: reduced to orgasm just from him sucking on my tits.
He pulled away just as I was starting to get seriously concerned. His mouth was wet. I glanced away, overwhelmed, unsure how to react. He slid his hand from my waist to my hip and then down between my legs. He tucked his fingers into the waistband of my thong and then stayed there, motionless, waiting, until I got curious and looked up at him again. As soon as our eyes met, he pushed his hand inside my panties and touched me where I was slick and swollen.
My legs felt shaky, like my muscles weren’t going to hold me up much longer. I clung to Turner’s shoulders while he stroked me, staring deeply into my eyes the whole time. I felt exposed and powerless and I wanted him. Eac
h movement of his fingers made the liquid heat between my legs pulse hotter. He could have asked me for anything, right then, and I would have said yes. I would have given him anything he wanted.
“You’re ready for me,” he said. “That didn’t take long.” He pulled his hand away. I opened my eyes, realizing only then that they had fallen shut. He was looking down at me with a strange expression on his face, almost tender, but I knew that wasn’t it. The only thing he felt for me was lust.
“Give me your hands,” he said.
Right. I had forgotten about the scarf. I held my hands in front of me while he tied my wrists together with the fabric, leaving a small span of a few inches between them. I tugged at the scarf, testing the knots, but they held fast.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked. My voice came out as a husky rasp.
He nodded toward the coat rack. “Set your hands on one of the hooks. I’m going to fuck you like that, standing up.”
Was he joking? The coat rack didn’t look very sturdy. “It’s going to fall over,” I said.
“You’ll have to be very careful that it doesn’t,” he said.
I bit my lip, hoping he wasn’t serious, but he looked pretty serious. Okay. I turned and took the few steps to the coat rack, and raised my hands above my head to hook the scarf over one of the gracefully arched hooks. It was high enough that I had to go up on the balls of my feet. The whole situation seemed like a recipe for disaster. If I didn’t hold perfectly still and balanced, I would topple over and take the coat rack with me.
“I really think I’m going to fall,” I said.
“You won’t fall,” he said. He came up behind me and set his hands firmly on my waist. I leaned back into his grip, feeling a little more stable. “I won’t let you.”
I swallowed and nodded, not quite sure I believed him, but not willing to argue about it.
“I need to let you go for a minute,” he said. I straightened up again, balancing my weight on my toes, and heard the sound of a zipper, and then a crinkling noise that I quickly identified as a condom wrapper. Jesus Christ. This was really happening.
My body’s reaction told me that it wasn’t happening fast enough.
Turner wrapped one arm around my waist and pressed the front of his body against my back, giving me a solid foundation to lean against. His other hand dipped between my legs, tugging my thong to one side, and then I felt the blunt head of his cock nudging against me. I drew in a deep breath, waiting to feel him shove into me, but instead I felt his fingers dipping just inside, holding me open, and he guided himself in slowly, slowly, rocking his hips in tiny thrusts, sliding deeper every time, until his thighs pressed against my ass and he was all the way in.
“Oh my God,” I said, without meaning to, because I never knew that sex could feel this way. I was open, taken, claimed, and I felt my body adjusting around him, clenching and then releasing again, making way. I’d been afraid that it would hurt, after so long, but I was so wet and ready, and he’d been so careful, that all I felt was pleasure. It built in me like the tension before an earthquake, and I knew it wouldn’t take long for me to shake to pieces.
He chuckled behind me, somehow managing to make it obvious that he was laughing at me. “Don’t lose your balance. I’ll be very displeased.”
The dark promise in his voice made me swallow and flex my hands in their binding. I teetered on the balls of my feet, trapped between Turner’s body behind me and the anchor point of my wrists above my head. There was no leverage, and no way for me to move against him. I was a passive participant, helpless to do anything but take what he wanted to give me.
I liked it.
Like wasn’t a strong enough word, but I couldn’t think of anything better. My brain had stopped cooperating with me. My skin tingled everywhere that Turner touched it. After being dulled to pleasure for so long, so many years of going through the motions with clients, Turner had finally shocked me back to life, and I felt raw and stripped bare, newly born.
His arm tightened around my waist, hand spreading flat across my ribs as he worked his hips against me. After his initial entry, he wasn’t slow or careful. He fucked me in deep, rapid strokes, using my body for his pleasure—and for mine. The drag of his cock as he slid out of me and pressed back in made my eyes roll back in my head. If he had taken his time, been gentle, I probably would have gotten annoyed—I wasn’t made of glass—but the casual way he manhandled me just added more fuel to the fire burning inside me.
I heard myself cry out, and he pressed his smile to the side of my neck. I fought through the haze of arousal clouding my brain and gasped out, “Are you getting your money’s worth?”
“Every penny,” he said, sounding ridiculously smug, and slid his free hand between my legs to stroke at my wet slit.
It felt too good. I tried to squirm away, but there was nowhere to go. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to fight what I knew was coming. It was too soon. I hadn’t gotten enough, yet.
“No you don’t,” he said. “Hold still.”
“I can’t,” I said, voice cracking slightly. “Alex.”
“Oh, if you’re using my first name, it must be serious,” he said, fingers moving a little faster. I cried out again, overcome, and he held me close and said, “Let it happen.”
“I can’t,” I said again, but then I proved myself to be a liar. The tension in my thighs and the throbbing between my legs reached the point of no return. Turner slid his thumb over my clit and twisted his hips just so, and I squeezed hard around his cock and came like the world was ending.
He never stopped moving within me, and the pleasure just went on and on until I was wrung out and gasping. And he still didn’t stop.
“Alex,” I said, close to the limit of what I could handle.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, sounding a little short of breath. “Not much longer.” He finally took his hand from between my legs and used it to grasp my hip and pull me back against him to meet each thrust.
I started to feel like I might be able to come again.
There wouldn’t be time for that, though, because Turner made a ragged noise and slammed his hips against me a few times, and I’d been with enough men to know an orgasm when I saw it. Or heard it.
Weirdly, I felt a little disappointed.
Maybe there would be a round two, later.
He was careful, pulling out of me, but I hissed at the feeling anyway. I was swollen and a little sore. No harm done, though. Mostly, I felt good.
He unhooked my hands from the coat rack, and picked out the knots in the scarf. Hands free, I shook my wrists out, feeling blood rush back into my fingertips. I was shy, suddenly, and didn’t know what to say. Thanks for the awesome fuck? Let’s have dinner and do it again?
That last one sounded good. “Let’s have dinner and do it again,” I said.
He raised one eyebrow at me. “I’m not eighteen, you know.”
“You’re telling me you can’t get it up twice in one night? It’s like 6:00,” I said. “You just need to refuel.”
“Well, in that case,” he said. “The takeout menus are in the drawer to the left of the sink.”
I grinned. It was going to be an awesome night.
8
I woke up alone the next morning.
Was that a twinge of disappointment I felt? Couldn’t be.
I sat up in bed, gummy-eyed, with my hair in my eyes and a terrible taste in my mouth. That’s what I got for not brushing my teeth the night before. We had gorged ourselves on teriyaki and screwed again, a long, decadent fuck on Turner’s bed. The second time was even better than the first. I had intended to go home that night, but ended up passing out instead. God only knew what time it was. Turner was probably already gone. I hoped he had at least left me some coffee.
I got out of bed and went into Turner’s bathroom. The single toothbrush had been joined by another one, still in its little box. Turner sure knew how to treat a lady. Brushing my teeth was an almost rel
igious experience. I splashed some water on my face and raked my fingers through my hair, and decided I was more or less presentable.
I didn’t know where my clothes were, though.
Hopefully it was still early enough that I wouldn’t, like, shock the housekeeper or something.
I padded out into the living room. Turner was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. Not out of a mug—an actual cardboard cup of coffee that he had obviously left the apartment to buy.
Something was deeply weird about the whole situation. What kind of a person didn’t even keep coffee in their apartment?
“Hi,” I said. I was kind of surprised that he hadn’t bailed on me. “Do you know where my clothes are?”
He lowered the paper and looked me up and down. It was a slow, appreciative look, and I posed a little for him, drawing my shoulders back to show off my tits. He smirked at me, like he knew exactly what I was doing, and said, “I threw them out.”
My jaw dropped. “What? That was my favorite t-shirt! You can’t just go around tossing out people’s clothes! What is wrong with you?”
“Really, Sassy. You’re an adult. There’s no need to dress like a rebellious teenager.”
“Yeah, I’m an adult, so that means I can dress however I want,” I said, feeling incredibly annoyed. What a pompous asshole! I couldn’t believe he had thrown out my clothes. It was like Pretty Woman if the dude had been an enormous jerk.
“I got you something more appropriate,” he said, and motioned to the shopping bag on the floor beside the sofa.
I scowled at him. “It’s not like I wear stripper clothes in public,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with shorts and a t-shirt. That’s what every girl my age in New York wears all summer! You’re a judgmental psycho.”
“You aren’t every girl,” he said. “As long as you’re with me, I expect you to maintain a certain level of personal appearance.”
