Strum Me

by Allison, Ketley

  “Stop,” I say.

  Mack, or this Jane, halts in the small foyer, the door slowly shutting behind her and taking all the gold shimmer with it.

  But it’s enough light to glimpse her smooth angles and flawless beauty.

  She’d smoothed her hair to the point that it falls iron straight, down past her breasts. Her eyes are lined in black kohl, a prominent framing of the jade in her eyes. Her brows are perfect arches, her shoulders bare, save for a smattering of light freckles I know belong to Mack, and she wears a tight, simple black dress that probably costs more than a night in my suite.

  Porcelain shaped legs stand at an angle, her black pumps lifting and muscling her calves. Her bare arms hang by her side.

  The last piece of her I note is the scarlet of her lips. Slightly parted, not upturned or downturned, but lined with grim acceptance.

  “Take it off,” I say in the dark.

  The crack below the door allows me to see her shift, lift the straps of her dress, and slide her arms through. She shimmies out of it without a word, and I wonder, with the way her chin juts out at my request, how long she’ll give me the silent treatment.

  She won’t win.

  “Come to me,” I say, lying in wait.

  Her heels remain on, the soft clips of her shoes the only sound as she walks, hips swaying, in black lingerie.

  I salivate at the sight of her. My tongue is desperate to dip into her and lick, taste, and suck until she becomes a part of my blood again, but I refrain from any movement, other than sipping my drink.

  “Turn.”

  She does, the full view of her rump a mere arm’s length away. Her g-string is as thin as the laces on my dress shoes, her cheeks rounded, plumped, and raised.

  I bare my teeth, wanting a bite.

  “Your hair,” I say. “Put it over one shoulder.”

  She shows me her profile as she uses a slim hand to brush the silk of her hair to one side, showcasing the line down the middle of her back, the clasp of her bra.

  Even cast in shadow, she’s sexier than any woman, more alluring than any top-shelf scotch, and probably angrier than a bag of feral cats as she does exactly what I instruct.

  “Bend over,” I order.

  Her shoulders stiffen into sharp angles of pride. Mack wants to rip my head off, but Jane knows the rules.

  She bends over, her hands resting on the glass coffee table.

  Her ass just became a lot more delectable.

  “Spread your legs.”

  She does, but her head remains rebelliously high.

  I dip my index finger in my whiskey, then bring it up to her exposed folds. As soon as I touch her, I hiss in a breath.

  She’s soaking wet. Swollen. Fucking delightful.

  I trace her with my finger, sinking in only by a digit, then retreating.

  Mack tries to hide it, but I note the trembling in her knees. It’s not from the strain of holding her position.

  “Let me ask you something,” I say, my voice tight. My cock strains against my pants, demanding its due.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “When you fuck a client, do you ever come?”

  Still, she says nothing.

  “Do they ever pleasure you so hard and fast your head spins? Do you let them take your control, fill all your holes, and scream from multiple orgasms? Or…” I dip my finger again, then idly trace the outside of her folds before moving her thong aside and circling her clit. She shudders. “Do they disappoint you so deeply that you go home afterwords and fill yourself with your fingers, fuck yourself into oblivion?” I smile. “After tonight, I’ll make sure it’s the image of my face, my cock, that you finger-fuck to.”

  Despite the goading, she doesn’t answer. I don’t expect her to. No, she’s a pro.

  I lower my head, using the darkness like a curtain as I lean forward and say, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Jane.”

  And I indulge in a whiskey tasting.

  * * *

  McKenna

  I hear him behind me, shifting. A brush of clothing, a lifting from the seat.

  I stay where I am, hip jutted out uncomfortably, preferring to face the wall than stand in front of Mason in full, come fuck me attire, the dark silhouettes of our environment creeping across his face as he sits, still as stone, and directs me to pose in front of him.

  Tries to get me to break character.

  Heckles and pushes, then, when that doesn’t work, traces my delicate area with the penmanship of a cursive writer.

  It’s why I gasp when his finger disappears and his hot mouth hits my core. Mason’s tongue spears the most sensitive part of me, and I buckle, my head falling low, my teeth biting down on any moan that wants to escape.

  I push against his lips, asking for more even as my brain demands I straighten and saunter away. My fingers twitch like they want to reach behind and tangle in his hair. My hips join the dance of his tongue and the suck of his lips around my clit as he coaxes, beckons, summons me to come—

  A dry, calloused hand grips my shoulder, brings me to a stand, and spins me around. A hungry mouth hits mine and parts my lips, exploring as though he has a right to, tasting of alcohol and me.

  He cups my face with both hands, his thumbs caressing my cheeks so softly compared to the duel of his tongue in my pussy, stroking and sucking. He’s taking me like I’m property, like I’m his, and my damn head falls back to let him plunder.

  Holding back a moan, I grip his biceps, but I’m not pushing him away or snarling at the audacity of his stolen kiss. Because I’m not Mack. I can’t be.

  I’m Jane, and he’s nothing but my next client.

  Stay cold.

  Remain calculated.

  Don’t betray me, heart.

  His tongue strokes against mine, then, when I gasp for air, claims my breath.

  Mason lifts me by the thighs, directing my legs to circle his torso as he continues to own my mouth, and walks us to the bed.

  I fall against the mattress first, with him on top of me. His erection presses against my slit, so thick behind his jeans, hard and grinding. He moves in circles, but I refuse to moan again. I won’t. My body can experience the pleasure. I’ll even let it reminisce about the old days, like the first time Mason Payne’s fingers stroked me to ecstasy.

  My mind, however, will stay my own. He won’t take it, or claim it, or make me weak with second-guesses and what ifs.

  This is nothing but a transaction with a fool. A man who thinks he can take what he wants, especially if he’s told he can’t have it.

  It’s not until he elicits a moan that I realize, despite the cloak of protection I’ve put around my mind, my body is betraying me. My clit is so swollen, it’s begging for the lace to be ripped so there’s no longer anything between Mason and me.

  Breaking our kiss, Mason rises on his hands so he’s hovering above. “Take off your bra.”

  I open my eyes, and despite having them closed for so long, he’s set in stark relief. The slashes of cheek bone. Eyes remaining the color of daylight despite the surrounding night. Strands of hair falling down his forehead. And the bunched muscles of his shoulders and arms, coiled and ready to spring. His arms are stronger than I remember, bumps and ridges undulating beneath his skin, his strength seeping out in testosterone-fueled waves.

  He’d lost his shirt. When did he take off his shirt?

  “Look at me,” he says.

  I am. My eyes score every inch of him, except for his stare.

  “I said, look at me.”

  I don’t.

  “Mack—”

  I clench my abs, lift up, and wrap my legs around his waist, using my strongest muscles to flip us around so he’s on the bottom and I rise to the top.

  My hair goes everywhere and I swoop it to one side, sitting on him, taking control, and initiating my own rhythm.

  Mason groans beneath me. I grind harder. I’m building to orgasm despite our remaining clothing, and I bite my lower lip as I rub again
st his denim and take myself there.

  “It’s Jane,” I say to him. “You don’t get to call me anything else.”

  His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he tries to direct the flow to better stroke his dick.

  I peel the straps of my bra off, not all the way, but so they dangle against my arms and showcase more breast. Then I remove his hands.

  “This is her time,” I say through my sharp breaths. “Not yours.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Mason says, the muscles in his stomach contracting. “‘Cause you still look like the girl who begged me to fuck her in high school. There ain’t no Jane here. Just my Mack.”

  I lift up to my knees so I can undo his jeans and release him. His dick springs out, hot, hard and swollen. I feel like if I even graze it with my fingers, I’ll send him over the brink.

  Mason’s breathing between his teeth as he looks on.

  I grip his cock and hold it against my sex. Its tip nearly hits my belly-button, and I stroke, up and down, letting the lace of my underwear cause more friction on one side, more delayed pleasure.

  Mason throws back his head, the muscles in his neck bulging as he groans.

  “This is what you want,” I say, then shimmy down until it’s my mouth against his tip instead. “So … this is what I’ll give.”

  Eyes closed, I embody the Jane I’ve refined over the years when my lips first circle his shaft. I think back to the first time I held a stranger’s dick and sucked it for money. Convince myself it’s no different to what I’m doing right now. I shouldn’t remember this particular cock and how it was my first … everything. It gave me my first orgasm, quickly becoming the organ that I wanted to replace my fingers for the rest of time. It tastes the same, too—amazing how I remember that. Salty, sweet, scented with raw male—

  I scrunch my eyes shut. Picture someone else. A regular. A new client. Anyone but Mason as I twist and squeeze and bring about throaty groans from my subject.

  I’ll stick to my talents. The ones I’ve crafted to perfection. The sucking and cupping and swirling. The grazing of teeth against his most sensitive areas. The wicked smile I toss his way before flicking my tongue rapidly across his tip, causing his hips to grind, his hands to tangle in my hair and direct my head lower, my mouth adapting to the sudden deep throat.

  Tears prick in the corners of my eyes, but with them closed, I can hide the pain.

  None of it is real, and heart, if you’re still listening, this is what makes me break.

  “Fuck…” Mason growls, his hands now bunching the sheets as he splays out, receiving my artwork with utter abandonment.

  His dick pops out of my mouth and I crawl back on top of him, sliding my underwear off, and he watches every movement as I re-position and hold him against my slit and rub, back and forth, until he’s slick with me.

  “Jesus—” Mason starts to say, but when my folds take him in and I slide all the way down excruciatingly slow, he has no words left.

  God, he feels good. It feels so good. No one fills me the way Mason does, and the tiny moan that escapes my lips is mine alone. I start the pace, giving my clit what it wanted so badly. My heart may be in pain, but my body’s aiming for pleasure, and I can’t resist the gorgeous male specimen beneath me from helping me get there.

  In the brief moment I’ve relinquished control, Mason uses it. He flips us again and he’s on top, pushing in hard, harder, but not so painfully that it hurts. I want him deeper. I lift my hips to tell him so and Mason doesn’t disappoint.

  Our skin smacks together, our friction building the kind of heat I haven’t experienced in years. My nails scrape across his back and the part of me still functioning rationally is glad I get to mark him.

  We build to orgasm together, our faces close, but still so distant. I vaguely hear him continue to coax, “Look at me. Goddammit, look at me,” but I don’t listen.

  I bury my face in his neck when I come, when I clench around him and soak him in orgasm. When I shiver with electric shock and my nails dig deeper into his skin.

  My hair provides the extra coverage I need when we both shudder with release and the rhythm stops.

  Mason’s heavy on top of me, but it’s not suffocating. It’s warm, and firm, a body that covers and protects me fully.

  It’s why I have to get out from under. Now.

  “Wait—“ Mason says as I twist out of his hold and our connection is broken.

  “It’s over,” I say, pleased with how cold I sound. I didn’t think I had it in me after experiencing him inside me again.

  I scoot to the side of the bed, digging around the floor for my underwear, then stand and find my dress.

  “You serious?” Mason sits up in bed, unabashed, his dick on full display.

  “Are you satisfied?” I counter.

  “Well, yeah. That was … fuck, Mack. Where’d you learn half that stuff?”

  The lights from the city outside highlight his expression enough that I notice the wrinkles in his forehead as he answers that question for himself. He then tries a different tactic. “You can hang out here, you know. We can order up some food. I know I could use a fucking stiff drink.”

  I finish pulling the dress’s straps over my shoulders. “I don’t linger after sex with clients. And that’s what this was. Sex. Fucking. You paid for my skills and you got them. So it’s time for me to go back to my own room, eat my own food, then go to sleep in my own bed.”

  A moment passes where nothing is said between us. Nothing containing words, at least, since Mason’s stare takes all of me in, tries to process, then concludes he doesn’t know shit right now.

  “After everything that just happened…” Mason pauses, shaking his head. “Now. Now is when you choose look at me.”

  “Now is when all is said and done,” I retort, then head to the door.

  “Mack, please. Wait.”

  I freeze with my hand on the door handle. “No. You don’t get to do this. You used me tonight, Mason. You took our history and you threw it in my face when you demanded I come to you as Jane. Maybe you were curious, maybe you finally wanted the chance to see what it’s like to fuck an escort, but either way, you didn’t see me as Mack. You didn’t treat me as me. And you did it purposefully.”

  Mason pulls the sheet around his waist. “Wait a damn minute—”

  “You never think of the consequences,” I say on a hollow laugh. “Like what it would do to force me into my alter ego so I could screw and pleasure you senseless. All you saw was control. Power. Manipulation. Your trifecta of habits that never ceases, no matter how much older you become. It never occurred to you how much that would hurt me, did it?”

  His furrowed expression smooths, becomes blank, then abject realization hits. “Mack, that’s not what I meant to do. I wanted you to face this. To understand that you don’t have to be this Jane Landers you’ve crafted. I wanted you to become so immersed in us that you’d lose the mask and become Mack. It’s why I wanted you to look at me while I was inside you. I wanted to bring you back, McKenna.”

  I scoff. “Bullshit. This was a power move, to prove to me who’s the boss—”

  Mason’s mouth twists fiercely. “Yeah, fine, it started out that way. I’m not gonna lie—you pissed me off, and—”

  “And what’s the first thing you do when a toy isn’t doing what you want? You break it. Destroy it so no one else can have it.”

  “That’s not—fuck.” Mason scrubs a hand over his face. “Fine. My temper fucks me over a lot. But with this … when we … Mack, when we were together just now, I couldn’t stay angry. Only you’ve been able to do that and I didn’t think you still had that power, but here we are. You stripped me bare. That couldn’t have been Jane. That was you. It was you in that bed with me just now.”

  My cheeks ache with held-in tension, but I can’t let his words convince me. He’s too good at it, too talented at twisting the situation so he comes out clean. “You forced me under contract to appear tonight. This wasn’t
emotion, and it certainly wasn’t love. It was like I really was a prostitute to you. It’s what you saw me as. What you bought. Well, you got what you paid for.” I throw the door open. “Not everything goes your way just because you changed your mind.”

  “Mack, wait. Listen to me. I didn’t want to hurt you, I wanted to bring you back,” he repeats, and the rough honesty in his voice can’t be ignored.

  But it can be shut out.

  I slam the door behind me.

  23

  Mason

  I don’t sleep.

  I spend the rest of the night back in that sofa chair, stewing over a few glasses of scotch. I’m not a smoking man, otherwise I would’ve gone through a pack and a half of cigs. I am the occasional joint man, but searching through my luggage brings me no luck (damn international travel) and I’m not in the mood to interrupt Wyn and whoever his conquest is to see if he has any weed.

  Alcohol swiftly becomes the only mind-altering soother I can find, and make no mistake, I relish the taste as I watch the coming morning bloom through the windows, the burned orange sun phasing to bright yellow as it rises and sends its peachy, reflective rays into my once comfortably numb and gloomy room.

  Plans with Mack backfired. Harking back to the asshole she once fell in love with didn’t work out so well. Shifting gears mid-screw and treating her like a sex goddess didn’t go so hot, either.

  The bed’s still unmade since we were in it, the sheets tangled and pillows twisted. Fuck, that wasn’t the Mack I remembered, with her mind-blowing skill and confidence, the way she circled her hips and how she clenched my cock … but perhaps that’s the point.

  She thinks I used her, when I fact I was only trying to find her again.

  Standing against the window, I tip the bottle to my mouth and glug. Too bad I lost her years ago.

  After last night, hell, even before, there’s no way she’ll listen to me. Mack’s made her choices, and I guess my work is done. I’ve failed her.

  Glug.

  Pounding at my door shocks me to the point that a dribble of scotch runs down the corner of my mouth as I drink from the bottle.