The distant click of my apartment door signals Araminta’s return for the evening. I click my pen and shut my journal after having spent the better part of the last hour chronicling last night’s evening with my mystery John.
Everything I do, every detail, every rendezvous, is logged in my books. I consider them an insurance policy in case any of my clients were to ever do anything extreme, and if something morbid were ever to happen to me, I imagine the police would search my place, find my journals, and narrow down their suspects based on the information they might find.
I’m not naïve enough to think that the very same men who adorn me in diamonds and lingerie wouldn’t put a hit on me if it meant keeping their names clean. It’s happened to women like me before, and it’ll happen again.
None of them want to be caught screwing women who look young enough to be their daughters or, in the regrettable case of Senator Bancroft, women who aren’t their wives.
In a locked suitcase under my bed rest dozens of filled journals, some of which date back to the beginning. If anyone knew these existed, I’d be a walking dead woman. Not even Araminta knows about them. It’s safer that way–for both of us.
I shove my most recent journal between my mattress and box spring and head out to the living room where Araminta steps out of the sexiest pair of patent leather Louboutins I’ve ever seen.
“Those are new.” I smirk, arms folded.
“You like?” She hands one to me for careful inspection, and I run a finger down the spiked metal heel. It’s heart-stoppingly lavish and carelessly extravagant. “They were a gift.”
“Clearly.”
Her blonde waves bounce as she carefully peels away her cashmere jacket in the most appropriate shade of autumnal plum and hangs it in our coat closet.
“I’m dying to hear about your night,” she says with a mischievous glint in her baby blue eyes. “But let me change first. I’m dying to get this thing off.”
She unzips the back of her sheath dress and exhales, hurrying to her room, and I take a moment to appreciate her bombshell beauty as one woman to another. Her hourglass curves are equal parts genetic lottery and hundreds of hours spent in waist trainers. I couldn’t look like Araminta no matter how hard I tried.
I find a spot on our linen sofa and grab a Vogue to pass the time. Flipping to a spread in the middle, an up-and-coming actress models a gold Tom Ford dress covered in Swarovski crystals: the very same one hanging in my closet right now. Growing up in Oakdale, Tennessee, I never dreamt that one day I’d be wearing these lovelies. I can only hope that someday I’ll be gracing these pages as well, forever immortalized.
Returning in head to toe designer gym clothes, Araminta saunters my way and sinks into the club chair in front of our fireplace.
“Okay,” Araminta says. “So how was it?”
Butterflies ignite in my belly as sensory memories of last night’s romp return. My mouth curls. For a second, I can’t find my words, and I need a moment.
“Whoa.” She leans forward, her ovular face scrunched. “We’re smiling. Why are we smiling?”
Her piqued interest is fully warranted. None of my other clients have sent me home wearing a satisfied smile that lasts well into the next day.
I lift a shoulder, burying my grin behind it as best I can. “I don’t know, Minty. It was just . . . different.”
“What’d he look like?”
I shake my head. “I never saw his face.”
“What?”
“He made me put on a blindfold the second I stepped in.”
Her brows meet. “That’s really weird. I mean, I knew it was going to be super-secret, and my contact mentioned the room being dark, but that’s just taking it to a whole level beyond.”
My heart flutters, remembering the way it felt to see nothing while the rest of my senses were heightened.
“Weren’t you scared?” she asks.
“It didn’t feel scary after a while,” I say. “I didn’t have that twisted feeling I get sometimes, you know?”
The two of us have learned over the years to pay attention to our intuition. That inner voice we hear when something doesn’t feel right is seldom ever wrong, and it has saved us both on separate occasions.
“Still.” Her head tilts, and she hasn’t taken her round baby blues off me for two seconds. “I can’t imagine having sex with a complete stranger and not knowing what he looked like.”
“I knew what he sounded like,” I say. “And what he felt like. I think he’s younger. He sounded handsome.”
“Psh,” she huffs. “I can make myself sound like an old lady. Doesn’t mean anything. People can change their voices.”
“He had a nice body,” I add. “He was in shape. His hands were soft. He smelled good.”
I’m listing off all the reasons I’m convinced the man who fucked me under the shield of blackness was some kind of Adonis.
“Oh, my God.” Her face falls. “What if it was really Trey?”
My heart drops.
And then she laughs.
“Don’t do that to me, Minty. God, you almost made me have a heart attack.” I grab a throw pillow and chuck it at her. “I trust you, and I know you trust your contact. For one million dollars and three months of my time, I’ll screw pretty much anyone.”
Except Trey. Naturally.
She rises, trekking to the kitchen on her tiptoes, a subtle homage to the decade of ballet lessons under her belt at her mother’s insistence.
“That’s why you’re my best friend and partner in crime,” she says, grabbing a bottle of artisanal water from the refrigerator.
“Literally.”
“You’re the only girl I know who’s not afraid of the hustle.” She takes a sip and glances out the picture window on the far wall, toward the cityscape beyond. “We’re special, Camille. You know that, right? No one else can do what we do as good as we do it.”
Araminta rests her elbows against the kitchen island. She looks tired, and I’m sure it’s because her current client has the sex drive of an insatiable sheikh. Part of me can’t help but wonder how much longer this can last for her. How much more of herself can she give away before it’s all gone?
Me? I have dreams that go well beyond the short-term accumulation of wealth and fancy clothes. This is nothing but a stepping-stone for me. Minty, on the other hand, lives and breathes for this life, living it one glamorous day at a time.
“Are you really leaving in three months?” Her gaze is fixed outside. “I just don’t understand how anyone could walk away from all this and dive headfirst into that. You know you have greater odds of winning the lottery than becoming some famous movie star?”
“We’re not going to be young and beautiful forever,” I say. “And the way I see it, we have two choices. We can stick around here, spending our nights with older men and living as human sex toys until we’re inevitably replaced by a younger, hotter generation of girls just like us . . . or we can get the hell off this crazy little rollercoaster and pursue our passions while the world is still kind to us.”
“A million dollars won’t go far out there,” she says. “You know that, right?”
“Maybe. But it’s enough to get me started.”
“Hollywood is just as corrupt as DC.” She takes another sip of her water before smiling. “But I guess at least the men are better looking.”
Araminta doesn’t want me to leave. It’s been the two of us since the day we hatched out our five-year plan on the floor of our dorm room as we took shots of cheap vodka and listened to cheesy pop music designed to make young women like us feel invincible. I’d just returned from a life-changing drama class, and feeling dangerously inspired, I proposed my master plan.
We’ve come a long ways since then. And I’d like to believe that if two young women, who knew nothing about anything, could design a life like this out of thin air, my ambitions of making a name for myself aren’t that out of touch with reality.
Plus I’m too damn stubborn to ever giv
e up on my aspirations. I dare someone to try and stop me.
Mark my words: I’m going to be unforgettable someday.
FOUR
“John”
The lock on the hotel room door beeps as I wait in the dark for Camille, and I watch from the shadows as she immediately grabs a blindfold from the console table and slips it over her face.
My heart races the way it did the first time I ever saw her.
“Good evening.” I rise, stepping toward her as soon as her vision is obscured.
“Hello, John.” Her pink lips spread wide, revealing a dazzling, perfect smile that lights up the dark. “And how are we doing on this lovely Saturday evening?”
“Better now that you’re here.” I keep my voice low and steady, as generic as possible.
It takes every ounce of strength I have to contain myself, to enjoy this and not spoil it like an impatient child on Christmas morning, ripping into their gifts in five minutes flat.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to wear.” She spins slowly, showing off the curve-hugging dress she wore tonight. It hangs off her shoulders, showing off her delicate décolletage. “What do you think?”
“It’s better suited for a night on the town rather than an evening in a dark hotel room, don’t you think?” My hands circle her waist, and I pull her into me, letting her sweet perfume intoxicate my senses. Lifting my hand to the spot beneath her chin, I guide her mouth toward mine. Our lips graze, and I revel in their softness before crushing them.
“Mm.” She moans into my mouth when our tongues meet.
My fingers find her zipper in the dark, and I waste little time getting her out of that dress and onto the bed.
I saw her in Georgetown last January, walking along a snowy sidewalk all alone. It was two weeks after the masquerade ball, and she was leaving the W Hotel where congressmen are notorious for hosting their trysts.
Her face was fresh and clean, her dark hair draping down her shoulders from beneath a knitted beret. Jeans hugged her shapely legs, and she strutted along the sidewalk in heeled boots as if it were her own personal runway.
The moment ended as soon as it had begun, and my driver gunned the Town Car the moment the stoplight turned green.
But the thing I noticed most about that moment was that Camille wasn’t smiling.
That split second encounter reinforced my decision to take her away from Senator Bancroft and make her mine. A man who doesn’t make a woman like her smile doesn’t deserve her.
She lies back on the bed, her perfect teardrop breasts on full display as she struggles not to smile.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“I just wish I could see your face right now.” She finger combs a section of dark hair down her bare shoulder. “I feel kind of silly like this, is all.”
I dip my hand into my pocket and grab a condom, tossing it on the bedspread before unzipping my pants.
“Will I ever get to see your face?” she asks.
“No.” I don’t hesitate.
Her bottom lip pouts, and she runs a dainty fingertip down the top of a smooth thigh. “Well that’s a shame. Can you at least tell me what color your hair is? Or your eyes? Do you have dimples?”
“Although this adorable little act of yours makes it extremely tempting to answer your questions,” I say, “it’s in your best interest to know nothing about who I am or what I look like.”
Her knees lock together, as if that statement scares her.
“I’m not trying to worry you,” I say. “Quite the contrary. The less you know about me, the better you’ll be able to enjoy this for what it is.”
She’s quiet. And then she sits up, reaching for me and grabbing my tie instead. Taking a handful of the delicate fabric, she pulls me over top of her.
“Will you at least tell me one thing?” Her breathy words send a pulse to my already throbbing cock. “I’m dying to know.”
It’s hard to say no to her, especially when I’m hard as a fucking rock and her tongue skims along her flirty pout.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Do you have dimples?”
She giggles, but it’s not the annoying titter of a childish girl. It’s the sweet, endearing chuckle of a playfully sexy woman.
My mouth dips to the pointed tips of her breasts, taking one budded nipple between my teeth and circling it with my tongue. She sighs, anchoring her thighs outside my hips. Grabbing the condom, I rip the packet and sheath myself.
“Dimples, John.” She bites away a teasing grin, her body squirming beneath me as she waits. “Do you have them?”
God, I love her voice. Breathless. Effervescent. Sexy.
I trail my fingers along the length of her arm until I find her hand and lift it to my face. In the dark of the hotel room, I smile, pressing her fingertips into the deep indentation that centers my left cheek.
Camille sucks in a surprised breath and traces her finger along my cheek as she smiles. Her other hand finds my face and her fingertips study the bends, curves and ridges she’ll never see.
“Strong jaw,” she whispers. “Perfect nose. Nice lips.”
Her hands fall to her chest and then she fans herself.
“My heart is beating so hard right now.” She takes my hand and places my palm across the left side of her chest. Sure enough, it’s thrumming away.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re beautiful,” she says. “That’s all. It’s exciting.”
“How can you know that when you haven’t seen me?”
“I don’t have to see you, John. I feel you.” She bites her lip, though I can’t help but wonder if this is all a part of what she does. Makes her client feel like the King of the World, like she’s completely smitten.
“Don’t lie to me, Ca—” I stop before I say her name. My fingers travel between her thighs, slipping between her folds and circling her clit. “You know how I feel about flattery.”
I decide I don’t want to know if she’s lying or not. It doesn’t matter.
All we’ll ever have will be right here, in this hotel room.
Our own little dark paradise.
“Enough talk.” I smash her lips with a game-changing kiss before gripping the base of my cock and plunging myself inside her. She sighs into my mouth as I fill her, a pulse-raising sound I never want to forget as long as I live, and her arms snake around my sides as I find my rhythm.
Her wetness is abundant, and her hips circle and meet mine thrust-for-thrust. In this moment, I’m lost in a sea of exhilaration, disconnected from reality and happily so. I glance down at her beautiful face, masked by a satin blindfold.
For a brief moment, I consider tugging it off just so I can stare into those gorgeous doe eyes and see that fuck-me gaze of hers all over again. But I can’t, no matter how much I want to.
Instead, I pull out and flip her over, propping her perfect, cherry ass in the air and spreading her knees apart. Her pussy clenches and quivers when I reenter, and then it draws me in. Heat rushes to my cock, bringing with it an aching throb.
Her hands grip the bedspread, her cheek pressed into a cool, white pillow. My hands straddle her hips, pulling her against me with each plunge. Reaching around, I tease her clit with my fingers, matching each merge and lock.
Time stands still. Or, rather, it doesn’t exist.
I fill her tight pussy over and over, fighting off the urge to empty myself because I’m not ready for it to end yet.
Jagged breaths and faint sighs fall from her pretty mouth. “I’m getting close, John.”
I pump harder, faster. My fingers against her clit coax her to a climax, and I study the way her lips purse and relax as she rides the high. The moment she’s done, I piston inside her until I give her everything I have.
Drained and spent, I cradle her full breasts in my palms and collapse on top of her before rolling over. I’m drowning in the scent of us, and already I long for another touch.
My hand slips between her thighs, r
unning the length of her silken seam, and she quivers when I stroke her sensitive clit.
Camille’s hand rests on mine. “My God.”
She rolls to her side to face me, and I pull her into the crook of my arm. I watch her chest rise and fall as we bask in a silent euphoria.
“I want to tell you something,” she says, hesitating. “But I don’t want you to think I’m just trying to flatter you.”
“Fine.”
“You’re the only man who’s ever given me an orgasm during sex,” she says, lifting her fingers to the corner of her mouth. “I . . . I didn’t think it was physically possible for me. Turns out I just needed a man who knew what he was doing.”
“It helps when you’re turned on,” I say.
“That’s true. And the dimples helped, so thank you for that. Dimples are my ultimate weakness,” she says with a contented sigh that makes me want to believe every word that comes out of that lush mouth of hers. “I appreciate the foreplay. Most men don’t have that kind of patience.”
Her nails carve a light path down the center of my abs that sends goosebumps across my flesh.
“Self-control,” I say. “Not patience.”
“Do you have to control yourself around me?”
I pause. “Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re more than welcome to go for the gold,” she says. “It’s what you’re paying me for. I’m yours. In this room, you own me.”
Her hand takes mine, bringing it to the dampness between her thighs. Camille’s belly tenses and caves in as she presses my fingers against her velvet warmth.
“Anything you want me to do,” she whispers. “All you have to do is ask.”
“The only thing I need from you, Camille, is for you to be one hundred percent honest with me at all times.”
She gasps, drawing away from me and reaching for her blindfold. I take her hand, preventing her from an untimely unmasking.
“How do you know my name?” Her soft, pliable body grows rigid. “Have you known it all along? Before you met me?”
“You have to understand,” I say. “Things, for me, are different. I can’t sleep with just anyone. And the number of people I can trust, I can count on one hand. I have to be selective.”
DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense Page 3
