by Jess Bentley
My hands are working hard now as I lay there by myself. But just the thought of R touching me is making me nearly ready to explode.
What if he were to come in right now and see me touching myself? Would he watch? Would he be embarrassed and shut the door? Or would he shut the door quickly and approach me on the bed, looking at me, his cock getting bigger and harder until he couldn’t stand it anymore?
Would he take down his pants and reveal the massive member I suspect he hides? Would he rip my panties off and plunge inside me, into my wet need?
I can almost feel him here, his cock moving in and out of me, frantic with desire, his lips on me.
Would my parents disown me if they knew this? It’s my last thought before I explode into a shattering orgasm.
After a quick shower, I grab the key and make my way down the hall to the elevator. I can’t help but stop to admire the beauty of the hallway itself, though. Strange that it feels like the first time I’ve seen it, considering I must have been stumbling along the corridor the night before. Gold-framed mirrors give the illusion of expansiveness to the corridor and the Persian carpet is incredibly soft under my sandals. It’s strange to see so many reflections of myself—reflections in reflections in reflections. It feels right somehow. After Kelsey died, I was crushed, fragmented, a thousand different Jordans trying to find their place. And now that R has found me, he’s gathering me, leaving me with the pieces to put back together.
At the end of the hall from the penthouse where R is staying, is an old-fashioned cage elevator that brings the guest to the main elevator. It’s part of the security of the penthouse, as well as adding to the ambiance, I figure. Its creakiness combines with its transparent walls of old panes of glass to reveal the city of Paris in a mottled, romantic light. Much better than the Paris I can afford on my own accord with credit cards maxed—the Paris of drug addicts and homeless, dogs, graffiti, and fruit stands.
I transfer to the next elevator, which is slick and elegant in a completely different way. There’s a French woman in it, slight of frame, but dressed to the nines. She’s “of a certain age” as they used to say, but the way she’s put together, she’s incredibly attractive. She doesn’t meet my eyes at all, even though I’m practically gaping at her. This is the kind of taste I have to learn. Will I be able to find a proper dress in the shop to look half as good as this woman, who’s probably thirty years my senior?
But can I get anything? Will I be brave enough to go into the shop? It’s a huge step to go from buying coffee to shopping in a French boutique.
Stomach churning, I’m on the elevator, and that’s enough for now. I lean against the wall to take a deep breath. Unbidden, an image of him comes into my mind, his hips pressing into mine, his cock thrusting up into me, lifting me up. I gasp involuntarily, and I think the lovely French woman flickers a glance in my direction, but she stops herself from staring. Then the elevator sounds and its doors open to reveal a gorgeous, golden lobby filled with beautiful people.
Momentarily frozen, I almost let the doors shut again. It’s so fearsome to be in Paris on my own, especially in such an intimidating, chic place, but at the same time, it’s no less fearsome in the seedier streets of Marais, where my hotel is. Steeling myself, I take a deep breath and stride out, mentally invoking the image of R, and the feeling I feel when I look at myself in the mirror, seeing my beauty, the sexiness in my curves for what feels like the first time.
There’s a small group of boutiques in the lobby, and I slowly make my way toward them. I have never shopped on anyone else’s dime, but if we are going to dinner for his business partners, there’s no way I can do it in my sandals and cotton dress. If I’m not going to embarrass R completely I’ll have to be dressed properly, and I figure he wouldn’t offer if the money were any kind of issue.
Three boutiques in the hotel lobby sell dresses, each more beautiful than the last. They’re not even clothes, really—they’re more like creations—sculptures or paintings, things worn by vaguely humanoid beauties. I go into the first where the shopkeeper looks at me dubiously. She speaks to me in English. But how does she know I’m not French? I haven’t even said a word.
“Is zere somesing I can ‘elp you find?’ Her words—immediately addressing me in English—are tinged with a sense of disdain that is becoming familiar.
“Well yes, I’m looking for a dress,” I say hesitantly, desperately trying to hold on to the confidence that had that I need.
“Eez thees dress for you?” she says, mouth slightly twisted in a sneer.
“Yes, and I’ll be needing shoes as well.”
“Ah’m very sorry, but ah don’ theenk we ‘ave anything for you ‘ere, but you are welcome to look.”
Why not? I wonder, my last bits of confidence eroding. I have to get something. R won’t be happy with me if I don’t do the one thing he asked of me after everything he has done for me.
“Is there somewhere else you can recommend?” I ask, quietly. She turns her head quizzically to the side.
“Well, all the stores in this hotel, are how-you-say—tres cher. Very expensive.”
“Oh, that’s not an issue, I’m charging it to the room.”
“What room eez zat?” Ah. I’ve gotten her attention.
“The penthouse.”
“Oh.” Her face immediately brightens. “Perhaps I...how you say... misspoke. A dress, you say?”
“Yes, but if you don’t have anything that works for me, I can move along.”
She smiles. “C’est pas necessaire.” Casting an evaluating eye on my hips, my waist, and my chest, she walks to the corner and pulls out three gowns. “For what occasion eez theez dress?”
“For a dinner,” I say. “It’s a formal business event, but I don’t know where. I have to get something formal though.”
“Excellent. We will find you something flawless.” She holds the dresses against me, one after another, evaluating them with a quick and practiced eye. “Wrong color, too revealing. Ah yes. Here is zee one for you.”
It’s clearly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. For this to be for me is almost too good to be true. The dress is a soft champagne-colored lamé, beaded, with jaggedly-layered panels of black tulle, net and beads dripping from a tasteful neckline. It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life—not only a piece of clothing, but a work of art. It seemed like something a fairy would wear. The label reads Rodarte.
I try to calculate the exchange rate on the tag, but it seems insane. Could ten thousand Euro really be over ten thousand dollars? It can’t be. There must be some mistake. The woman hustles me into the sumptuous fitting room complete with shoes. Money talks, I figure.
The dress slips over my skin like a whisper or a caress. It’s simultaneously soft and heavy against my skin. Cool. The beads are practically dripping against my flesh. My nipples harden as the beads slip over them, reminding me of my fantasy of R.
When I see myself in the mirror I’m shocked. My hair, plain before, now is transformed into something artful—the strands curl around my face in a way that seems wildly beautiful, rather than frizzy. Such is the power of the dress. The champagne lamé makes my skin glow, while the beads reflect colors in my eyes I’ve never seen before. I slip into the strappy shoes, while the store clerk assesses me.
“Zee dress is lovely. She is perfection. But ze shoes are all wrong.” She pulls out some studded high heels. “What do you wear? A sirty-six?”
“Not sure.” I am not familiar with European sizing. And I’m starting to feel a little panicked. I look amazingly beautiful in this dress, but if it really is the price it seems to be, I was starting to wonder what I would owe for it. He suggested a dress, and he said to buy in the hotel, but did he mean something like this? Does he know how expensive these boutiques are? He must. He’s not stupid; he lives here part-time.
She puts the shoes on my feet, making me feel like Cinderella. They’re gorgeous, and my legs look as if they’re ten feet long. M
y ass is popping, and in the dress it looks divine.
“Zees is the one,” the clerk crows, triumphant. “Do you need a bag as well?” She holds up a small beaded purse that matches the dress perfectly. “I would be happy to throw zees in if you take ze outfit. Welcome to France.”
“Um. Okay? Thank you?”
I can’t stop staring at myself. The transformation is just so complete. It’s as if the dress, instead of making the rest of me look even more like the silly, nerdy person I was, made each element of what I naturally am look a million times better. I look right. How can I not get it? It’s too beautiful. But I’d be spending so much of someone’s money. More than you might spend on a small car. Still, he offered, and told me to get those things, and honestly, money doesn’t seem to be a problem.
“Wonderful. I will wrap zem up and have zem sent to your room. Ze penthouse you say.”
“That’s right! When will they arrive?”
“Momentarily. Eez your dinner tonight?”
“I... think so?”
“Perfect,” she says. She eyes me knowingly. “You are very lucky. You have done well. Enjoy your time een France.”
I want to skip out of the store. Confront this fear. I go somewhere in France on my own and buy something. I felt ridiculously grateful to R and the saleswoman for helping me as well.
Suddenly I turned back as an idea had struck me. Maybe I can find out his name without having to ask him or my parents.
“Do you have the records to the rooms? I just want to make sure you are charging it to the right place.”
“You said zee penthouse, yes?”
“But, what name is that under?” I’m prying, yes. But I have to know who R is. What is his name? Ryan? Rick?
“I’m sorree but ah cannot give out zat information.” She smiles smarmily. “Zees is why we don’t send ten-thousand Euro dresses and shoes off with a customer paid by room. No, it will be delivered to the penthouse, so zat it is signed for by the client. And of course, if you are charging to ze penthouse, you do know his name yourself, I am sure.”
She says this last part quite airily, but in such a way that it makes me wonder, and not in a good way. Even her smile is odd. She knows something I don’t. Does he send girls here all the time? Seduce them, buy them dresses, and parade them around the hotel...?
She leaves and goes into the back, and I hear her muffled voice talking to someone else. “Another one of ze King’s girls.’ Is that what she said, really?
A new fear grips my heart like an icy cold fist—was this confidence I thought I had gained based on nothing? Not that I harbor any illusions that he’s in love with me, but is this some merely kind of elaborate way to make him look good in front of his business partners? Or is it a real date? Who is he, anyway? Can I trust him? What is he thinking?
What am I thinking?
All the emotions that were crowded out of my mind suddenly roar up inside me. I walk out, angry, confused, unsure of what to do next. Should I confront him? Should I go on the date and talk to him? There’s no one here I can talk to, confide in. I’m alone. There’s nobody anywhere to tell my secrets to anymore. The tears for my best friend threaten to flow past the dam I had built inside myself.
Kelsey, dammit, this is so fucked! What should I do? Is everyone laughing at me? The stupid American?
Pull yourself together. So he’s dated more people than you. He’s an older man, of course he has a past.
Why are you so wrapped up with him anyway?
I hurry toward the elevator, cheeks burning, trying not to cry. Jumping into the sleek elevator, this time it’s me who is avoiding everyone’s eyes. I get a couple of curious looks when I press the top floor button for access to the penthouse, but I’m not interested in satisfying their stupid curiosity or justifying my existence.
Just don’t get too attached. Then you’ll be all right.
I may need to know what he’s thinking at some point, but it doesn’t need to be right now. It’s better if I just take the dress, go out on the date, and not let my stupid fantasies get the better of me. He sees me as a stupid kid. After all, he put me to bed last night. If he saw me as a romantic partner, things would be different.
6
Raleigh
When she appears in the doorway, I’m absolutely speechless. This little girl has grown up to be a stunning, sexy, curvaceous, hot, sexpot. I can’t even pretend to ignore it.
But I’m not the first one to realize that, not by a long shot—she knows how to use herself. Her secret life is proof of that. So why doesn’t she seem to even aware of it?
My PI has done some more digging and found out who the person is that is running the site. The name is Kelsey. It’s surprising, in a way, that a woman would be in charge of something like that. It’s the first thing I asked him to confirm, that this Kelsey is a woman—a man would be more likely. But he said not only is she a woman, but she’s dead. Could she be the dead best friend?
Jordan gets in the limo and settles into the seat, crossing her legs at the knee and showing off some fine shoes. The whole ensemble probably cost me fifteen grand and honestly, it’s worth every penny.
“If only my friend Kelsey could see me like this,” she smiles, smoothing down the beaded fabric over her thighs. Kelsey.
Let it ride up, I think.
“You look great,” I say. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she smiles shyly and turns away. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’ve never had something so extravagant, I almost feel guilty.”
“Don’t be silly,” I reply. “You look absolutely stunning. You’re just the kind of woman I need on my arm at this function. The other execs are going to be jealous as hell seeing you in that dress.”
“So is that all I am to you?” She grins as she says it, but I can see that naked vulnerability in her eyes. “A prop for your business partners?”
“That’s a lot of what the dress and shoes are,” I answer. “But you, you’re something different.”
She doesn’t ask what. There’s a silence in the car that feels oppressive. It’s filled with unanswered questions.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask, hoping to break it. I lean toward the bar. “Champagne?”
“Really?” she squeals. Sometimes I forget just how young she is. Not often, though.
Not often.
“Of course,” I say. “This is France. It practically flows out of the taps here.”
“But isn’t that an especially good one?” she asks.
I hold up the bottle of Dom Perignon. “Life’s too short to drink bad champagne,” I answer, and she smiles.
“I suppose so.”
“You mentioned Kelsey,” I say, trying to keep my voice even so as to not set her off. “Who’s that?”
“Kelsey?” That familiar shadow passes across her eyes. “She was my best friend. We were always supposed to travel together. But now it’s just me.”
“Was your best friend?” I don’t want to let on that I know anything about her, least of all that she’s passed.
“Yeah,” she says. “She passed away recently. Do you remember when you saw me at my parents’ place and I had just come home from a funeral? It was hers.”
I put my hand on Jordan’s, and she flinches a little before turning her palm up toward mine. I trace the lines on her palm. Like a submissive animal showing its belly. It brings out the wolf in me. I’m aware that I’m moving into dangerous territory. I don’t know who Jordan is. I think I’m the predator, but what if I’m actually the prey in this game? What does she know?
“Best friends, huh?” I ask. “That must be very hard for you. Does that have something to do with why you came to France? I remember you brought it up then”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “I wanted to take the trip we had meant to go on. It’s in honor of her.” She smiles sadly. “I would never have had the money if she hadn’t left me some.”
But she must be raking it in. Is she lying? What’s going
on?
“And now you have it.”
“She left me some in her will, and I figured this is the best way to spend it. Kelsey would have gone on this trip if she could have.”
I’m a little ashamed. Who am I to ask her all these questions? But I have to know. “Don’t let me pry, Jordan… I don’t want to make you discuss anything you’re not comfortable with.” Oh yes I do. I need to know everything, and now.
“Oh, that’s okay.” She looks at me from under a fringe of lashes. From anyone else the gesture might seem practiced, deliberate, fake. But from Jordan, it’s as charming and innocent as could be. That must be the quality Kelsey set out to exploit, if exploit her she did. I’ll have to see if Jordan or someone else takes over the site now that Kelsey is no longer able to maintain it.
Jordan takes a sip of champagne, and wrinkles her nose. “That tickles,” she says.
“Yes,” I laugh, “but isn’t that a good thing?”
“Oh, definitely, it couldn’t be better,” she giggles. I almost can’t control my reaction. She’s so cute. I want to pin her down against the seat and feel how wet she is.
“So where we going tonight?” she asks. “Is it someplace really fancy? It would have to be, with this dress.” She looks down at herself.
“Do you like it?” I ask. Suddenly it matters. “I mean, are you happy with it?”
