4
Less than fifteen minutes until my escort is due to arrive.
Despite the promise I made to myself, I’ve gone and dressed up. Well, okay, “up” is an overstatement. But I’m in a skirt and a cute T-shirt, and I showered and did my hair for the first time in longer than I can count. I even dusted on some foundation and a touch of mascara. Just in case. It makes me feel a little less nervous, to know that I look decent.
Only a little less, though. Most of my nerve endings feel like they’re on fire, and my stomach is set to churn itself right out of my body.
I pace over to the windows for what feels like the tenth time and quickly check the street outside. No sign of a car yet.
I sit back down and force myself not to check again. He’ll get here when he gets here.
Or maybe he won’t. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding on his end too. Maybe he’s double-booked or he’ll need to cancel. Maybe he didn’t mean to accept that email either.
I find myself praying he doesn’t show. Then I can just retreat upstairs, treat myself to a long hard session with my toys, on my own thank you very much, and go to sleep early.
At least I’ll have good fodder for my imagination tonight. Unbidden, the image of Caleb—which cannot be his real name—rises to mind. I doubt that photo included his real abs either. There’s no way a guy exists with a body that perfect. Not to mention his face—the cut cheekbones, the perfect amount of scruffy beard below his sharp gray eyes and his narrow nose. The way he stared into the screen, it felt like he could see right through the computer to me. I can’t even imagine how intense that look must be in real life.
Unable to help myself, I picture him undressed in the same room as me. I start to imagine how exactly he’d fulfill his promise—his promise to fill me like no other man ever has. I envision him bending me over the couch in my living room and pinning my arms to the cushions while he undoes my belt, runs a hand along the seam of my panties. He’d have thick, strong fingers, thick enough to drive me wild when he slips one under the string of my thong, tugs it aside and pushes one finger up to his knuckle inside my tight pussy…
My doorbell rings.
I gasp and leap off the couch. Damn. My panties feel a little bit wet already. I’m letting my imagination run away with itself. Calm down, Carmine. I’m not going to fuck this guy. Not even going to entertain the idea.
I’m just here to explain the misunderstanding and ask him to be on his way.
I cross the living room, take a deep breath, and open the door.
Then I immediately lose that breath of air all over again.
The man standing on my doorstep looks like he just stepped out of every woman’s wet dream. He’s dressed casually in a tight T-shirt that shows off his bulging biceps, his strong chest and even his flat, washboard abs. I can count the ridges through the fabric.
Guess that photo wasn’t photoshopped after all.
As expected, those piercing gray eyes are even more intense in person. He smiles at me, a crooked half-smile that makes my heart seize in my chest and my belly tighten in anticipation. He looks ready to eat me alive—and I want to let him.
I stagger back a step, all the pre-planned words I meant to say trapping themselves in my throat at once.
“You must be Carmine,” he says, still grinning that half-grin.
Any remaining resistance I might have drummed up dies as soon as I hear his voice. Of course. I should have guessed from his name. Caleb British.
I can’t help it. It’s too fucking much—I have to laugh. So I do.
He steps inside—I back away from the door enough to give him space, and I can’t think of anything else to do now except close it behind him. At least I can let him down in private. “What’s so funny?” he asks, one brow lifted.
“Should have guessed you were British,” I respond when I manage to find my voice. “From your name.”
“I’m from London, yes. Fake name though, obviously,” he replies, though he’s still smiling.
“Obviously,” I echo.
“But enough about me. I want to hear about you, Carmine.” He angles himself toward me.
Without thinking, I step backwards, toward the living room. He follows, until I’m trapped between this towering, muscular, hot-as-hell man and the back of my couch. I lean against the couch in what I hope looks like a casual move, rather than the truth—like my knees have lost the ability to keep me upright by their own volition.
“Me?” I shake my head. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m… I’m just from here, nothing exciting…”
“Why did you hire me?” He tilts his head.
“Does there need to be a story?” I ask, biting my lip.
“There usually is. I want to hear yours.” His eyes bore into me; will me to tell him the truth.
“I… Well. I don’t have a lot of free time to date or anything. So, it’s… been a while.”
His gaze dips over my body again. “I find that hard to believe.”
I flush. “I work a lot.”
“What do you do?” He leans against the wall, still eying me, totally shameless about it.
“I own a bakery,” I say. “Red Velvet.”
His eyes widen. “The new place that everyone is talking about?”
“You’ve heard of us?” My cheeks really burn now.
“Of course. You’re all my sister can talk about lately.” He laughs softly. Then seems to remember himself, and shakes his head, stepping closer to me. “So, you’re too busy to date…”
“And, I… I find it difficult to find people who like… Um, the same things.”
“Judging by that message you sent describing what you like, I’d beg to differ,” he replies, tilting his head. He lets his eyes roam over my body, lingering a long time on my chest, then my legs below my skirt. He makes no bones about checking me out—in fact, checking me out seems like an understatement. More like he’s weighing me to decide if he can throw me over his shoulder and kidnap me for his own.
I’d let him, at this point.
I swallow, hard.
“I’ve got to say, Carmine, you caught my attention with that description. You were so detailed, so forthright.” He takes another step closer. I’m already back against the couch. I have nowhere to go but here. I plant my feet and tilt my head back to keep my eyes locked on his as he stands over me. God, he’s huge. I can only imagine what his cock must look like.
Bad Carmine, I scold myself.
Still imagining it though. Not to mention the fact that he’s talking about what I wrote on that site—that filthy description of my darkest secrets—as though it’s sexy to him.
“I appreciate a girl who’s upfront about what she wants.” He smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Not to mention someone who’s as fucking kinky as I am.”
We’ll see about that, I think. “It’s hard to find people who like the same things you do,” I answer honestly, for once. “Especially when it’s kinky.”
“I find it hard to believe that you have any shortage of guys wanting to fill you up,” he counters.
My face flushes bright red. “To be honest, a few have tried,” I respond. I lock eyes with him. If he scares easily, this is where it’ll happen. “But I’m very particular.”
“Good,” he answers right away, without thinking. He takes another step closer, so he’s just inches from me now. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, feel the ghost of his breath on my cheeks. “I prefer a challenge.”
My whole body flares. Goddamn. No man has ever responded quite like that before. But still, my mind races ahead of my traitor body. Reminds me what I came here to do. “Look, Caleb, I should tell you something…”
He lifts one hand to trail it up my arm, tracing all the way from my wrist up to my shoulder.
Fuck. That one touch sets my whole body alight. I feel a rush of desire curling in my gut. My pussy feels tight with anticipation, and my clit throbs with desire. My panties were already damp—now they
’re going to be soaking by the time I get him out of here.
Should I get him out of here?
I shake my head. Of course. I need to. I can’t hook up with an escort. No matter how fucking sexy he might be. Or how into me he seems. Or how much he actually seems to like the same things I do.
He’s only into you because you’re paying him to be, I remind myself.
“I, um, there was a mistake with my form,” I manage to say.