by Serena Grey
“Good evening?” Her voice is halting, unsure. Something in the tone makes me want to pause, to ask if everything is okay, but I shut that thought down, focusing instead on the way the fabric of her dress skims over her full breasts. Already, my body is hardening, my fingers tingling with an insistent need to touch and take. Her eyes land on my face again, and beneath the apprehension, I see something familiar. Lust.
“Well…” I let my gaze skim over her body again, “you’re not what I would have chosen, but you’ll do.”
She doesn’t reply. Her eyes stay trained on my face, that hint of confusion still lingering in their depths. Stepping aside, I invite her in, and she takes a step forward then stops and looks at me with wondering eyes.
“Come in,” I repeat, puzzled at her hesitation. “I won’t bite.” Then, with a smile to put her at ease, I add, “Unless you want me to.”
That does it. I sense her tension easing. I lead her into the quiet living room, shrugging off my jacket before offering her a seat.
“Would you like a drink?” I keep my tone friendly and relaxed. “Brandy, water, wine…?”
“Brandy.”
Her voice is whispery soft, a little too hesitant, but I like it. I leave her for a moment and go over to the bar to pour the drinks. I can feel her eyes on me, and I can’t shake the sensation that I’m missing something.
But I don’t want to delve too deep into it…whatever it is. I want her. I can already imagine how her skin would feel beneath my fingers. I can already imagine those eyes closed in ecstasy as she comes. It’s all I can do not to pull that green dress up around her waist and fuck her over the sofa, but I’m not an excited teenager anticipating his first sexual experience, although right now I almost feel like one.
When I turn back to her, she’s looking at the pictures hanging on one wall—an old family portrait, my mother’s ballerina picture, and a few others. I admire the slender curve of her neck, and that hair…I want to plunge my fingers into it. I breathe, willing the straining hardness in my pants to hold on a little longer.
I offer her the drink. “Here.”
She turns to me, and her eyes focus on the glass before she reaches for it. Her fingers brush mine and I stiffen, taken aback by the jolt from that small touch.
Pulling in a breath, I lower myself beside her on the sofa. Her dress has ridden up, exposing a lot more of her smooth thighs. My nose fills with her scent—peach shampoo and a hint of perfume—and my body responds by hardening some more.
It’s not helping that her eyes are lingering on my face in a way that makes me want to take the glass from her and get down to business.
“You like ballet?” I’m trying to stay cool. I’d much rather be discovering what her luscious pink lips taste like.
“Hmm?” Confusion floods her features again.
I tear my eyes from her face and gesture at the picture of my mother on the wall. “You seemed interested in the picture.”
“Well, I like ballet as much as any little girl who ever wanted to wear a tutu.” She laughs breathily, and I wonder if she’s nervous. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, I’m nervous too. “But I was looking at the quote printed on the picture,” she continues. “It’s from one of my favorite poems.”
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell. My mother loved that poem. I quote the first line then smile. “But you’re not coy, are you? That would be inconsistent with your profession.”
Her brow furrows. Does she mind being reminded that she’s a hooker? Should I apologize? What would be the point?
Why are we still talking, anyway? I’m aching to fuck her. By now, I should be discovering the body under that green dress, working on the wild lust that seems to be growing with every second.
Her voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “The woman in the poem…” she muses. “Was she being coy or careful? Many people toss caution to the wind, surrender to passion, and regret it later.”
I couldn’t care less about Marvell’s mistress. I’m fighting the urge to pick this girl up, carry her over my shoulder to the nearest bed, and bury myself inside her. I can’t remember the last time, if ever, a woman got me this hot without even a touch.
Calm down. “You’re absolutely right,” I reply. “Though only my brother would find a hooker who talks poetry on the job.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, she chokes on her drink. Momentarily setting aside my desire, I hurry to the bar and return with a glass of water. “Here.” I take her brandy and give her the water. “Drink this.”
She takes a few sips without looking at me. Why is she so quiet? I know little about hookers, but the women who usually share my bed go out of their way to show me how intelligent and sophisticated they are. I watch her for a moment as she looks everywhere but at me, then I reach down and take her free hand in mine. It’s small and soft, and at the contact, there’s that jolt again.
“Are you okay?”
She wets her lips with a quick flick of her tongue, and I can barely stop myself from groaning.
“I’m fine.” A small, humorous smile touches her lips. “I drank it too fast, but I’m fine.”
“Good.” I take the water from her and set it down on the coffee table. “What’s your name?”
“Rachel.”
Rachel, I repeat in my mind. It suits her. “I’m Landon.”
She gives me another smile, and a tiny dimple dances on her right cheek. It’s insanely cute, and I resist the urge to brush it with my fingers.
“Did Aidan tell you it was my birthday?”
There’s a pause. “Yes.”
“What are your rates?”
She hesitates again, and I understand why. It’s bad manners to ask the value of a gift, after all, but I’d like to know.
“It’s…um, it’s already been taken care of.”
“Of course, but tell me anyway.”
She does, and it’s an impressive sum. “My brother is being very generous,” I say with a chuckle. My eyes roam over her face, the luminous eyes, full lips, and smooth skin. She’s almost too perfect. I breathe. “So…what do I get for that?”
“The whole night,” she replies.
My fingertips tingle in anticipation. “Anything I want?”
Her voice is a whisper. “Anything you want.”
Perfect. I get to my feet, unable to wait any longer. “Follow me.”
I head up the stairs to one of the guest bedrooms. It’s not until we’re already there that I realize how ill-equipped I am for an encounter with a prostitute. I usually keep my rendezvous with women away from this apartment, mainly because of the memories it holds. What that means, is that if she doesn’t have condoms, I’ll end up having sex with my hand.
I turn to her. “You have condoms?”
At first, I think she’ll say no. Disappointment floods my insides, but then she retrieves a roll from her purse and hands them to me.
I toss them on the bed before lowering myself into an armchair by the dresser. I’m trying my best to stay cool, but I’m aching to tear off her clothes and fuck her till my lust is sated.
She’s still waiting by the door, and I motion for her to come inside. When she’s a few feet from me, I raise a hand to stop her.
“Take off your clothes.”
Slowly, she unzips her dress while my whole body tightens in anticipation. Under the dress are panties and a black lace bra. Her breasts are full, her belly flat. Her legs in her high heels are long and perfectly shaped, and I can already imagine them wrapped around my waist.
She’s looking at me, waiting for more instructions. I’m so turned on I can barely articulate what I want. “All your clothes,” I clarify, watching as her chest rises and falls, once, twice, then she unhooks her bra and her beautiful pink-tipped breasts spill out.
My cock is straining in my pants, hard and insistent. My eyes fix on her nipples, which harden under my gaze. She shimmies out of her panties, and when she’s done, I can’t tear my eyes away from the p
erfection of her body.
“Get on the bed.” My voice is rough.
She walks over to the bed, her breasts swaying with every step. The shapely curve of her ass is an invitation to touch. I want to throw her down on the bed, spread her legs, and taste her. The thought takes me closer to the edge. Rising to my feet, I undo my cuffs.
“Take off your shoes, Rachel.” My voice is thick with arousal. “Pull up your legs and spread them. I want to see you touch yourself.”
She does as I say, her fingers slipping between her legs, rubbing over every spot I’m aching to cover with my tongue. She moans, and her head falls back.
I tear at my buttons, watching her fingers hungrily and yet also needing to see the look in her eyes. “Open your eyes. Don’t close them. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”
She complies, and I rip off the rest of my clothes. Her eyes cloud as she looks at me. She lets out a low moan when I pull off my briefs. My cock is rock hard, tight, and aching with the need to replace the finger she’s currently slipping inside herself.
Fuck. I roll on a condom and kneel on the bed between her legs. Her fingers are still moving, and I cover them with mine, taking over with a gentle massage of her slick center before slipping my fingers inside her.
She’s wet and hot, tight and soft, and so responsive. Her body tightens around my fingers, communicating her need. I move them in and out of her, and she moves in time with me. She’s so hot, so eager, and it’s so fucking arousing. “Don’t stop,” she moans, “Oh please don’t stop.”
As if I would. My cock is at the point of pain, but I hold on, curling my fingers inside her. Her legs stiffen, and her back arches tightly as she comes with a soft groan.
I can’t wait anymore. As soon as the first wave of her orgasm is over, I pull out my fingers and grab hold of her legs, spreading them wider and burying myself deep inside her heat.
Sweet Jesus! She’s fucking tight and so, so hot. She feels so fucking good.
I barely feel her legs tightening around my waist. All my senses are focused on the need to thrust into her again and again, relishing the pleasure as her moist heat surrounds my cock—hungry, demanding everything. I hear her moan as her body stiffens again, tightening around me and squeezing everything from me. I soon lose myself, groaning aloud as I come with an intensity I’ve never felt before.
Chapter 3
My heart is pounding against my chest like a sledgehammer. I try to catch my breath, and when I finally do, I release her legs and pull out from inside her. She shudders and lets out a soft sigh, her eyes heavy as she falls back on the pillows. With a languid expression, she watches as I get off the bed to take care of the condom.
After I return, we’re both silent. I hand her a tissue from the box on the nightstand, turning away while she wipes herself.
Who knew sex with a hooker could be so mind-blowing?
She’s still staring at me, and I have an impulsive, insane urge to stroke her face, to kiss her on the lips and run my hands over her smooth skin.
“I can’t feel my legs,” she says with a small chuckle.
“If it makes you feel any better, I can’t feel mine either.”
Her chuckle turns into a laugh, and the cute dimple appears again. Her amusement is beautiful to watch. When the laughter turns into a small smile, my eyes travel down to her nipples, hard and pink. I’m getting hard again.
“Can I ask you a question?” She sounds curious.
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes back to her face. “Go on.”
“Why would someone who looks like you ever need a hooker?”
I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Looks like me?”
“You know what I mean.” She rolls her eyes. “Someone as hot as you.”
I’ve often been described as good-looking, but hearing her say it makes me grin like a fool. “Not to mention devastating in bed,” I add, still smiling.
Her hand goes up. “I didn’t say that.”
“No,” I tease, “but you said you couldn’t feel your legs.”
She chuckles. “Okay, devastating in bed.” There’s a pause as she studies my face. “Why would you ever need a hooker?”
I consider the question. It’s not one I ever envisioned myself having to answer. “Are all your clients unattractive?” I ask mildly, though the thought of her with other men, other clients…causes a sharp stab of jealousy.
She only hesitates for a moment. “Yes,” she replies, “or busy, or just adventurous.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m busy and adventurous.”
Her eyes travel over my face, and I wonder what she’s thinking. The silence stretches, and I search for a topic, anything so we can keep talking. It’s ridiculous. I’m not some average guy on a first date who needs to pull out all the stops to keep a girl interested.
“Do you want another drink?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine, thanks.”
My eyes stay on her face. I have a strange urge to commit her features to memory. Where did I hear that hookers don’t kiss? I want to kiss her, to taste her lips. I watch her eyes travel down to my cock and back to my face. A faint blush stains her cheeks.
She is enchanting, and I can’t get enough of her.
I have the whole night, after all.
“You’re not tired,” I ask. “Are you?”
She shakes her head.
“Good.” I run my hand down the side of her body, from her shoulder to her thigh. She trembles. My hand moves to her back, sliding over her soft skin until I’m cupping her smooth, firm ass.
Her skin is flushed already, and her breath is coming in soft pants. I turn her over so she’s lying on her stomach, her back to me. I run my hands over her supple skin, and she makes a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a sigh.
Positioning her on her hands and knees, I reach between her legs, pleased to find she’s soaked. She moans when I run a finger over her wet clit, and it turns into a groan when I slide my fingers deep inside her.
I move them and she trembles. “You’re so wet,” I murmur, “so wet and so hot.”
Her muscles tighten around my fingers, demanding more. Suddenly, I’m impatient to be inside her again. I reach for the condoms, rolling one on before taking hold of her waist, positioning her so I can slide into her.
This time I take it slow, letting the sensations wash over me. As I move, she whimpers, her fingers gripping the sheets. She’s so tight, so hot, and it feels incredible to be inside her. I want it to last as long as possible, so I flex my hips at an almost leisurely pace, sliding in then out again, until she’s pulsing uncontrollably around my aching cock. Her body shudders, the hot clenching in her core urging me deeper. I bend over her, plunging faster and deeper. She cries out and I feel the contractions as she comes. I reach for her breasts, teasing her hard nipples as her body continues to convulse around me.
Leaning back up, I grip her thighs and lift her legs off the bed, losing control as I thrust deeper into her pulsing heat. Vaguely, I hear her cry out as she climaxes again, and the pleasure rises in my brain until I can’t take it anymore. With a loud groan, I slam into her, almost losing my mind as I come.
I release her legs and collapse on top of her. She’s breathing deeply, her skin dewy with sweat. I pull out of her and get rid of the condom before collapsing back on the bed.
“Now I definitely can’t feel my legs,” she pants.
I surprise myself by pressing a kiss on her shoulder. “Me neither,” I admit. She smiles at me, and I smile back.
The silence stretches as our breathing returns to normal. “The elevator doesn’t require a code to leave,” I inform her, in case she’s thinking of leaving. “Just hit the call button.” When she doesn’t respond, I glance at her face, and she has a strange expression I can’t decipher.
Rising from the bed, I retrieve my wallet from my pants and pull out a few bills, leaving them on the nightstand on her side. “I know you’ve been paid,” I tell her, “but consider
that a bonus.”
She gives me a small smile, but she still doesn’t say anything. I imagine she’s tired. I know I am.
“You can leave whenever you like. And don’t forget to leave your number.”
I’m a light sleeper, so I’m surprised I don’t hear her leave. When I wake up hours later, she’s already gone. The cash is still on the table, and there’s no number anywhere.
Chapter 4
“He’s taking the loss of the hotel very hard,” Ava declares. She stirs her coffee delicately then glances at the view from the balcony of my suite at the Rosemont. She invited herself over to join me for breakfast and discuss her brother, Evans Sinclair, who is the only reason I’m in San Francisco right now.
Since I purchased the Gold Dust hotel, built by their father, Evans has been going around accusing me and my business of any baseless offenses he can dream up in his imagination. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be worried. I didn’t get to my position without a few loudmouthed detractors. However, consistent negative publicity is not good for any business, even mine.
“I don’t care how he’s taking it,” I reply. Ava sighs and flicks glossy black hair over her shoulder. Her worried frown somehow manages not to create any lines on her flawless face. She is a friend, an ex-girlfriend, and has at times been my confidant. My regard for her does not extend to her spoiled, irresponsible brother. I don’t bother to hide my impatience. “He was running the hotel into the ground.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t love it or want to hold on to it.”
I stare at her across the breakfast table. Her beauty is like classic art, nurtured by years of exquisite and expensive attention. Of course, like with me, the beauty masks decades of pain. In her case, an absent, uncaring father, a mother whose only expectation was for her to be beautiful, a family that never considered that she might be more suited to run the family business than her little brother.
Despite all that, she loves Evans, fiercely, perhaps more than anything else in the world.
“You wanted me to buy the hotel,” I remind her.
