by L. D. Fox
Mr. Armani sat on the sofa opposite her, pausing to scoop the excess pillows aside with a sweep of his bared arm. He was tanned. His arm muscular but trim.
His tie came off next.
Pearl’s stomach tightened with each additional item of clothing Mr. Armani discarded and adjusted.
With both sleeves rolled up, his tie off, shoes forlorn on the pearly carpet, and the lapels of his shirt bared to show his collarbones, he looked like a completely different person: still mouth-wateringly delicious, but more intimidating in his casualness. How was that possible?
The butler returned bearing a silver tray topped with a tumbler and a cocktail glass.
He set down the cocktail in front of Pearl, using a napkin with a faint typographical pattern embossed on it.
Still no eye contact.
Mr. Armani received his tumbler in his hand, napkin placed on the table in case he had to set his drink down.
Perhaps to shag her?
Pearl took a long swig of her drink and set it back on the napkin.
She wanted to look out the window but Mr. Armani spread his arms to either side of the sofa’s headrest and rested an ankle on his knee, demanding her attention.
“You are an exceptional dancer,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Mr. Armani took a sip of his drink and twisted the glass in his hand, rattling its ice cubes.
“How long?”
Pearl shifted on the sofa, sitting forward so the pillows wouldn’t crowd her. She took another sip before replying, setting her glass back on its napkin. The smell of lilies became stronger. She glanced beside her. Three fresh lilies rested in a glass bowl, their long stems curved inside its circumference.
“Three years. Give or take.”
“You chose this profession? Being a stripper?”
“I prefer pole dancer, thanks,” she murmured, completely failing to inject the necessary indignation into her voice. Another sip. “And yes, I chose it. I like dancing.”
“On a pole?”
Heat flared on her cheeks. Was he trying to make her angry? Why? Did he want her to leave? To storm out of this ridiculously lavish apartment and try to find her way out of the labyrinthine hotel?
Pearl downed the rest of her cocktail and set it on the napkin with more force than she’d intended.
“It’s good money. Goodish money.” She cringed. Had she really just said ‘goodish’?
Mr. Armani studied her silently as he took a sip of his drink. Then he nodded just once as if she’d confirmed whatever it was he suspected of her.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“Acquisitions.”
She stared at him. “Which is what?”
“I acquire things,” he failed to elaborate.
Pearl tapped her fingernail against the side of the glass. “Can I get another?”
His eyes slid to her empty glass.
“No.”
Her spine stiffened. She itched to grab her purse and leave; her legs spasmed with the need. But she shoved calm into her raging thoughts.
She’d come this far.
She had no idea of his intentions yet.
And if she had to put up with his snobbery… well, at least she’d gotten two cocktails out of the man. And, what sounded like dinner. If a ‘Rollio’ was food and not something that involved sex.
“No?” She tried for flippant and probably got closer to bratty. She glanced around the apartment. “On a tight budget?”
Mr. Armani smiled at her.
It was the first genuine smile she’d ever seen from him. It split his lips open and flashed a row of white teeth at her. He twisted his wrist, making the ice cubes in his glass tinkle.
Goddamn.
Pearl shifted, swallowing her apology.
“I’d prefer it if you kept a clear head. We have important matters to discuss.”
Pearl rolled her shoulders, trying to get rid of the invisible centipede creeping up her spine.
“Important, how?”
Mr. Armani cocked his head again. His ice in his drink rattled, rattled, rattled.
“Why do you think you’re here, sweetheart?”
A stab of unease shot through her. Sweetheart? Sweetheart?
“I’m not sure,” she managed, her heart starting to hammer again.
“Yet you came anyway?”
“Curiosity killed the cat, right?”
Mr. Armani’s smile evaporated. He drained the rest of his glass, watching her over the rim.
Movement over his shoulder drew her eye. A massive staircase — ascending and descending — took up considerable real estate. A white-gloved employee, not the butler, balanced three plates on his arms. He went over to a long, rectangular dining room table and began setting the plates down.
“So are you going to tell me? Or do I have to guess: twenty questions style?”
As if sensing the activity behind him, Mr. Armani unfolded from the sofa.
“First, we eat.”
“Fine,” Pearl murmured.
She followed him over the deep carpets. Would it be rude if she took off her shoes? Probably. Then again… she studied Mr. Armani’s socks.
They looked more expensive than Cheryl’s shoes.
Mirrors filled the dining room: they were positioned in panels on the slanted walls and on the back of the leather dining chairs. Even the extravagant light fitting was made of reflective strips of curved steel.
A myriad of tea candles set inside a long, crystal container was the wooden table’s only decoration. That… and the food.
“Are you expecting company?” Pearl asked, eyes widening at the three platters arranged down one side of the table.
“Not tonight,” Mr. Armani said.
God, he was infuriating. Did he learn how to avoid giving direct answers in whatever Ivy-League university he’d attended? Maybe they offered courses in Glib Speech and Conversational Avoidance Techniques. Maybe he’d gotten his Doctorate in Smarminess, majoring in Being Mysterious.
He pulled out a chair for her.
She sat down before he could push it back and had to drag it closer to the table
Letting out a small, amused huff, he drew out the chair beside her and sat down, shaking his head.
She bit back another brimming apology. What did he expect? She danced on a pole for a living: no one had ever pulled out a chair for her. It looked more complicated than she’d expected — and she hadn’t been expecting it.
He turned in his seat, leaning his elbow on the table and facing her. Their sudden proximity, intensified by his unrelenting study of her face, was enough to send that centipede marching down her spine again.
Their legs were less than an inch apart. She could feel his warmth through the dress’s slinky fabric.
“Are you allergic to anything?”
“Uh… no.” She glanced at the food, her brow furrowing. Allergic? To what?
He nodded and turned to the platters.
It sort of looked like pizza. If pizza came with an almost translucent crust and tiny strips of toppings. Just what the hell the mass of greenery overflowing from two large, flat bowls was supposed to—
Mr. Armani’s tanned fingers grabbed two arugula leaves and lay them over the end of one of the pizza strips. He added a tuft of alfalfa seeds on top of that.
Pearl’s head cocked to the side. Mr. Armani rolled up the pizza strip, creating a small bundle of pizza and tufty foliage.
He popped it into his mouth, already rolling a new one while he chewed.
She mimicked him, choosing a pizza slice that looked as if it had shreds of pepperoni on it.
It was the best thing she’d ever eaten.
Okay, the best thing she’d eaten in a while.
Delicate, crispy… and that cheese?
Her mouth watered.
She closed her eyes. Who cared if Mr. Armani thought she’d been born in a barn? Not her. Not right now.
When she opened her eyes, his eyes s
lid away from her mouth, returning to the pizza.
They ate in silence, consuming more of the pizza Rollios than she’d thought possible when they’d sat down. The butler took away the platters when their gorging had slowed to a trickle.
She’d eaten too much, practically matching Mr. Armani for every Rollio he’d inserted into his mouth.
“I didn’t see any shellfish or nuts,” she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Why’d you ask if I was allergic?”
“Pertinent information,” he said vaguely.
She rolled her eyes at him, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
The butler returned with two servings of white-chocolate mousse and drinks frosting the outside of their zombie glasses.
Before she could taste either, Mr. Armani beckoned the butler to his side, murmuring into the man’s lowered ear.
“…prepare… leave… escort…”
The butler departed.
Pearl’s spine had frozen stiff, jerking her upright.
Her skin was too tight, her muscles straining as she tensed.
She’d prepared so many variations on her next question. Twenty, at least. She chose the one that answered as many of her doubts and curiosities as possible.
“Why do you have to pay for sex?”
Mr. Armani turned to her and gave her a pathetic excuse for a smile. He hadn’t even blinked at the question.
“I don’t pay for sex.”
She frowned at him, opened her mouth, found she had no words, and closed it again.
He ran a finger around the rim of his mousse. Dipped it inside. Traced a circle through the stiff dessert. He brought that scoop of chocolate to his lips and sucked it off, watching her with gleaming green eyes.
“Remove your dress,” he said quietly.
* * *
Pearl took a slurp from her glass: it was iced coffee. She still couldn’t look at Mr. Armani. Had she heard him right? Impossible. No one just came right out and said stuff like that. She took another sip, put her glass down, and forced herself to make eye contact.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked away from her. It was as if he was trying to judge what her next words would be before she spoke them. So sex. Now. Possibly right here. A thread of a memory insisted that she clarify how much this was going to cost Mr. Armani. Something about him having to put the money on the dresser. Wasn’t that how it worked?
“I should go,” she managed, her tongue feeling too thick to produce the words.
Mr. Armani cocked his head at her.
“What did you think was going to happen here tonight, sweetheart?”
“I told you, I didn’t know. I still don’t.” She got to her feet, her stomach queasy. “I thought I could… that if you wanted—”
“To fuck you,” he cut in. “But you came. You’re here, sitting in that chair. So you’ve made it this far, but now no further?”
She swallowed, grabbed her glass and took another tug at the straw. Her eyes flitted past him, staring out over Central Park instead.
Yes. Exactly that. She didn’t have the stomach for this.
“I should go,” she said again.
Mr. Armani got to his feet. This put the slab of his body inches from hers.
Heat rolled off him, cascading over her. She shivered and tried stepping back, but her knees bumped into the chair, halting her.
The man’s emerald eyes drew her, commanding her full attention. His face was set with no expression: mouth relaxed, eyes hooded.
He dragged his finger through the mousse again, scooping out a small mound of the confectionery. His other hand closed over the top of her arm.
“Were you expecting me to romance you, sweetheart?” he asked. “Perhaps ply you with my charms? Make this feel like a first date instead of an appointment?”
Pearl took a hitching breath, her legs stiffening. His touch was firm, but not inescapable. If she wanted, she could tug free and shove the chair out of the way and back out of the dining room and leave.
If she wanted.
Mr. Armani closed the distance.
His body was a furnace.
So fixated was she on his eyes, she didn’t see that mound of mousse until he’d smeared it over her collarbone.
She jerked at his touch, making a soft sound of surprise at the chill.
“I don’t have time for romance, girl. But there is something about the taste of sugar on a woman’s skin…”
Bending his neck, Mr. Armani closed his mouth over her flesh. The chill of the mousse disappeared, replaced by the heat of his lips, the brush of his tongue against her collarbone.
Pearl shuddered. Another breath, more unsteady than the first, filled her lungs. Her breasts pressed against the bottom of his pecs, her upper abdomen fluttering against his abs. The smell of him enveloped her, closeting her in cinnamon and sandalwood. Her arm lifted, but whether to knock him away or drag him closer she didn’t know.
“Stop shaking,” he whispered into her ear.
Her eyes, which had fallen closed at his kiss, were glued shut now.
Another dollop of ice-cold mousse decorated her other collarbone. This he removed solely with his tongue. Pearl shuddered, remembered that calm missive of his, and tried keeping herself still.
“You didn’t put lotion on your skin tonight,” Mr. Armani said. “Good girl.”
Three fingers trailed at a slant down the side of her neck.
God, how sticky was she going to be tomorrow?
Wait, good girl?
Her eyes fluttered open.
He studied her face, a faint smile etched over his wide mouth.
“What’s—” she cleared her throat “—what’s your name?”
He brought his fingers up and sucked the traces of mousse off them.
“Formalities after dessert.”
She wanted to argue, but he dipped his head forward again, his breath stirring strands of red hair against her ear.
Damn, his mouth was hot. The contrast between his heat and the chill of the mousse enveloped her, made her shiver.
“Keep still.” Not a suggestion, but a quiet command.
Pearl stiffened. She barely dared to breathe. She couldn’t breathe, not with him so close that his intoxicating scent filled every lungful of air. His cheek brushed her jaw. His hair tickled her lips.
Mr. Armani licked away the mousse from her neck. He sucked her skin, his teeth nipping her.
Her arm finally decided what it wanted to do. She slid her fingers into his hair, touching his warm scalp, moving her hand down to grip his neck—
Strong fingers closed over her wrist, yanking her away.
She gasped, shocked out of her enchanting bubble of lust. Mr. Armani straightened, tugged her wrist behind her back, and squeezed just once as if in warning.
“No touching.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s your first time, so I understand that you’ll make mistakes. Just don’t repeat them.”
She was still blinking up at him in confusion when his fingers glided under the shoulder of her dress and shoved it off her shoulder. It fell down, skimming over her skin, and exposed her right breast.
Her heart pattered in her chest, blood singing in her ears. She’d never been commanded like this, never had to obey someone’s orders. Was this what he was into? Bossing girls around, having his wicked way with them however he wanted, leaving them unsatisfied and not caring less?
Was she into this?
More mousse. Chilling the top of her breast. Circling her nipple. Each new streak removed with the same care and precision he’d used to paint it onto her.
Holy hell, but she could be. She really could.
Unable to manifest externally, her trembling now became internal. Her intestines coiled, her sex quivering with every feather-light touch of his lips and tongue.
She should have worn panties; arousal dampened her inner thighs.
He grabbed her waist, turned her, lifted her onto the table. It
happened in one fluid motion so her ass was down before she’d snapped out of her concerns about underwear issues. She glanced beside her, worried that she might be sitting in designer pizza.
His mousse was empty.
Almost all of hers was gone, too. There was a small stab of indignation that he’d eaten her pudding. A flutter deep inside her that there was only a single mouthful remaining.
His hand slid under the dress’s remaining shoulder.
Pearl grabbed his wrist. Her breath came hard and fast, her lips parting as she looked up at him, wanting something from him, some kind of sign, unable to describe it even to herself.
He twisted his hand, escaping her pathetic grip in an instant. Grasping her in that same firm, suggestive circle of fingers, Mr. Armani maneuvered her arm behind her. Pressed her wrists together. Gripped both of them in a hand. He jerked the dress free from her shoulder. The silver fabric pooled around her waist, exposing her entire upper body to the apartment’s perfectly-temperate air.
Her nipples pebbled under his lingering gaze. She began to ache for him, her sex growing wet and hot the longer he stared at her breasts. She squirmed, trying to ease that yearning, only making it worse.
Mr. Armani spooned the last of the mousse onto his fingertip. His gaze returned to her breast, to her nipple.
Pearl moaned, squirming again.
The grip on her wrists tightened in warning. She forced herself to still, closing her eyes against the throbbing ache inside her.
Soft, cold mousse touched her nipple.
A hot, wet mouth sucked it off. His teeth closed over her bud, tweaking it. His tongue flicked against it.
Pearl arched her back, moaning again, her body shuddering under the ministrations of that masterful mouth. He released her with a popping sound. Her eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on his face. He had his head cocked, a ghost of a smile on his mouth.
“You enjoyed that?”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly.
His expression changed from curious to disbelieving in a flash. Frowning, his hand slithered down her stomach. She stiffened, her mouth forming an ‘o’ of uneasy anticipation as his fingers danced over her skin.
Fingers skimmed her clit. Dragged through the soaked folds of her sex. One slipped inside her, spearing deep and fast.
