by Cynthia Sax
“This is Bee Carter, your date for tonight.” Some leftover squeal permeates my voice. “If you still want me to go with you.”
The voices in the background grow quiet. “I do,” Nicolas confirms.
My heart squeezes, my soul wishing the words had come from another man, in another context. I’d wear white, a designer gown specially crafted for me. The handmade veil covering my face would also be new, an heirloom I can pass to my daughters. As my family’s first bride, our wedding traditions would start with me. My mom would walk me down the aisle, having earned the right by raising me on her own, and—
“I’ll pick you up at six.” Nicolas interrupts my fantasy. “I won’t make you stand on the corner like a two-bit hooker,” he teases, repeating the words I once said to him.
“Yes, please pick me up. We’re trying to stop the hooker rumors.” I force a laugh, my anxiety returning. The people attending this ball will be the same people who spread the stories about me, labeling me a whore. “Are you certain you wish to be seen with me? Some of your friends will think I’m that person, the whore of Chicago.”
“My friends won’t think that, not if I say otherwise,” Nicolas declares arrogantly. “But there will be very few of them in attendance tonight.” His voice flattens as though he dreads the evening. This is a chore for him, an event he must attend.
Hawke and his team view the ball as a security problem. Nicolas sees it as work. “I’m your friend and I’ll be attending.” I hold on to my happiness with both hands. “I’ve never been to a fancy ball.”
“I’ll send you an article with survival tips,” Nicolas promises. A door must have opened, the noise around him increasing.
“Why would I need an article?” My forehead furrows. “You’ll be standing by my side.”
Male voices murmur in the distance. I can’t decipher the words. My hardworking executive doesn’t say anything.
“You’ll stand by my side, right?” I need this clarification, alarm threatening to breach my bliss. “You won’t walk away and leave me alone like you did at your club.”
Nicolas had stationed me in his office and never returned, forgetting about me completely. Hawke rescued me. He always comes for me.
Nicolas remains silent. The voices around him grow louder, angrier.
“Nicolas?” I clutch the dog tags dangling between my breasts. He must be distracted. That’s why he isn’t reassuring me.
Not that I should need reassurance. Hawke will be watching me. Ellen, Mack, Prick, and, from the sounds of it, most of Hawke’s team will be there, invisible but contactable. Susan, my friend, will be working the event. I can talk to her.
I’ll know other people attending—Angel, Cyndi’s bitchy friend; Mr. Peterson, my former boss; and Dru, the nasty coworker who slept with him and stole my job. They won’t help me. I shudder. They’ll mock me as Tara did when my high school friends abandoned me.
A man yells Nicolas’s name.
“I said I needed a Goddamn minute,” my billionaire yells back. “I’ll see you at six, Bee.” There’s a click, followed by silence.
A knot forms in my stomach, pulling tight. This evening can’t be a mistake. I’m attending a ball with a dashing billionaire. The man I love is fine with my escort. I have the perfect gown, strappy heels, and a priceless hair comb to wear.
Tonight will be wonderful, damn it.
Chapter Three
MY FEARS OF being deserted are irrational. I worked at the charity organizing the ball. I know people attending. Susan, my friend, will be there.
Seeking to banish my doubts, I phone her.
“Hello,” she croaks, her voice raw.
“You sound terrible.” I swallow my howl of despair. My friend isn’t going anywhere. I’ll have only one workaholic billionaire for company. Nicolas will be my sole buffer against my critics. “They can’t be making you work tonight.”
“No.” Susan coughs. “They don’t want me to infect the donors.” She sounds as though she’s hacking up a lung. “I’m dying, Bee. Have you called to say your final good-byes?”
“You’re not dying.” I roll my eyes at her drama and concentrate on my friend, ignoring my worries about tonight. “Did you see that sexy doctor of yours?”
“He said it was a summer cold.” She sniffles. “He didn’t even want me to take my shirt off.”
I smile. Susan has been trying to get her hot single doctor’s attention for months. “Maybe you should see him again, get more tests done.”
“I’ll see him once I’m feeling better.” Her voice is fading. “I look like shit.”
I laugh, wondering how many of the sexy doctor’s patients make appointments when they’re perfectly healthy. His waiting room must be full of single women.
She’ll live and I’ll survive. Nicolas will stay by my side during our stroll along the red carpet and our grand entrance into the ballroom. Then some lady will leave her purse on her chair and Hawke will order me to vacate the premises.
A part of me is glad. I won’t have to face Dru or Angel alone, won’t be abandoned in the middle of the dance floor, won’t have to tolerate anyone treating Hawke’s team like shit. It won’t be the prom experience I’ve seen in the movies, but I won’t be missing anything.
Will I?
I shouldn’t ask Susan. It’s a struggle for her to speak and I should let her return to her bed. Oh shit. I have to ask. “What was your high school prom like?”
“It was one of the best nights of my life.”
I relax. Tonight will be one of the best nights of my life also.
“My friends and I rented a stretch limo. We drove around all night, drinking champagne and yelling out the windows. Hmmm . . . ” Her hum turns into a cough. “Come to think of it, we never ended up going to the prom. But that didn’t matter. All of the people I wanted to see were with me.”
“I understand.” My concerns return. If Nicolas abandons me, distracted by one of his business calls, I’ll be surrounded by people I don’t want to see. “Go back to bed, Susan. Dream of your doctor.”
I end the call, scroll through my phone, and stare at the selfie Hawke loaded. His face is blunt and broad, his nose flattened, scars carved into his perma-stubble. There’s devilment in his pale blue eyes, his lips hitched into a lopsided smile.
I love him. My heart swells with emotion. I love him so damn much.
And I don’t want to spend one evening apart from him.
Which is ridiculous. Hawke will likely be working away from home tonight as he did last night. I have a beautiful dress, a dazzling hair comb, and there will be no other opportunities to wear them. My military man wears T-shirts, not tuxedos. He goes to biker bars, not balls.
A bar filled with people who love and respect him, good people who consider me part of their family.
My phone vibrates in my hand. “Bee Carter,” I answer.
“Hi, honeybee.” It’s my mom, again. She’s called me three times in three days, and every day she sounds happier. “Stop that.” She laughs.
I’m not doing anything. “Mom?”
“I’m talking to Long Haul. He’s making faces at me.”
“I’m a security professional.” A deep voice joins our bizarre conversation. “I don’t make faces.”
“Go away, you big goof,” my mom tells him. “I’m talking to my daughter.” Skin smacks against skin and alarm sweeps over me. Are they naked?
I want my mom to be happy, but I’m not ready for this, not yet. “We can talk later.” When they’re both dressed.
“No, we won’t,” she insists. “I might have someone new in my life now, but you’re my daughter. You will always be my first priority.”
I stare at my phone. I’ve never been able to be her first priority. The customers at the diner always came first. “I’m okay, Mom.”
“Do you have any big news? Something you should tell your mom?”
I frown. She asked a similar question yesterday. “I’m going to a fancy ball ton
ight.”
“Ahhh . . . ”
What does that noise mean? “Mom, do you know something I should?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.” Her voice fills with panic. “I have to go.”
“Mom.” I’m talking to air. She’s ended the call. My lips twist. My mom is a horrible liar, even worse than I am. I tap my phone’s case. She knows something and she doesn’t want me to find out.
I call her back. She doesn’t answer. Can she answer? Do throwaway phones accept incoming calls? I could ask Hawke for his parents’ number. I chew on the inside of my cheek. No, I won’t do that. She’s fine. I’m fine. There’s no need to bother them.
My phone hums again. I gaze down at the small screen. Nicolas has sent me an article on attending charity balls.
I skim over the words. The writers advise to eat before I attend and to wear comfortable shoes, as I will be spending the night standing. I wiggle my wounded toe.
There are also tips to deal with crowds. Crowds, I repeat silently. Being average-sized, I don’t deal well with masses of people. The last crush of heaving, sweating humanity almost trampled me.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m pressing Hawke’s number.
He answers on the first ring.
“What’s wrong?” The concern in his voice unleashes the butterflies in my stomach.
“Nothing is wrong,” I assure my overprotective man. “Will there be a crowd at tonight’s ball? I sent the invitations. There weren’t that many people invited.”
“You sent the invitations for the high-net-worth guests.” Hawke points out the flaw in my reasoning. “They’ll pack as many people as they can into the venue. It’s a security nightmare.”
Voices murmur in the background.
“I don’t care if the guest is the president of the United States,” he snaps. “Everyone entering the building gets screened by one of our men.”
“The chair won’t approve that directive, sir.” Dawg’s reply is barely audible.
“If the chair wants our clients to attend and donate, he will.” The dominance in Hawke’s tone tightens my nipples. “This is an unusual situation calling for unusual precautions.”
“Has something happened?” Will he tell me I can’t go to the ball?
“Nothing has happened and nothing will happen.” He is adamant.
I’m still attending the ball. My disappointment confuses me. This is a fancy event, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’ll be the envy of everyone, arriving in a designer gown on the arm of Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. I’d be an idiot not to want to attend this ball.
“Do you need me, Belinda?”
“Yes,” I answer without thinking. I always need him. “I mean . . . ” Oh hell, I don’t know what I mean or what I want. “You’re busy. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Tell me what you want and I’ll get it.” Hawke sounds eager, as though he also wants to escape, to have a reason to see me.
“Ummm . . . ” I search my brain for an excuse, any excuse. “I haven’t received any texts from Friendly this morning.” This is the first thing I think of.
Hawke hesitates and I cringe, certain I’ve made a mistake. He has work to do, preparations for tonight to oversee, and I’m distracting him with trivial matters, asking him to bring my erotic fantasies to life.
“Do you want to receive a text from Friendly?” he finally asks.
“I’m wet, hot, empty.” I rub one of my hands over my skirt. “So empty.” I lift the hem, hook my fingers in the waistband of my panties, and draw them down to my knees. “I’m bare under my skirt.”
“You weren’t bare this morning.” Hawke’s voice deepens and I smile, knowing he wants this as much as I do. “You were wearing a tiny slip of white silk.”
“I’m not wearing that now.” I step out of the circle of delicate fabric. “I don’t want any barriers between us, don’t want any delay in having you, to feel you pounding into my pussy with your big cock, making me scream your name as I come, clenching you tight.”
He growls, the primitive sound rolling down my spine.
I cup my mons, thrilled by his response. “Will you bend me over and take me from behind? Put your palm prints on my ass so everyone knows I’m yours?”
“Give me a half an hour.”
“You have twenty minutes,” I counter, taking control of this encounter. “Or I’ll start without you.” I end the call and laugh softly. My favorite voyeur doesn’t like to miss anything. He’ll rush to arrive on time, thinking of nothing else.
My phone dances against my fingers. I glance down at the screen.
Friendly: In 20 min, go to 501 North, strip naked & lie on the bed. Good girls earn rewards.
My smile stretches across my face. He is thinking of me. I scoop up my panties, venture into our bedroom, place the folded silk on the bed, and remove the box with this morning’s reward from the closet. Pulling two large strands away from my face, I slide the teeth of my beautiful comb into my hair, fastening them in place.
When he fucks me senseless, he’ll see his gift in my hair. I hum happily as I wander around the condo, ensuring the space is ready for our cat’s arrival. Minutes pass as I sweep the floors, tuck the bar stools under the counter, wipe the kitchen appliances with a damp sponge.
Cyndi texts me, asking about the Harry Winston box. I take multiple pictures of my diamond-and-silver hair comb, capturing every divine detail, and I send it to her with the caption, “Look what I got today.”
She replies, attaching a picture of her movie-star boyfriend shirtless with the same caption. I laugh. My best friend always knows how to lighten my mood.
I tuck my phone and passcard into the bodice of my dress and head out the door, striving for the same happiness. My ballerina flats sink into the rich blue carpet. The light from the gold hallway fixtures flickers against the cream walls.
I press the button for the elevator. The doors open and I stride into the small space. My face reflects in the mirrored walls, the diamonds in my hair sparkling, catching my attention. The dog tags also shine, looking patriotic and surprisingly right against the red-and-white stripes of my Dolce & Gabbana dress.
My style is eclectic yet tolerable, the lining of the skirt concealing my panty-less state. My shoes, however, are hideous, but I don’t have a choice. The ballerina flats are my only option.
I’m lying to myself. As Hawke often tells me, there’s always a choice.
Months ago, I would have chosen not to meet with a man rather than be seen wearing the wrong footwear. I hadn’t known Hawke then. He hadn’t changed me yet, hadn’t shown me that there are more important things in life than fashion.
I gaze at my reflection. Today, I’m a different person. I’m no longer a little girl playing dress-up, a carefully garbed fashionista, or a sophisticated seductress. I’m a regular woman, imperfect yet happy, my cheeks pink and my eyes glowing because I’m having a secret rendezvous with the man I love.
This encounter was initiated by me. I can’t justify my perverted behavior by pointing to the promise of a reward or by claiming ignorance of what I’ll be asked to do. Hawke is wealthy, he can buy a woman any designer treasures she covets, and I know we’ll have sex in front of an audience.
I rub my thighs together, my pussy moistening, my body heating with excitement. The doors open and I saunter along the fifth-floor hallway, my hips swaying, my worries about tonight smothered by lust and anticipation.
I wave my passcard over five oh one north’s sensor and open the door. Thick drapes cover the windows. Empty chairs are arranged in front of a raised black stage. A bed is positioned next to a glass table. The immaculately white sheets are pulled tightly over the mattress, the corners folded with a military precision. Three condom packages are scattered on the table.
I’m the first to arrive. There’s no one else in the room. I stroll purposefully down the aisle and onto the stage. He said to strip. I’ll strip.
A floorboard creaks under my shoes
, a spotlight shines down on me, and the rest of the room is plunged into darkness. I gaze down at my feet and tap the stage. A circle of loose floorboards surrounds the bed, wires visible in the gaps. Stepping on one must activate the lights. Hawke, that clever bastard, has automated the process.
I wish he’d added music. The room is eerily silent. I hum and dance to the tune in my head as I reach behind me, unzip my dress. A door creaks open. Are members of my audience arriving? I shrug my shoulders, and fabric slides down my arms, breasts, snagging on my hips.
I catch it before it falls, drape it on the table. The bra soon joins it. I’m too eager, too aroused to prolong my striptease.
Turning slowly, I allow them to see all of me. My nipples are pink and taut, one unblemished, the other marked by my possessive man’s teeth. The dog tags are nestled in the shallow valley between my small breasts, another declaration of ownership. My neatly trimmed private curls are damp, my musk scenting the air. The spotlight heats the tender skin of my ass cheeks.
The men seated in the chairs can look. They can’t touch. My body belongs to one man. I climb onto the bed, position myself on my hands and knees, facing away from the audience, and I wait for Hawke.
Chapter Four
I SENSE HAWKE before I see him, the air shifting around him, the crackling electricity of awareness tickling the fine hair on my neck and causing my pussy to hum with happiness.
I widen my stance. If Hawke and our audience look closely, they’ll see my pink pussy, brown curls, empty entrance, the wetness glistening on my pale thighs. They’ll realize I’m ready for him, eager to be fucked.
A floorboard creaks as Hawke approaches the bed, and my anticipation spirals upward. I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of leather, engine grease, and man, my man. He hasn’t disguised his unique aroma today. He’s aware that he’s my fantasy, that I don’t want to have sex with anyone else.
Knowing my protective former marine, every member of our audience today can be trusted with my reputation, with my good-girl image, my life. This frees my inner pervert. I wave my ass in the air, enticing Hawke closer, wanting him to touch and taste my bare skin.
