by Jess Bentley
“Jordan,” I say, “watch it—” and she’s in my arms, and we’re facing each other, and looking into each other’s eyes. “Careful,” I whisper, and everything disappears. It’s just her, and me, and the light of the streetlamps, and the endless infinity of her eyes.
“Oops,” she says even more softly, and leans almost imperceptibly toward me when suddenly I hear a shout.
We pull apart. It’s someone yelling at Jordan. In French.
He’s calling her a slut, a piece of ass. He says go back to your room and touch yourself, you trashy bitch. She’s staring up at me now, her eyes alarmed and worried.
“What is he saying?” she asks. Maybe she truly is innocent.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, pulling her by the arm toward the car. “He just wants your money.”
Her face is doubtful; she’s not convinced.
“Are you sure? Because I thought—”
“I’m sure. Now come with me.” My driver pops out of his side and goes to open the door, and Jordan almost falls into the car. I try to help her, and then I hear the shouts again.
“You’re a lucky man aren’t you, a famous piece of ass like her?”
“Shut up and go home,” I tell the man. I’m bristling. I don’t want to get in a fight, but I won’t shy away if I have to.
“You fuck off, you go home,” he says angrily, and my driver places himself in between us. He’s trained in martial arts, so I know he’ll defuse any action against me, but it’s a mistake to rely on someone fully, no matter how trustworthy he or she might be. Justine taught me that for one.
“Move along,” says my driver in a firm voice, the kind used for training dogs.
“Only too happy to,” he says with a sardonic laugh. “I hope you enjoy your piece of ass. I know I have.”
I wonder if this is what it would be like to be with her. Is this the kind of thing she experiences all the time? Or is it new? She seems shaken up by it, but wouldn’t a person have known it could happen? Wouldn’t a person have hesitated for this exact reason rather than take such a risk?
I put myself in the car and see that she’s sprawled out across the seats. Poor girl, she’s drunk as anything.
Don’t touch her, R, says one of my voices. The other argues and wins. I lift up her head, and sit on the seat underneath it, cradling her head between my thighs.
She makes a sweet sound and nestles in, and I feel a twinge of guilt, but not enough to make me stop. Her mouth is mere inches away from my cock. Her soft mouth. Her soft mouth that almost kissed me. One of her arms slips around the small of my back, and she’s hugging me as if I were a teddy bear.
With fear? Trepidation? I let my hand softly alight on her hair, its softness inviting me to stroke it. A sound comes from her throat, a small moan of happiness, as I let my fingers take one of her curls and tuck it behind her ear.
“Mr. King,” she says softly.
“I thought you were going to call me—”
“R,” she interrupts.
“Jordan,” I say.
“Don’t stop,” she moans and snuggles deeper into my lap. Her mouth is getting closer to my cock, and if the shaft grows any more, like it’s threatening to, it’ll meet her lips.
But she’s also so defenseless, lying there in my lap. Like a child who needs to be taken care of. And that’s part of this that I can’t deny. Dustin would be pissed as hell if he knew I was feeling these things about his daughter—that I want to take her and do all manner of unspeakable things to her. But it’s more than that too…some kind of tenderness I feel toward her that I’ve never felt toward anyone else.
I want to protect her.
Or I want to be the only one who violates her.
“Jordan, Jordan, Jordan,” I say softly as I stroke her hair. I guess we’re going to my hotel apartment here in Paris because I have no idea where she’s supposed to be staying or if anyone’s looking for her. She nestles more deeply into my lap, and I shift my hips, trying not to let my thick, engorged cock touch her soft, undefended lips.
Chapter 5
Jordan
When I awaken in the unfamiliar room, I am alone. Sitting up in bed, I rub my eyes and glance around the gloriousness of this place. It is incredible—more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.
So this is Paris.
There’s no point in comparing it to my own hotel room, which I felt I splurged on. Here I could have whatever I desire delivered to me at a whim. In my hotel, I was scrounging for an apple in the morning. I bet if I called room service I could even order a seven-course meal. Even after last night, my stomach is growling. Still, my heart jumps a little at the idea. Could I manage to order anything? I wonder if they speak English in a place like this. They must, since it has to be the kind of hotel that’s full of international guests—but those guests are likely of such a high caliber they probably speak several languages each.
I each under the covers and realize I’m only wearing a bra and panties. Did R and I do anything last night? I’m embarrassed that I don’t remember everything clearly after we got in the limo. Did someone yell at me? I hope I didn’t let him know how much I want him. Was I a mess? Ugh.
My hand falls to the side, and lands on a piece of paper. It’s a note.
Dear Jordan. I had to step out for business. If you’re reading this before I get back, feel free to relax in the hotel. However if you do stay, I want you to buy something in the lobby downstairs… AND I want to see evidence of your bravery. Don’t spend any money—simply tell them to charge it to the room. I insist.
You’ll need a formal dress and shoes for dinner, so that would be a good start. (Do you remember you agreed to accompany me to my business function tonight?) Key on the dresser so that you can get back in.
~ R
So his name starts with R. Right. I remember practically growling it at him last night, and I blush. I’m racking my brain trying to figure out if my parents ever called him by his first name around me. What could it be? Ray, Rock, Roland? Richard?
Thinking about seeing him tonight makes my heart flutter. I know my parents would be happy that he’s taking care of me in Paris, but there definitely is an undercurrent of something else. Or maybe I’m fooling myself, and it’s only on my side. But why would he want to spend so much money on me?
As I lie there in his bed, images from the night before start flickering through my mind. I remember lying in his lap. God, how mortifying. Him undressing me and putting me to bed. Him telling me I needed to learn to be braver as he slipped my clothes off my body, and laid me down on the bed. Did he get in with me?
As I think about it, my mind veers from what actually happened to my fantasy. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of Mr. King this way, but it’s too difficult to resist. R slipping off my pants and laying me back on the bed, his hand accidentally-on-purpose brushing against the crotch of my panties, the softest touch against my clit. Me gasping and R looking up suddenly.
“Sorry,” he might say.
I’d grab his hand and put it back between my legs, and despite himself, he would stroke the silken fabric up and down, so gently, the whole while looking in my eyes until they fell closed and I began to moan. His fingers would slip under the fabric, feeling the soft skin of my delicate folds, getting wet with his touch. The only sound in the room would be our breathing, hitched and quickening, as he entered the wetness between my legs, slipping a finger inside me, moving toward my sex with his mouth. His lips would kiss my thighs, naked and quivering under his touch, and he’d pull the scrap of fabric aside and his tongue would touch the tip of my clit as I shuddered.
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. My 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 transformatio
n 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...?
