by Clara James
“Good evening, Hank,” I returned the greeting. “I’m here-”
“To see Mr. Verrill,” he said for me. “Yes, he mentioned he was expecting you. And, if I might say, he’s a very lucky man.”
I smiled, dropping my eyes bashfully. Hank didn’t seem to notice though, he was already reaching for his phone and calling Preston’s home.
“Yes, Sir,” he grinned into the handset. “I certainly will.” With that he replaced the phone and lifted his face back to mine. “Mr. Verrill asks that you head on up,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied, slightly taken aback. I’d just assumed that, like last time, he’d meet me in the lobby and we’d head out for our date. “Right,” I added, trying to regain my composure.
“It’s 403,” Hank kindly offered.
“Thanks,” I nodded, swiveling on the ball of one foot so I was facing the elevator. I gradually made my way across the pristine floor that shined like a mirror and reached out to push the elevator call button. The doors swished open almost instantly, and I was met by a strong smell of perfume, obviously someone who bathed in Chanel had recently vacated the tiny enclosed space.
I slipped inside, pushed my index finger to the ‘4’ and tried to slow the rapid rhythm of my pulse. Meeting him a second time was possibly more nerve wracking than the first. Although, on the face of it, that made no sense; but it didn’t prevent it from being true. I knew that he wasn’t a violent man, he’d shown himself to be a perfect gentleman; maybe too much of one. I wasn’t concerned for my safety, not my physical safety at least. But there was something else about him, something that seemed to scream ‘danger’, something that terrified me. Of course the irony was, that same something was what called to me and drew me to accept his proposal for a second date.
His front door was like all the others on the floor, a beautiful redwood with brass numbers screwed to the center. What made Preston’s door stand out from the rest was that it had a houseplant in a large terracotta pot to the right of it. It was a strange looking thing; standing around four feet, it was a little like a miniature palm tree, but with wilder, spiky leaves that had red ting on their edges.
Before I had a chance to ring the bell, which was on the opposite side of the door frame, the door itself slowly opened. Preston’s head appeared in the gap and he caught me staring at his plant.
“Madagascar dragon tree,” he said.
Startled, my eyes snapped up to his. “Oh,” I mumbled. “It’s...err...very nice,” I added, smiling awkwardly.
He grinned broadly, before pulling the door open wider. “Why don’t you come on in?” he suggested, making a quick flick with his head in the direction of the apartment.
“Thanks,” I politely replied, following his request, side-stepping past him and through the doorway.
He was dressed more casually then the first time I saw him, but he was still very nicely put together with charcoal dress pants, shiny black loafers and a matching leather belt that hugged his slim waist. His shirt was a soft pink with the top button loose. His hair too was in a more free and easy style than I’d seen before. The light brown strands had much less gel in them, giving his style a softer look. A couple of unruly locks had fallen from his side sweep and were resting on his forehead. On this occasion, he wasn’t wearing his glasses and I was offered a much better view of his rich, brown eyes.
“It’s great to see you again,” he said, closing the door.
“You too,” I responded, nervously crossing one foot over the other as I stood in the middle of his living room. It was a substantial size, with book shelves lining all of one wall, and windows that opened out onto a large balcony in the other wall. There was hardwood floors beneath my feet, with a square rug that was home to, two three-seater couches placed in an L-shape. In the room were also a coffee table and an entertainment center.
Through an archway to my left, I could see the kitchen. And to my right, there was a hallway; I couldn’t see very far down that passageway, but I could see a couple of landscape photographs in frames on the wall.
“Well,” he said taking a couple of strides toward me. “I’ve got dinner coming, do you want to take a seat in here?” he offered. “Or don’t you mind seeing the unimpressive wizard behind the curtain?” He smiled, as he gestured to the kitchen with his head.
I laughed at his joke, grateful that he had a knack for breaking the ice. “I...umm...” I paused, figuring out which of the two options was more preferable. Being around him made me terribly anxious, but sitting in the living room with only my thoughts for company would probably work me into an even worse state. “I like to watch a master at work,” I eventually concluded.
“Oh, hey, now,” he quickly stated, lifting his index finger. “I never claimed to be a master,” he corrected me. “Don’t go getting your hopes up, I don’t want to be the cause of disappointment.”
“I’m sure you won’t disappoint me at all,” I replied innocently and automatically. It only took a beat for the possible subtext to hit me. “Uh, I...errr,” I gabbled. “I mean, I-”
“It’s okay,” Preston grinned. “I know what you mean.” Still smiling warmly, he held out his arm encouraging me toward the kitchen. “Come on,” he said as I began to move. “I hope you like risotto.”
“Yeah,” I replied, nodding as I walked past him.
The kitchen was incredibly clean considering he’d been cooking. The counter tops were all dark granite and cupboards were a sleek, modern red color. A pot sat on the stove simmering gently and the scent of asparagus drifted from the grill.
“It’s nothing too fancy,” he said as he walked up behind me. Placing a hand on my back, he gently turned me to a small dining table, which was set out with plates, silverware and a couple of candles waiting to be lit. “I mean, I like to cook,” he added, pulling out a drawer and grabbing a wooden spoon. “But I don’t get much time to do it, so I’m certainly no expert.” With a self-effacing shrug, he lifted the lid of the pan and gave his rice a brief stir before covering it again. Once he’d taken a quick look at the grill and was satisfied things were coming along nicely, he wandered over to me.
I still stood by the table, one hand resting on the back of a chair, while I tried to think of something to say; it wasn’t usually so hard to make conversation with a client. I suspect the problem was that when we went to the charity dinner he’d made such a fuss about getting to know the ‘real me’. I was more than a little reluctant, to say the least, and it had made me clam up.
“Wine?” he asked, pointing to a bottle of red that was already on the table.
“Please,” I nodded.
Before I’d replied, he was already opening the bottle. He poured me a glass before pouring one for himself. Offering me my drink, he picked up his own and lifted it. “To...” he began, his eyes searching the ceiling. “A great evening?” he suggested.
“To a great evening,” I echoed softly, clinking my glass to his. I was careful to sip slowly on the wine and was even more careful not to consume too much over dinner. Although it would have done wonders for my nerves, I was worried about what I might do, or more importunately, say while under the influence. Ironically, Preston had something about him that made it easy to be myself; made me want (on some level at least) to be myself. I had to keep a lid on that unruly side.
Once the meal was served, I was able to chat about the food and then, eventually, found my way onto the topic of his work. “Have you been busy?” I wondered aloud, feeling that even though he was previously reluctant to talk about his career, the workload itself was something we could dwell on for a few minutes.
“Hmm,” he hummed, chewing his mouthful and swallowing before saying anything more. “Umm, yeah, I guess so,” he nodded, reaching for his wine and washing the remnants of food down with it. “Actually, one of my colleagues keeps asking about you,” he added.
“Excuse me?” I replied, sure I must have misheard him.
He nodded slowly, as he chuckled. “Yeah, h
is name’s Ralph. I don’t think you ever met him at the ball, but he saw me with you and he’s been badgering me.”
“Oh,” I replied, for want of anything else to say. I’d never had a client named Ralph, but perhaps he’d given me another name. Was it possible that Preston had heard the details of what I’d done with another man? “He knows me?” I asked, my brow creasing in anxiety more than curiosity.
“No,” he said, his eyes widening slightly. “No, I don’t think so. He just thinks you’re beautiful and wants to know how I came to meet a woman like you.”
“Oh,” I repeated, this time with a deflated tone. I was glad that Ralph wasn’t a client, or should I say former client, but the facts surrounding Preston’s meeting me was not something I was thrilled to have shared with his colleagues. “I’m sure his opinion of me changed when you told him.”
“Told him what?” Preston asked, genuine confusion etched in his expression.
With a scoff of self-derision, I shook my head. “You know what, I’m sorry,” I whispered, reaching for my glass and tipping a large mouthful straight down my throat. “I’m not being very good company,” I added. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“No, I want to know what you meant,” he insisted, his features still studying me closely.
Using the index finger of my left hand to sweep some hair from my right shoulder, I replaced the glass on the table. I hesitated, before finally shrugging and trying to dismiss the subject. “It’s nothing,” I assured him calmly.
“It’s something to me,” he countered. “I’m serious, I want to know what you think I told him.”
“I don’t know,” I huffed. “The truth?”
“Which is?” he prompted, fixing me with a serious, almost overbearing stare.
“That I’m just a whore you picked up,” I answered, unashamedly maintaining eye contact.
Preston’s jaw dropped fractionally open, but he said nothing for a few seconds. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his head tipped to one side and he tapped his upper teeth thoughtfully with his tongue. “You believe that’s what I think of you?” he eventually uttered, his words quiet.
My eyes moved over his face, and I thought I saw what looked like hurt in it. However, I quickly dismissed that from my mind; why on Earth would he be hurt by my assumption about his perception of me? Nevertheless, his expression continued to render me mute.
Suddenly, and with a scrape of chair legs, he got to his feet. He quickly made his way around the small table and gripped my hand, which sat limply on the table. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt me, but it was more than enough for me to realize that I’d upset him. Without a word, he tugged on my wrist, coaxing me to my feet. I obeyed without a fight and as soon as I was standing, he placed his other hand on my waist, turning me to face him.
“Is that how you think I see you?” he asked, refusing to release my hand.
“I...” I mumbled. “I...I don’t know.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” he continued.
I could no longer look at him. My eyes darted over his shoulder, fixing on the oven and the pot that still sat upon the stove.
“Hey,” he urged, the fingers that had been clasping my wrist moving to my face. With a feather light brush, the backs of his fingers caressed my cheekbone. “Is that what you think?” he repeated, his brow crinkling in concern and his eyes boring into me as if he wanted to get all the way to my soul.
“I don’t know,” I blurted, my voice suddenly tearful. The lump in my throat rose and the stinging began at the backs of my eyes. “I don’t know any more,” I added, a single droplet escaping onto my cheek. “I thought I was in control, that I knew what I was doing...But it’s all...I don’t know anything anymore.” The words came in a jerky, emotional mess that didn’t even make much sense to me.
Preston’s response was both confusing and unexpected. As the fingers that had stroked my cheek moved into my hair, he gently grasped the back of my head and pulled me toward him. Without a word, he melded his soft lips to mine.
Chapter Three
How Do You Know
Preston kept a tender but tight hold of my hand as he led me into his bedroom. By then, my tears had dried in almost invisible, salty streaks. My heart was fluttering in my chest and, although I was no more capable of rational speech, it was for a very different reason.
He’d said nothing as he’d tentatively explored my lips with several more soft kisses. No words had been uttered before those explorations had turned more frenzied and his tongue quested entrance into my mouth. Speech hadn’t seemed necessary as the hand at my waist moved to entwine with my fingers and we wandered from the kitchen.
This man was no less of a mystery to me. In fact, if anything, he was more of one. There I’d been, an emotional wreck, and he still seemed interested in taking me to bed. Was he that desperate? No, there was more to it than just sex – even then, in my muddle-headed state, I think I realized that. For reasons unknown to me, and perhaps unknown to both of us, he appeared to be drawn to me in a similar way I’d experienced with him. Maybe his better judgment was telling him to kick the crazy bitch out of his apartment while he still could, but if that was the case, another part of him was fighting it.
Gently, with his free hand, he grasped the circular doorknob of his room and opened it. As he pushed it wide, he glanced over his shoulder at me. I don’t know what he saw in my face, but whatever it was caused him to flash a reassuring smile, before crossing the threshold and pulling me softly behind him.
He didn’t stop moving until he’d reached a step or two from the foot of his bed. When his feet did come to a stop, he turned to face me. “Do you want to know what I think of you?” he asked, a soft half smile lightening the seriousness of his face.
Moistening my lips with the tip of my tongue, I looked questioningly back at him, but he didn’t elaborate. “I...I...” I stammered.
“Well, I’m going to show you,” he stated, his fingers slowly disengaging from mine. Both hands lifting, he placed them comfortingly on my shoulders, while his thumbs stroked the bare flesh at my clavicles.
What was about to happen struck me like a ton of bricks. He’d paid a ridiculous amount of money for this and I was in no state to dazzle him. But money aside, I was desperate not to disappoint this man. “Preston,” I whispered. “Maybe I should go,” I suggested weakly. “I can come back another night, when I’m not such a mess and...err...”
He hushed any further effort to speak by molding his mouth to mine in a slow steady lean forward. When he began to pull away his lower lip clung to mine a little longer than the rest of him. “I don’t want you to leave,” he softly explained.
“But...I,” I insisted, shaking my head. I tried to take a step back, but he kept his hands on my shoulders and his feet moved in sync with mine, keeping us exactly as close as we had been. “I’m not....Your paying me a lot of money and-”
Again, he silenced me with a kiss; this time trailing the very tip of his tongue between my slightly parted lips. Gradually he slid it from left to right, prompting me to whimper helpless against his mouth.
I don’t know whether he was just trying to shut me up or if he realized he could render me incapable of thinking the anxious, tense thoughts that were bombarding my brain. In fact, he could render me incapable of thinking much of anything at all. I was quickly heading that way. Concerns about the businesslike nature of what brought us to that moment, were beginning to recede. The worry that I had what was a totaled $50,000 obligation to fulfill, disappeared like a faint scent in the breeze. The only thing that filled my mind was the feel of his hands, his lips, his tongue, the taste of him, the smell of him and the heat of his body so close to my own.
Preston’s hands were running down my arms and reaching around my back, while his tongue extended a little further from the confines of his own mouth. It swirled and entwined with mine, like two vines so tangled and connected that it’s difficult to tell where one ends and the othe
r begins. As he tipped his head to the right, slanting his lips over mine and tasting the roof of my mouth, his breath came soft against my cheek. It was the most seemingly insignificant sensation, but it caused goose bumps to break out all over the back of my neck. My own hands, which had up until then been uselessly hanging by my sides, sprang into action curling around his waist and grasping the smooth shirt at his back.
So transfixed by that gently brush of air against my face, I didn’t realize his fingers had reached the zipper of my dress and he was beginning to pull it down. Nothing about his movements was rushed, clumsy or frantic. It was as if he’d carefully choreographed every action. As he used his right hand to glide the zipper down to the small of my back, his left hand followed; the tips of his fingers caressing every inch of my skin that was exposed. It was such a delicate brush that it was almost ticklish.
I gave a muffled groan of protest, as he disconnected his mouth from mine. Quickly opening my eyes, I found him peering down at me with a radiant smile. His fingers meanwhile had once again found my shoulders and were confidently pushing down the fabric of my dress. As it reached my upper arms, gravity took over and the dress puddled at my abdomen. His hands were almost instantly at my hips, helping it the rest of the way. When it hit the floor, I watched his face closely. His gaze moved down my legs, lingering at the top of the tan holdups, before his eyes slowly made a return journey, seeming to caress me as they moved over my hips, my belly and the cleavage that was pushed up by a white, lace Wonderbra. Finally, and with an even broader grin, his focus returned to my face.
Expecting him to immediately begin removing my underwear, he surprised me when, instead, he resumed the kiss that had been driving me crazy. It was a little more intense though, his tongue coaxing mine into a playful wrestle that moved smoothly from my mouth to his and back again. As my toes started to curl, and my hips begin to move involuntarily against him, my right hand twisted in the cotton of his shirt and gripped him ever more tightly.
