Own Me

That, right there, is the problem. I’m assuming he’s single. Assuming he’s looking for a girlfriend, when really, he's just hiring me to fuck him. For all I know, he could be fucking a dozen other escorts at the same time. Or he could have hired me for my discretion.

I know absolutely nothing about this man, so I need to stop thinking about this situation as normal.

That’s the real problem. What happened in his car was so normal. Me in my coffee shop clothing, making out in a parking lot after my shift. Hooking up in the car, him driving me home. It was all so boyfriend/girlfriend, the way he surprised me at work and begged me to meet him in the car.

It didn’t feel like an escort and a client. It didn’t feel pre-arranged, like a business transaction. It was unprompted, spontaneous lust. Like a date.

I shift in my heels. Under my coat, I’m wearing the shortest dress I own, bright red and slim-fitting. It shows off my ass perfectly, especially since I’m only wearing a slip of a thong today.

It’s not just for my sake that I need to keep the boundaries clear. I’m doing this for a reason. I got into this business because I had no other choice.

Saving someone I love means more than anything. It means that no matter what, I need Gio to keep paying me. Even if I have feelings for him, even if I’d sleep with him for free. I need the money.

Or she’ll be the one paying the price…

I shut my eyes, waiting for the wave of anger and fear to wash past me. I’m used to suppressing it these days. It’s been long enough that I’ve come to terms with the reality. I know what I need to do. For her sake, not mine.

Whatever it takes, I cannot let this thing with Gio and me become real.

Straightening my shoulders, I steel myself for this. I need to act professional. Not let myself get carried away again. Because this cannot get personal. He needs to keep paying me.

I unbutton my coat which I wore to disguise the ridiculously short dress I’m wearing, and climb the short set of steps to his massive front door to ring the bell. I’m not sure what I’m expecting–a butler maybe, or a servant to answer it?

Instead, the huge oak door swings inward to reveal Giovanni himself, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, complete with a dark gray tie. For a moment, we both freeze, taking one another in. I watch his eyes dip over my body appreciatively, and I’m busy doing the same to him. Fucking hell, the man looks amazing in a suit. I can only guess what it costs–the suit looks custom-tailored, so he must have spent a fortune on it.

I blink, startled, when I realize he’s stepped back from the doorway to wave me inside. Dammit. I’m already failing at playing it nonchalant.

“Thank you for having me,” I say, as I step over the threshold.

“Thank you for coming.” His eyes spark as they catch mine. “I trust your last couple of days have been good ones.”

If you define good as completely consumed with fantasizing about you at every possible moment, sure, I think. But I bite my tongue on that one. Keep it professional. “Very, thank you. And yours?” Why are we both sounding so stilted?

Maybe he’s made the same resolution I have. Resolving to keep our relationship a working one, nothing more.

“Fine,” he replies. “Except for how sore my cock is from the number of times I jerked myself off thinking about you.”

My cheeks flush bright red even as I clench my thighs tighter at the thought of him fantasizing about me. Of course, I was doing the same thing, thinking about him all night. And this morning. And maybe in the car on the way here…

“I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of choosing the menu,” he adds, after turning away without further comment and leading me deeper into the house, toward an elegantly-set dining room.

I blink at the white tablecloth, crystal wine glasses, fine china dishes and silverware that’s probably real silver from the looks of it. It takes a second for my brain to catch up. “Menu?” I ask belatedly, frowning.

“I enjoy cooking for my guests,” he replies.

I assumed when I got his message yesterday with the address and a prompt to wear my best dress, that we’d finally be sealing the deal. He wanted to fuck me at last. That’s what I figured.

I hadn’t counted on dinner first. After all, he’s a client, not a date.

I linger in the doorway of the dining room. This is exactly the kind of line I need to be drawing right now. The kind of invitation I should decline.

On the other hand, he’s the one paying. What if this is part of his kink? Wining and dining me before he beds me? He said he enjoys cooking for guests–maybe he means guests like me. Maybe this is all part of the fantasy he’s creating.

I tell myself that’s all it is. Another fetish. Another experience he’s paying for. I force my legs to move, to cross the ridiculously large dining room and take a seat in the chair he pulls out for me. I can’t remember the last time a guy pulled out a chair for me. I brush my dress under myself as I take a seat, suddenly wishing I wore something less risqué and a little more tasteful.

“I didn’t realize you cooked,” I say, glancing up at him once I’m perched on the chair.

He trails a hand over my shoulder, barely a touch, and yet the suggestion of his fingers against my skin raises hairs on the back of my neck. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Corbella.”

“Yet,” I challenge, a sparkle in my eye. Then I bite my tongue. Shit. That sounded a lot like flirting.

Luckily he doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes flash bright with amusement. “Good thing we have a nice long night ahead of us, then.”

He leaves the room, leaves me with my stomach tingling and my hands quivering. Why am I so nervous? Is it because I’m intimidated by the glamor, or just because I know I’m way too turned on by Giovanni?

I don’t have too much time to wonder. He’s back before long, carrying a tray of food. I half-stand, meaning to help him, but he freezes me in place with a glare.

“I’ve done this plenty of times, Corbella. Please, you are my guest. Sit.”

He’s got that obey-me look on again, so I slide back into my chair. I force myself to sit still as he places the tray on the table between my seat and the one he clearly intends to take, which in my opinion is too far away. We’ll barely be able to play footsie, let alone run our hands up the insides of one another’s thighs…

I shiver.

Giovanni makes another trip for wine, pours us both glasses without lifting the silver lids off of the plates yet. Already a delicious smell drifts through the room, something succulent and savory. It’s making me drool almost as much as the sight of him in his tight-fitted suit, dark eyes flashing with humor as he raises his glass in a toast. I mirror him, lifting mine as well.

“To the most beautiful whore in the world,” he says, and my cheeks burn bright red at the sudden, unexpected reminder of who I am and why I’m here. Then he winks. “And a wonderful human being, to boot.”

I smile–I can’t help it, he has one of those smiles that demand you smile back in response. I lift my glass in acknowledgement and drink with him. Before he sets his glass back on the table, I raise mine too.

Two can play at this game.

I understand what he was doing with that toast. Reminding me of our places. Of the reason we are both here. Reminding me not to take this too far or let it grow too real.

“To the best first client a whore could ever ask for,” I say, and flash him a wink. “And a pretty damned sexy one to boot.”

He laughs out loud, but there’s something sad around the edges of his mouth, the turn of his eyes, as we lift our glasses in unison once more and drink together.

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. For a moment, it almost looked as though he was thinking the same thing that I was. That I wish we’d met under different circumstances. I wish this could be more than the farce it needs to be, for both of our sakes.

In another life…

Well. That’s always the way, isn’t it?

At least we’ll have tonight. At least we can tear these clothes off one another and fuck

ourselves senseless, even if it’s only this once.

Then he lifts the lids and my heart sinks straight through the floor, I swear. Because damn if he isn’t an even more perfect specimen of man than I already imagined.

One plate contains our appetizers and there are two bowls of soup, something pale and laden with veggies and meat, and it smells absolutely heavenly. The other is the best-looking piece of honey roast that I’ve ever seen, expertly glazed, resting in a bed of sautéed greens and surrounded by a puffy pillow of perfectly pureed potatoes. I want to launch myself at it right here and now, it smells so fucking good. Almost as good as the chef himself.

But I force myself to wait patiently while he serves me a portion. He wields the knife like a pro, slicing off a piece with ease, and I can see that it’s melt-in-your-mouth tender. He sets the plate next to me, along with the soup, and I sit with my hands folded, waiting for him to take his seat as well.

Once he does, he looks across the table to find me waiting, and a pleased smile crosses his lips. “You don’t even realize what a natural sub you are, do you, Corbella?” he asks, his voice thick with desire.

I bow my head, smiling faintly at the compliment. “No, sir,” I murmur.

He chuckles softly, voice full of wonder. “You may eat now,” he says, lifting his own spoon. “But only if you promise to tell me what you really think. It’s the first time I’ve tried this particular recipe.” He gestures to the soup before he digs in.

One bite and I’m already in even more danger of falling for this man. I close my eyes and groan softly, not faking it in the slightest. “This is amazing,” I say, once I’ve spooned a few more mouthfuls down greedily.

“You aren’t just saying that because I paid you to be here?” He smirks at me, flashes a wink.

“I would never.” I hold his gaze as I eat another spoonful, trying to pick out the individual flavors. There are so many spices, I don’t know where to start trying to place them. “Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, watching him as he continues to eat. “Are you a chef or something?”

He laughs at that. “I’m not good enough to go pro. Besides, more hours in a chef’s life than I’d care to spend at work.” His mouth quirks a little.