by Skye Warren
She shivers in my arms, still not quite ready to venture out. “Okay.”
“I must tell you one of the most wonderful things about leaving your bed. It’s thinking of all the delicious things to do to you when I return.”
Her hand slips under the blanket. “Delicious?”
My breath catches when she touches somewhere particularly sensitive. “Yes.”
My innocent ex-virgin has turned into a sex goddess. Her fist closes around my cock while her lips hover near my ear. “I do love the way you taste,” she whispers.
I groan and press my hips up toward the night. “Please.”
She moves down my body and takes me to heaven with her mouth, her hands. Her eyes, full of reckless confidence. This is how I want her—unafraid. The climax hits me, almost violent in its strength, making me choke out her name in a litany, “Bea, Bea, Bea.”
It feels incredible, but nowhere near as good as it does to flip her onto her back. To turn the sly grin into an O of shocked bliss. We dine on the best food available in the city, in the world, but none of the flavors compare to the sweet salt of her arousal. The essence of this woman, which has become like sustenance. The taste that made me come awake, after so long spent in the dark.
Epilogue
Six months later
I spent many evenings at the Den before I met Bea, but none of them were a Saturday night.
Those were reserved for work.
Now I’m no longer a male escort. I suppose you could say I’m an investor now, though that word is rather boring. My modest fortune was restored when Bea purchased L’Etoile from me, and so I’m free to play with money like the Monopoly game. Though I consider my true profession to be pleasing Bea. That’s something I find far more satisfying.
At first I thought we would focus on the museum, but then I realized another place would hold a far greater intellectual curiosity for her with its ever-changing population, its unique cross section of the city. The Den. It also had a built-in support system. And so we visited a month after I moved into the penthouse, leaving quickly before she could succumb to panic.
And then we went again. And again.
The members of the Thieves Club were fascinated to meet the woman who had tied me down, but it was Penny who accepted Bea into her fold. For her part Bea has flourished among a new group of people, like a flower that has survived in brittle, almost desertlike conditions, which has finally been given water.
I’m standing behind the curtain on the small stage set up in the ballroom. The Bluthner grand piano has been restored by craftsmen and expertly tuned, ready for Bea to play for the small crowd of the city’s elite.
If she doesn’t hyperventilate first.
She leans over a potted plant, heaving like she might throw up. It would be a waste of the beautiful roasted lamb I prepared for her, and it would not taste nearly as good on the way back up.
“Mon ami,” I say softly, a little coaxing. “Come here.”
She moans her refusal. “I can’t do this. Why did I think I could do this?”
“Because you can do anything. This small show is only one small thing in a very large list.”
“There’s a stage,” she says. “I’ve never been on a stage before.”
“You have played for millions of viewers instead. You will do very well up there. And I’ll be waiting in the eaves for you to return, to congratulate you.” My tone makes it clear this congratulation would take a sexy form.
“Can we do that now?” she asks, hopeful.
Always ready, this one.
“But no, they are about to begin.” I glance between the two heavy velvet curtains at the chairs filled with men in tuxes and women in glittering gowns. “Did you know that there was once a virginity auction on this very stage?”
“What?” Bea looks scandalized—and also curious, which I had hoped for.
“Yes, and now she returns as a guest.” Tickets to this event were extremely sought after. The debut of the Internet phenomenon Bea Sharp. “There she is on the front row. Next to Harper.”
Avery James looks beautiful and composed, though the growling animal of a man beside her probably has something to do with it. No one in attendance would dare make even the smallest remark to shame her. Gabriel Miller would rip their head off.
“You know her?” Bea narrows her eyes. “Did you attend the auction?”
“Of course not. It was a Saturday.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “Well done. You’ve successfully distracted me. Now all I can do is picture those two having sex.”
“Very beautiful people, those two. I’m sure they are pleasant pictures. However, they’re nothing compared to what you and I will look like after your show.”
The corner of her lips turns up. “What will we look like?”
“This will be new. And impossible to describe. Much better if I show you.”
She looks skeptical. “Something new?”
Our nights have been passionate and inventive. I have many tricks up my sleeve. That has less to do with my previous profession. It’s Bea herself. Her body, her smile. Her music. She makes me dream up new ways to make love to her every night.
“Something new,” I repeat, pointing to the curtains where Damon Scott appears.
“Is the star ready to go on?” he says, but it’s not really a question. I don’t think he would look very kindly on her if he had to refund all of these people’s money. So it’s a good thing I don’t doubt her.
Bea takes a deep breath and nods. “Let’s do this.”
I stand with her in silence, my arms around her, my lips against her temple, while Damon gives a stirring and awe-inspiring introduction. It includes her video-watched stats and the incredible artists who have praised her work. He finishes with, “Please welcome the luminous Bea Sharp to the Den tonight.”
It’s only with reluctance that I let her go, because she deserves to shine.
She deserves it as much as I deserve to witness it.
Her green eyes look back at me, filled with serenity that I knew would be there. When it comes to music there is nothing that makes this woman nervous. Not even the Den, which she has managed to visit a few times now. Not even this crowd of wealthy and powerful people, all of them watching her with wonder. There is only grace and confidence as she crosses the small stage and sits down on the bench.
Beyond the raised frame of the piano, I see Harper send a small wave to Bea. Behind her sits Sutton, a grave expression on his face. He hides it well, but it’s clear how he feels about the vibrant young woman. Even less clear is how Christopher feels, though he does not seem to be in attendance tonight. There is sexual attraction, to be sure. Inappropriate between siblings, even if the connection was made through marriage and not biology. It remains to be seen whether there is anything more.
Bea takes a breath that I recognize from the countless times I’ve watched her play. Her fingers find the keys without her having to look down. This instrument may be new to her, but she knows the notes like they’re parts of her soul. Like they’re written on her skin.
And when she plays, the stars themselves come alight.
* * *
Thank you so much for reading ESCORT. I hope you love Hugo and Bea’s story!
Did you know that Harper is getting her own book? Find out what happens between her and Christopher and Sutton. Order SURVIVAL OF THE RICHEST now!
And don’t miss the sexy virgin auction book THE PAWN with Gabriel and Avery in Tanglewood, which is FREE on all retailers! There’s one way to save our house, one thing I have left of value—my body.
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Excerpt from The Pawn
; Wind whips around my ankles, flapping the bottom of my black trench coat. Beads of moisture form on my eyelashes. In the short walk from the cab to the stoop, my skin has slicked with humidity left by the rain.
Carved vines and ivy leaves decorate the ornate wooden door.
I have some knowledge of antique pieces, but I can’t imagine the price tag on this one—especially exposed to the elements and the whims of vandals. I suppose even criminals know enough to leave the Den alone.
Officially the Den is a gentlemen’s club, the old-world kind with cigars and private invitations. Unofficially it’s a collection of the most powerful men in Tanglewood. Dangerous men. Criminals, even if they wear a suit while breaking the law.
A heavy brass knocker in the shape of a fierce lion warns away any visitors. I’m desperate enough to ignore that warning. My heart thuds in my chest and expands out, pulsing in my fingers, my toes. Blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the whoosh of traffic behind me.
I grasp the thick ring and knock—once, twice.
Part of me fears what will happen to me behind that door. A bigger part of me is afraid the door won’t open at all. I can’t see any cameras set into the concrete enclave, but they have to be watching. Will they recognize me? I’m not sure it would help if they did. Probably best that they see only a desperate girl, because that’s all I am now.
The softest scrape comes from the door. Then it opens.
I’m struck by his eyes, a deep amber color—like expensive brandy and almost translucent. My breath catches in my throat, lips frozen against words like please and help. Instinctively I know they won’t work; this isn’t a man given to mercy. The tailored cut of his shirt, its sleeves carelessly rolled up, tells me he’ll extract a price. One I can’t afford to pay.
There should have been a servant, I thought. A butler. Isn’t that what fancy gentlemen’s clubs have? Or maybe some kind of a security guard. Even our house had a housekeeper answer the door—at least, before. Before we fell from grace.
Before my world fell apart.
The man makes no move to speak, to invite me in or turn me away. Instead he stares at me with vague curiosity, with a trace of pity, the way one might watch an animal in the zoo. That might be how the whole world looks to these men, who have more money than God, more power than the president.
That might be how I looked at the world, before.
My throat feels tight, as if my body fights this move, even while my mind knows it’s the only option. “I need to speak with Damon Scott.”
Scott is the most notorious loan shark in the city. He deals with large sums of money, and nothing less will get me through this. We have been introduced, and he left polite society by the time I was old enough to attend events regularly. There were whispers, even then, about the young man with ambition. Back then he had ties to the underworld—and now he’s its king.
One thick eyebrow rises. “What do you want with him?”
A sense of familiarity fills the space between us even though I know we haven’t met. This man is a stranger, but he looks at me as if he wants to know me. He looks at me as if he already does. There’s an intensity to his eyes when they sweep over my face, as firm and as telling as a touch.
“I need…” My heart thuds as I think about all the things I need—a rewind button. One person in the city who doesn’t hate me by name alone. “I need a loan.”
He gives me a slow perusal, from the nervous slide of my tongue along my lips to the high neckline of my clothes. I tried to dress professionally—a black cowl-necked sweater and pencil skirt. His strange amber gaze unbuttons my coat, pulls away the expensive cotton, tears off the fabric of my bra and panties. He sees right through me, and I shiver as a ripple of awareness runs over my skin.
I’ve met a million men in my life. Shaken hands. Smiled. I’ve never felt as seen through as I do right now. Never felt like someone has turned me inside out, every dark secret exposed to the harsh light. He sees my weaknesses, and from the cruel set of his mouth, he likes them.
His lids lower. “And what do you have for collateral?”
Nothing except my word. That wouldn’t be worth anything if he knew my name. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I don’t know.”
Nothing.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly I’m crowded against the brick wall beside the door, his large body blocking out the warm light from inside. He feels like a furnace in front of me, the heat of him in sharp contrast to the cold brick at my back. “What’s your name, girl?”
The word girl is a slap in the face. I force myself not to flinch, but it’s hard. Everything about him overwhelms me—his size, his low voice. “I’ll tell Mr. Scott my name.”
In the shadowed space between us, his smile spreads, white and taunting. The pleasure that lights his strange yellow eyes is almost sensual, as if I caressed him. “You’ll have to get past me.”
My heart thuds. He likes that I’m challenging him, and God, that’s even worse. What if I’ve already failed? I’m free-falling, tumbling, turning over without a single hope to anchor me. Where will I go if he turns me away? What will happen to my father?
“Let me go,” I whisper, but my hope fades fast.
His eyes flash with warning. “Little Avery James, all grown up.”
A small gasp resounds in the space between us. He already knows my name. That means he knows who my father is. He knows what he’s done. Denials rush to my throat, pleas for understanding. The hard set of his eyes, the broad strength of his shoulders tells me I won’t find any mercy here.
I square my shoulders. I’m desperate but not broken. “If you know my name, you know I have friends in high places. Connections. A history in this city. That has to be worth something. That’s my collateral.”
Those connections might not even take my call, but I have to try something. I don’t know if it will be enough for a loan or even to get me through the door. Even so, a faint feeling of family pride rushes over my skin. Even if he turns me away, I’ll hold my head high.
Golden eyes study me. Something about the way he said little Avery James felt familiar, but I’ve never seen this man. At least I don’t think we’ve met. Something about the otherworldly glow of those eyes whispers to me, like a melody I’ve heard before.
On his driver’s license it probably says something mundane, like brown. But that word can never encompass the way his eyes seem almost luminous, orbs of amber that hold the secrets of the universe. Brown can never describe the deep golden hue of them, the indelible opulence in his fierce gaze.
“Follow me,” he says.
Relief courses through me, flooding numb limbs, waking me up enough that I wonder what I’m doing here. These aren’t men, they’re animals. They’re predators, and I’m prey. Why would I willingly walk inside?
What other choice do I have?
I step over the veined marble threshold.
The man closes the door behind me, shutting out the rain and the traffic, the entire city disappeared in one soft turn of the lock. Without another word he walks down the hall, deeper into the shadows. I hurry to follow him, my chin held high, shoulders back, for all the world as if I were an invited guest. Is this how the gazelle feels when she runs over the plains, a study in grace, poised for her slaughter?
The entire world goes black behind the staircase, only breath, only bodies in the dark. Then he opens another thick wooden door, revealing a dimly lit room of cherrywood and cut crystal, of leather and smoke. Barely I see dark eyes, dark suits. Dark men.
I have the sudden urge to hide behind the man with the golden eyes. He’s wide and tall, with hands that could wrap around my waist. He’s a giant of a man, rough-hewn and hard as stone.
Except he’s not here to protect me.
He could be the most dangerous of all.
* * *
The price of survival…
Gabriel Miller swept into my life like a storm. He tore down my father with cold retribution, leaving
him penniless in a hospital bed. I quit my private all-girl’s college to take care of the only family I have left.
There’s one way to save our house, one thing I have left of value.
My virginity.
A forbidden auction…
Gabriel appears at every turn. He seems to take pleasure in watching me fall. Other times he’s the only kindness in a brutal underworld.
Except he’s playing a deeper game than I know. Every move brings us together, every secret rips us apart. And when the final piece is played, only one of us can be left standing.
“Skye Warren’s THE PAWN is a triumph of intrigue, angst, and sensual drama. I was clenching everything. Gabriel and Avery sucked me in from the first few paragraphs and never let go.”
– New York Times bestselling author Annabel Joseph
One-click The Pawn now!
Excerpt from Tough Love
The moon sits high above the tree line. Somewhere beyond those woods is an electric fence. And beyond that is an entire city of people living and working and loving each other. I may as well be on the moon for how close I am to them.
A guard walks by my window at 10:05 p.m. Right on time.
I wait a few minutes until he’s out of earshot; then I flip the latch. From there it’s quick work to push up the pane with its bulletproof glass. I broke the lock a year ago. And almost every night since then I’ve sneaked down the ornate metal trellis—like a thief, stealing a moment to myself.
The grass is still damp from the rain, the ground beneath like a sponge, sucking me in. I cross the lawn, heart beating against my chest. I know exactly where the guards are on their rounds. I know exactly where the trip wires are that will set off the alarms. My father is too busy in his office to even glance outside.
