His Little Black Book

by Thea Devine

  She imagined him penetrating her, felt that luscious liquefying of her body that presaged arousal.

  He smiled and squeezed her thigh as he watched her face, aware she was creaming for him. She couldn’t hide it, didn’t want to. All her preconceived ideas had condensed into a tight nub of unexpected desire.

  “Brooke?”

  “Yes, Thane?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  She laughed. “Exactly what you think I’m thinking.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” Thane said.

  “I would think the fact that I’m here would tell you everything.”

  “You are one sassy lady, Brooke. What else should I know about you?”

  Why would he want to feel her out, when he so obviously wanted to feel her up? There was no answer to that, so she told him about herself, her college years, her decision to come to New York, about Delia and MJ, and about her job. She omitted any mention of her desire to become a mistress.

  The fact that she was sitting there naked clearly told him that.

  “And no one’s claimed you?”

  She shook her head, puzzled. “No. No. This is my first day here.”

  “Good.” He ran his large rough hand up and down her leg possessively and felt the convulsive movement of her body in response. “I think—yes, I think I’m going to claim you for my black book.”

  Dare she ask? “And what does that mean?”

  He was looking at her nipples almost hungrily, she thought.

  “It means that until I decide what I’m going to do about you, no one else can have you.”

  “Do about me?” Did she have no control? Did she really want this, want him? Or just the excitement of sex and arousal?

  “Brooke,” he murmured just a little reproachfully as he got up. His massive erection jutted out enticingly from under his robe as he looked down at her. He leaned over her suddenly, bracing himself on the arms of the chair, maneuvering the heft of his penis toward her mouth. Waiting to see what she would do. Daring her to…

  She eyed the shaft head so close to her lips and slanted a look at him. “Really, Thane, is this—?”

  “It’s whatever I want it to be,” he said roughly. “What do you want it to be?”

  Was this a test?

  She closed her mouth around the pliant head. It was huge, it invaded her mouth like no other penis she’d ever sucked, just filled her right up almost to the back of her throat, deep and hard, the way it would fill her up between her legs. Sucking him took all her energy; she pulled at him and licked him until she felt his body tighten and the lush reward of a spurt of semen at the very tip. She swiped it off with a hot lick of her avid tongue.

  He jerked his shaft from her greedy mouth. “I’m interested,” he murmured, his voice rough. He reached for her right breast and compressed her nipple between his fingers.

  She grasped his shaft, her body arching upward in a shock of pleasure.

  “I’m very interested.” He didn’t remove his fingers, and the naked feel of him enfolding her nipple like that made her body go insensate with pleasure.

  “What about you, Brooke?” He squeezed gently and she felt his penis elongate. “Are you interested?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Good.” He compressed her nipple again just to see her body jolt at his touch. “Go see Vanessa. I’ll call you—soon.” And he was gone.

  She was barely aware of anything, she was so swamped by the lush feelings in her breast. Why didn’t he stay, why didn’t he keep on—?

  “Omigod.”

  She shook herself out of her sensual haze to see that one of the women had taken Thane’s place beside her.

  “Do you know who that is?” the woman asked in a hushed, awed voice.

  She shook her head.

  “Thane Bohansson, the media mover and shaker. The power behind the power. The man who out-Sumners Sumner Redstone.”

  “Oh!” She had heard of him, and maybe she’d have been more on point if his sex hadn’t been so enticingly close and in her mouth. “Oh. Well.”

  “Yes,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Lonita, by the way. You’re new.”

  “Yes. I’m Brooke.” She shook hands, noting that even though Lonita had a beautifully toned body that was enhanced with a cutout bra, a thin chain around her thigh, and the requisite stilettos, her face was a little less doll-smooth than the other girls lounging around.

  “Hi, Brooke. So he…”

  “Said he’s interested. What does that mean?”

  “You are new. Actually, he broke a few rules with you right there. They’re dead set against doing anything sexually overt on the floor. That’s what the dressing rooms are for. And they’d really prefer that any fucking is done off premises, since this isn’t a bordello. Or so they say.

  “Interested means he wants to see you outside of Maîtrise. That’s what he meant by claiming. It’s the first step to deciding if he’ll make you his mistress. So go for it. Why not? He can afford you.”

  “But he’s not—” Brooke started to say and broke off.

  “They never are perfect,” Lonita said, instantly intuiting Brooke’s objection. “They’re short, heavy, balding, they’re tall, too dark, or disproportionate in size—what do you care, as long as they have a fat penis and a fat wallet? Everyone is the same height horizontally, anyway. And looks aside, Bohansson is pretty magnetic.”

  “I guess,” Brooke said hesitantly and wondered why she was reconsidering anything right now. How fast did a woman usually get picked as a mistress, anyway? And Lonita, who’d been around the park a few times, probably wasn’t anyone’s first choice for a plaything now.

  “So what happens is, Vanessa will enter your name in his black book, and no one else will be permitted to approach you until he’s decided whether things will go further. Then he’ll call you. Wine and dine and fuck you. If you’re good, if you’re smart, if you’re accommodating, there’s a good chance he’ll want to keep fucking you—with all that entails. So be smart.”

  “Okay,” Brooke said. “I can do smart.”

  “Good. You should go see Vanessa, since she’s the keeper of the fabled little black books. They all have them. It keeps things orderly. Prevents any misunderstandings.”

  Brooke blinked. “That’s good to know. Thanks.”

  “Good luck. Hope I don’t see you back here anytime soon.”

  “So.” Vanessa set aside an envelope she’d been about to open as Brooke entered the office. “You’ve been claimed. Sit down, Brooke.”

  Brooke sat.

  “Mr. Bohansson…very special. And so quickly. Well, a man like that is always attracted to what’s new and fresh. From now on, your relationship with Mr. Bohansson is solely your business. I’ve given him your number and he’ll contact you privately. Meanwhile, you’re welcome to continue coming to Maîtrise. In fact, I recommend that you do, if only for Mr. Bohansson’s pleasure. A man like him likes it when a woman is well cared for in every way.

  “If there is ultimately no accommodation—and these things are not guaranteed, Brooke—then I will lift Mr. Bohansson’s claim on you, remove your name from his little black book, and you will be free to mingle again with our guests. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, that’s clear.”

  “Congratulations, Brooke. It isn’t often a newcomer to Maîtrise attracts the interest of a man like Mr. Bohansson. He is one of our treasured guests.”

  “Then I’ll treat him like a treasure,” Brooke murmured.

  “Excellent. I’m looking forward to seeing you back here soon for your regular regimen.”

  It was more a command than a question. And maybe it made sense: They wanted to be certain that those who were chosen maintained that perfection in every way.

  “I’ll be here,” Brooke said.

  “Good. It’s important, Brooke.” That was pointed enough. “Till next time then.”

  Brooke felt her eyes on her back as she c
arefully closed the door.

  Vanessa waited until she heard the lock latch, then reached for the envelope she’d set down.

  She knew what was inside—Thane Bohansson’s usual gratuity for calling his attention to the one ingenuous beauty in the whole city who doesn’t want to be a model or an actress, isn’t drugged out or in an alcoholic stupor, or involved with some stoned-out deadbeat.

  It was ever the way with high-powered, controlling men like him, she thought: They liked the untainted, the innocent, the untouched. It was her job to find those girls for him. And they were few and far between, these days.

  Maybe this Brooke would turn out to be his treasure.

  She carefully opened the envelope, glanced at the enclosed sum, and smiled.

  He’d been unusually appreciative this time.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the way back to West End Avenue, Brooke was bothered by one thing: It had all been so quick. It just wasn’t a given that a man like Thane Bohansson would lust after her on first glance.

  Oh, but he’d lusted for her nipples.

  She shivered. She could almost re-create the feeling of his fingers on the one taut tip, squeezing it, rolling it between his fingers, sending her body into sensual orbit. She could envision his sex, the taste and smell of it…

  Why shouldn’t it have happened that fast? Why not? And why not to her?

  She knocked on her apartment door to signal she was back. Delia and MJ instantly converged on her with a hundred questions.

  “Was it…?” “Did you…” “Were they…?” “…any men?”

  Brooke laughed and fended them off. “Let me change, at least. I can’t tell this story unless I’m in my come-home jeans and T.”

  “Oh, but look at you,” Delia said, touching her hair. “And your makeup—they did your makeup?”

  “They did every possible thing you can think of. I mean, they’re grooming mistresses, right? I have to change.”

  “I’ve got dinner in the oven,” Delia said. “Spaghetti and salmon, whenever you’re ready.”

  Ten minutes later, Delia dished out the food, plopped on her chair, and demanded: “I can’t stand it anymore—spill.”

  Brooke gave her a crooked smile. “Well, a lot of it was pretty much how I guessed it would be. Someone who’s zillionaire rich owns that place, and really wants to keep it under cover. It was made very clear that I’d be in major legal trouble if there was a breath of a mention about it or its clientele in any media anywhere on this earth.”

  “Whoa,” Delia murmured.

  “And then the fun began.” She described the disrobing, the spa complex, the waxing, the massages, the stations for hair, makeup, manicure, pedicure. “It was like being at a wedding buffet. Line up for whatever you’re hungry for; your every wish is served up by a hunky, near-naked guy.”

  “Ooh…” MJ breathed.

  “Exactly. And that’s before you get to the lounge on the top floor of the building. There’s a bar and nibbles, billiards, reading matter, conversation or quiet, your choice, but you know you’re expected to mingle with the male guests. The women are naked”—Brooke paused to enjoy their reaction—“except for certain adornments that Vanessa supplies. Mine were these,” she flipped her earrings, “a pair of mile-high stilettos, and a thin gold chain around my hips.”

  “Did you—” Delia began.

  “Hey, I took one for the two of you. I mean, we had to know, and somebody had to do it.”

  “So what happened?” MJ asked.

  “I managed to sit down by a real bigwig CEO type.”

  “And…?” MJ and Delia together.

  Brooke sniffed. “He’s interested. When a client is interested, your name goes in a little black book, which is his claim on you, and then no other man can approach you until that’s lifted.”

  “And that was it?” Delia asked. “What about the guy?”

  “He’ll supposedly call—but where have we heard that before?”

  “Who is he?” MJ again, always practical.

  “Thane Bohansson. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Hol-ee shit!” MJ said. “Are you serious? You’re talking that stratospheric? He’s said to be the power behind a multitude of media, and no one knows much about him otherwise. You’d have to read the Wall Street Journal to find word one about him, and then it’s usually about some company he’s alleged to own.”

  “But—you found him in this lounge,” Delia recapped, “and you’re stark naked and…he’s interested?”

  Brooke put down her fork. “Well, I might have blown him just a bit.”

  “What!” Delia and MJ shrieked.

  “He was right in my face, and I thought, this is the moment of truth. And his head was so plump and ready to blow, so…”

  MJ sat back, shaking her head. “My God, this is wild.”

  “Yeah. But the thing is, this guy is no cover model. He’s big, he’s kind of pirate dark, he’s sixty-something, and he’s obviously trolling. I didn’t know what to expect. I was flying blind, so I just went by my instrument panel.”

  “You sucked him off,” MJ said, still in disbelief.

  “No…I kind of sucked a spurt out of him. I guess it was enough—for the interest part. What would you have done?”

  Delia blew out a breath. “I don’t know. But you hooked him, so…”

  “Well, that’s the thing that kind of bothers me.”

  “Shut up—what about that could possibly bother you?” MJ asked.

  “First, he hasn’t offered anything. And second, it happened too damned fast, which makes me nervous.”

  Delia looked at MJ, who shrugged.

  “You know what you’d tell us?” Delia asked. “You’d tell us to go with the flow, and that we’re almost where we want to be, so who cares how fast or slow it was, and why ruin it by overthinking it.”

  Brooke sighed.

  “Just get us an invitation to the Mistress Club,” Delia said. “That’s my kind of wet dream.”

  Brooke shook her head. “These guys have seen tits and slits forever. So how does a potential mistress stand out?”

  Delia thought for a moment. “Someone new and fresh probably raises a flag.”

  “Yeah, and someone willing to jack a guy off in public, that’s pretty enticing,” MJ sniped.

  “Oh, but I didn’t mention the part where he fondled my nipples.”

  “I’m having an orgasm!” MJ said. “What’s wrong with you, girl?”

  “I was in the moment? Anyway, I’m told Maîtrise means control. But who has the control if a woman is claimed and she can’t make contacts until a client decides if he wants her or not?”

  “Those men don’t make idle choices, though,” Delia mused. “They don’t walk into those situations without a lot of preparation.”

  MJ looked at her defiantly. “Well, I love that idea: being claimed by one special man.”

  Delia jumped in encouragingly. “Then you’ll find him there. Because someone there right now is looking for someone just like you.”

  He called at the end of the week. “Brooke.”

  She was in her office at work, her cell at the ready, a complicated theater and dinner city tour plan spread out before her. Her heart skipped as she recognized his voice. “Thane.”

  “Busy tonight?”

  Be smart, don’t play coy.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Good. I’ll send a car. Seven o’clock. Don’t wear anything that will impede me in any way.”

  Her breath caught, but he’d rung off. The tour plan was forgotten; what to wear instantly became paramount.

  She called MJ. “He called.”

  MJ made a little sound, almost as if she had been the one waiting for the call. “And?”

  “He’s sending a car. Tonight. He wants me naked under my clothes.”

  MJ made another sound. “Sounds like he knows exactly what he wants.”

  “MJ, this is so not you.”

  “A big, mo
nied hotshot who wants to sex you up in public—sounds fun to me.” It sounded more than fun, it sounded heavenly, like someone taking control again. Someone better, who would adore her and do things to her and with her wherever he wanted to. But she’d just have to live that life vicariously for now, until she was claimed by her own all-powerful man.

  “Come as soon as you can. I need help with this.”

  Delia was working the night shift, so Brooke and MJ met at five and made a shambles out of Brooke’s closet.

  “How do I know what to wear if I don’t know where he’s taking me? How casual, how glam?”

  “Let’s be logical. The clue is no impediments. If you wear jeans, he can’t get to you. If you wear a bra, he can’t get to your nipples. If you wear panty hose, he can’t get between your legs—but stockings and garter belt could be very arousing.”

  “O-kay.”

  “So, some little black slink he can slide off of your body in two seconds.”

  “I have to be that easy?”

  “A man like that wants fondling time, you give it to him.” I would.

  “But—that damned Brazilian—I have never felt so naked as I do now. Every moment, I’m aware of how bare I am down there.”

  MJ made another sound of longing. “Fine. But that doesn’t solve the problem of what to wear.”

  Brooke rummaged some more and pulled out an empire-style slip dress of brown silk overlaid with mitered stripes in a deeper cocoa color.

  MJ was speechless for a moment. “Wow. Those stripes sure are suggestive. The one at your thighs points right to nirvana.”

  Brooke sent her a scathing look. “Only you would think that.”

  “Oh, your Mr. Bohansson will think that, too. Trust me.”

  “All right. I don’t need a bra with this dress. I’ll wear gold sandals, my Maîtrise earrings, and some gold chains. Enough?”

  MJ agreed, and Brooke jumped into a quick shower, applied a rich moisturizer all over her body, a subtle cream perfume, a spray of tanner on her legs, a dusting of glitter powder across the low-cut bosom of the dress, and had MJ curl her ends as she applied makeup.