Mr Garcia

Luna is next, and I watch on as she does the same. My heart is literally in my throat.

Fuck this, I’m never coming back here. This is beyond stressful.

The song changes to Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye, and I exhale heavily. This music is slower, sexier… tantric even. And now it’s my turn.

I walk out to the seductive beat. When I make it to the end of the catwalk, I glance around at the gorgeous men before me.

But not the one I’m after.

I walk to the back, twirl, and then I strut back to the front, placing my hand on my hip just in time to look up into the hungry stare of Mr. Garcia.

He’s sitting at a table at the back with a glass of amber fluid in one hand and a cigar in the other. His legs are spread wide, his appearance dominant.

Our eyes lock, and he slowly brings the cigar to his lips and sucks hard. He inhales, and a thin stream of smoke disappears into his mouth.

Fuck me, this man is sex on legs.

My insides begin to pulse as I imagine him naked and over the top of me.

I remember the way he gripped my face the last time we were together. The way he licked my lips. The way he bit my neck. The way he went down on me midway through sex and licked the mess he’d made.

My nipples harden at the memory. No wonder he has a fucking fan club.

I’m the damn president.

I can pretend all I want that there is something between us, but when I see him here, like this, reality hits home. I want to be dominated by him. I want him to use me, and damn it, I want to be fucked.

His eyes are dark, and I nearly forget what I’m supposed to be doing.

I slowly turn and take my place at the side of the stage.

I watch the rest of the parade, concentrating on not looking up, but I can feel the heat of his gaze.

Is he always this sexual? Or does this club bring something out in him?

The parade ends, and Porsha walks out with the microphone in hand.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce Eleonore.”

The men fall in to silence.

“State your intentions!” Porsha calls.

The men line up in front of Eleonore and, one by one, they introduce themselves. “Who will you choose, Eleonore?”

“Mr. Parker.” She smiles.

A good-looking man steps up and takes her hand. He walks her from the stage. He looks like an athlete or something. Young and virile.

Good choice.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce Luna,” Porsha says, holding Luna’s hand up. “State your intentions.”

The men line up again. All except one.

Mr. Garcia remains seated as he sips his scotch. He looks every bit like the powerful, walking orgasm that he is.

“Who will you choose Luna?” Porsha asks.

Luna smiles and points to Garcia. “Mr. Smith.”

Shit.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and tilts his jaw to the ceiling.

“Mr. Smith.” Porsha smiles. “You are one lucky man tonight.”

Sebastian slowly stands and then comes and takes Luna’s hand. He leads her from the stage, and I drop my head in dismay. What?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“May I introduce Cartier!” Porsha calls. “This is only her second shift. Who will be her second date?”

The men move and stand in a line in front of me.

“Fifty thousand!” a man calls.

“Sixty-five!” another man calls.

I glance toward the door to see Sebastian leaving with Luna. He’s holding her hand. He says something to her, and she laughs in response as they continue to leave.

He didn’t even stay to see who I chose, I taste the bile of my stomach as it turns.

God, I read this all wrong.

He doesn’t care that I work here. He just doesn’t give a fuck.

I go through the introductions with the men one by one, and they all seem nice.

But none are who I want.

“Who will it be, Cartier? Who will be your date for tonight?”

I look between them. I want to go for the kindest looking man—the one I know will handle my sexual rejection.

“Mr. Stevenson,” I say softly.

He’s blonde and sweet looking. He walks over and takes my hand to kiss the back of it. “Hello, Cartier.”

“Hi.” I force a smile.

He leads me down the catwalk and we walk toward the exit.

Is Sebastian kissing her right now? Is he grabbing her face and licking it?

God, it’s one thing to never experience a man like Mr. Garcia, but to know what he’s like and not be able to have him… to know that someone else is having it in your place… that’s another level of torture.

Mr. Stevenson and I make it into the elevator, and I stare at the back of the doors.

He picks up my hand and kisses the back of it.

“I can’t wait to get you alone, Cartier. I bid for you last week, too.”