by Dawn Steele
He wears only his briefs as he goes to her in a dance they know so intimately. He is far taller than she is, and he has always admired her petite brunette beauty.
“Take me,” she whispers, her dark eyes flashing.
He bends his head for a voracious kiss, grabbing her body against his in a bout of passion that she craves and would never get from her rich lawyer husband. His hands roam over her waist and hips and breasts, undoing the sash of the terrycloth robe so that it opens to reveal a generous expanse of cleavage and stomach.
He drops her robe, crushing his mouth to hers and running his tongue and lips down her jawline and neck, nipping her well-scrubbed and satiny skin very lightly with his teeth. Then he scoops her up in his strong arms – the very arms with which he has carried the girl up three flights of stairs to his apartment earlier. His cock is rock hard and ready as he carries his writhing burden to her bedroom.
Once there, he throws her onto the flouncy, four-posted bed. Her red lips smile up at him as she reaches for his well-formed cock. He slashes away her groping hands. It’s a game they like to play, this push and pull. He would be the dominant aggressor and ravisher, and she would be his willing slave.
He falls onto her with wanton abandonment – kissing and sucking her flesh in a riot of need and desire. He suckles her dry breasts, reveling in the smell of her sweetly soaped skin, and traverses his tongue downwards to lick her velvety core.
Then he slips on a condom in a practiced way and takes her hard – the way she likes to be taken. He bends her legs until she is almost folded in half, and ruts against her in this manner, all the while lowering his head to devour her lips.
He loses himself in the passion of fucking. For it is fucking – nothing but the pure, pristine slap, slap, slap of sex organ cleaving into fleshy sex organ walls, because he does not allow this transaction to be anything but monetary.
He makes sure she climaxes before he does so that he would have a satisfied customer. Then he rolls himself off her and tears off the sodden condom. He ties it up with an expert loop and throws it into the bin beneath the dressing table.
He flops himself onto the bed beside her and stares at the ceiling.
“Turn off the lights,” she says.
He gets up to obey without question. He climbs into bed beside her again and draws the covers over both their naked bodies. This is the part that he likes best of all – cuddling. And she only allows him to do it because she’s all climaxed and sated with sex.
“Where’s your husband?” he asks.
“London.”
He relaxes and holds her in his arms, stroking her hair absently while he thinks of the girl he left back in his apartment.
Abby.
He wonders if that is her real name. She is pretty in an elfin way, but far too skinny. He remembers how large her eyes are in her thin face, and how frightened she was when she gazed at him for the first time. He doesn’t get that look often from girls. They look at him with desire, perhaps. Lust. Longing. But never fear.
It makes him feel like a predator.
He wonders if she is running away from something. No, scratch that. She is definitely running away from something. Or more likely, someone. He is sure that she is a victim of abuse. He is not equipped to deal with abuse victims, but she does not seem to be psychologically damaged on the surface.
Who abused her then? A father? Stepfather? Boyfriend? She appears rather young, and he wouldn’t put her age past eighteen.
When she’s ready to talk, he reckons she will talk. When she’s ready to disappear, he reckons she will disappear too – in a puff of smoke. But she’s no ordinary victim. There’s something about her that isn’t right. Something in her demeanor that hints at layers between layers of conflict.
Meanwhile, Claire is drifting off to sleep in his arms. She is warm and compact and nice to hold.
“Don’t forget about Rachel tomorrow,” she murmurs.
“How can I?”
“You don’t like her.” Claire fingers his chest lightly, tracing a nail in the depression between his pectorals.
“She can be cruel.” He cringes when he thinks of the things Rachel makes him do.
“She pays well.”
That she does, he concedes.
And he will take every red cent he can get.
MORNING
When he gets back to his apartment, Abby is up and frying something in the small kitchen. The aroma of pancakes permeates the entire lounge.
“I found some old pancake flour in your cupboards,” she says, turning around to greet him as he enters.
“It’s probably expired by now.”
“By three months,” she agrees. “But it smells OK.”
“I’ve bought some bread.” He holds up a paper bag. “And peanut butter. And plenty of crisps.”
“Did you get any more eggs?”
He shakes his head, feeling deficient. He isn’t aware he is out of eggs.
“It’s OK. We can go grocery shopping later. Sit down and have some breakfast.”
He sits down at the table while she flips a pancake onto a plate and sets it before him. He feels ill at ease, as if she’s the host and he the guest in his own apartment.
“Did you get butter?” she asks, rifling in his bag.
“Margarine.”
“Good.” She takes it out and sets the tub on the table.
He smiles at her. She has certainly made herself at home in a short period of time. She is looking so much better today. There is more color in her cheeks and her face does not appear to be so gaunt. Her short dark hair is neatly combed. She wears his T-shirt and shorts from last night, and they hang from her small frame like oversized cloth bags.
“You don’t have a TV,” she observes as he forks a cut piece of pancake into his mouth.
“I don’t watch TV.”
She does not appear disappointed. Perhaps she is planning to leave today.
He says, “Do you need to go anywhere? A doctor perhaps . . . ”
“You’re still trying to fob that doctor off to me. Why? Do you get a commission for referrals?” she teases.
“I just thought – ” He motions to her scratched and bruised arms.
“They’ll heal,” she says dismissively.
“Where are your parents?”
“At home.”
“They know you’re here?”
She shrugs. “They don’t care.”
“You sure about that?”
She makes a warding off gesture.
He tries a different tack. “You have someplace to stay in New York? You know anyone?”
“I know you,” she says softly, her eyes bright in her face. His breath catches a little in his throat. When her expression is wistful, she’s almost beautiful.
“I’m someone you just met last night.”
She shrugs again.
Then she says shyly, “You were kind to me.”
He doesn’t say anything as he eats the rest of his pancake. When he finishes, she asks, “Would you like another one?”
He nods, and she puts another on his plate.
“Funny,” he remarks. “I was figuring I’d come back here and you’d be gone with all my furniture by now.”
“Well, yeah, I get that a lot from people.”
“How old are you really?”
“Old enough. Where did you really go last night?”
They lock eyes. He’s the first to grin.
“OK,” he concedes. “You have your secrets and I have mine. I get it.”
Of course, the problem now is what he would do with her. She can’t live with him indefinitely.
“Listen,” he says, “you can’t stay here. You need to decide what to do. You won’t let me call your parents. You won’t let me you call a doctor. Should I be calling social services?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I have decided what I’m going to do.”
He waits as she flips a pancake for herself. She puts it on a
plate and sits down at the table across from him. She slathers her pancake with butter. She looks up, her dark eyes beguiling. They are a coal black color, swirling with infinite mysteries. He can’t help thinking that with a little makeup and the right clothes, she would be a beauty.
In fact, he can’t help thinking what a great subject she would be to paint.
She says, “I’m going to get a job. Then I’ll find a place for myself. You know of any good apartments around here?”
He thinks for a while. “It may be difficult for you to afford one of your own right now. This is New York, after all. The best you can do is to find a roommate. There are student newspapers going around in which people advertise for roommates.”
He pauses. He is thinking that it would be nice if she stayed a little longer.
“You can stay here until you get back on your feet,” he adds, hoping she would say yes.
“Where would I sleep?” She flashes him a sudden coy smile.
He laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t compromise your virtue. You can sleep on the couch. It converts into a sofa bed and it’s quite comfortable. I have some spare pillows. But I do expect you to pay part of my rent. This is not a free ride.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t have it another way.” She cocks her head thoughtfully. “I need to borrow money for some clothes. I’ll pay you back, of course. Do you know of any jobs I can do?”
“I can think of something.”
He tells her what he has in mind.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOU RTEEN
CHAPTER FIF TEEN
CHAPTER SIX TEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINE TEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
