by Skye Warren
“If I can give you cash, how much will you bring the total down?” said Cassandra.
“Nothing. No discount. Just not so many hours on the pole.”
Cassandra opened her bag and drew out a brown envelope.
“Here’s seven thousand dollars, Mr. Moore. I’m taking Melly away—she needs rehab. When we come back, I’ll work off the other fourteen thousand if you’ll promise to leave her alone.”
“You ever danced?”
“How hard can it be?”
Moore’s laughter rang around the small room.
“Show me,” he said.
Cassandra shook her head. “I’ll learn how to do it while Melly’s in rehab.”
Suddenly Moore was on his feet and coming round the desk toward her.
“I’m not running a fucking charity here for little junkies and their do-good sisters.”
He stood above her, dark and menacing, with fiery eyes and clenched fists. She stared at him defiantly, clamping her jaw tight shut in denial of the fear welling in her gut.
“You’re no dancer,” he said. But he took the brown envelope from her hand and tossed it onto the desk behind him.
Cassandra let out a breath as the tension left her muscles. But his next words hit her like a punch in the guts.
“Sure you can pay off the rest of Melly’s debt. On your back.”
“You mean…”
He leaned forward and cut off the rest of her words by placing his mouth over hers. It might have been a kiss by name but not by intent. He pushed his tongue between her lips and plundered, rasping her chin with his stubble and not caring when his teeth clashed with hers. She felt crushed against the back of the chair, and she struggled to get a breath. His hands came to rest on her shoulders and then slid down to pin her upper arms to her sides.
“Have you ever slept with a man for money?” he whispered in her ear.
She turned her head away from him, as far round as she was able.
“Never. I’m not a whore.” She had to breathe, and this close, Moore smelled good. Too good.
“Would you become one to save your precious sister?”
She remained silent, trapped in the chair as he loomed over her.
“Would you?” he prompted.
She thought of Melly and how much she’d changed. She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head. Moore stepped back, looking at her with raised eyebrows.
“Yes,” she whispered. She knew she could do anything except look into Melly’s sad, wounded eyes and tell her she had to come back to this place and dance the pole.
Moore returned to the far side of his desk and sat down.
“Good,” he said.
What would they be like? The men she would have to sleep with?
“This is how it’s gonna work…what’s your name?”
“Cassandra.”
“Cassandra.” He said it slowly, trying it for size. “Nice. This is how it goes down, Cassandra. I sample the goods first. Then I work out where I want to place you.”
The goods? This was her body he was talking about.
“Place me?”
“I’ve got four clubs. Different clientele in each. They like different sorts of girls and pay a different price for their pleasure. I’m guessing you’d be right for one of my high-end clubs. But I don’t do guessing—I run a business. I need to know the product I’m selling.”
“So you sleep with all the girls who work for you?”
“No.” The lupine grin was back in evidence. “Far from it. I usually leave that to Darcy. But you’re not the usual type of girl that comes looking for this sort of work.”
“I didn’t come looking for it.”
Moore exhaled a heavy breath.
“It’s up to you, Cassandra. The money’s gotta be paid back one way or another.”
Cassandra bit her lip. Could she really go through with this? Prostitute herself? Sleep with men she’d never met for money? Or the alternative? Send her kid sister out stripping in front of the same men? And back into the environment that had got her hooked on drugs in the first place?
“When would we…?”
“Have the tryout? Now would be as good a time as any, don’t you think, Cassandra?”
She should have been horrified, but there was something about the way he said her name that made the muscles inside her contract and made her breath catch up tight in her throat.
“N-now…?” This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
“The sooner you start and the better you are, the quicker you’ll be able to pay it off.”
Cassandra stood. She knew Moore was in total control of the situation. He held all the cards. But if she couldn’t hang on to a small semblance of her own free will, she’d never be able to look herself in the eye again.
“I’ll come back here this evening, Mr. Moore. That’s when you can try the goods.”
One dark eyebrow shot up.
“You’re assuming that I’ll be here this evening.” His gaze slid down the length of her body with new interest. “When—and if—you start working for me, you’d better remember who’s boss. D’you know Mitcham’s, on State Street?”
Cassandra nodded.
“Be there at eleven. But if you’re late, the deal’s off and Melly will have to pay back her own debt.”
* * *
Mitcham’s was smart, the swankiest restaurant in town. Cassandra wondered what she ought to wear. This wasn’t a date. It wasn’t even really a job interview—she wouldn’t be paid for what she was about to do. She was going there to make herself the willing victim of extortion, to present herself to her pimp to see if she was up to the job. As she got ready, she felt sick to her stomach. But she still made an effort to look good—a body-skimming black sheath dress that flattered her figure and, underneath, her most revealing underwear. Chestnut hair tumbling in glossy curls around her shoulders, shimmering eyes and lips, a dab of perfume behind her ears. If she was hot, if Aston Moore found her attractive, perhaps he would put her to work somewhere smart, where the men would pay more. A better class of clientele? Who was she trying to kid?
At five minutes before the hour, she walked up the steps of Mitcham’s, peering at the brightly lit interior through the open door. She’d never been there before—it was way beyond her budget. But she occasionally heard of people going there for a special celebration, and it featured in the local papers regularly for sponsoring a nearby children’s charity. To Cassandra, it seemed a strange choice of venue for the job in hand. But maybe he owned Mitcham’s too.
As soon as she stepped into the lobby, her way was barred by an officious mâitre d’.
“Madam, I’m sorry—the kitchen has closed for the night,” he said in a genuine French accent.
“I’m meeting Mr. Aston Moore.”
His whole demeanor changed at her words.
“Please, your coat…”
The man led her through the crowded restaurant and, as they stopped to let a leaving couple pass through a gap between tables, she was able to gaze around and take in the full splendor of the place. Gilt mirrors, crystal chandeliers and the tinkle of glass and silverware—it was like a glittering golden globe, buzzing with conversation and raucous laughter. She looked around to see if she could spot Aston Moore at one of the tables, but the mâitre d’ ushered her through a door at the far end of the dining room and then led her up a flight of stairs. On the wall an ebony sign with gold lettering pointed the way up to Private Dining. Cassandra followed nervously. While she’d been in the busy, bustling main restaurant she’d felt fine, able to believe that nothing untoward was about to happen. That she was just like any of the other diners at Mitcham’s—enjoying a night out, about to meet up with a boyfriend for a late bite. But as the noise and the bright lights were extinguished by the door closing behind them, a tremor of fear traveled up her spine, and her gut roiled painfully.
Why did I come back when I could have taken Melly and run?
But sh
e knew it would never have worked. This was the only way to extricate themselves from Moore’s grasping greed. Cold dread settled in the pit of her stomach as the mâitre d’ knocked on a door at the top of the stairs.
“Enter,” said a voice from beyond.
As the man opened the door, the old man, Darcy, emerged from the room. From the way he looked her up and down, it was obvious to Cassandra that he knew exactly why she was here. Ignoring his passing stare, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and entered the room. It was a small dining room, all rich red brocade and gleaming mahogany, its dark velvety quiet in direct contrast to the bright, noisy room downstairs. The table still held the remnants of a dinner for several people—empty plates and glasses, a marble board on which fragments of cheese were congealing, soiled napkins strewn carelessly across plates, while unswept crumbs and spills speckled the tablecloth.
Aston Moore sat alone at the head of the table. He was dressed in black from head to toe. His jacket hung on the back of the chair, and his top few shirt buttons were undone to reveal a curl of dark chest hair. In other circumstances Cassandra would have found his looks attractive, but this evening the sight of him made her tremble.
“Ah, Cassandra, come in,” he said, waving her forward. Then he looked across at the mâitre d’, who was now standing just inside the door. “Send someone to clear away this mess, would you?”
The man nodded and disappeared, leaving Cassandra alone with the bastard who would be her pimp. How had it come to this? She bit her lip and stared at the floor.
“You scrub up well, but you’ll get nowhere if you can’t look your johns in the eye.”
She raised her head and stared him in the face, hot fury coursing through her body in place of fear now.
Moore’s smile was disarming, but she still glared at him.
“It’s time to show me what you’ve got,” he said, shifting in his chair as he pushed it back from the table.
“Business first,” said Cassandra. “How much will be wiped off my sister’s debt for every…”
“…every trick you turn?”
“Every time I have sex with one of your johns.” Even just saying the words left a bad taste in her mouth.
“I can’t tell you that until I’ve sampled the goods,” he replied.
“Do I get paid for this time?”
“Listen, honey. I’m doing you a big favor here. Don’t push your luck.”
He was doing her a favor?
The door opened, and a waitress came in. She started clearing the table, and while she was in the room, Cassandra and Aston Moore contemplated each other in silence. A shifty, nervous silence, with tension thickening the air. The waitress seemed to pick up on it, clattering the crockery with nervous hands as she loaded her tray. By the time she left, Cassandra’s heart was thundering in her chest.
Moore stood and went over to the door. There was a quiet double click, and Cassandra realized he’d locked it.
“Here?” she said. “There’s no bed.”
“Perhaps I could take you bent over the table,” said Moore. He advanced toward her, and Cassandra stepped away. “Or I could sit back and relax in the chair while you worked on your knees. What do you think? How would you pleasure me if I was a paying client?”
Cassandra’s mouth was dry. Words wouldn’t form, but she could hardly think of what to say anyway. All afternoon she’d been imagining what she would need to do once she was alone with this man, a man whom she quite literally despised, but through all those hours her mind had gone blank every time she reached this moment. And now he was asking her to take the initiative.
Melly’s gaunt face flashed before her eyes.
Swallowing her pride, her nerves and her distaste, she took a step toward Aston Moore, who stood his ground, watching her with an amused expression on his face.
“If you were my client, I’d ask you what your pleasure was,” she said. She’d dropped her voice an octave, making it low and throaty. She put her hands on his shoulders and let them rove back and forth around his neck and down onto his chest. “What can I do to make you happy, Aston? To make you feel good?”
She dropped a hand down and pressed it against his groin. He was semihard already, and his cock twitched at her touch. Moore looked momentarily surprised, but then he grinned.
“I’m tired, Cassandra, and a little jaded. I’ve had more women than you could ever imagine. I want something special, something I’ll remember, that’ll make me want to come back for more.”
Cassandra had no idea what to do next. She was winging it. Her sexual experience heretofore came nowhere close to this. What the hell did a man like Aston Moore want? Or need? Slowly and deliberately she unbuttoned his shirt, sliding her fingers under the cool cotton and scraping her nails over his taut abs. She heard his breath catch in his throat as she eased the fabric out from the waistband of his pants. As she pushed his shirt collar back over his shoulders, she pressed her lips against his ear.
“Bitter or sweet?” she whispered.
“Bitter?” he said, sounding unsure.
“Light or dark?” she whispered.
“Dark.” She could hear the smile in his voice. He was intrigued.
“Obey or be obeyed?” she whispered.
“Obey.” He seemed to falter, but he left it at obey.
“Dangerous or safe?” she whispered.
“Dangerous,” he said, grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking her head back so he could see her face. “But I think you’re playing with fire, Cassandra.”
“Undoubtedly,” she said.
“And someone could get burnt.”
“I hope so.”
Then she took possession of his mouth, a rough, savage kiss with no concessions to his position as the man, the john, the paying customer, the pimp. She needed to take control and stay in control if she was going to make it through. Their lips collided as she pushed her tongue in deep, and the taste of him unexpectedly turned her on. She held the back of his neck with both hands and took her time over his mouth. His hands dropped to small of her back, and he pressed her against his body. Against the hard outline of his cock.
So she was doing something right.
She pulled back from him, stumbling slightly as they broke apart. Without his shirt, the veneer of sophistication had gone. Underneath lay a powerful landscape of sinew, bone and muscle. No to mention scar tissue. A long red welt ran diagonally across his left pec, dropping down to cut right across his nipple before curving away under his arm. On the other side, below his ribs, a starburst of raised, white skin told of a wound of a different kind. Aston Moore had won his power the hard way, the old-fashioned way. Violence was as commonplace in his world as it was rare in her own. The scars made Cassandra wonder how short his fuse was.
“Undress,” she snapped at him. “All the way.”
A slow smile spread across his face.
“You chose to obey, didn’t you?” she said.
“I did.” He let his trousers drop to the floor. His legs were strong and his hips narrow, but Cassandra’s attention was most caught by the bounce of his cock as it sprang free of restraint and stood out proud from him. “Do I need a safe word?”
“You wanted it dangerous,” said Cassandra.
He nodded, watching her. Waiting for her next move.
Cassandra swept the tablecloth from the table, letting candlesticks and cruet crash to the floor.
“Get up,” she said, indicating the gleaming mahogany surface with a touch of her palm. The wood felt cold and hard against it. “On your back.”
She didn’t really expect Moore to do as she said, but he did, sitting on the edge of the table and then swinging his legs up so he was lying on his back in the center of the board. He was well over six feet tall, but the table was large enough to accommodate his full height. Cassandra quickly gathered what she needed from around the room. She would have to climb on the table and straddle him for what she had planned, so she lifted the tigh
t shift dress over her head and let it drop to the floor. She revealed the black lace matching underwear she’d found at the back of her drawer, where she’d stashed it along with the memories of the only time she’d worn it. Wearing a matching set was a rarity for her, but putting it on had actually made her feel sexy—and Moore’s appreciative grunt reinforced what she’d felt earlier.
“Don’t speak,” she said.
Moore remained silent as she blindfolded him with a discarded napkin.
Now she was ready to take the biggest gamble of her life. She struck a match and lit one of the candles that had rolled onto the floor the moment before. The sound of the strike was a giveaway, and she saw Moore’s chest inflate as he caught his breath. But he didn’t speak. Just lay there waiting with, if anything, an even harder erection. Cassandra climbed onto the table and straddled his hips. She held the candle in one hand. With the other she gently explored the scar tissue on his chest and abdomen. His cock jolted up at her touch, pressing against the soft silk gusset of her panties. She bent forward to kiss him on the mouth, and his hands went to her hips.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, “or you won’t get what you need.” She forced a tone of menace into her voice, and his hands dropped away.
“Good boy,” she said and bit his earlobe as hard as she dared. He writhed underneath her, and his hips pushed against hers.
Cassandra straightened up and held the candle a foot above his chest. She tilted it to melt the wax faster, and within seconds it started dripping off the end, onto Moore’s olive skin. As the first drop landed, he let out a yelp of surprise, his fists balling and his arms lifting defensively. But with a deep breath, he immediately placed his palms flat on the table as Cassandra moved the candle above him to make a path of waxy red orbs across the patch of dark hair at the top of his chest.
As she worked, his breathing became faster. She held the candle closer until the searing burn of the molten wax made him groan. Working slowly, she traced a pattern across his pecs, not caring when the hot wax touched the red scar tissue, not caring when he winced and bit his lip until she saw blood seeping out between his teeth. His cock told a different story. It grew long and hard. The top darkened, and his hips rolled against her as he instinctively tried to drive himself into her. But not yet. He couldn’t have her until she’d finished her game.
