Dark Paradise
WINTER RENSHAW
COPYRIGHT 2015 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio, LM Creations
EDITING: V. Clifton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
BOOKS BY WINTER RENSHAW
Never Kiss a Stranger (Never Series #1)
Never Is a Promise (Never Series #2)
Never Say Never (Never Series #3)
Arrogant Bastard (Arrogant Series #1)
Arrogant Master (Arrogant Series #2)
Arrogant Playboy (Arrogant Series #3)
DESCRIPTION
There’s a name for girls like me: Sugar Baby. I’m used to being passed around the sexually depraved, middle-aged senators of Washington D.C. like candy, but when I meet him - the mysterious man who buys my exclusivity for three months for price that should frighten me more than his demands - everything changes.
He's younger than the others. His touch is softer. His lips sweeter. His need fiercer. He has only one requirement...
A blindfold to protect his identity...and to protect me from the danger I'd face if our affair leaked to the world.
No phones. No light. No real names. He says I'm his dark paradise, and we have to keep it that way. He promises I'll thank him someday.
But what is he really hiding? And what happens if I find out?
DEDICATION
This one’s for my readers! I promised you this book earlier in the year, and then it kept getting pushed back due to other projects. For that, I’m sincerely sorry, but here it is!
You’re patient little lambs, and I heart you all. xoxo
PROLOGUE
Camille
{Present Day}
Today’s the day I sell my soul.
“I believe I speak for an entire nation, Ms. Buchanan, when I say we’re on pins and needles as we wait for the release of your memoir. What made you decide to write this tell-all?” The woman interviewing me cocks her head and offers a look that makes me want to open up to her, but the concern in her eyes is for the viewers at home.
And she should be concerned. This book is going to change everything for a lot of people.
I never wanted to write it.
But what choice did I have?
“Well, Denise, I believe it’s important to know what goes on in our nation’s capital when no one’s looking.” I keep a light cadence in my words just like I practiced all afternoon. My PR team says to keep my interviews spry to counteract the bomb I’m about to drop. It’s not every day that the carefully crafted images of an American blue-blooded family are shattered.
This is my big moment. I’m experiencing a historical moment in real-time. Clips of this interview will play out on countless documentaries someday, and my name will forever be linked to his. For better or for worse, I’ll be unforgettable.
Just like I always wanted.
“I’ve had the privilege of reading a few excerpts from your book, and I must say to the viewers at home, there are some extremely heavy allegations.” She repositions herself before resting her chin across the top of her hand. We’re just a couple of girls having a conversation. Denise Stone makes it easy to forget we’re being filmed for a nationally televised special, but I suppose that’s why she’s paid the big bucks. “What would you say to the naysayers who might accuse you of looking for a big payday?”
“We’re fortunate enough to live in a free country.” I deliver my lines like I rehearsed and ignore the fact that I’m melting under these hot lights. “No one has to read anything or believe anything they don’t want to. The only thing I’d like everyone to know is that my book, my memoir, is one hundred percent factual. Every word of it is true.”
ONE
Camille
{One year ago}
I look like Jackie. I make love like Marilyn. It’s a dangerous combination in a city of power-hungry, sex-starved politicians.
“Don’t take another step.” His voice is low and void of inflection. The heavy hotel suite door slams behind me. My crystal-encrusted heels anchor into the dense carpet, my body paralyzed by the assertion in his command. The room is pitch black save for the sliver of streetlight breaking through the heavy drapes. In the corner stands a man, or rather, the outline of a man. I can’t see his face. “There’s a blindfold on the table to your left. Put it on.”
“Why? Are you some kind of monster?” I intend to sound lighthearted, but the second my voice breaks I show my cards. My stomach flips as I take the blindfold from the table and place it over my eyes. Satin. Maybe silk. Blackest black. “Where do you want me?”
The air conditioning kicks on, bringing a quick chill to my mostly bare skin. The left strap of the little black number I’m wearing falls down my shoulder.
“Leave it,” he says. “It’ll be off soon enough.”
His voice is closer than it was before. Licking my lips, I force a smile and ignore the warning sirens going off in my head. Three deep breaths and I’m saturated in his old-money scent: vetiver and leather with a hint of cigar smoke.
The John’s arm grips the crook of my elbow as he leads me over to the bed.
“Bronwyn,” he says. “Couldn’t think of a better hooker name?”
“I am not a hooker.” I huff. There’s a difference between what I do and what they do. “And it’s my middle name.”
“Is it safe for you to be giving out your real name to strange men?”
“If it makes you feel better, you can call me any name you want.” The corner of my lip curls into a teasing half-smirk, though I doubt he sees it in the dark. My first name is Camille, but he doesn’t need to know that. “My name isn’t all that important, and I’d hardly call you a strange man. I’m selective with my clients. I chose you.”
Or, rather, I allowed him to choose me. Same difference.
My best friend and roommate, Araminta, set this up, and she’s the only person on this godforsaken planet I trust.
Which is why I’m here . . .
at the Melrose Hotel in Georgetown . . .
minutes from having blindfolded sex with a complete stranger . . .
while simultaneously second-guessing my decision to come here tonight and reminding myself of all those zeroes.
“Names are everything.” His breath warms the back of my neck, his fingertips trailing down my spine until they reach my zipper. The John’s voice is younger than I anticipated. He doesn’t sound like a balding, pot-bellied senator or a silver-haired, meaty-knuckled chairperson.
“Is that why you won’t tell me yours?” I smile, finding this entire situation amusing the second I strip away my fear.
“Yes.” He sighs. “All of this should’ve been explained to you. Was it not?”
“I was told you were high profile.”
Araminta couldn’t tell me his name as she didn’t know it, but for seven figures, I’d sleep with almost anyone. And that’s what
this mystery man offered. One million dollars for twelve short weeks, a miniscule blip on the timeline of my life.
Deep inside, beyond my shiny chestnut hair, deep-set gaze, and bee-stung pout, is a girl dreaming of getting out of here. Moving west. Making a name for herself.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted in my entire life is to be unforgettable.
If you take away the elegant wardrobe, the fancy dinners, the upscale apartment, and the ridiculously expensive hotel rendezvous, I’m nothing more than a hustler with a dream. An actress inflicted with merciless ambition. A highly skilled professional.
“And I was told you were the best at keeping secrets,” he says. A quick pull on my zipper loosens my dress before he tugs it farther, letting it fall to a soft heap at my feet.
“I cannot confirm nor deny that.” Attempting to flirt while blindfolded feels silly. “So whose name will I be calling out tonight?”
“John. Call me John.”
“Original.”
“You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“My mouth does a lot of things, John.” I’m testing him, feeling out his sense of humor, which will give me an idea of what he likes. Fun and feisty? Quick and dirty? Playful? Demure? I find that the vast majority of the time, they fall into one of two categories: the ones who want Jackie and the ones who want Marilyn. The sooner I uncover his preference, the better. Until then, I’m playing a sensual game of chess.
Blindfolded.
His hand grips my chin from behind. The soft pad of his thumb traces my lower lip, and like the trained circus monkey Araminta has shaped me into over the years, I snap into performance mode.
My hand lifts to his arm. He’s in a suit, and the tight weave of the fabric beneath my palm tells me it isn’t cheap. I trail along his forearm until I feel cool metal. Cufflinks. Square. Probably platinum or gold. As soon as my hand finds his, I guide his fingertips between my lips and into my mouth, sucking softly. My tongue flicks and rolls over his soap-scented skin. He has the hands of a man with a desk job. Smooth. Unworked. I imagine he shakes hands a lot. Meets lots of new people.
That or he’s a man with a meticulous eye for details, not unlike myself.
Details are everything.
They tell me everything I’d ever need to know about a man. The way he combs his hair tells me if he’s right or left handed. The color of his tie tells me his mood that day. Red or blue? He’s in work mode. Black? He’s feeling guarded. Plaid or checks? He’s too busy to care what his tie looks like. Brightly-colored gingham? He buys whatever looks good on the mannequins at the suit stores.
It’s the same with cologne. If it doesn’t smell good on him, it was a gift and he wears it because he doesn’t have time to shop for himself. If it smells cheap, he picked it up at the corner drugstore chain the second he realized his wife forgot to pack it for him in his carry-on. If it’s exotic, expensive, or nothing I’ve ever smelled before, I know he’s well-traveled, a man with very particular tastes. Ordinary would never be good enough for him.
John’s cologne is an exotic blend of agreeable notes coming together in perfect harmony. They paint a picture of a man whose face I so desperately wish I could see.
He moans, pulling his finger from my mouth and slipping his hands around my waist. His lips press into the skin just above my left shoulder blade, springing my body awake from the tips of my toes to the top of my crown. Most men go straight for the goods: tits, ass, or the Holy Grail between my thighs.
This one’s different.
But I already knew that.
His fingers dig into the front of my hips, pulling my body against his. The hint of hardness through his pants hits my lower back. Firm hands snake up my belly as he stipples fiery kisses down the center of my spine.
My nipples wake and a gush of delightful heat floods my core.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
I know.
And it’s not because I’m conceited.
They say Michelangelo saw David in a slab of marble and carved away until he set him free. What I did is no different. My baby smooth skin. My toned body. The strategic dabs of Chanel perfume on my pulse points. The full face of tasteful Chantecaille makeup. The breast implants. The subtle rhinoplasty to remove the bump. I’ve created a work of art, something a man can cherish and appreciate on a superficial level because a man soliciting my services doesn’t care what’s on the inside.
My heart could be the blackest black and none of it would matter.
Men are simple creatures, and I’m not ashamed to use that to my advantage. Show me a man who claims to be complicated, and I’ll make a liar out of him in ten seconds flat. I both love them and hate them for that reason, but they can’t help themselves any more than the sky can help being blue.
“Thank you,” I whisper, as if I’m ashamed of my beauty. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I appreciate the hard work it took to create my outward appearance. I plucked, peeled, and scrubbed myself raw to get here. I went to bed hungry more times than I can count. I walked into the most intimidating of clothing boutiques with my head held high and ignored their snobby glares. I walked through fire to become the woman I am today. But there’s nothing sexy about a vain woman. We’re supposed to be equal parts humble and confident, and there’s a fine line between the two.
John’s touch isn’t rushed like most of the men I’ve accompanied. His fingers slip down my sides, tugging my lace thong down the curve of my ass. A finger enters me from behind, gliding in with the aid of my wetness. A second finger follows a moment later. In and out, gentle and slow. He’s not a sex-starved man, or if he is, he does a good job of masking it.
Most of the men who request my company are sexually depraved, middle-aged politicians who buy my exclusivity until the excitement wears off and we go our separate ways.
Judging by his carefully crafted maneuvers, I’m confident John is a connoisseur of the female body, not an easy feat even for the most experienced of gentlemen.
I spent five months screwing an older man a couple of years ago. Not one orgasm for me. The man was thrice divorced, and his pillow talk consisted mostly of boastful stories of all the exotic women he’d bedded during his decades-long career in foreign policy.
But the man couldn’t find a clitoris to save his life.
Dry fucking isn’t my thing, so I let him down gently. I raised my rates exponentially until he couldn’t afford me and had no other choice but to pass me on to someone who could. And that’s how I met my last client, Trey Bancroft, a forty-year-old senator from South Carolina with a disarming smile, green eyes that sparkled like polished emeralds, and presidential aspirations.
In my business, referrals are everything, and getting ahead in life is always about whom you know. In this little world, my connections are strong, rivaled only by Araminta’s. Plus, my services more than speak for themselves, and what middle-aged man doesn’t want a twenty-four-year-old honey on his arm with teardrop DDs, bee-stung lips, and a body made for sin?
Every politician in this city wants his own personal Marilyn Monroe, and that’s where we come in. But not everyone can afford a six-figure guilty pleasure habit.
I don’t think of myself as a prostitute, and I never have. As far as I’m concerned, I am a sexual concierge for the well to do and influential. I’ve screwed men who’ve saved lives. I’ve screwed men who’ve voted for wars. I’ve screwed men with more power in their pointer fingers than kings in small European countries.
“How’d you hear about me?” I ask as every nerve ending in my body sparks with life. Araminta said he was a friend of her current client.
“Not at liberty to say.” His finger leaves my wetness, and the fragrance of my arousal mixing with my gardenia perfume saturates the air around us. Emptiness passes through me for a second, but I take comfort in knowing that minutes from now, I’ll be filled with something to replace that void.
“That’s too bad.” I sigh. “I wanted to thank him for sending such a
skilled man my way. I don’t always get to spend my time with men who know their way around the female body.”
“The flattery is unnecessary.” He unhooks my bra before taking a handful of my breasts, caressing them as he breathes me in. A moment later, his palms graze across my hardened tips before he spins me to face him.
I’m blanketed in his warmth and weighted by his presence. His cinnamon breath grazes my forehead as I stand, waiting for his command. I’m guessing he’s at least six inches taller than me, which puts him over six feet.
I reach for his lapels, trailing my fingers up and down his buttons to get a sense of his physique. His chest and abs are smooth and flat, and through the thin fabric of his dress shirt, I make out the chiseled grooves of toned muscles.
Soft hands. Ripped body. Sexy voice. Seven figure payday. I’ve hit a jackpot I never knew existed in the city of old money and new influence.
“Are you smiling?” His question disrupts our moment, and sexual tension is left suspended in midair.
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
My cheeks warm, and I tuck my chin. It’s easy to forget that although I can’t see him, he sees every inch of me.
I’m normally quick on my feet, but his question catches me off guard. My answer can’t be the truth; it has to be laced with the kinds of things he wants to hear. If I could see his face right now, I’d be able to know what that might be.
“I’d tell you, but you’re clearly not a fan of flattery.” I pride myself on my save and bury the truth.
Because we’ve barely begun, and already my body’s reacting in ways it hasn’t in years.
A man had been standing outside his door earlier, dressed in a black suit as if he were with the Secret Service. “John” is much too young sounding to be President Montgomery or the husband of Vice President Darlington or even our Secretary of State, but whoever he is, he’s important.
DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense Page 1
