by Paige North
I drag my hands away, shyly offering him everything again: all of my skin, all the parts of me that I usually keep to myself.
It’s as if my innocence has gotten to him more than anything, and he sits back in the chair, gripping an armrest, but with only with one hand this time. With his other hand, he curls a finger at me, summoning me closer.
Blood screaming, I slowly approach, then stop in front of him.
“Now sit down on my lap.”
A blast of eagerness fires me up, but I’m still wary, and I exhale as I do as he demands. I slide backward onto his lap, feeling the hard muscles of his thighs beneath my bare skin. He grips my hips, then pulls me back against him until my pussy nudges something big and stiff.
I bite back a gasp, knowing what it is.
He guides my hands to the armrests, then covers the tops of them with his palms. His breath is hot in my ear when he whispers, “Now grind on my cock. Give me a lap dance, Beautiful.”
Something willfully naïve in me wants to say, But you’re still in your suit and tie, yet I think that’s the point. But it doesn’t matter as the music gets harder, sexier, making me want this as much as he does.
“Wiggle your hips,” he murmurs against my ear. “That’s a good start.”
I shift experimentally, my breathing uneven as I undulate over his thick, hard cock. A muffled curse escapes him. I’m not sure what word it is, just that it’s another crack in his controlled façade.
“Do that again,” he says. “Harder, for a longer time.”
Now I churn back against him, feeling the tip of his cock part the wet folds of my pussy, and I groan. Even over the music I can hear my juices as my lips spread over him.
“That’s right.” His voice is as tight as his hands as they grip mine. “God, Beautiful, that’s right…”
As he makes soft, primal sounds, I grind back against him again, then again, and a tiny cry fights to emerge from my chest, because every time I rock back against him, his cock head nudges me, teasing my entrance just enough to give me a naughty thrill. It’s enough to make me pant, make me grind faster against him until his tip slips up against my clit.
With a strangled whimper, I arch. Orgasmic pressure begins to expand in me, and I sink back down to him, moving my hips with every backward grind. He slides a hand over my breast, squeezing it, sending another bolt of pressure through me. Then, as if restraining himself, he puts his hand on mine, holding on.
“You’re fucking killing me,” he groans.
Is that a good thing? I think so, because he takes one of my hands and urges it in back of me, between us. My palm sweeps over his long, hard cock, and my clit pounds in excitement, in utter fear.
“Now unzip me,” he says.
Holy shit, I’m about to see it. A cock. His cock. But even though I’m breathing fast and my gaze is hazy, I slide off his lap between his legs until I’m kneeling in front of him, then undo the fly of his trousers.
“Take it out.” His voice is strained as he clenches his teeth, a vein throbbing in his neck. “Fuck, just touch it, Nova.”
I inhale, then hold my breath as I bring him out. His penis feels like silk wrapped over a hardness that has my heart tripping. There’re veins that seem to pulse in him, and the tip of him is wet.
“I’m not sure what to do now,” I whisper.
He looks down at me hungrily, and he’s still in control. “I’ll tell you, just like I’ve told you what to do before.”
“Okay.”
“Slip your hand between your legs. I know you’re nice and wet, and that’s going to make this easier.”
I can’t look away from his intense gaze as I slide my hand down my belly, over my mound, then through the folds of my pussy. I gasp at how turned on I am, just like he knew I’d be—slick and so very creamy.
“Now use your hand to stroke me,” he says. “Slowly at first.”
A zing of that familiar excitement-fear travels through me as I take his cock in my hand. Then I do what he asked me to: I cup his shaft and move my hand back and forth, almost as if testing him to see if I’m doing it right.
“That’s it.” His gaze is burning hotter, searing into me. “Faster now.”
He moves his leg between mine, urging them apart. His knee nudges my pussy while I stroke him just like he asked. As he presses against me again, then again, I watch him lean back in the chair, his jaw clenched so hard that it seems he might break apart at any moment. As his cock gets even harder, rising, I stroke him off faster, faster. My blood races in time, heat building inside my core, a fire that’s roaring harder…higher—
He prods me once again, and my clit seems to finally explode, showering through me as I double over, clutching his leg. It’s as if I’ve detonated something in him, too, because he comes in a burst of white-hot liquid that coats my hands, arms, breasts, hair, and even his nice, perfect suit. It doesn’t feel messy—I feel as if something has washed over me, a new awakening. Without thinking about it, I lift my head, innocently slipping a finger to my mouth, then tasting him.
Salty, warm… I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s watching me with an expression that nearly tears me open, exposing more than just my body to him. There’s something in his gaze, an emotion that’s so deep that…
He shuts it down before I can be sure about anything.
Before he can go cold on me, I slow my breathing. I back away and touch my cum-wet hair. “Um…I think I need to clean up.”
He nods, utterly in control again, leaning his head back until he closes his eyes. He doesn’t put his cock away, and I realize that another song has been playing. It’s garbled in my ears as I escape to my bathroom.
I close the door behind me, wet with his juices and with mine, but even though I’ve shut myself away from him, I feel as if the opposite has happened. As I look in the mirror, I see someone whose cheeks are pink, whose gaze is bright, whose smile is mysterious yet ecstatic.
I look more alive than I’ve ever felt in my life.
Chapter 8
After I take a quick shower, I dry my hair and slip into something that Travis already purchased for me—a white batiste polka dot fabric nightie with bows at the bottom of the straps to accentuate the gown’s innocence. In spite of that, when I look at myself in the mirror, I can see the outline of my bare body beneath the material.
Deciding to play it a little dangerous, I fluff my hair and make sure that the light pink lipstick I’ve put on isn’t too much, then go back into the living room.
The music is off, the sound of the TV at a low, chattering volume. The room is dark except for the flash of the wide plasma screen over the leather couch where Travis has moved.
He has a cocktail glass with ice and amber liquid balanced on the armrest, and his trousers are done up. But he’s taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. His expression is indecipherable while light from the screen plays over that heart-stoppingly gorgeous face. Yet when I look a little longer, I see something in his eyes.
Shadows.
I don’t think he sees me as I linger in the entrance, listening to the news report he’s watching. The announcer is talking about a robbery of a jewelry store in London, and I know he owns shops all over the world—Milan, Paris, New York, LA, Tokyo, just to name a few. And London is on that list.
Quickly, it dawns on me that out of all the jewelry stores in that one city, Travis’s place was the one that was robbed. Why else would he have walked into this apartment in such a mood? Why else would he have that dark look in his eyes now?
“The criminals got away with hundreds of thousands in jewels,” the reporter says, “and they are still at large.”
The words seep into my perception. Hundreds of thousands in jewels. My god, no wonder Travis walked through the door tonight distracted. No wonder he’s gone dark.
I walk into the room quietly, not wanting him to know that I’m hearing the report, which is still going on as the newscaster goes into detail about Travis’s meteoric rise to riches. I
fully expect him to aim the remote at the TV to change the channel or to turn the screen off altogether, but maybe he’s so lost in his brooding that he doesn’t know or care that I’m here.
But I have the feeling he does. And I think that he doesn’t mind that I’m hearing this. I also have the feeling that perhaps this is his way of opening up to me.
For such a private man, allowing me to know about this robbery seems like an indication that his trust for me is growing…
Wishful thinking? Or am I like his massage therapist or any other employee—here but not here, on the payroll only to serve a purpose?
I’m pretty sure what my purpose is.
“How’re you doing on that drink?” I ask, ready to serve.
He slowly blinks but doesn’t turn away from the TV. “Slowly but surely finishing it.”
“Brandy?”
“Yes.”
I take the cut-crystal glass from his armrest and bring it to a table with an ice bucket that he’s apparently filled. I unstop the decanter of brandy and refresh his cocktail. I make one for myself, too, and then hand his over to him.
He tilts it toward me in a thank you, although he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen.
I stay standing, waiting for him to ask me to strip again, or for him to reach over and slide his hand under my nightie to stroke my thigh. I quiver at the possibilities.
But he does neither.
I almost ask him about the robbery, but even if he’s indirectly letting me know what went down—and that’s a big if—I wonder if he’s ready to actually discuss the incident with me in any direct way.
Still, I want to ask: are hundreds of thousands of dollars just petty cash to someone as rich as Travis? Is he only pissed off that that the criminals targeted him and got away with it?
The shadows in his eyes tell me he takes this personally…and that there’s a lot more going on with Travis Star than I ever expected.
No matter what the truth really is, I can’t stand seeing him like this—a big, strong man who’s put up all these walls around himself—and I set down my drink.
When he doesn’t make any move toward me, I decide to take a chance. I move behind the couch, my pulse fluttering right before I rest my hands on his wide shoulders. He tenses, as if resisting me, and I almost pull back.
But when he doesn’t tell me to stop, I ease my fingers down his shoulders, just like the massage therapist did to me yesterday. Then I begin to rub his tight muscles.
“You’re very tense, Mr. Star,” I say, testing him.
“So I’ve been told.”
He hasn’t demanded that I leave him alone yet, so I continue massaging him. When he starts to relax, a warm gush of emotion rises in my chest.
This is working. I’m not dumb enough to believe that I have some kind of magical touch that’s going to change his world, but for now, this is enough to make me happy.
As I use my thumbs on the back of his neck and his shoulders, he keeps holding his cocktail. He’s not drinking it, but it seems to be there if he needs a hit. I’m determined to be enough of a relaxing tonic for him, and his shoulders are loosening up, giving me more confidence in my abilities. I hold my breath and slide my hands to the front of him, tugging on his loosened tie, beginning to undo it further.
He doesn’t stop me.
My mouth is dry, and I lick my lips, getting his tie untangled then leaving it around his neck. I run my hands over his chest and, god, he’s just as hard and muscular as I fantasized. I wish I could unbutton his shirt and slip my hands inside to feel his skin, but I keep massaging him, soothing him…and myself, really. That warmth inside of me has balled up, making me feel light and fizzy, like thick, golden champagne with bubbles popping to the top of a bottle.
Travis leans his head back, and he’s so relaxed that I realize he’s finally giving in to the demands of his day.
He’s falling asleep.
Before he can drop his drink, I bend over the couch and delicately take it from him, then move it to the table. Then I sit on the cushion next to him, watching his face.
In sleep, he looks so peaceful. The warm ball inside my chest grows, making something itch in my throat, and even knowing that this might be a bad idea I reach out, wanting to touch him for only a second, to feel the slight stubble on his face, to feel closer to him.
With my heart hopping, I lightly run my fingertips over his cheek, just this once…
He opens his eyes, and I lift my hand away.
Shockingly, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest.
At first, I can only rest my hands on him, feeling this unfamiliar rhythm and closeness. His chest rises and falls with his even breathing, and so does my world as I lean on him. I hear his heart beating in my ear, and the vibration travels through me, synching us in some kind of way that I can’t explain. Then, as the TV plays on, I give in and relax against him.
I’ve never experienced anything so intimate. The warmth in me has spread across my body like the glow of a campfire. With his arms around me, I actually feel taken care of. This is the first time that I’ve ever felt truly safe in my life up until now, and I close my eyes…
I don’t remember opening them again until morning, when I’m lying on the couch, alone.
The only sign of Travis is a chenille blanket that’s been tucked around me, taking the place of his arms.
I’m eating a ready-made yogurt parfait for breakfast when the doorbell chimes. At the same time, my phone rings, Travis’s number flashes on my screen.
I gather my robe around me and pad to the front door while excitement tumbles through me. Even the thought of hearing his voice on the phone is enough to get me going.
“Hello?”
“Good morning,” he says. “How did you sleep?”
“On a couch with a lovely blanket around me.”
“I thought about carrying you to your bed, but you looked so sweet lying there.”
Sweet? I smile. Funny how I’m still “sweet” in his eyes, even after that lap dance.
His tone changes, bringing our business arrangement back into the equation. “There’s something for you at the door.”
“Are you a mind reader? The bell just rang.” I access the security screen to see a woman dressed in a business suit holding a wardrobe bag. A cart filled with ribbon-wrapped boutique boxes stands next to her.
“It’s one of my assistants, Clarice,” he says, “and she just texted me to let me know that she’s arrived. She’s delivering a special gown, as well as matching shoes and jewelry.”
Before I let the woman in, I pause. “A special gown? Is it another peignoir?” And is he going to dress me in his jewels in preparation for some kind of kinky fantasy fulfillment tonight?
“As much as I’d like to see you right now in a nightie,” he says, “that’s not it.”
“Then what’s the occasion?”
I open the door and smile at the woman as Travis answers.
“I’m taking you to a benefit dinner this evening, so be ready at seven. Clarice will be there to assist you all day.”
His employee walks in with an efficient nod and her own smile. She clearly knows the route into the apartment because I’m not her first rent-a-virgin.
I watch her disappear down the gallery and then through the door of my bedroom. “You’re taking me out tonight?” I say to Travis.
“I said I would be discreet,” he murmurs, “not that I would hide you away.”
The usual nerves attack me. People are going to see me with Travis? I’m going someplace that requires a special gown and jewelry? Just how fancy is this event?
“But I’ve never been to a nice dinner before,” I say.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he says, with charged meaning.
I feel my face flush at the innuendo. “Well, I’ll do my best to be a good dinner date,” I reply lamely.
“You’ll be visited by a manicurist, a stylist, and hair and makeup expe
rts today.”
“All right. I…I can’t wait.”
“You sound anxious.”
“I am.”
“You’ll be well taken care of—I’ll see to it. The limo will arrive at seven.”
Then he disconnects. But why should I be surprised when there’s always some kind of disconnect in the end with Travis?
Clutching my robe around me, I head down the gallery of my temporary luxury apartment, buzzing with nerves and hoping I can fulfill his wishes tonight.
Chapter 9
I can’t believe this is me staring back at myself in the mirror.
I look like a starlet from the forties with my dark hair waving over half my face and down to my shoulders. My fingernails and toenails are polished, and my makeup is flawless, giving me a natural glow that almost fools me into thinking I’m not wearing much at all. My bronze, full-skirted gown is a one-of-a-kind from an up-and-coming designer, the sleeves adorably capped, the bodice dipping just low enough to be playful but not gauche. The hand-worked embroidery uses tasteful beads that flash in the light, and my sandals are delicate and high-heeled.
Then there’s the jewelry.
I don’t have a necklace because Travis’s assistant Clarice said we don’t want my jewelry and gown competing with each other. He requested that I merely wear “simple” earrings and a bracelet tonight.
“Mr. Star thinks your ears are lovely, just perfectly sweet,” Clarice told me with that professional smile, but I still blushed like crazy, and when she left me alone enough to inspect myself here in the bathroom mirror, a surge of happiness overwhelmed me. He thinks my ears are lovely, and on these adorable ears of mine I’m wearing a pair of darling hoops featuring 1.77 carat diamonds that have been set in rose-gold cobblestones. My bracelet matches, and altogether, I look fresh, not like a tarted-up mistress or temporary date at all.
Then again, I kind of feel as if I need an armed guard around me tonight with these diamonds. However, Clarice assured me that there’s no need to be nervous about the gems. Travis has deemed that I wear a “beginner’s set” that’s worth “only” about $33,000. The jewelry is nice enough to attract compliments tonight, but it’s not remotely show stopping.
