My thoughts drift back to her. It didn’t beat so steadily when I had her against the wall.
I sink deeper into the chair, bringing the cigarette to my mouth and watching the end burn away as I pull a long drag. The glow of amber feels like the only color in my fucked-up black world. And on that thought comes another. Her red dress. Against that olive skin of hers, it looked like the most perfect color combination I’ve ever seen. Her dark hair is almost alive with shine. Her lips like rosebuds. Her cheekbones high. But her eyes? Those dark blue eyes were dead. Her reaction to Perry’s man grabbing her sealed it. If I was any good at cards, she might have put me off my game. It’s true what I told her. I’ve known someone like her before.
Me.
Taking her phone from my pocket, I hit the screen. No picture. No photo. Just the standard factory setting screen saver. Who doesn’t have a picture saved as their home screen? Everyone has someone—their kid, their lover, their mother. Everyone except her.
And me.
The screen prompts me for a code. I need to get one of the men to unlock it. Flicking my cigarette butt off the balcony, I stand, sliding the phone into my pocket, but it chimes, stopping me. I lift it back out. A text. From “Mom.”
* * *
How are you, darling?
* * *
I swipe left and get the option to reply or clear. So I reply.
* * *
Good. You?
* * *
I keep it simple, and I don’t add a kiss, since her mother hasn’t. The response is quick.
* * *
Good. Call me when you can.
* * *
“She will,” I say to myself as I slide it back into my pocket and head into the penthouse. When I make it through the lounge area to the bedroom, the woman isn’t where I left her. I’m not concerned; she’d have to be Houdini to escape this suite. I follow my feet to the bathroom, hearing the tap running. I don’t knock, striding straight in.
Her eyes flick up to the mirror where she’s standing, her hands halfway through securing her long hair into a ponytail. Her position exposes the tanned flesh of her neck. My eyes root there.
“Some privacy, please,” she says, turning to face me. She’s taken off her heels, exposing red toenails that match her dress. Why I’m noticing this trivial shit is beyond me.
I ignore her and walk to the toilet, unzipping my trousers as I go. I pull out my cock slowly. I see her gaze drop to my groin. I hear her breath skip.
And I piss, one palm resting on the wall behind the toilet, the other holding my dick. I take my time, casual, aware that I’m being studied. And when I’m done, I wipe, flush, and turn to face her, still holding my cock, her gaze stuck there. I can hear her breathing. It’s shallow as I stand, exposed to her, watching her take me in. The girl has some high walls up, but I know she couldn’t turn away if she wanted to. And she doesn’t. For the first time ever, I’m amused. She’s going to be fun to play with. To torture.
Her hands meet the vanity unit behind her as I walk forward, pulling a stroke down my thick shaft. Her aroused condition only enhances mine. I’m firming up in my hand.
When I reach her, I take one of her hands and wrap it around my solid cock, and I don’t feel one hint of resistance. She inhales. I do too. But I say nothing, starting to instigate her strokes, my body wanting to instantly spin her, bend her at the waist, and fuck her brutally.
Her hand. My dick. Fuck.
Her mouth goes slack. Her tongue dashes out, sweeping her bottom lip. For someone trying to convince me that she finds me repulsive, she looks and feels pretty turned on right now. I could take her. She wouldn’t stop me. She’d fucking love it. I’d love it.
But she’s not here to enjoy herself. And she’s not here for me to enjoy, either. Would I? Enjoy her rather than feel like I’m scratching an itch? “Feel good, baby?” I ask on a whisper, and her eyes narrow a little, her gaze never leaving mine. Her hand flexes a little, getting a firmer grip, and my lips part, my breaths shallow.
“I don’t know, does it?” she counters, licking her bottom lip.
No. I thrust her hand away and tuck myself in, backing away, ignoring how fucking hard it is to do that. That vanity unit is calling for me to bend her over it. Every muscle I possess is straining with the pressure to withdraw. But though her eyes are begging, she is not.
Yes, this is going to be fun. Or fucking kill me. “You’ll sleep in my bed,” I tell her, watching in amusement as her stoic façade falls and her eyes widen, just a tiny bit. “Naked,” I add.