Lies That Sinners Tell (The Klutch Duet 1)

His voice was sex. It was caressing me in areas that men in the past couldn’t even find with a diagram.

I still didn’t speak because ... what the fuck did you say to that? Sure, I liked dirty talk, loved it in fact. But usually I didn’t engage in it when I hadn’t even kissed the man in question. Then again, I’d almost made myself come in front of this man.

“Say what you want, Stella,” Jay demanded.

I was desperate to break eye contact but felt physically unable to. “I want you to punish me, Jay,” I breathed out, my voice a mere rasp.

I waited for him to respond. Ached for him to eliminate the distance between us and make good on his promise. I wanted him to punish me right here, with a driver a few feet away. That didn’t bother me, not in that moment. All that bothered me was the pent-up tension inside of me, begging for a release. Any kind of release.

But Jay didn’t say anything more.

He looked at me silently for a few beats and then sat back in his seat, eyes forward.

Torturing me.

This black-tie event was at the Beverly Hilton in the Beverly Hills Gateway, located in one of the most expensive and sought-after areas in Los Angeles. The place where the fricking Golden Globes were held every year.

Despite having worked around these locations for nigh on a decade, I was always in awe of the grandeur of it all. Beyond that, I was always in the hotel room getting clients ready for the Golden Globes, never on the red carpet itself. Which was fine with me, I hadn’t needed or wanted all of that attention. I’d watched it ruin plenty of people throughout the years. I much preferred being on the sidelines, making people look like stars, helping them shine.

Tonight was not about being on the sidelines, though. This was, in part, my fault. I’d chosen the dress. I’d wanted to make sure I looked like this, to torture Jay in my own way. To tempt him.

We made quite a pair, the both of us in head to toe black. I’d never thought of myself as looking dark or mysterious. But that’s exactly how I described our pairing. People watched us when we walked in. Visibly watched us.

Maybe it was just Jay. Maybe it was because people in these circles knew about him and his ‘arrangements’ and were eager to see the newest participant.

I certainly got a lot of hostile glances from women who looked to be about my age, beautiful women dripping in diamonds and on the arms of other, older men with straining belt buckles and bulging bank accounts. I found myself wondering about them. Wondering about the percentage of women who’d come before me. Zoe had said they were all ‘taken care of’. Did that mean expensive jewelry and introductions to millionaires? Surely not.

Jay still hadn’t spoken a word. He hadn’t even opened my door, although he did reach down and help me out of the car. Whether that was for my benefit or the cameras that were huddled around the entrance to the hotel, I wasn’t sure.

Though Jay had moved us quickly past all of the flashing bulbs and shouting—proving that he didn’t want the attention. Then again, that wasn’t a surprise. Jay was not after fame or status. He was already infamous, already carried around a dangerous kind of prestige.

“What’s this charity everyone is dressing up for?” I asked him as we made our way through the room.

Jay had been nodding to various people, directing us toward the bar. At my question, his eyes flickered to me.

“It’s for the marine life of the Great Barrier relief, I believe,” he answered.

“Ah, nothing helps the Great Barrier Reef like a bunch of rich people who probably can’t even point it out on a map,” I muttered.

I didn’t mean to sound bitter or judgmental, but I couldn’t help it. There were a lot of things I loved about living in this city, and I certainly indulged in a materialistic lifestyle, but I hated seeing the super-rich throw charity dinners without caring about a cause but merely the image of it all.

Sure, I spent too much money on frivolous crap, but I made sure that I made a monthly donation to different charities, donated my time as often as I could. To causes I actually cared about.

Christ, I was starting to sound like my father in my old age. He, like a lot of the working class in our state, had a healthy distaste for the rich.

He wouldn’t like Jay. Wouldn’t like his money. His watch. Not that it mattered. They were never going to meet. My father would never know this relationship existed.

Jay didn’t ask me what I wanted at the bar, which I’d barely noticed we’d approached, being so deep in my head, entertaining scenarios that wouldn’t come to pass.