Placing my empty glass on a coffee table, I retrieve my jacket from the back of a chair where I draped it when I came in earlier. I’ll go downstairs to talk to the hotel manager and thank the kitchen staff for the birthday cake that’s now chilling in my fridge. That’ll distract me from my thoughts for the time being.
I shrug on the jacket and walk to the foyer, toward the elevator. The call button for the penthouse overrides all other instructions. On my floor, the doors don’t open unless a special passcode is entered from inside the car or I push the call button from inside my apartment.
Once in the foyer, I hit the button, expecting to wait, but I’m surprised when the doors slide open at once. I glance inside the elevators, surprised, and my surprise turns to a
mixture of amazement, appreciation, and something else…something wild and insistent that flares to life inside me with a force I can’t quite explain.
Inside the elevator is a girl. She’s slender, with pale skin, beautiful red hair flecked with gold, and mossy-green eyes fringed with long dark lashes. She has a good figure, shown off by a flattering green dress the same color as her eyes, which are right now trained on me, her expression a curious mixture of relief and apprehension.
My first thought, before I remember Aidan and his promise to send me a hooker as a birthday present, is, Who the fuck is she, and what in God’s name is she doing here?
My second thought, after I remember Aidan and allow my eyes to linger on the body under her dress, is, I’ll deal with Aidan later, but right now, this girl is exactly what I need.
Chapter 2
She looks as if she’s not entirely sure she wants to enter the apartment. In my imagination, hookers are confident, brassy creatures, but this girl…it’s almost like she needs me to put an arm around her and whisper reassurances in her ear.
“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.