Three Guilty Pleasures

by Nikki Sloane

  “Pizza,” I announced abruptly. He looked at me like I was a crazy woman, and he wasn’t wrong. “Come to my place,” I said, “I’ll order pizza, and we can talk about it. I mean, pizza solves everything.”

  “It does,” he opened his case and gently lowered the cello in, “but I have training from five to seven.”

  For rugby. Like I needed a reminder of how insanely sexy he was. I readjusted. “After, then.”

  He considered it and smiled. “I’ll be there around eight.”

  I wasn’t a neat person. I didn’t always make my bed in the morning, sometimes I left dirty dishes to soak in the sink overnight, and I didn’t vacuum as often as I should. But it didn’t take me too long to tidy up before Grant’s arrival.

  I had a laundry basket of clean clothes that never got folded, and as I hid it in the closet, I listened to Brad and Hector above me as they discussed their day. There’d been drama at Hector’s job—two of his coworkers had been caught screwing in a vacant office behind a stack of old desktop computers. He told it like it was scandalous, and it made me giggle.

  If only they knew what I did for a living.

  I frowned. I still needed to tell Grant.

  And I had no idea how he was going to react. What if I told him and he freaked? I liked him and didn’t want him to vanish on me. Thinking about it made me nauseated.

  While I waited for his arrival, I flopped down on the couch in my living room, tucking my legs underneath myself, and searched YouTube for new song ideas. Elena had been right. The Coldplay song was beautiful, but it didn’t show off my personality, and that was just as important as dance technique if I wanted to make it as a contestant on Dance Dreams.

  It was just after eight when Grant arrived. He must have showered after his practice because his hair was styled, and he had on jeans and a nicer sweater. Like he’d made an effort.

  I’d touched up my makeup, but my clothes were casual. My jeans hugged low across my hips and rolled at the ankles, and I wore a tight black tank top. It ended below my waist and showed off a band of skin above my jeans, and as he stepped into my apartment, his gaze went from it to my cleavage. I quirked my mouth into a half-smile. Was I showing too much skin for him, or just the right amount?

  “Hi,” I said. “Come on in.”

  “Hey.” He stepped across the threshold.

  “How was training?”

  “It was fine.”

  He turned his attention to my place. The living area was just my couch and an old steamer trunk I used as a coffee table. Beyond was the dining table and a wall with a built-in bookcase. The apartment was old. It had creaking floorboards and knocking pipes, but high ceilings and gorgeous woodwork. It had so much character, I gladly paid the steep rent and put up with having to call the super when things needed repair, which happened often.

  “Wow,” he said. “Your place is nice.”

  “Thanks. You want something to drink? Come on back to the kitchen, and I’ll show you what I’ve got.”

  As I led the way, I stifled a chuckle. I hadn’t meant for it to sound sexual, but it came out that way.

  He followed me into the tiny room, stepping onto the black and white penny tile, and he was so big, he made the cramped kitchen feel even smaller.

  “Beer, if you have it,” he said.

  I did. I’d bought it on my way home from the studio. I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle, passing it to him. There were faint lines in the corner of his eyes, hinting he was tired.

  I grabbed a beer for myself. “Long day?”

  “Is it that obvious?” He twisted off the cap and drank. “At my job, some days are more of a challenge than others, and today was one of those days.”

  I attempted to twist off the top of my beer, but he set his down, took the bottle from my hands, and did it for me, passing it back. I nodded my ‘thanks’ and leaned against the butcher block counter.

  “Why was it a challenge?”

  His expression was suddenly guarded. He didn’t want to tell me? He sighed, just enough that I saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “One of my responsibilities is planning the segments we do. The show runner hasn’t been happy with anything I’ve brought him.” He followed my lead and leaned against the counter opposite me. Since the kitchen was so tight, there wasn’t much space between us, and I liked that. I hadn’t had a man in my apartment in ages, and yet it was instantly comfortable that he was here.

  “What’s wrong with your stuff?”

  His tone was frustrated. “It’s not exclusive, or it’s too depressing, or it’s not hard hitting enough. He told me I need to bring him something big, or . . .” As he trailed off, he tore his gaze away from mine and took a long drink.

  Ultra-competitive Grant didn’t like losing, and it was obvious how hard this was for him. It was surprising he shared it at all, and I was touched.

  When his gaze returned to me, he forced enthusiasm. “You don’t happen to know about any big scandals I could use, do you?”

  My heart launched into my throat, and it sped faster the longer he stared at me.

  Three years at the blindfold club had made me a treasure trove of scandals. I knew which conservative politicians were cheating on their wives, which celebrities were dirty freaks like me. I knew several guys in the Chicago police department who looked the other way about how the club operated.

  A few of them I knew intimately.

  Now it was my turn to look away. I liked what I did, but the people I worked with? They were family, and I wouldn’t sell them out for anything.

  As the tense silence hung between us, my stomach became a jar full of fluttering butterflies. I was supposed to tell Grant what I did for a living. I’d had trepidation before, worried he’d bail on performing during the audition, or worse . . . that he’d judge me.

  But now, how the hell could I explain I let people fuck me for money? If I gave him even a hint of the illegal club, I didn’t trust him enough to leave it alone. I had little to gain from telling him, and everything to lose. I was so screwed.

  I hated lying, but I’d had to do it a few times since I’d begun taking clients, and had no choice but to do it again now.

  “Uh . . .” I said finally, needing to fill the silence. “No. No scandals.” God, I couldn’t have sounded less convincing if I’d tried. I had to deflect. “What do you want on your pizza?”

  Was I imagining his disappointed look? It was only a flicker and then gone. “Anything, as long as it’s not fruit.”

  “Extra pineapple, got it,” I deadpanned.

  He shuddered, and I grinned widely, relieved I’d been able to successfully move him to a new focus. I pulled my phone from my pocket and ordered the pizza from an app.

  “Aren’t you cold?” he asked, his gaze lingering over my barely-there top.

  I shrugged. “I’m used to it.” I’d spent so much of my life in skimpy dance costumes and cold theaters, I no longer noticed if the air was chilly on my skin. And if I were cold right now, it was a small price to pay for the way he was looking at me. His expression was barely concealed desire.

  I gestured to the doorway that opened to the living area, and he nodded.

  “Remind me what you do again?” When we crossed back into the main room, his focus turned to the bookcase. “Sales?”

  My mouth felt sticky with the lie. “Yeah. High end wines.”

  His back was to me as I sat on the couch. He studied the titles and the framed photos placed on the shelves. “Like a sommelier?”

  “Not really. More like a broker.” I repeated the line Joseph had taught us girls over the years. “Specialty brands and exclusive labels that are difficult to find.”

  “Is there a lot of research in that?”

  My pulse sputtered. I needed to get him off this line of questioning. “No, it’s mostly negotiations. Can I ask you something?”

  He turned to face me. “Sure.”

  “Why did yo
u leave South Africa?”

  He hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer, then strode toward the couch. He sank down beside me, one seat cushion away, plunked his beer down on the coffee table, and laced his fingers together, his forearms resting on his knees.

  “My family has a lot of money and clout, but if there’s one thing they really excel at, it’s being racist.”

  I stiffened in surprise.

  Grant’s tone was matter-of-fact. “For my whole life, I thought it wasn’t their fault. It was just ignorance. Everyone we were surrounded with was white. Neighbors, coworkers, their friends. They didn’t know anything else.”

  I sensed more coming when he took in a preparing breath.

  “My final year of school, there was this girl. She was beautiful and sweet, the smartest person I’d ever met, and she was black.” He tilted his head toward me, and his blue eyes clouded with shame. “I was stupid. I thought I could just show them this wonderful girl and open their eyes. I asked her to dinner with my parents. She didn’t want to go because, like I mentioned, she was smart. She knew what was going to happen. But I convinced her it was going to be all right.”

  My voice was tight. “What happened?”

  “My parents were caught off guard at the beginning, but then we had a lovely evening. They were so nice to her, and really impressed with her plans for university. I remember thinking, ‘I’ve done it. I’ve shown them something outside their bubble.’” He straightened and smoothed his palms down the tops of his thighs. “The first thing my mother tells me during the car ride home is that it had been the most uncomfortable dinner of her life.”

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did. “Oh, Grant,” I whispered.

  “There was nothing that girl could have done to change my parents’ view. She could have fucking cured cancer, and still my mother would have preferred not to share a table with her. All because she wasn’t white like we were.” He snatched up his beer and drank before continuing. “I spent so much of my life trying to fit into the box they wanted to put me in. I had to leave before they did it. I applied to Randhurst University here in Chicago that same night.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “She could have said she told me so, but she didn’t. I think it made her sad to be proven right, but she understood why I had to get out.” His smile was soft. “We’re still friends on Facebook.”

  The conversation lulled for a beat as we both drank and contemplated what had been said.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “For what?”

  “That you couldn’t make them see.”

  He played it off like it was no big deal, but I could tell it was. “They don’t see anything beyond themselves.”

  I knew all about living outside the box. “We’re a lot alike.”

  He looked at me with an intensity that made the air go thin. “Except I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “I’m sure you’re better than if I tried to play the cello.” I put my beer down and pulled out my phone. “Which reminds me, I have some ideas.”

  “Yeah?” He brightened, ready to move on to a lighter subject. “Let’s hear them.”

  I cast YouTube from my phone onto my TV and showed him the different videos I’d liked from earlier, but he watched with an unchanging expression. I couldn’t get a read at all.

  “Do you not like any of these?” I asked.

  “No, they’re fine, but I thought what I like doesn’t matter.” His face skewed. “What I mean is, Elena made it sound like the song was supposed to be a reflection of you.”

  “It is.” I frowned. There was so much pressure riding on this choice, it was hard not to second-guess myself.

  “These ones are all good. They’re pretty.”

  “I feel a ‘but’ coming,” I said dryly.

  He looked sheepish. “I don’t like them as much as what you were originally going to do.”

  “Well, shit.” I stared glumly at the TV screen, my gaze focused on the YouTube logo in the upper corner. The couch shifted as he leaned over and stole the phone from my hand. He scrolled through the suggested videos, tapped the screen, and a new one began to play.

  It was a room full of bright windows and a woman poised at a black grand piano. In front of that, a man was seated, a cello nestled between his knees. She began playing almost instantly, quickly followed by him. The song was wistful, even though it had a quick tempo.

  It took several bars before I heard the lyrics in my head. “Is this ‘Chandelier’? The Sia song?”

  He nodded, but his gaze was fixated on the screen, watching the cello player’s fingers leap up and down the stem, moving rapidly and with such precision, it was its own kind of dancing.

  That thought was all it took for me to fall in love with the song, and the line about living like tomorrow didn’t exist solidified it. The track was perfect.

  I shot a hand out and latched onto Grant’s arm. “This one.”

  Only he gazed back at me with a strange look in his eyes. Was that fear? “It’s, um, kind of fast.”

  I sucked in a breath. “You can’t play it?”

  His shoulders went tight. “No, I’m sure I can.” Although he didn’t sound all that confident. “You’re sure this is the one you want?”

  I bobbed my head in an enthusiastic nod. “I’m visualizing it already.” I looked at the caption of the video. “There’s a link to buy the sheet music right there. Do you think we can get your friend to record the piano part for us?”

  “Probably.” He still looked nervous, though.

  “Hey,” I said, “if this one is too hard, we can—”

  He raised an eyebrow, annoyed by my challenge. “It’s not. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, great.” I couldn’t contain my excitement. “I think this is going to be amazing.”

  The pizza arrived not long after, and while we were eating, Grant got a text from his pianist friend, confirming she’d be able to record the piece. I purchased the sheet music and emailed it to her.

  I asked about rugby, and he spent a good ten minutes trying to explain the game to me, although I got hung up on the fact that there was a position labeled the hooker. How ironic.

  Grant grabbed another round of beers from the fridge, and when he returned to the couch, this time he sat much closer. We hadn’t talked about our date, or if he wanted to be more than friends, but all signs pointed that way.

  Was not telling him about my job really that bad? We weren’t sleeping together. I’d told him I was already in another relationship and couldn’t be exclusive. I’d make sure to tell him the full truth before crossing any lines with him, once I knew I could trust him. Not just with my secret, but with everything else. Maybe even my heart.

  So, he didn’t need to know tonight. As long as we weren’t fucking, what difference did it make?

  I was aware the mental gymnastics I was doing to get what I wanted were astounding, and I should have felt guilty. Yet, as I stared at this gorgeous man who’d said yes to helping me, all I felt was desire.

  Hot, needy desire.

  He stared back at me through his long lashes, his strong jaw set, and seemed to feel it too.

  “Can I get some clarification?” he asked, his fingers worrying the edge of the label on the bottle in his hands.

  “About?”

  He put down his beer and shifted so he was facing me. “You said we’re not allowed to have sex,” his voice dipped low and was smooth as liquid, “but what about the other things?”

  Heat flashed up my body, warming my cheeks and kicking up my heartrate. “Like what?”

  As he moved closer, the cushion beneath me shifted and caused me to lean into him. He cased my face in his hands, the callouses from his cello playing rough against my skin and making me soft everywhere else.

  “I can kiss you.” His eyes were deep and magnetic. “If you want me to.”

 
“Yes,” I breathed. Yes, my whole body screamed.

  He blinked slowly and licked his lips in preparation. “Then, tell me you want me to.”

  Had he realized this was an order, and one I was more than happy to obey? “I want you to kiss me, sir.”

  It was his hands on me, or maybe it was habit, that had gotten me to tag the sir onto the end of it, but I suspected not. I wanted him to take, and I wanted to give. I needed to surrender to him.

  And as he fused his lips over mine, that was exactly what I did.

  -18-

  Grant

  When Tara addressed me as sir, I flashed back to the night she’d been on the table. I’d wanted so badly then to kiss her, and now here I was, my lips pressed to hers.

  I’d told myself that as long as I didn’t fuck her, what I was doing wasn’t bad. I was here with her because I wanted to be, not because I was fishing for a story. If it happened, that was just a bonus. I wasn’t using her, and it was why I hadn’t pressed her for more details when she’d given me the fake job description.

  Part of me had hoped she’d come out with it when I’d prompted her in the kitchen, but I also didn’t want to know, because I didn’t want to explore my feelings. She was a prostitute. That idea was supposed to turn me off.

  So, why the hell did it turn me on?

  The kiss had started soft, even tame, but her sharp inhale of breath caused power to build in my bloodstream. It raced through my veins, heightening my awareness of her and dulling my senses to everything else.

  I pushed my lips to hers, moving my mouth against her mouth, giving her what she’d asked for. I licked at her, urging her lips to part, and shoved my tongue inside, all while holding her face steady in my hands.

  In no time, we were both grasping at each other, our breathing ragged. I tilted her head, adjusting the angle so I could slide my tongue deeper inside her mouth and explore. When I drew a moan from her, I nearly lost control. Kissing her was fucking fantastic, but I wanted more.

  “What else is allowed? I need to know the rules,” I demanded. Her top was a V of fabric, slicing deep down her chest, exposing so much cleavage I wondered if I stared too long, I might go blind. I’d put my hands on her breasts the first night, and she hadn’t stopped me, but this was before I’d known about the couple she was seeing, or who she was.