by Ella Brooke
“Dante, oh god. Please,” she moans, out of her mind and weak from the orgasms she’s had. She’s so sensitive, so damn sexy, and I can’t resist toying with her some more. I suck her clit and slide two fingers inside her. I curl them, slowly and rhythmically, stroking that sensitive spot deep inside her, and I feel another orgasm building. She’s moaning my name, over and over again, and when she explodes, she comes screaming, and I keep right on sucking and stroking, prolonging her orgasm as long as I can.
When I’ve tasted my fill, I press an open-mouthed kiss to her inner thighs, first one, then the other, and then I sit up. She looks at me with a glazed expression in her eyes, and then she smiles.
“I’m going to greet you naked every day now,” she jokes.
“May as well. How many of your clothes have I ripped in my impatience to get you naked?” I ask, and she laughs. Then I hoist her up into my arms and carry her to my bedroom, which as far as I’m concerned, she’s not allowed to leave until the next morning.
I’m just lucky that she never seems to tire of my touch, as if I’ve awakened some deep hunger inside her and she wants to take everything I’m willing to give her.
I’m willing to give her a hell of a lot, and I do.
***
Samantha
I wake up the next morning in Dante’s bed, which is where I’ve woken up every morning since the night we went at it like animals in the VIP box. His side of the bed is empty; he had an early meeting with his father scheduled this morning.
I snuggle into the soft white sheets and close my eyes. My body is tender, deliciously sore from the way Dante used me last night. I wake up like this every morning, and the memory of the things he did to me keep me in a state of almost constant horniness. The tenderness between my thighs, the way my breasts ache, my aching thigh muscles…every moment reminds me of him and the things I’ve been willing to do for him.
The sex would be enough, but I know it’s more than that. I’m falling for him. Those dark eyes, the scent of him, the way he moans my name. Waking up held tightly in his arms, the sweet, tender kisses he gives me before he drifts off to sleep at night. We don’t spend a lot of time talking, but the connection between us is intense and immediate.
And yet…
I know this is coming to an end. I’ve had those moments, daydreams about what it would be like if this were my life, if this penthouse was my home and Dante was really mine. And no matter how amazing things are between us, there are two things I can’t keep lying to myself about: number one, this is temporary, and number two, he’s paying me, and I’m having sex with him. There’s a word for people who do that, and I never thought I’d be one of them. The fairy tale side of me wants to believe there’s something between us and there’s a chance at forever. The realist, the girl who grew up poor and stayed that way, sees it for what it is: a business transaction.
I’ve been doing a good job at not thinking about that too much, but last night was amazing, and now all I can think of is that my nights of having Dante Knight bring me to orgasm after mind-blowing orgasm are coming to an end. I’ll have to go back to my life, and he’ll go back to his, with some other woman occasionally decorating his arm.
I blink back tears. The idea of him with someone else kills me, and I know I’m in too deep. I should call this quits now, tell him I’ll take a hundred grand so my Pops can pay off this debt, and make a clean break. All I need is for the goons to leave my father alone. I don’t need a million. Not if it means staying here and having my heart slowly but surely ripped to shreds, each day bringing me closer to the fact that while I might be falling for him, all I am to Dante is a convenient fuck and well-behaved arm candy.
I flop over onto my back. I’m a mess. I’m all over the place: giddy ecstasy one minute, and then reality hits me upside the head and I feel like I can barely breathe.
I should leave. Get Pops’ money and go while I still have some dignity left.
Now I just need to get Dante to agree to it.
Eventually, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I dress and do my hair and makeup, and then grab my laptop and head out into the dining room. There’s already coffee on; Dante’s good about making it and keeping it warm for me since he’s usually awake before I am.
There I go again, thinking of our arrangement like it’s a typical, sweet little domestic dream. I shake my head, grab a cup of coffee, and then settle in to look over casting calls and job listings in San Francisco. We won’t be able to afford to move to L.A. on only a hundred thousand, but I can at least get my father out from under the Mafia.
I spend most of the day applying for jobs and adding casting calls to my calendar. If I’m stuck here in San Francisco for a while, I’ll work my butt off to get into a position to do better later on. Dante’s million would have made that easier, but I can’t do this anymore.
I keep nervously checking the clock. I don’t know how I’m going to present it to him. I can tell him I’m needed at home. That I can’t do it anymore. That a hundred grand for three weeks in a month that should have cost him a million is a hell of a bargain, especially considering how much time I spent on my knees and my back.
Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t add that last part.
I’m about to get up and order dinner when my phone rings. I glance at it and see that it’s Pops’ number. I told him that I was working as a housekeeper for some rich guy while he had people in town. Kinda, sorta close enough, I guess.
“Heya, Pops,” I answer, forcing cheerfulness into my voice.
“Hey, kiddo. How’s the job going?” He sounds different, wrong. Still the usual warm tone I was used to hearing from Pops, but wrong somehow. Kind of muffled.
My stomach sinks, twists. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” he says soothingly, and his voice still sounds wrong.
“Pops, what is it? Are you sick? Do you need me to come home?”
“No. No, no, sweetheart. I’m fine. You worry too much,” he chides.
“Pops. I can hear it in your voice. Something’s wrong,” I say softly. “What is it?”
He doesn't answer for a moment, and then I hear him clear his throat. “D’Agostino sent a few of his guys over here. A little reminder that he wants his money before the first of the month.”
“Pops,” I whisper.
“I’m okay,” he assures me. “I’m fine, Sammy. They roughed me up a little, that’s all. Black eye, fat lip. I’m okay.”
I can hear the unspoken “for now” in his voice.
“We’ll get you out of this. I promise.”
“Sweetheart, this is my mess, not yours,” he says in a firm voice. “You need to worry about your future. I’ll worry about my messes. You have your own life, and that’s all I want for you.”
I swallow. “Pops…” I want to tell him that I’m working on it, that it’ll all be okay. That a relaxing retirement is right around the corner and he won’t have to worry about anything.
“It’s okay, Sammy. Look, I gotta get back to work. I just wanted to check on you.”
“Okay,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. “I love you.”
“Love you too. Be good.”
“Always,” I tell him, our usual exchange. My father hangs up, and I sit there, looking at my phone.
And I know I’m going to stay out the month, even if it destroys me. My father deserves a new beginning just as much as I do. A million dollars can buy both of us a fresh start, and it’s the least I can do for the things he’s sacrificed for me.
I take a deep breath, then another. I can do this. I don’t have to be whole when it’s over. I just have to make it through. I can rebuild myself later, once I’m away from Dante and the way he makes me want impossible things.
Suck it up, take what pleasure he can give me, and start over once the month is up. I can do this.
At least, that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.
***
Dante
Something’s up
. Samantha’s withdrawn and quiet, and there’s a distance in her eyes that feels like a punch to the gut every time I see it. I can’t get her to talk to me. She’s still as responsive as ever when I make love to her, still as sweet and hot and needy, if not more so. But if we’re not naked, the chance of getting her to open up to me at all is practically zero.
I’m surprised by how much this bothers me. We’d started settling into a routine. I’d let her know when I’d be home, and either she or I would order delivery. I ordinarily don’t cook, and I sure the hell don’t expect her to.
But I need to do something to draw her out. Shake things up a little. So instead of ordering something to be delivered, I stop off at the market on the way home and pick up a few bags of ingredients, as well as a dessert I hope she’ll like.
As I drive home, I can’t stop trying to figure out what changed. She was fine, and then the next day when I got home, she greeted me the way she always does—naked—but there was that distance in her eyes, that sense that no matter what I did to her, there was a part of her I just couldn’t reach.
And man, I’ve tried. I’ve spent the past few nights using every weapon in my arsenal to try to draw her out. No matter how hard she comes, no matter how she screams, no matter how much she moans when she goes down on me, I can’t make her share anything else with me.
The fact that I’m this fucked up over it is probably a bad sign. I hate seeing her like this.
We’ve only got one week left together. The thought keeps invading my life, whether I’m working or driving or, worst of all, when she’s under me and I’m so deep in her I can’t tell anymore where she ends and I begin. Sappy? Yeah. But I can admit that I’m going to miss her, and more than just her body.
Either way, I want to hear her laugh a lot more often. I want to walk into the kitchen and hear her singing or humming Broadway tunes the way I have a few times when she doesn’t know I’m there. Silence doesn’t suit Samantha, and she’s been too quiet the last few days.
When I walk into the penthouse, she’s sitting in her usual spot: the big, cushy chair near the windows overlooking the bay. Her laptop is on her lap, and she glances up when I walk in.
“What’s this?” she asks when she sees me with the grocery bags.
“I’m cooking tonight,” I tell her, and the little smile, the appraising look she gives me, makes my blood heat immediately. She sets the laptop aside and stands up. She’s dressed in a pair of figure-hugging jeans and a black v-neck sweater. Her hair is up in a messy bun today, which means I can stand here like an idiot drooling over the curve of her neck and the very recent memory of how good she smells when I bury my face right in that spot as I fuck her.
“Can I help?” she asks with a smile, and I nod. She follows me into the kitchen, and we start unpacking the canvas grocery bags, setting the ingredients I’ve bought out on the counter.
“Well, this already looks amazing, and it isn’t even cooked yet,” Samantha says as she surveys the ingredients. “What are you making?”
“Ratatouille. And I have a really nice bottle of Bandol Rouge I’ve been saving. We’ll have that, too.”
“And here I was thinking of ordering delivery pizza,” she jokes, and I smile, relieved to hear even a little bit of humor from her.
“Do you want me to do anything?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. I want you to sit here and keep me company.” I nod toward one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen island, and she smiles and slides her sweet ass onto it. I go to the wine cellar and retrieve the bottle I was thinking about, uncork it, and then pour a glass for each of us.
“Thank you,” she murmurs when I hand her glass to her. I watch as she takes her time, swirling, sniffing, and then finally tasting, letting the wine sit on her tongue for a moment so she can get the full flavor of it.
And it hits me then: she fits into my world just fine.
No. No, no, no. I don’t do that kind of thing. Freedom. Independence. No.
Samantha smiles at me. “Wow.”
I grin. “That pretty much sums it up.”
I go to work chopping onions and garlic, and she sits, watching, occasionally sipping her wine.
“You said before that your father’s construction business wasn’t your ‘thing,’” she says. “Is this your thing? Cooking?”
I glance up at her and shake my head. “No. This is relaxing and something I don’t do often enough.”
She nods, but she doesn’t press me for more details. To my surprise, I keep talking.
“My father builds luxury high rises for rich people. People who already have it all but want more. Bigger. Better.” I grab an eggplant and start peeling it. “The thing is, with a background and skills in construction, you can actually change the world. At least for some people.”
She’s studying me. “Not just for rich people, then?” she asks with a smile.
I shake my head. “What I want to do…what I’ll be able to do, once I finish this current project for my father, is help build homes and other facilities for at-need communities in Third World countries. Places most of the world seems to have forgotten.” I take a breath. This isn’t something I talk about a lot. It’s something I do. I’m not my father. I don’t believe in talking myself up to make myself look important. “It just doesn’t seem fair. All this luxury here, and not even basic shelter in other places.”
She’s watching me, her big dark eyes seeming to see far too much, as always.
“How did you get started on that path?” she finally asks.
I think for a minute while I’m chopping. “I traveled a lot as a kid. But we always went to the nicer places. The places they cover in travel magazines and shows. When I was in college, I became friends with a guy who was from a very, very poor area in western Africa. He knew I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I think he took it as his own personal mission to show me just how different other people live. And I’ll be grateful for that for the rest of my life.”
I start arranging the vegetables in layers in the baking dish, and I keep talking. “One spring break, we went to his village. He wanted to see his family and friends, of course, and he wanted me to see the world not as the tourism boards want us to see it, but as it really is. I met some of the kindest, most generous people in the world on that trip, and I saw how they went without even the most basic comforts. And here I am, with the resources and talents to help…it would be ridiculous not to.”
I chance a glance up at her, and she’s watching me intently.
“So you want to build for them?”
“That’s part of the overall plan. I’m laying the foundation for a charity that would be able to do even more than I could myself. I mean, I’m going to put every penny I can behind it personally, but I’ll eventually be tapped out.” I flash her a grin. “My father likes to remind me that this is his money, not mine. I earn a salary from the company, and I guess I’ll get an inheritance someday, but I want to do this now, not when I’m fifty.”
***
Samantha
I can’t stop staring at him. Dante has a magnetic personality, even when he’s saying nothing at all. But seeing him like this, so enthusiastic, so animated… I just felt myself fall a little deeper in love with him.
Damn it.
As amazing as he is when we’re out at an event or even in bed together, he’s even more amazing now, relaxed and talking like this. I watch as he finishes layering the ratatouille, then pops it into the oven.
“I’m not much of a baker, which is why I ended up grabbing the madeleines for dessert,” he says, and I smile.
“I’m not, either. My mom was a heck of a baker, though,” I say, and he nods.
“Mine was, too.”
“Was?”
“My mom passed when I was eighteen. Janice is my father’s second wife.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nods, and then he sits on the stool next to mine and picks up his wine glass. “My
mom was the do-gooder of my parents,” he says with a smile. “She would have loved this project. My dad doesn’t get it. But he knows I’m going to do what I want, and he knows that it will bring some positive press to the family. He’s always open to adoration from the press.”
“So your brother is more like your dad, then?”
Dante nods. “I’m older, but he’s been the obvious choice to take over the company for a long time now. I mean, I’ve pretty much always known I was going into the family business, but I’ve never been as into it as he is.” He pauses. “Enough about me, though. You’ve had the laptop out a lot lately, and you seem hyper-focused when you’re working on it.”
I laugh. “Nothing as exciting as trying to save the world. I’m looking at casting calls and housing listings in L.A.”
He raises his eyebrows. “L.A.?”
“Yeah. Once my father’s debt is paid, I want to get us out of here. We both need a fresh start, and if I want to get my career moving, I need to be where it happens.”
“Is your father going to go for that?” he asks slowly.
“I’m sure he will. He has cousins in L.A. who he’d love to see more often. And it’s not like we live in a great neighborhood or anything. I think a change of scenery will do us both good.”
He doesn’t say anything to that for a while. “L.A. is probably a smart choice,” he finally says. “Like you said, you need to be where it’s happening, right?”
“Right. And… I don’t know. As insane as this all started out, I recognize it for what it is. This is my second chance. This is a way to pick ourselves up, finally, after losing my mom. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for that.” I feel my face heat and look away. He’s watching me, and he reaches over and takes my hand.
“I’m glad it worked out that way. When I went in there that night, doing what I did was the last thing on my mind. Until I saw you,” he adds, and he starts rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. “I’ve never done anything like that. And I doubt I ever will again.”
