“I’m so sorry, John,” she says. “I’ve ruined your evening.”
“Impossible.”
Her head turns toward my voice. “There’s nothing sexy about a woman having some kind of psychological breakdown.”
“Has Bancroft been bothering you?”
Her chin tucks. “I can’t tell you anything. I’m sorry. I want to, but I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you’d do with the information. I hope you understand.”
“I want to keep you safe, Camille. That’s my intention. My only intention.” I move toward her, taking her arm and pulling her into me. “Does he follow you?”
“Let me take off the blindfold, and I’ll tell you everything.” Her lips lift, holding inches from mine. “I need to know who you are first, John.”
“Nice try.” I push my lips closer, until they almost touch hers. “I suppose if you’re not going to help me help you . . . I’ll have to take other measures to ensure your safety.”
“Such as . . .”
“There’s a corporate apartment in Columbia Heights,” I say. “I have access and no one’s living there now.”
“You want to meet there from now on?”
“It’s secure. There’s a doorman. No one gets in without a key.” I inhale her floral scent into my lungs. My fingers tangle in her soft hair, and I sigh, prematurely missing all the things I won’t be doing to her tonight. “He won’t be able to come inside. We’ll meet there next time.”
“All right.”
“I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Camille.”
Her jaw falls, offering a silent protest.
“It wouldn’t be right. Not with you in this state.” I kiss her forehead and step aside. Grabbing a pen and notepad from a nearby desk, I scribble an address and place the paper in her hand. “Oliver, the man outside this door, will pick you up tomorrow night around eight. He’ll drive you there and give you a spare key. If you ever find yourself in trouble, or if you need a place to go where Bancroft can’t get to you, I want you to go there. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Her spine zips as she clears her throat. I’m sure she’s embarrassed, though she has no need to be. “I’ll make this up to you next time.”
“Camille.” I stop by the door. “Not necessary. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. In the meantime, I’ll ensure that a cab is waiting for you downstairs to take you home.”
***
“Well that was fast.” Oliver shuts off his phone and slips it into his pocket the second I emerge from the room.
“We need to dig a little deeper on Bancroft,” I say as we stride toward the elevator.
An on-duty cab parks beneath the hotel overhang when we hit the sidewalk. I rap on the window, and the driver rolls it down. I hand him a fifty.
“A woman in a white jacket will be coming down in just a moment. Her name is Camille. This should cover her ride home.”
I climb into the backseat of my Lincoln and tell Oliver to wait. Ten minutes pass before Camille makes her debut under the portico of the Melrose. She steps into the cab a second later and they veer off in the direction of Logan Circle.
No sign of Bancroft. It’s a start.
ELEVEN
Camille
The next morning, I jot the address in my journal and leave a note for Araminta on the kitchen island. I should be home before she’ll get a chance to see it, but this is just a precaution. I wish she were here to hear all about how I ruined last night by freaking out about Trey. She’s the only one who knows about the stalking and the threats after we ended things. Araminta would understand.
But she’s off doing God knows what with God knows who, as usual.
A quick peek out the window tells me Oliver is waiting below, parked in John’s Town Car in front of my building. I do a quick check in the mirror before stepping into my heels, grabbing my phone and a little black clutch, and heading down.
“Hello, Oliver,” I say when I see him. He holds the rear passenger door for me, his eyes covered in sunglasses despite the fact that the sun went down at least fifteen minutes ago. He’s dressed in his usual black, and he doesn’t smile. He only nods. Sometimes I wonder if he’s Secret Service, but I’ve known men in this city to hire guards who look the part because they love to look important.
The car pulls away a minute later, and I pay close attention to each turn we make. Twenty minutes pass before he parks his car in front of a brown brick building in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. A simple sign with modern, sans-serif font tells me the building is called The Hightower.
Oliver turns to face me. “There’s a blindfold in the back seat pocket. Take it upstairs with you.”
“Keys?” I ask.
He reaches over the seat and drops a black fob into my hand. “Fifth floor. Apartment seven. You’ll need to scan this at the entry to get inside. If the doorman asks who you’re there to see, tell him you’re visiting Henry. He’ll know what that means, and no, his name is not Henry.”
I figured as much.
“Thank you.” I climb out and straighten the hem of my dress, my heart beating so hard it pulses in my ears.
There’s a reason I’ve always opted to meet men in hotels. They’re neutral, public, and the rooms are always registered in their names.
I do exactly as Oliver instructed, and within five minutes I’m standing before apartment seven on floor five. I swipe the fob and the door unlocks. When John referred to this place as a corporate apartment, I expected bland furnishings and neutral décor.
But this place is fit for a king. It’s modern minimalist meets pampered royalty. Curves and edges. Shimmer and shine. I’ve shacked up in lavish places before but nothing quite this grand.
I’m drawn straight ahead, letting the door slam shut behind me as my gaze is glued to a view of the glowing DC skyline at sunset. I press my fingertips lightly against the glass, getting as close as I can to a sight that makes me think this city couldn’t possibly be as toxic as I once thought. Standing here, it’s hard to believe something so splendid could chew you up and spit you out like you’re nothing and keep you coming back for more.
And maybe that’s the problem. We’re all a bunch of nobodies, so desperate to be somebody that we’re willing to do whatever it takes, even if it means hurting or getting hurt as many times as necessary.
The blindfold in my pocket falls to the wood floor, almost as if to remind me this magnificent sight will be going away any second. I tug it over the top of my head, unwilling to tear myself away from this window just yet.
Five minutes pass, then another five, then another.
I can’t imagine that John would be the kind of man to stand me up. If only I had his number I could call him.
It surprises me that this apartment isn’t already prepared for my arrival. I expected the place to be pitch dark. Most of the time, the hotel room is so dark I can’t see my hand before my face, which makes it difficult to find the blindfold.
The shrill ring of my phone echoes off the high ceiling of the expansive room, jumpstarting my heart. I take a second to catch my breath before glancing at the caller ID. The blocked number tells me it’s him.
“I’m stuck in traffic,” he says when I answer. “I’ll be there soon.”
“It’s fine, John,” I say.
“Why don’t you put on the blindfold and wait for me in the last room down the hall? Make yourself comfortable.” He sighs into the phone, a sign, perhaps, that he’s had a long day. “I’ll be there soon.”
“All right.”
“And Camille?”
“Yes?”
“No peeking.”
***
I tiptoe down the hall, spotting my reflection in the glossy, black wood floors. The last door at the end of the hall is half-open. I swing it all the way open before stepping into the room, as if some kind of boogeyman might be waiting behind it.
Nothing.
My heart sprints. They say fear is an aphrodisiac, and if that’s tru
e, I’m going to be primed and ready before John sets foot in here.
The knot in my stomach urges me to look around and conduct a sweep to ensure I’m really alone. Three other doors are shut tight along the north wall. Inhaling, I step to the first one and twist the knob.
Laundry.
My knotted belly relaxes a notch as I step to the next door.
A bedroom. Unoccupied.
My gaze feasts on the ornate furnishings and floor to ceiling windows before moving on to the third door.
A bathroom. Marble with gold fixtures.
The place appears to be empty. I’d check under beds and in closets if I didn’t think John would be here any minute.
Feeling slightly better, I head back to the suite at the end of the hall and make myself comfortable—starting with the bed. The monstrosity that anchors the room is so tall that I have to use steps to climb into it, and my body sinks into the plush mattress like it’s some sort of memory foam cloud. With my back against a mountain of pillows in the center of a four-poster bed, I wait.
I could wait here forever in this little slice of paradise.
The door down the hall opens and shuts a second later, and I pull the blindfold over my eyes before combing my hair into place. A soft creak trails from the bedroom door, followed by gentle footsteps on the carpet.
“Camille,” he says. The familiar texture of his sexy voice washes away my fear, and my lips pull at the sides. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“It’s fine,” I say, patting the bed next to me. I listen as he shuffles around, and I hear the drag and pull of the blinds and curtains as he prepares the room. “Some things are worth the wait.”
“I’d have to agree with you.”
The bed shifts with his weight and the space around me grows warm. I’m sensitized to every scent and every sound, and my nerves hum with anticipation.
“How was your day, John?” I ask.
His answer arrives in the form of a kiss. Greedy. Wicked. Heat flushes my body as I kiss him back, our lips gliding and our tongues tracing. John’s mouth abandons mine in favor of my neck, kissing down farther, harder, until he reaches my shoulders.
His five o’clock shadow bristles against my bare skin like the sandpaper tongue of a cat, only it’s strangely erotic. John’s fingers trail up the back of my neck until they’re tangled in my hair. Digging into my scalp, he takes a handful of curled strands and pulls my head back, angled away from his hungry mouth.
The combination of his soft lips burning into my flesh and the drag of his coarse stubble send pinpricks up and down my arms and a weakness to my knees. He makes me come alive. He makes me forget I’m just a high-class whore who fucks men for money.
Each tug of my hair sends a rush of pain to my scalp, followed by a gush of euphoria. I’m on sensory overload, my body running on overdrive. John pulls my head back, my mouth falling open with a solitary sigh, and he kisses me just behind the ear. The touch of his fingers on the small of my back sends tingles radiating from every inch of my tortured body.
My thighs squeeze, bringing awareness to the soft swell of my clit. I can’t breathe.
John pulls his hand from my hair and climbs over me, his hands tugging and pulling and freeing me of every strip of clothing covering my body. Intuitively, I reach for him, my fingers trailing down his rippled abs until I find the waist of his pants. I unbutton and unzip him like my life depends upon it, and when I feel his rock hard erection, I press him back into the mattress and bring my lips to his cock. Gliding my tongue across the tip, I place the first two inches into my mouth, followed slowly by the rest. He sighs with each leisurely inch.
My peaked nipples graze his thighs each time I move. They ache for his touch. His hips circle and thrust, gently fucking my mouth as I swallow his length over and over.
“Camille,” he breathes, his voice tense. I feel him sit up, his hands skimming my back until he cups them around my waist and pulls me toward him.
I flip around, straddling his face with my thighs and bring his cock to my lips once more. The wet flick of his tongue between my slit brings me to life again. His fingers dig hard into the flesh of my ass, spreading my cheeks as he laps my arousal.
My hips buck as the tiniest threat of an orgasm jolts through my center. I’m not ready to come yet.
I concentrate on unsexy things.
The Metro. The Lincoln Memorial. The Potomac River.
His hot tongue circles my clit, sucking hard and almost sending me over the edge until I arch my lower back to relieve the pressure. My cheeks warm, and I’m grateful for the dark. I’m a professional. I should have complete control over my body, including my climax.
I climb off of him and twist my body around, gripping his cock in my hand and pumping him.
No more oral.
I can’t take another minute of his wickedly talented tongue caressing my hypersensitive sex. He’s too good.
“Fuck me, John.” I offer a breathless plea. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”
If my lines sound rehearsed, it’s because they are. I’ve said them a hundred times. I’ve said them so many times they’ve lost their luster. But I’ve never meant them. Never. Until now.
My hands guide me back to the head of the bed, and my back glides against a silky pillow. For the first time, I don’t think about whether or not my hair is framing my face at the right angle or if my current position creates an unflattering perspective on my thighs. I’m not thinking about whether or not my lips are pouting enough or if my breathy gasps are over the top or just right.
I’m only thinking about the deep, dark void and the impending fill.
My thighs widen, and the sound of paper tearing puts a hitch in my breath. A second later his pulsing head drags along my slit, up and down, again and again, in a merciless tease.
When I least expect it, he plunges into me with one fell thrust. An agonistic flash becomes sweet euphoria and my thighs fall limp. His hands grip my ass, pulling me onto his throbbing cock with every buck of his hips. He pumps harder, faster than ever before, the friction below causing a powerful ache as I dance along the edge. Any minute now, I’ll be pushed over, and I won’t even try to stop it.
This man, this god of a man, can fuck me as long as he wants. All night tonight. All day tomorrow. I won’t complain. I won’t grow tired of it. A man who can own my body with a kiss on the back of a neck and his fingers in my hair can use me as much as he needs.
My thighs clench against his sides, quaking when the muscles tire out. I can’t fight it any longer. The pressure and ache build up to create a perfect storm, and we’re in the eye of it.
His lips graze mine before crushing them, and each heavy thrust sinks us deeper into the mattress. I’m pinned. Owned. And loving every second of it. I rock against his thrusts, coaxing myself a little closer because I’m so ready. My fingers dig into his muscled arms, hooking into the indentations of his triceps.
I feel him rise above me, his hands trailing mine and taking them. He pins them above my head, almost to signal that he’s completely in control, and within seconds his hips slam into mine, driving him deeper than ever before.
“You feel so good inside me . . .” My head falls to the side of the pillow as I repeat the words I’ve become so immune to in recent years, only this time I mean them.
He pumps harder, and I swear I feel him grow. In that moment, I let go. He groans, and I suck in a breath. Our climaxes synchronize like we’re tuned to the same frequency.
I didn’t know sex could feel this way.
And I never expected the hottest sex of my life to be with a man whose face I’ve never seen.
I’m trembling beneath him, my body quaking as I come down from this earth-shattering height. He lingers inside me a little longer. The rise and fall of his chest mirrors mine until he rolls off of me and moves from the bed.
“My God, John, what’s gotten into you?” I smile and offer breathless praise. “Rough day?”
/>
I hear the clink of his belt, and my spirits fade. He never sticks around long. At least some of the other guys would lie down for a while. Make small talk. Sometimes order room service. It was always just as emotional for them as it was physical. All they ever wanted was someone to make them feel special.
That’s the funny thing about people with money and power. They can have almost anything they want, but most of them just want to feel loved, and if they need it badly enough, they’re always willing to pay for it. Araminta says everything has a price. I tend to agree.
“Leaving so soon?” I sit up, dragging my nail down my caved belly as roll to my side and cross one thigh across the other.
“Regrettably.” His warm lips press against my forehead.
One of these days, I’d love to get him to stay a while, maybe engage him in some kind of conversation just to feel him out a bit more. I could start with a childhood memory and go from there. A man’s childhood can sometimes provide priceless insight.
I offer a sweet smile. I can’t nag or beg. Nothing about that conveys any kind of ideal fantasy for them. All I can do is play the part of the princess who waits patiently in her tower. The doll put back on the shelf until next time. The void-of-opinion Stepford wife.
Reminding myself that this is supposed to be all business and no pleasure, at least not on my part, I stretch my arms over my head and roll to my stomach, giving him a view of the ass he loves so much on his way out.
“Oliver has called a cab for you downstairs,” he says.
I hear the metallic twist of the doorknob, and I feel the opportunity to get to know him better disintegrate.
“John?” I call out.
“Yes?”
“What was your favorite childhood memory?”
He huffs. Or laughs. I’m not sure, since I can’t see him.
“I know where this is going, Camille,” he says. “Nice try.”
Vegas Baby Page 27
