In the elevator, my mind scrolls through a few different scenarios. I rehearse them in my head, paying no attention to the other occupants until Chloe boards the car on the fourth floor. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and a tight blue T-shirt. When her gaze catches mine, she smiles, and I forget about Mrs. Smith. Fuck me, if this girl isn’t the hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Her hair is swept into a high ponytail. She’s the perfect combination of sweet and sexy.
“Hot date?” I ask.
She smiles and nods. "Sort of. You?" Her gaze drifts over my body. I can tell by the way her nostrils flare; she appreciates my bad boy outfit. In my experience, nothing tempts a good girl like a dirty, sexy bastard.
“Something like that.” I shove my hands into my pockets and grin, thinking of the arsenal of erotic weapons slung over my shoulder. This Pollyanna would probably shit if she knew where I was really going. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, drawing my focus to her mouth. Her lips are plump and tinted a soft rose color. A quick inappropriate vision of them wrapped around my dick flashes through my head. I shake it away. I’ve got no time for personal relationships.
The elevator doors open, and we go our separate ways. She meets a thin, bookish kind of guy in the lobby. He lights up at the sight of her, but it's me her eyes follow as I push through the revolving door and out onto the street.
Thirty minutes later, I park my car in the driveway of an austere three-story brick mansion on Dayton Street in Lincoln Park. The house is dark except for a few lights on the ground floor. I make my way up a sidewalk lined with frothy pink blossoms and landscape lights. Once I reach the front door, I ring the doorbell and draw in a deep breath to get into character. Showtime.
The woman who answers the door is petite, blonde, closer to fifty than forty. She’s dressed in a floor-length satin robe, tied tightly around her waist. Her hand trembles as she offers it to me.
“Hi. You must be Bastien?” She frowns. “That’s not really your name, is it?”
“And I suppose your name is really Mrs. Smith?” I lift an eyebrow and coax a reluctant smile from her. I’ve found it best to keep my real name private. Less messy and absolutely necessary in case one of my clients forms an obsession. I had the misfortune of dealing with a stalker once, and ever since then, I’ve used an alias to protect my anonymity. Except with Geneva. The pseudonym was her idea. Even though she calls me Bastien, she knows my true name.
Rule number one: no real names.
Mrs. Smith steps aside to let me enter the foyer. I take in the two-story ceiling, crystal chandeliers, and marble floors with a sweeping glance. Very nice. Understated. Elegant but not fussy. I wait at the base of a double staircase. Her oval face has gone pale.
“Should we go upstairs?” Uncertainty shakes her voice.
“Why don’t we sit down and chat for a minute? Get acquainted.”
“Okay. Yes.” She breathes a sigh of relief and leads the way into an expansive living room. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks. But go ahead if you’d like.” I take a seat on the sofa, sling my backpack to the floor at my feet, and watch as she heads to the wet bar a few feet away. Ice tinkles into a rock glass. She pours two fingers of bourbon over the ice, takes a sip then another. Her shoulders visibly relax.
I never imbibe during work hours. Too many things might go wrong, in which case, I need my wits about me. You never know when a husband or boyfriend might arrive home unexpectedly. I’ve had to launch out a bedroom window and hightail it down the street to safety more than once. It’s also a well-known fact that alcohol inhibits sexual performance. My customers expect satisfaction, and I expect to give it to them—no pun intended—something I can’t do with a limp dick.
Rule number two: no alcohol.
“Have you been doing this very long?” She turns to face me. The lamp from the bar backlights her figure. The outlines of her body show through the thin silk. Perky breasts, slender thighs, a flat belly. This will be an easy ride for me. It’s always nice to see a woman take care of her body, although I have no preference on physical type. They all feel the same once you’re inside, regardless of age or fitness level.
“A few years.”
“You’re younger than I expected.” The liquor is making her brave. By the time she finishes her drink, she’ll be ready to move upstairs.
“I’m twenty-four,” I reply. I pat the sofa beside me. “Have a seat.” She eases onto the cushion. The throat of her robe gapes open to reveal a sliver of smooth, tanned skin and the upper swell of one breast. I play with the hem of her robe and lean toward her.
“Does it bother you—the age difference?” she asks. Her breath catches as my fingers graze her knee.
“Not at all. I prefer older women.” That’s the honest truth. “They know their bodies better, know what they want.” Her eyes latch onto my mouth and hold there. I run my tongue over my lower lip to tease her.
“My husband likes younger women. He tells me all the time.” The point of her chin trembles. The edge in her voice denotes anger. Her gaze drops to her lap. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay. Nothing between us leaves this house.” The dejected slump of her shoulders strikes a chord within me. I give her an understanding smile.
Rule number three: confidentiality is imperative. Sometimes a person just needs to get shit off his or her chest. I’m not a therapist and don’t pretend to be one, but I’m a good listener. Most of my clients have high profile careers or spouses. They can’t afford a scandal, and neither can I. I want them to feel safe with me, to offer an escape from the problems of their daily lives. If I can provide a little solace by hearing their concerns, I’m more than happy to comply.
“He’s in Jamaica this week—with his assistant. He thinks I don’t know, but I do. I’m not stupid or blind.” Her free hand rests on the arm of the sofa, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. “I don’t even care about the girl. It’s the lies, the total disrespect. You’d think twenty years of marriage would get more consideration.”
“You deserve respect,” I say and mean it. Basic respect is a fundamental human right. Our eyes meet. The amount of sadness in their depths blows me away. “He has no idea what he’s got.”
For the first time, she smiles, and it transforms her face. “You’re sweet to say that.” Then her lips tighten. “But I’m paying you well enough to say it.”
Shit like that used to piss me off, but I get it. It’s the truth. Her rationale is understandable. She’s been lied to and betrayed by the one man who should always have her back. “Look. You need to understand something. I'm here to make you feel better. It's my job. If you want the truth, I'll give it to you. If you want lies, I can give you those, too."
“I’m not sure what I want.” She stares into the darkness outside the bay window. “Maybe this is a mistake.”
Mentally, I roll my eyes, my patience wearing thin. Then I reconsider and try to salvage the situation. “This—what we’re doing—is all about fantasy. You can be anyone you want when we’re together. Or I can go now, and we’ll pretend this never happened. It’s up to you.”
She studies my face. I see the gears of her mind turning behind her sad eyes. After a long minute, she says, “No. I want you to stay.” Her voice grows stronger. “I’m sorry about what I said, about the money. It’s hard for me to trust people.”
“It’s alright. I have the same problem myself.” I relax into the sofa once more and study the oval shape of her face. “Trust doesn’t come easy for any of us. I’ve been burned a lot of times.”
“Geneva said you were hot, but you’re absolutely gorgeous. You must work out a lot.” She takes another sip of her drink while her gaze slides over my chest, pupils widening. I spread my knees wider until we’re almost thigh to thigh.
“I’m a personal trainer on the side.” When her gaze drifts over my biceps, I’m grateful for the hundred or so push-ups and crunches I did before leaving my apartment. “
I’ve been working on my abs this week.”
“Can I see?” The question comes out in a breathy whisper. “You’re arms are perfect.” Slender fingers wrap around my bicep and squeeze. Her nostrils flare, and pupils darken. The challenge turns me on, sends blood rushing into my cock. “Are you this hard all over?”
“I’ll be happy to show you.” The breath catches in her throat. I grin and wink. “Before we head upstairs, we should get business out of the way.” She nods, her gaze trained on my face, and I continue. “It’s cash up front. Five thousand dollars for two hours, ten thousand if I spend the night. Non-refundable.”
“I’ve got the money for two hours here.” She withdraws an envelope from the pocket of her robe and hands it to me. I riffle through the bills then drop the money into my backpack. Later, I’ll put the cash in the safe deposit box at my bank, away from the prying eyes of the IRS.
“Great. Just a few more details and then I’m going to take you upstairs and fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked.” I brush a lock of hair back from her face. Anticipation is a huge part of the process. She needs to want me. Taking a woman to ecstasy is as much mental as it is physical.
“Oh God,” she whispers. A flush creeps up her neck. Beneath her robe, her nipples poke against the fabric, tight and hard.
“If I see you out in public, I won’t acknowledge you unless you speak to me first and never when I’m with another client. I get tested regularly for STD’s. Here’s a copy of the results from the last test. I don’t ever have sex without a condom. It’s non-negotiable.” I hand the paper to her and wait as she scans through the results. When she’s done, I shove the paper back into a pocket of the backpack. “Everything we do is completely confidential. And I expect the same courtesy in return. As far as my services go, I’ll fuck you however you want. Anything outside of straight sex is an upcharge. Once we get started, you’re in control of the situation. If you want to stop, just the say the word, and we're done. This is your experience, and I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy. Understand?”
“Yes. I understand.” She licks her lips like she’s parched and I’m a cold drink of water.
With slow movements, I cup one of her breasts in my hand, lift it, and flick the nipple with my thumb. She hisses out a sigh. The satin is soft in my palm. Her head falls back against the sofa. I pinch her nipple between my fingers. A shudder ripples down her body, and her eyelids lower. Fine lines bracket her eyes, spider webs of pain and experience. I lean forward and touch my lips to hers then slide my tongue into her mouth. The taste of bourbon burns my tongue.
When I pull back, she says, “I think I’m ready to go upstairs,” in a voice thick with desire. I smile at her, because I’m ready too.
Chapter 2
Mrs. Smith
BASTIEN TAKES my hand and leads me up the sweeping staircase. I've been up these stairs hundreds of times, but never once did I feel the way I feel now. Nervous. Excited. Naughty. My gaze takes in his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and tight ass as he climbs the steps. The ends of his hair curl above the leather thong around his neck. Glimpses of bare skin peek through the rips in his faded jeans. He's taut, lean, and moves with the grace of an athlete. The callouses of his palm abrade my smooth one, and I can't wait to feel those rough hands on my body.
Inside my bedroom, his tall form fills the space. He sits on the edge of the bed, tugs me to him. My pulse jumps. I step inside the V of his thighs. His hands run up my arms, over my shoulders, and linger on my breasts. With agonizing slowness, he pulls the loose ends of my belt, and the robe falls open to reveal the lace teddy underneath. Was it silly—wearing my best lingerie for a stranger, something I’ve never worn for my husband? Not that Norman would ever notice. He’s always too busy with work, traveling, entertaining his secretary—the one he’s been fucking for the last six months.
I should feel guilty for breaking my marriage vows, something I’ve never done before. But I haven’t seen my husband in almost two months. We’ve spoken twice in that time—once about our daughter’s college graduation and once about the broken landscape sprinklers in the back yard. This doesn’t feel like cheating, though. It’s more like a spa treatment, or that’s what I tell myself. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had sex. It’s been over a year, and I’m ready. So, so ready.
“Take off your shirt.” My voice is husky, unfamiliar. The bulge behind the fly of his genes buoys my confidence. “Let me see you.”
Bastien doesn't hesitate. He reaches behind him and draws his shirt over his head. His chest is utter perfection, hard pecs, rippling abs, a trail of dark hair leading into his waistband. I take a step back to let him stand and watch as he unzips his jeans then pushes them down. His erection falls forward, long and heavy. The tip bobs between us. The walls of my pussy clench.
“Now you.” He resumes his place on the edge of the bed. “Take it off.” He’s bossy, in control, and I like it.
The robe whispers over my shoulders and puddles at my feet. I draw in a deep breath for courage and let the spaghetti straps of the teddy fall down my arms. Cool air wafts over my bare breasts then my belly as the lingerie slides to the floor. I can’t remember the last time I stood naked in front of a man—any man, not even my husband. Norman always insisted on doing it in the dark, like the sight of me ruined the experience. Bastien, however, seems turned on by my nudity. His pupils darken with sincere appreciation as his gaze drifts down my body. I try to cover myself, but he draws my arms away.
"No. I want to look at you. You're a beautiful woman." He trails a fingertip along my collarbone, over my breast, down my belly. When he traces the line of my C-section scar, I tense. "Easy. It's okay." With his opposite hand, he tilts my face up and locks eyes with me. I thought his irises were brown, but they're hazel, highlighted by flecks of green and gold. "Never be ashamed of who you are."
“My husband thinks it’s repulsive.” The words slip out before I can stop them. My cheeks heat with embarrassment.
“Like I said, your husband’s a douche.” One of his palms skates along my ribcage. Long, tanned fingers spread over my breast and squeeze. I shiver then gasp when he tweaks my nipple—hard. The pleasure-pain zings along my nerve endings and straight between my legs.
I've dreamed of being taken by a man like this, a stranger, a man who wants me. Simple, uncomplicated, no-strings sex. I run my fingers through his messy dark hair. It's smooth and silky, catching the light of the nightstand lamp.
“So this is how it’s going to go down.” The textured edge of his voice sends a shiver up my back. His hands continue to smooth over my hips. One finger slips between my pussy lips where I’m slick and wet. “First, I’m going to make you come with my fingers. Then I’m going to pound this sweet cunt of yours until you scream.”
"Yes." Normally, the use of the c-word sounds like nails on glass, but when he says it, it's dirty, naughty, and hot. I gasp at the intrusion of his finger into my most tender flesh. After a few circles around my clit, he pushes his finger inside me, all the way to his knuckle. I wiggle, the sensation too glorious, too overwhelming. My knees dissolve. I place my hands on his shoulders to maintain my balance. A warning ripples through my insides, preparing me for climax.
I have to admit; I had reservations when I first saw him. He's closer to my daughter's age than mine, but feeling his hands on my body changes my mind. This handsome hunk is all man, and he knows his way around a woman's body.
His lips find my nipple. They’re soft and warm. His tongue slips out to tease the tip before he drops hot, wet kisses along my breasts. The length of his finger slides in and out of my pussy with increasing speed. He adds two more fingers to the mix and his thumb to my clit. My body clenches around him. His mouth takes my left nipple sucks it hard. I’m breathing like a winded racehorse. The scent of his shampoo wafts up to my nose, clean and masculine. I grip his shoulders tighter.
The sounds of wetness fill the room. I moan at the sweet intensity of pleasure. Another contr
action grips my womb. I’m not sure what to do. The sensation is foreign, familiar, and new at the same time. Bastien’s teeth nip the tip of my breast. All the muscles below my waist stiffen. And then it happens. Waves of orgasm flutter and pulsate through my body.
My legs shake. Bastien holds my hip with one hand while the other rides out my climax. I close my eyes, throw back my head and try to catch my breath. When I open my eyes, he's still got his hand inside me, anchoring me with two fingers, a confident smirk curving his delectable lips.
"That was unbelievable," I manage to say then hiss as he pulls his hand away.
“We’re just getting started.” His voice is deep, smooth, seductive. I feel something thin and flat pressed into my palm. “Put this on me.”
I look down and see the condom packet. He leans back on the mattress. His cock stands straight up. A long, thick vein runs the length of the underside and pulses with his heartbeat. I tear open the foil packet and smooth a hand down his shaft before rolling the condom over the tip. A moan rumbles from his throat. He pushes up into my hand.
God, he’s so turned on. By me. A bevy of butterflies tumbles around inside my belly. He's going to fuck me with that enormous cock, and I'm going to enjoy every second of it. I can hardly wait to feel him inside me.
“Lie down. On your back. Legs apart.” He jerks his chin toward the mattress. “As wide as they go.”
We switch positions. I lie down on the comforter and follow his instructions. He kneels on the edge of the bed and knee-walks up the mattress. The coarse hairs on the tops of his thighs abrade the backs of my legs as he spreads my knees. My mouth is dry. Blood rockets through my veins. He lowers himself over me, balancing his torso on one hand while the other hand hooks my leg over his hip. The tip of his cock nudges my entrance. His skin is damp and hot when I slide my hands up his chest.
Bad Behavior #1: Tales of an American Gigolo Page 2
