by K. L. Kreig
She nods before gripping Noah’s shoulders when her legs start shaking.
“Do you want to come, sugar?” he drawls. He picks up the pace, fingering her in earnest now. Leaning forward, he runs his tongue along the exposed patch of tanned skin just below her belly button ring.
“God, yes,” she whispers hoarsely.
“You want to show my friend here what he’s going to be missing?” Noah taunts, throwing a devious smirk in my direction.
Her lids pop open, and dilated, glazed eyes fix on me. I keep my face neutral, taking a casual sip of my Scotch as I watch Noah expertly work her closer to the edge, but deliberately not letting her fall.
“Watch him,” Noah commands thickly.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t stop him. I should, because it’s careless. If anyone snaps a picture of this, it would be hard to explain to my father. A quick sweep of the club, however, shows there are no patrons in the immediate vicinity. I hear voices, but don’t see a soul.
Taking my silence as approval, with a fluid move, he spins her so her back faces his front. He scoots over so they’re in the corner. Placing her hands on the table, he bends her slightly forward so I have a perfect view down her generous cleavage.
When Noah reaches around and yanks down both her uniform top along with the cups of that lacy number she’s sporting, he gives me an even better look. Her tits pop out, squished together by the material still cupping them. He tweaks her already-hard nipples none too gently, bringing them to red, pointed peaks that now scrape the table with each rough jab of his fingers between her thighs.
“Don’t look away from him,” Noah says gruffly. Jesus, I can hear how wet she is from across the table. “Fuck yes. I can’t wait to eat this juicy cunt later.”
Holy hell, she is beyond desirable, and I toy with the idea of joining in. Of biting down on that delectable bud while Noah eats her right here until her chest is flush and she pants her way through one orgasm after the next. The thought of being caught any other time would be a complete turn-on, and I’d already have my cock in hand, but tonight it’s the only thought that holds me back.
Noah brazenly lifts one side of her skirt and sinks his teeth into her backside. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.
As I watch Noah send this girl into space, I try to remain unaffected. I try not to let my cock throb, thinking of the relief I would find within her. But mostly I try not to think of the blue-eyed imp with mascara streaked down her face and wet golden hair plastered to her head. I try not to imagine what her moans of ecstasy would sound like or how her beautiful face would contort when I pushed her to places that made her uncomfortable but gave her pleasure she’d never known before.
Me, not Noah. While I’ve not had one issue sharing a woman with my best friend all these years, the thought of him feeling her tight pussy clench around his cock as she unravels or of her watching him with the same look of raw desire Gina is giving me, stirs a pot of something in my gut that’s pretty damn close to jealousy.
Before I know it, I’m ripped from my little sprite fantasy by Gina softly crying out. She reaches out and briefly fists my shirt, her eyes screwed shut in ecstasy, her entire body shaking as Noah’s grip tightens to keep her from falling.
There’s nothing I love more than to watch a woman come, and Gina is spectacular. Before I know what I’m doing, the backs of my knuckles stroke over one dark, distended nip. Her eyes blink open, and she slams them shut when I can’t resist rolling the rock-hard bud between my fingers. I grip her chin and bring her mouth to mine for a brief chaste kiss then force my back to meet the booth once more. It’s all I can do not to push her to her knees to suck me.
Spent, she sags onto Noah’s lap. He gently holds her for a few moments until she comes all the way down. A couple minutes later, he sends her on her way with a pat to her ass and promises of more to come later.
“What the fuck was that?” I grit angrily after Gina wobbles away on legs that look like rubber. I’m not really mad at Noah, I’m mad at myself for having thoughts about a woman I’ve never had before. A woman I wouldn’t mind playing my girlfriend for a few months so I could experience every delectable inch of that fantastic tight little body she put on display for everyone to see. A woman I apparently need to excise from my every fucking thought.
Noah’s grin is shit-ass. “Just wanted to give you a taste of what you’ll be giving up for the next few months. It’s July. Election’s not till November.” He tips his drink to me before downing the rest. “So…about my offer. Want me to look into it?”
I don’t answer for several minutes, trying to meticulously think through all my options. As much as I hate to admit it, though it isn’t the best alternative, it’s certainly better than being glued to Lianna again, possibly for life. “Don’t you do a thing without running the details by me first.”
He grins victoriously and nods.
“I mean it, Noah. I need to approve every last aspect.”
“Got it. Give me a few days. Do not—and I repeat—do not call fucking Lianna no matter how much pressure your father puts on you.”
“No worries there.”
“You sure you don’t want one last night of sin and debauchery before your balls are in a sling for a while?”
I laugh. “Want? Yes. Have? No. I think I’ll let you take the fair Gina tonight.”
His shoulder rises and drops. “Your loss.” Though Gina does, I don’t think he really cares if I’m there or not.
“No doubt,” I agree quietly, thinking of our eager waitress.
Fifteen minutes later, after I leave my friend behind and wait for the valet to bring my car around, I find myself secretly hoping that whoever Noah comes up with as my fake girlfriend for the next few months will look an awful lot like my golden angel.
I make a mental note to check with Dane again in the morning to see if she’s called. Hell, if I thought I could convince her to attend a few functions, stop for a few photo ops, and spread herself out naked in my bed for a few short weeks, I’d do it in a hot second.
Unfortunately, because I was nothing short of a bastard, I would have a better shot at winning the next mayor’s seat myself than convincing her to let me do anything but cut her a nice fat check for a new Matchbox bumper for that death trap of a car.
And doesn’t that just figure. The one woman I wouldn’t mind having for a while likely doesn’t want anything to do with me.
7
I pull up outside Randi’s secluded $2.7 million home in Windermere. Parking beside a fancy silver sports car, I shut off my inferior Fiat and sit for a moment or two. I have had the week from hell and am not in the mood for another lecture from Randi, but she’s one person you don’t say no to. She summons, you answer.
After four days, we finally found a repairman to check the water heater in my momma’s house and got the bad news it needs to be replaced. After I’ve already spent three hundred dollars on repairs, now I have to shell out another seven hundred for a new one. Plus, Momma’s had a particularly bad week and came down with a cold earlier, which we’re always worried will turn into pneumonia. She seems to be better, but I always wonder what will take her from me. Alzheimer’s doesn’t kill. You can live years and years in a perfectly healthy body while your mind wastes away, rendering you completely helpless and infantile.
Knowing I’ve taken too much time already, I step from my car and make my way over the cobblestones and up three matching stairs. As if she was waiting for me, Randi’s housekeeper, Graciella, immediately opens the glass French doors and ushers me inside.
Looking back to be sure I rolled up my window in case of a sudden downpour, I frown at my crumpled bumper. With everything else going on, I haven’t had a chance to call “Dane” and start the process of getting that taken care of, not that I’ll the have time to get it fixed anyway. Damn that aviator asshole for making my life harder.
“This way, ma’am.” Graciella gestures.
Following her in silen
ce, I take in the massive, resort-like palace. The entire open space is decorated in whites and light grays, and there are more windows and skylights than I can possibly count. The lines are sharp, sleek, and modern as one room flows seamlessly into the next. We walk through the entryway and pass three large bay windows to my right, where a lap pool spans the length of the house.
I’ve only been to Randi’s home once, when my friend Jo tricked me into an interview. I met Jo in my freshman year of college and we became fast friends though we couldn’t be more opposite. She’s black to my white in every sense of the word. Skin, hair, eyes, heart. But somehow, we clicked.
It wasn’t until my life fell apart financially a few years ago that I learned of Jo’s employment with Randi. And it wasn’t until Randi expanded her business plan to offer “party favors” that I considered working for her. I am her first and probably most successful experiment, though she’ll never admit the last part.
By the time we reach Randi’s office, I’m a ball of nerves.
I was too shaken up to talk to her the night of the fundraiser last week, sending a quick text that I’d update her the next day. When I did call her, I was too embarrassed to let her know I’d gotten myself into a bad situation.
I should have been smarter. I shouldn’t have had that last cocktail. I should have made sure Abraam was waiting for me when we exited. I shouldn’t have let them lead me to a secluded area. I should have done a lot of things differently, and I didn’t want her to know how massively I’d screwed up, so I sugarcoated the truth.
She was unusually silent before she told me how disappointed she was, which meant she’d talked to the client. Who knows what lies he filled her mind with. For the past few days, I’ve had absolutely no idea where I stand with her. Am I going to be fired? Is that why she wanted to see me privately?
I think about my mother, her house, the care she needs, and the weighty financial crap hanging over my head. Although I’ve done nothing but waffle between quitting or staying all week, knowing I may not have the income from this job to help care for my only living relative makes me weak with worry. I could always give up my place with Sierra and move back home, saving a few bucks on rent, but I’ve been holding that as a last resort. As much as I love my mother, I need my independence. Besides, it’s hard to work when she’s around, and that’s just another river of guilt I wade through daily.
Graciella stops and knocks on a closed door. Randi’s husky voice tersely responds, “What is it?”
Well then…guess that answers that.
Fuck it, I think. Maybe this is my next sign. If she wants to fire me, she can fire me. I’ll just find another way to make ends meet. I have no idea what it will be, but I’ll figure it out. What I won’t do is beg.
Graciella enters and announces, “Your guest has arrived, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Graciella. Be sure we’re not disturbed, and close the door on your way out.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Graciella nods politely to me before silently leaving us alone.
Always dressed to the nines, today is no different. A stark white dress that hugs every one of Randi’s curves leaves little to the imagination. Not only is Randi a hard-nosed businesswoman, she is also beautiful and perfectly proportioned. Barely over the five-foot mark, the four-inch spikes she has on her feet raise her to my height.
“Have a seat, Willow.”
Oh shit. This is bad. Randi never calls me anything but my stage name. It causes less confusion that way and ensures no one slips up, accidentally using one of her employees’ real names in front of a client.
“I’m fired, aren’t I?” I ask after I slide into a plush crème chair.
Don’t beg, Willow. Do. Not. Beg.
Perfectly plucked brows pinch together. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you…because you used my real name.”
“Ah.” Randi crosses her lean legs, gets comfortable in her high-backed chair, and assesses me for so long I begin to sweat.
“Look, Randi—”
She waves her hand, cutting me off. “Are you still interested in a regular?”
“What?” I immediately think of Paul Graber and shudder. “Look, I’m not sure what Paul Graber told you, but—”
“Forget about him. I have.”
“But I thought you were disappointed?”
A brow lifts, pulling up one corner of her lip like the two are connected. “Let’s just say I’ve been enlightened.”
She knows. Of course she knows. “Okay.” I’m confused about how she found out. There’s no way it was from Graber himself, and Abraam didn’t see anything that I’m aware of. But I won’t press her further. She wouldn’t tell me anyway.
“So, are you? Interested?”
I’ve been contemplating resigning, and now it appears she plans to give me my cash cow, filleted and cooked to a perfect medium rare. But do I still want that?
“I suppose that depends,” I hedge.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “On?”
“What the requirements are.”
The room falls silent as she studies me. Finally, clasping her hands, she leans forward and places her elbows on her desk. Softening her voice, she turns motherly, which she frequently does with me. I’ve often wondered how old Randi is. I have a feeling she’s far older than her youthful face lets on. “He asked for you, specifically. Was adamant about it, in fact.”
“Me? Who? And how does he know me?”
She doesn’t answer my questions, instead saying, “This is a good opportunity for you, Willow, but it’s your decision, of course.”
Before the incident at the Four Seasons, I would have jumped at this. Wanted it desperately, even. But now I’m hesitant. Scared, if I’m truthful. I’ve often thought if I had a regular for a while, I could save enough to take a hiatus from this job, concentrating on my narration business, growing my clientele. Hell, if I was paid enough, maybe I’d never have to come back.
But a regular could turn out like Paul Graber, too. Wanting things that aren’t on the menu. Expecting them.
“Is it a previous client of mine?”
“No.”
“What if he turns out like Paul?”
“Then I’ll cut his balls off myself,” she retorts hotly. Yeah. She knows.
I roll the options around in my head. I know I don’t have to commit, so it won’t hurt to at least consider it. After a few deep breaths, I ask, “Do you have a dossier I can review?”
She smiles lightly. “I’ll do you one better.”
Punching a button on her office phone, she looks at me, eyes twinkling as Graciella’s voice floats through the speaker. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Show our other guest in now.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
Randi stands and makes her way toward a door opposite the one I entered. “I’ll give you two some privacy. You can show yourself out when you’re finished. Oh, and Willow…I hope you make the right decision. We both know this life is not for you.”
I’m confused. Is she telling me to run or stay?
Then she’s gone, and I’m left staring vacantly at the empty room. This is the first time in two years she’s alluded to the fact I don’t really belong here and while she’s right, that stings just a little. We’ve never discussed my circumstances. Why I’m here, why I need the money. Everyone has a story, I suppose. Young girls don’t grow up thinking they’ll sell themselves in any fashion to make a living.
But this whole thing is beyond bizarre. Meeting a client in private? At Randi’s personal home? Who the hell is this guy that he has that much clout? And why would he ask for me specifically if we haven’t met before? I begin to pace, wondering just what the fuck is going on and why I’m sticking around to find out.
I’m not left wondering for long. When the door opens and my mysterious suitor is revealed, I’m so stunned all I can breathe is…
“You?”
8
As long as Noah and I ha
ve known one another and as close as we are, he’s far from an open book. He holds some of life’s secrets so close to the vest, he’ll likely take them to his grave. So how he knows Ms. Randi Deveraux of La Dolce Vita is still a mystery he won’t divulge.
When he told me his plan and showed me the picture of the woman who’d play my love interest for the next several months, I was immediately drawn to her, but it took me a few seconds to realize why.
It was her.
My spicy little Goldilocks.
The one I haven’t heard from.
The one I haven’t been able to get out of my fucking head for the past eight days.
The one my cock involuntarily gets hard for in the dark of night.
The glossy-colored print I stared at for long minutes was a complete contradiction to the fiery woman I’d met.
On paper, her exterior was flawless. Not one sculpted eyebrow out of place. Striking blue eyes rimmed with the right amount of shadow, liner, and mascara that made them alluring but not slutty. Pouty lips painted a deep shade of maroon, lined impeccably so the stain didn’t seep, then glossed enough in the middle to draw your attention to their fullness. Hair curled into loose ribbons that fell over her shoulders and down her slim back.
But while the outside was practiced perfection, the inside screamed dead. Not damaged, not broken or bruised, but lifeless. This beautiful creature went through the motions. She moved through life without living. I don’t know how I saw it, or why, but I know it wasn’t a product of my overactive imagination. This woman’s pain was rooted deep, but she put on an award-winning façade that told the outside world otherwise.
I saw the same thing when I stared into her fierce eyes under the cover of my sunglasses days ago, but I also saw something else. Smoking embers buried under piles of ash. God help me, but for some reason I want to be the man who stokes those smoldering cinders until they spark into a burning inferno, bringing her roaring back to life.
Standing before her now, I’ve no doubt I’m the igniter, the single match needed to wake her from the living dead.
