Call Me Saffron (Greenpoint Pleasures)

by Talia Quinn

  Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Is this a joke to you?”

  I walked over to him, a trifle unsteady on my stiletto boots but making it part of my sway, and pressed my hand against those damp curls on his chest. “Hardly a joke.” I could feel his heart thump under my palm, nearly as fast as my own. “So? Do you want me to stay? Or do I refund your money?”

  He was startled into a laugh. “Blunt. I like that.”

  “Good, because that’s what you get. I’m all yours for tonight. Make use of me.” I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, but he seemed to like them.

  “You’re not what I expected.” His gaze traveled over my body. I felt it like a caress.

  I took another step, so close now, and ran my hand through his damp hair, enjoying the way it sprang against my fingers, a live thing. Enjoying the fact that I could do this. Hell, I could probably pull his sweats down right now and give him a blowjob, and he’d think it was part of the usual deal.

  Except that probably wasn’t how it was done. The client should lead, right? “What do you want to do first?”

  He frowned. Was he having second thoughts? Was he going to kick me out? After all that buildup, disappointment felt sharp in my throat.

  But no. “This, I think.” He ran a finger gently across my clavicle. My skin prickled.

  His gaze followed his finger, his eyes hooded, his gaze remote.

  He slipped one hand under the top edge of the corset and caressed my nipple with a rough thumb. “And this.” The touch, skin to skin, so intimate and personal, made my body wake up with a jolt. Breath hissed through my teeth.

  “Is that good?”

  “Very.” My breath stuttered. He’d know I wasn’t faking anything.

  “Who are you, Saffron?” He was looking at me with a strange, intent gaze.

  This wasn’t in the program. We were supposed to be having an impersonal encounter, a simple exchange of services. But I should be polite to the client. “What do you want to know?”

  “For starters, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-five. How old are you?” I let a challenging note sneak in. I was getting irritated.

  But he merely looked amused. “Thirty-one. How long have you been a call girl?”

  And here Jeanine had assured me he wouldn’t want to talk.

  “Long enough to know what I’m doing.”

  His fingers danced down my body across the lace and silk, over the flimsy skirt, down to my bare leg. Then up under my skirt. He was getting more comfortable with his role. He was also about to discover I wasn’t wearing panties.

  “Do you like the work?” His voice was husky. He was turned on. So was I.

  Still, wasn’t I supposed to be doing things to him? Things he’d paid good money to have done. Wasn’t I supposed to be a body to him, not a person?

  He looked at me. Intent. Like a predator. Waiting.

  “I like sex.” I felt embarrassed saying it, but it was apparently the right answer. He inhaled sharply.

  Fingers sliding farther up my thigh, spreading shivers like a chain reaction. Fingertips reaching my groin, tangling in my pubic hair.

  “Oh.” I could hear the guttural surprise.

  “Ohh.” I groaned with pleasure as he curved those tantalizing fingers between my legs, flirted with my nerve endings, retreated. I was throbbing now, so hot for this man I knew nothing about.

  Hot for him because I knew nothing about him.

  Unexpectedly, he stepped away. He sat on the couch and rubbed his face. And yet he was clearly fully aroused, a powerful erection tenting his sweats.

  “Do you want me to…?” I gestured toward it.

  He laughed uncomfortably, and I knew. This was his first time paying for it.

  The answers flooded in. An apartment filled with boxes. A man who clearly didn’t need to pay for sex. Who was self-conscious about what we were doing.

  I glanced down at his left hand. Sure enough, there was a lighter band of skin on his ring finger. A missing ring.

  My chest tightened; a sympathetic nerve twanged. He might not be comfortable paying for sex, but for whatever reason, he needed this tonight. Needed me here.

  I knelt in front of him. “May I?”

  He nodded jerkily. I pulled his sweats down and off, leaving his bathrobe in place. There was something so sexy about a half-clad man, clean and ready for me. His erection jutted up expectantly, his arousal thick and strong. But he closed his eyes, pained. Not a sexy pain, not pleasure anticipated, though maybe some of that too. No, this was emotional. Like opening up unhealed wounds.

  I paused. This wasn’t right.

  He opened his eyes. “Go ahead.” But it sounded like Go ahead and get this over with, and that too was wrong.

  I closed my hand around his cock, feeling it pulse against my palm. I spoke softly. “Dylan. I’m not only here because you hired me. I thought you should know. I find you incredibly attractive.”

  He opened his eyes. “You don’t have to—”

  I put my fingers to his lips. “When I saw your picture, I wanted you right then. Not just your body either. Something about you, it’s…” I shook my head in wonderment, and I meant it. I didn’t feel this way. Ever. But I did tonight. I wanted this. Wanted him. “I don’t need to know your personal history. I don’t need to know anything. But I thought you should know this. I’m here because I want to be.”

  It was the right thing to say. He let out his breath in a soft explosion of sound. “Thank you. I think I needed to hear that. It shouldn’t matter, should it? But it does.”

  His cock jumped in my hand as I stroked the length, enjoying the feeling of supple skin, the ridge of aroused muscle beneath. He was going to feel so good inside me. He closed his eyes, and I could feel him finally start to give in to the experience.

  My gaze strayed to the ghostly band on his ring finger. His ex must have done a number on him. I gradually sped up my strokes, listening to his breathing change and change again, feeling an answering quickening, a reflected pleasure at his response.

  I’d never had sex with a man I didn’t know. This was a first on so many levels. And yet it didn’t feel like we were strangers anymore. Dylan was seminaked, his eyes slitted, his body open to me. It was all happening so quickly, and it felt so intense.

  This could get addicting.

  A Fountains of Wayne song abruptly started playing. Clearly a cell phone ringtone.

  My hand spasmed. He pulled back.

  “Sorry.” I felt all sorts of cross with myself. Jeanine probably never let her concentration fade. “Do you need to…?” I gestured toward the ringing phone.

  He shook his head. The phone stopped ringing, but the moment was gone. His erection was already fading.

  What was the proper hooker etiquette here? Sympathy? Give him a breather? Work harder to turn him on?

  Dylan made the decision first. He got up, cinched his bathrobe tight, and walked to the kitchen.

  I stood in the living room, wearing a red-and-black corset, a short flirty skirt, and no panties. Not to mention the stiletto boots. It abruptly felt like the costume it was.

  Dylan paused in the doorway to the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

  “Uh, sure.” I sat on the couch and took my boots off, rubbing my feet. Stupid phone. I glared at it. As if in response, it beeped, signaling a voice mail.

  Dylan came back into the living room with two wineglasses and a bottle of what looked like an expensive merlot, the kind with a discreet beige label written in French. He sat on the couch next to me and uncorked the bottle, then poured a little into the glasses, pulling the whole thing off with the panache of someone used to handling high-end wares. This was a man who knew what he wanted and paid for the best. The dense weave of the rug underfoot, the supple quality of the sofa’s leather and solid workmanship of the wood frame. Not to mention the good bones of this apartment, which I would wager he owned.

  I was struck once again by the strangeness of th
is self-contained man paying a call girl. But maybe that was why he had. Same as me. I was here because I didn’t want to date. This was emphatically not a date, but rather a transaction. Need in exchange for need.

  The phone rang again, the same tune. Dylan acknowledged the sound without comment as he handed me a glass. “Let it breathe a moment.”

  He swirled his wine. I copied him. The liquid licked up the sides of the glass and slid back down, deep red, jewellike. It smelled musky and fruity, redolent of forest and dry grasslands far from the city.

  The phone stopped ringing. Dylan settled onto the couch, finally taking a sip.

  I followed suit. The taste unfurled on my tongue. “Why don’t you turn it off?”

  “I have to be reachable for work. Emergencies come up.” He took another sip, contemplating the glass. “That was my wife. My ex-wife.”

  “Ah.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. My condolences? Want a quick roll in the hay to help you forget? “A recent divorce?”

  “Four months last week. I found her in bed with my best friend.” He contemplated the wine in his glass. “He’s not my best friend anymore. And Persephone…”

  “You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay. Honest.”

  He took a sip, steadying himself. I found myself watching his long fingers, his sure movements. “I didn’t expect to tell you, but I’m glad I did. Maybe I need talk more than sex.”

  No sex? My face must have shown my dismay, because he caressed my exposed thigh, making his way up toward my groin. The touch both tickled and titillated.

  “Okay, not more. Not after finding out how good you feel.” He grinned, half mischievous little boy, half lascivious, entirely male—and slipped his finger inside me. The touch was so casually intimate, so possessive, so unexpected. It was a powerful aphrodisiac.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise, mister.” I leaned in and kissed him. He looked surprised. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to do that? But Jeanine hadn’t given me any instructions about kissing, and I wanted it.

  So did he, apparently. The kiss deepened quickly, tasting like wine and peppermint. He pushed me back against the couch, groaning into my mouth, his tongue against mine a delicious mimic of the full-on act. His hands covered my breasts, pinching the nipples hard through the fabric of my corset; his leg slid between my own, his engorged cock hard against my belly. I closed my hand around it and stroked him in time with the rhythm of our kiss.

  His breathing got harsher against my mouth, his movements rougher. He slipped his hand under my skirt, tugging it up. I almost came up for air to tell him I had to fetch the condom, but Dylan surprised me, breaking the kiss and moving down my body. I could feel his fingernails through the satin sides of the corset, making me shiver. And then, yes, he flipped my skirt up, as I’d expected, but instead of his cock, I felt his mouth.

  “I’m supposed to do that to you.” It came out half-strangled. “I’m here for you.”

  “And what if this is what I want? I’ll pay extra.” His voice vibrated against my core. “You taste like lust.” He flicked his tongue against me as he slid a finger inside. I clenched, a single involuntary spasm. Oh God. It had been so long since someone touched me like that. Caressed me, licked me, sucked me, breath and pressure and skill.

  Without fully meaning to, I said it aloud.

  Dylan lifted his head but thankfully didn’t stop moving his thumb and fingers. “It has? You?” He licked me in one long stroke, back to front.

  “Y-yes.” I shuddered on an exhale.

  “Tell me.” It was a command.

  “I shouldn’t. It’s unprofessional and—”

  He pulled back. “Tell me.” The implicit threat: I’ll stop doing this amazing thing to you.

  Maybe this was part of the service an escort was supposed to provide? If the client asks, answer? I’d have to question Jeanine when I got home. But right now, my body was thinking for me, and it was saying, want more, want now.

  I lifted my head, looked into his dark, hungry eyes, and got lost. “I gave up sex—I mean recreational sex—a couple of years ago.”

  “Why? Do you dislike it?” His tone was carefully neutral, but I knew I’d lose all the trust I’d gained if I said the wrong thing.

  “I love it.” My body throbbed with his ministrations. Yes. I loved it. Loved this. “But I tried having a boyfriend in college a couple of times. Bad idea. I’m not programmed for it. They wanted things I couldn’t give them.” Intimacy. Promises. Saying I loved them when I didn’t—when I couldn’t. “So that left me with one-night stands. But they’re all groping and awkwardness, you know? Or maybe you don’t. And some of the guys, they think we’re starting a relationship. And—”

  “You’re not programmed for it.”

  “Which makes it even more awkward.”

  “So you do this instead.”

  I sat up and grabbed him by his shoulders, pushing down his red bathrobe. “Enough talking. Isn’t it time for this to come off?” One yank on the belt, and the plush robe dropped to the floor. I gave him a sweeping gaze, head to toe and oh, the male real estate in between. This man was in good shape: sculpted muscles, taut abdomen, and that thick, sexy cock jutting out like a divining rod.

  “That’s more like it.” I bit his neck gently, then licked his chest, nibbling my way down the narrow line of hair that was like an arrow pointing the way south. Follow the directions to the Candyland Pleasure Palace.

  “You’re still dressed.”

  I paused. “You want me to change that?”

  “Eventually.”

  I licked and sucked my way farther down, spreading my hands across his muscled body, enjoying the curves and ridges, until I reached his pelvis. As he arched up and I took the silken tip of his cock into my mouth, the phone rang. The same ringtone song.

  Of course it did.

  Dylan met my gaze. Shook his head. I took that as a signal to keep going, so I did. Licked up the underside of his cock to the ring of a progressive rock song, trying to ignore his tension. Licked the base as the ringing stopped. Licked up again, my hand cupping his balls. I could feel him relax into the silence, breathe into the charged air. Felt him turn sexy again.

  The phone rang yet again.

  Chapter Three

  “For heaven’s sake!” Dylan jumped up, stark naked, and stalked over to where his cell phone rested on a pile of moving boxes. His jutting cock bounced with every stride. At least he was still turned on. He picked up the phone. “Enough! Stop calling me!”

  I could hear the woman on the other end. Her tone was apologetic, but she kept talking. And talking.

  Dylan rubbed his forehead. “The paperwork? Call my lawyer. Don’t call me.”

  She said more. He sat on the couch. Stress lines turned his mouth down. He radiated tension.

  I picked up my forgotten glass of wine and took a big gulp to steady my nerves, wishing for something stronger, something that would burn on the way down. What a disaster.

  I put the glass down and scooped up my peacoat from the floor.

  Dylan put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What are you doing?”

  “I think I should go.” I was proud of myself; my voice didn’t quiver. I’d slam my fist into my pillow later and stomp around my room in a dazed rage, wondering why the hell something as straightforward as this got so screwed up. Right now, though, I was going to hold it together. This encounter might have turned as flaccid as Dylan’s cock, but dammit, I was going to walk away with my dignity intact. Or as intact as it could be in this ridiculous seduction costume.

  “Don’t go.” His gaze sliced through me like a longing I’d only ever felt in echoes before. Into the phone, he said, “Persephone, we’ll finish this conversation later. But not now.” She obviously asked about me, because he said, “Nobody you know.”

  This was apparently a trigger. Her voice got louder, becoming a wail.

  “Persephone. We’re getting a divorce. You know that means we’re going to see other people.�
� He raked his free hand through his hair, his head bent so I could see the nape of his neck. “No. I can’t—please stop crying. You have to let go of this. Of me.”

  I looked longingly at my peacoat. This was getting messy. I wanted nothing more than to make my escape, and fast.

  But then there was Dylan, sitting on the couch. Completely, beautifully naked, an artist’s wet dream—but so taut, so tense. The tendons in his neck bulged; his hands were clenched. His body was wound up like a top, about to spin out of control.

  I had a choice. Go home and minister to my aching need with my pink vibrator, or make this work. Earn my money. Make Dylan hang up the phone.

  He’d obviously made an appointment with Saffron because he needed to heal from something entirely too toxic. And here was Ms. Toxic.

  Time to be assertive. Take control of the situation, not let it unravel and leave both of us suffering the backwash of one woman’s self-inflicted pain.

  I let the peacoat drop onto the arm of the couch. Turning around to face away from him, I unzipped my skirt, letting it fall on the polished parquet floor. I rummaged for a moment in my coat pocket, and then finally I turned back toward him.

  I knew what I looked like. I’d checked myself out in the mirror before I put the skirt on. Clad in a silk-and-lace corset that skirted my pubic bone. And then nothing but groin and leg until my calf-hugging leather stiletto boots. I was dressed like a goddamned fantasy centerfold, and I was going to use it.

  So yes, I turned back toward him, exquisitely slowly. His gaze was locked to my body. He breathed shallowly through his mouth. He was fully erect again. A different man from a moment ago. Transformed.

  But he still spoke into the phone. “It might be good for a few months, sure, but what about when you get restless again?”

  He was far too controlled. I wanted to break that control.

  I reached behind my back and pulled the laces on my corset, loosening it. Held my breasts from underneath, plumping them up.

  He hissed softly through his teeth.

  My breasts came free, and the corset fell open.