Take the Heat

The man led her through the crowded restaurant and, as they stopped to let a leaving couple pass through a gap between tables, she was able to gaze around and take in the full splendor of the place. Gilt mirrors, crystal chandeliers and the tinkle of glass and silverware—it was like a glittering golden globe, buzzing with conversation and raucous laughter. She looked around to see if she could spot Aston Moore at one of the tables, but the mâitre d’ ushered her through a door at the far end of the dining room and then led her up a flight of stairs. On the wall an ebony sign with gold lettering pointed the way up to Private Dining. Cassandra followed nervously. While she’d been in the busy, bustling main restaurant she’d felt fine, able to believe that nothing untoward was about to happen. That she was just like any of the other diners at Mitcham’s—enjoying a night out, about to meet up with a boyfriend for a late bite. But as the noise and the bright lights were extinguished by the door closing behind them, a tremor of fear traveled up her spine, and her gut roiled painfully.

Why did I come back when I could have taken Melly and run?

But she knew it would never have worked. This was the only way to extricate themselves from Moore’s grasping greed. Cold dread settled in the pit of her stomach as the mâitre d’ knocked on a door at the top of the stairs.

“Enter,” said a voice from beyond.

As the man opened the door, the old man, Darcy, emerged from the room. From the way he looked her up and down, it was obvious to Cassandra that he knew exactly why she was here. Ig

noring his passing stare, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and entered the room. It was a small dining room, all rich red brocade and gleaming mahogany, its dark velvety quiet in direct contrast to the bright, noisy room downstairs. The table still held the remnants of a dinner for several people—empty plates and glasses, a marble board on which fragments of cheese were congealing, soiled napkins strewn carelessly across plates, while unswept crumbs and spills speckled the tablecloth.

Aston Moore sat alone at the head of the table. He was dressed in black from head to toe. His jacket hung on the back of the chair, and his top few shirt buttons were undone to reveal a curl of dark chest hair. In other circumstances Cassandra would have found his looks attractive, but this evening the sight of him made her tremble.

“Ah, Cassandra, come in,” he said, waving her forward. Then he looked across at the mâitre d’, who was now standing just inside the door. “Send someone to clear away this mess, would you?”

The man nodded and disappeared, leaving Cassandra alone with the bastard who would be her pimp. How had it come to this? She bit her lip and stared at the floor.

“You scrub up well, but you’ll get nowhere if you can’t look your johns in the eye.”

She raised her head and stared him in the face, hot fury coursing through her body in place of fear now.

Moore’s smile was disarming, but she still glared at him.

“It’s time to show me what you’ve got,” he said, shifting in his chair as he pushed it back from the table.

“Business first,” said Cassandra. “How much will be wiped off my sister’s debt for every…”

“…every trick you turn?”

“Every time I have sex with one of your johns.” Even just saying the words left a bad taste in her mouth.

“I can’t tell you that until I’ve sampled the goods,” he replied.

“Do I get paid for this time?”

“Listen, honey. I’m doing you a big favor here. Don’t push your luck.”

He was doing her a favor?

The door opened, and a waitress came in. She started clearing the table, and while she was in the room, Cassandra and Aston Moore contemplated each other in silence. A shifty, nervous silence, with tension thickening the air. The waitress seemed to pick up on it, clattering the crockery with nervous hands as she loaded her tray. By the time she left, Cassandra’s heart was thundering in her chest.

Moore stood and went over to the door. There was a quiet double click, and Cassandra realized he’d locked it.

“Here?” she said. “There’s no bed.”

“Perhaps I could take you bent over the table,” said Moore. He advanced toward her, and Cassandra stepped away. “Or I could sit back and relax in the chair while you worked on your knees. What do you think? How would you pleasure me if I was a paying client?”

Cassandra’s mouth was dry. Words wouldn’t form, but she could hardly think of what to say anyway. All afternoon she’d been imagining what she would need to do once she was alone with this man, a man whom she quite literally despised, but through all those hours her mind had gone blank every time she reached this moment. And now he was asking her to take the initiative.

Melly’s gaunt face flashed before her eyes.

Swallowing her pride, her nerves and her distaste, she took a step toward Aston Moore, who stood his ground, watching her with an amused expression on his face.

“If you were my client, I’d ask you what your pleasure was,” she said. She’d dropped her voice an octave, making it low and throaty. She put her hands on his shoulders and let them rove back and forth around his neck and down onto his chest. “What can I do to make you happy, Aston? To make you feel good?”

She dropped a hand down and pressed it against his groin. He was semihard already, and his cock twitched at her touch. Moore looked momentarily surprised, but then he grinned.

“I’m tired, Cassandra, and a little jaded. I’ve had more women than you could ever imagine. I want something special, something I’ll remember, that’ll make me want to come back for more.”