Oh my God. What am I doing? Is Max still on the line?
I don’t care. But I don’t dare talk. All I do is moan. All I do is breathe and mewl.
In my head, Arsen is my Angel of Sin. I run my tongue between the creases of his abs. He runs his tongue over my asshole.
Shudders of pleasure go through me. My body seizes up. I let loose a growl. And then a lewd moan escapes my lips as I forget all about what's polite. A seizure of ecstasy travels through my body and I’m left shaking for a moment.
I’m light-headed when I open my eyes. I’m panting. Sweating. Hot.
“That was so fucking hot!” Max says into the phone.
I want to reply, but I can’t. I just lay there, my panties damp and my body satisfied.
“I’m calling you back every day!” Max says. He says something more but I honestly am having trouble paying attention. It’s the most I can do to tell him I’ll be waiting and then he hangs up.
I look at the computer. He was on the line for 15 minutes. That’s at least $54. With $26 going to me. Not a bad gig for 15 minutes of work.
I could get used to this.
And then an email pops up on my phone.
“Congratulations on a solid 5-star rating from all clients over the last 24 hours!” the email reads. It goes on to congratulate me on my repeat clients and my rating.
I read it and realized that I just made Arsen half the money that I’m getting. Maybe it goes to other people, but it’s based on a company he started and still owns.
The thought chills me. With so much sex at this man’s disposal, why is he interested in me? And how long will it even last? With those looks and body of his, I’m surprised if he ever speaks to me again. It’s already been over 24 hours and I haven’t heard from him at all.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not prude or anything. I’ve had a pretty dirty past and I’m very, very sexual as you can tell.
But Arsen is a line that’s in a completely different league. And right now, this job and the money it affords me needs to take priority. The only way I can do that is by keeping Arsen Hawke at arm’s length.
I hope to myself that his gorgeous body will start to fade from memory over time.
But the part of my brain that uses logic tells me that I’m already in too deep. There’s nothing I can do now, it tells me.
Great. Thanks for nothing, brain!
Arsen
"You've made a smart choice," Luca Giannoni says, clapping his meaty hand on my shoulder. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to take my calls." His hand could belong to a Sasquatch. I swear it's hairy enough, and there's no doubt that this guy is an animal. I feel the weight of his hand on my body and wonder why he thinks he needs to be so passive aggressive.
"It's been a busy few weeks," I say, and shrug off the comment. But honestly, all I can think about is how I haven't had sex with Ashley in over a week.
"Sure it has, but listen, don't ever mistake my kindness for weakness. Mr. Morozov doesn't take well to being ignored."
I sense the thinly veiled threat in his voice and I hand him the signed document, slamming the pen down on the desk. I need to get out of this office before he really pisses me off and I do something I shouldn't. "Well, none of that matters anymore. Here's the paperwork. The ownership transfer of these clubs is now in the hands of Mr. Morozov."
With one hand rolled into a tight fist in the pocket of my suit, I turn around and give him a wave with my other free hand. There's a fake smile plastered across my face, and I leave the room before Luca can respond. I walk outside, and hail a cab. The sun is so bright that I take a moment to stop and find my sunglasses. The cab pulls up and as I open the car door and slide into the back seat, I think about the transaction that just transpired.
Here I am, a fucking Harvard MBA graduate, and I'm making deals with the Russian mob. What the hell am I doing with my life? And as soon as I ask myself that question, Ashley pops into my mind. Fuck she's beautiful… maybe even perfect. I've seen a lot of smoking hot women in my lifetime, but she tops them all. Fucking her was unbelievable… it's been painful that it's been over a week. I pull out my phone and decide to send her a text. I hesitate for a moment, staring at the chat screen, and thinking about what exactly to say. Fuck it; I'm definitely overthinking this. Why am I acting like such an idiot? I text, "Let's meet up."
Before I can even slip the phone back into my pocket, she responds, "I don't think that's a good idea."
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I text back, "Why not?"
I wait for a few minutes, but she doesn't respond. I give it another couple of minutes, and still nothing. This is driving me crazy. If she doesn't want to reply to my texts, I'll reach her another way—through her direct phone sex line. I'm not one to give up—I always get what I want.
I dial her line and wait. The phone rings, and then I hear her. She picks up.