He leans forward, grips the back of my neck and lifts me towards him, ‘til my face is beneath his, his hot breath on my lips. “Tell me,” he spits out.

I resist, my eyes glued to his, my body swooning when he presses his thick tip against my soaked opening. My eyes shutter close, the pending sensation too good not to savor. Another inch, shoved firmly in, another quick intake of breathe. Holy hell. My body reacts to his in a way I’ve never experienced. His firm grip, tangled in my hair, grounds me — his c**k causes me to soar to unnatural planes, satisfying a carnal need I never knew I could have.

“Tell. Me.” He orders, his mouth against mine, close enough to touch, but just enough space to torture. He withdraws slowly, causing me to moan in anguish.

“You,” I whisper against his mouth.

“Louder.”

“You,” I say stronger, spelling out the word as our eyes meet. “Your cock. Now. Please.”

He thrusts fully, my body crying in joyous celebration as I get to experience all of him, his hard shaft causing my eyes to shut and head to fall back against his hand. I grab his shoulder, gripping the strength of him, wanting to be close to him as he withdraws. Then thrusts. Then withdraws. Long slow f**ks in which my body memorizes his shape, contracts around his girth, and worships his stroke. During these minutes, he owns me, regardless of the money or the orders. I am fully and completely his.

I wrap my legs around his strong body, my heels digging into his perfect ass as he increases his pace, the slick sounds of our bodies mixing with hot breaths and rough kisses. He kisses like he will never get enough, feasting on my mouth while maintaining a fluid rhythm with his body, propping himself off of me with one hand while the other hand cradles my neck, holding me up to him.

I can’t take much more of this, the furious pace building an animalistic need inside of me, a need that will only be fulfilled when I come. It is close, my core pulsing around his cock, our kiss interrupted by my gasp, my whimper as my entire body tenses underneath his.

“Don’t. Stop.” I beg, bucking backwards against his hand, my head rolling as the buildup reaches an overflow point, my orgasm on the edge of explosion. He releases my head, bracing both hands on the bed and unleashes the full force of his cock, quick, fast thrusts that are perfect in rhythm, perfect in speed, and heavenly on my body. I risk a look upward, at the god above me, his body framed by city lights, his face determined and intense, the muscles of his chest and arms emphasized by the position, the overall package too much. The orgasm rips through me, tearing out sensibility and logic and barriers on its path, my body tensing underneath him, my heels gripping him tightly and I wildly reach out, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him to me, the movement doing nothing to slow the fuck, my orgasm stretched out with every pump of his muscular hips.

He doesn’t give me time to rest, rolling with me until I am on top, dizzy with lust, staring down on the beauty that is BlueEyes.

“Ride me.” Dark, dangerous words, spoken with an edge.

I move, grinding my h*ps against him, a rolling motion that creates friction on my clit.

“No. Up and down.” He scowls at me, the expression doing nothing but making whatever vibe he rocks more devastating. I move my feet underneath me, resting my weight on my feet and move, lifting up and then down, feeling him respond inside of me, his shaft thickening and straightening, a slight twitch in its movement. I groan at the sensation, the stiff rod slick and hard inside me, filling my sex with every downward path. I settle fully down, the depth surprising me, the complete fullness something I can’t remember ever experiencing. His hands reach out, gripping my waist and holding me down, thrusting slightly from below, my mouth opening slightly at the new sensation, my glazed eyes held by his, a cocky smile crossing his face. He pins me against him and moves both of us upward, sliding along the bed until he is propped against the headboard and supported by pillows, sitting half up, the change affecting the angle, a delicious effect that has me shivering in pleasure.

“Fuck me.” His words are strong, his eyes locked with mine, his smile dropping slightly as need overtakes his features.

I move, sliding up and down in hard bounces, the impact eliciting a smile from him, a nod of approval. I move my hands to my breasts, the movement familiar, one I do on a nightly basis during a lap dance. I lift the weight of them, squeezing them against my skin and am surprised by the change in his face. He sits fully up, knocking my hands to the side; my vertical movement temporarily paused by the action.

Moving swiftly, he grips my wrists, pinning them behind my back and transferring them to one hand. I pull with my hands, unable to free them and frown, his face now level with mine, inches away. I lean forward, trying for a kiss, wanting to calm whatever storm I have awakened, but he pulls back. “Keep riding,” he rasps.

The new position forces me to my knees, my feet sliding beneath me. I obediently continue, my inner stretch indicating that my unknown foul in no way affected his arousal. He grips my wrists harder, using them as resistance, my f**ks turning shallower as I move to the position he seems to want, my back arched to allow my hands to travel lower, my br**sts now offered to him, his breath becoming ragged as I continue a hard rhythm on his cock.

“Perfect,” he groans, holding my wrist tightly, that hand now at my ass, a firm finger escaping from the cluster of hands and pressing on the exposed pucker between my cheeks. “You are f**king perfect.”

A compliment. I fight to hide my surprise, warmth spreading through my body at the words. It seems that, since the moment he walked into my life, I have second-guessed my movements, my touches, my appeal. The words give me renewed confidence and I continue riding him, a gasp escaping me when his mouth lowers to my breasts.

That thing he does, that alternation of teeth and tongue — it has a stronger effect than before, my entire body at a new, ungodly level of arousal, the buds of my br**sts sensitive and crying out for the attention he lavishes with his mouth. His finger moves deeper, pressing gently on my ass until it is given entrance, the tightness causing him to swear against my breasts, the added sensation causing me to tremble.

“I can’t — I’m about to…” my warning isn’t going to occur in time, my orgasm impatient, seizing my body in a full attack, my legs going dumb from the assault, pleasure rippling through me even as alarms warn me to keep moving, danger of weakening this orgasm ahead.

He takes over, pants coming as he f**ks me from below, thrusting in and out as he holds my body still with his hands, his finger in my ass gripping slightly as I come apart in his hands, a cry ripping out of my throat, animalistic in its strength.

I think he’s coming also, grunts coming from deep within his throat, his upward thrusts hard and fast, pounding and shaking my entire body with their strength. He releases my wrists, gripping my waist with both hands and forcing my body into action, pulling me up and down in rhythm with his strokes, until he roars, a primal bellow of ownership and conquer, his strokes slowing as the sound fades from his throat, wildness in his eyes, his mouth taking mine as his h*ps slow, his arms wrapping tightly around my body and holding me solidly against him. He marks me as his, strokes of his tongue speaking clearer than words ever could, ragged breaths coming from both of us as our mouths separate, and then reconnect, him tasting me fully as his c**k softens inside of me. Then he pushes against my chest, lifting his mouth off of me and rolls over, depositing me onto the bed and kneeling on a tangle of sheets, his bare body towering above me on the bed.

I stare at him through drugged eyes, my eyes making a slow and delicious journey over every curve, cut, and bulge of his body. The best sex of my life has officially wiped me out, every muscle a relaxed mess of orgasmy uselessness. He breathes hard, staring at me, then wipes his mouth and hops off the bed, walking bare assed out of the room.

CHAPTER 8

Silence. No purr of air conditioner, no television from another room. Dead silence as I lay on the bed and try to figure out what I am supposed to do. Follow him? Clean myself up? Roll over and go to sleep? Or is now when he returns with a handful of dollar bills? My lack of expertise in the prostitution gamble puts me at a loss.

Then, his silhouette returns, passing through the lit doorway. I prop myself up on one elbow and smile lazily at him, wetting my lips to speak. My words die on my lips as he moves closer, his gait and build all wrong, too big for BlueEyes.

The man stops a foot from the bed, way too close for my personal comfort and I scramble for covers, for something to cover my na**dness.

“You should be used to men seeing you na**d,” he drawls, his voice a mix of husk and southern. He is close enough for me to see his features, to recognize his face. One of the bodyguards; the one who drove us here.

My hands only feel tight fitted sheets, and I glare at him, my hands moving to cross in front of my breasts. “I’m not at the Palace now.”

It is a ridiculous statement, given that I am now at a point below that, ha**g s*x for money. But things are different outside the smoky glassed doors of the club. Just because I undress at work doesn’t give anyone and everyone a free look at my body. It is my body and right here, right now, I feel na**d and want to cover up. Regardless of what this man has seen me do, I don’t want him to see me like this, and I feel this is my right.

He throws something towards me, the motion startling me. A white towel. I pick it up, realize it’s a robe, and cover myself with it, looking back at the man.

He has the audacity to smile at me. “Come with me. He wants you out of here and in the guesthouse.”

Apparently the spark I felt, the incredibleness that was our sex, is not shared by BlueEyes. I feel sudden irritation at the fact that I don’t know his damn name. I don’t typically seek out names, our regulars worth the effort — everyone else forgettable. But with tonight, and with the other visits that comprised our history — I should have, at some point, learned his name. But, other than the house tour, he has never uttered more than a few words.

Dance.

Suck it.

I’m going to f**k you.

An introduction is probably seen as a waste of words to this man.

I slip into the robe, my back to the bodyguard, not interested in giving him more of a look then he’s already had, my mind whirring as I cinch the belt, the soft fabric of the robe more luxurious than anything I have ever worn. I pull my hair out of the robe’s neck, stalling as I try to sort through things in my head.

Should I ask to return home? My cell phone most likely still has no service. Was the ten grand to include the evening? Does he want more sex? I turn, my hands out of things to do, and face the man.

“I’d like to ask your boss a few questions.”

He grinned, shaking his head at me. “He’s not interested in that. You need to follow me to the guesthouse. You’ll sleep there.”

“Sleep? Just sleep?” I raise an eyebrow skeptically.

“Just sleep. In the morning he might have time for a conversation. Otherwise, I’ll take you back to the club.”

Wow. A short response that covers most of my questions. “And when do I get paid?”

He grins, rubbing a hand roughly over his mouth. “In the morning. Any more questions? He wants you out of here.”

I hide my frown behind a small smile and move towards him, out the door and back into the greatroom. He leads the way, opening doors and ushering me to the guesthouse, my steps faltering slightly when we enter the smaller house.

Its walls are all glass, showcasing the city view along its entire back wall. It’s beautiful, modern and clean, a large bed set against a slate wall, huge prints adding color and texture to the walls. The bathroom sinks are open to the bedroom, a large Jacuzzi tub prominently set in between dual vanities, and I can see into a small room that holds a shower and toilet. A lounge area sits to the right, with a low-slung cream sectional atop a rich chocolate rug.

I feel a hand on my back and spin, bumping into the hard chest of the stranger. “Don’t touch me,” I snap, backing away as he raises his hands in innocence.

“My apologies. I’m Drew, Mr. Dumont’s driver and security. The other man is Mark. If you need anything, you can use the intercom system to page us. I live on property, so will always be available. The main house will be locked, please don’t attempt to enter it during the night, the security system is extremely sensitive.”

Mr. Dumont. Another question answered, though I’ll be damned if I refer to him in that manner. I turn, stepping into the center of the room and look around. “I don’t know where my clothes are…”

“There is clothing in the dressers and closets, you should find something in your size there. I’ll be by in the morning.” He purses his lips, as if he has words inside that he is struggling to contain. “Goodnight.”

I don’t say anything, watching as he slides the door shut. I lock it behind him and cross my fingers that this glass box has curtains.

It does, and now I’m lying in a sea of lavender bubbles. I showered first, scrubbing my makeup off with a damp washcloth and washing my hair. Then I filled the tub, using a generous amount of bath gel and almost moaned with delight when I sank in.

I haven’t had a bath in almost four years. My college apartment had a tub; that was the last time me and bubbles have had any contact. It is a long overdue reunion and I rest my head against the back of the tub in bliss.

Of all places for me to spend the night, this glass box of luxury isn’t a bad deal. But I can’t fully relax, too many unknowns about BlueEyes. My cell phone’s lack of signal is a major thorn in my subconscious. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if I had the security of my phone then there wouldn’t be these pits in my stomach, maybe then I would relax and appreciate the fact that I am at a mansion, ten thousand dollars richer, and just had the best sex of my life.