Own Me

“What do you do?” I ask, tilting my head.

“Buy and sell businesses.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not exciting or glamorous. But it more than pays the bills, I’ll say that much.” He casts a glance around the house, looking a little angry for a moment, for some reason. Almost as though he disdains his own success.

“Nothing wrong with a non-exciting job,” I say, sliding a hand across the table to catch his. “As long as you enjoy it.”

“I’m good at it,” he replies. “And I could pretty much retire whenever I wanted to, at this point. So there’s that.”

I laugh with him this time. “What would you do if you retired?” My eyes catch on the plates between us, and sparkle for a moment. “Open a restaurant?”

He smiles, but it’s a faraway, sad smile. “My father taught me how to cook.” Suddenly, I realize he’s avoiding my gaze now. Thinking about something else, something distant.

We eat in silence for a few more moments before he decides to elaborate. “He was a chef. Owned his own restaurant chain in town. Pretty successful one, actually. It even got a Michelin star once.”

My eyes widen. “What happened?” I ask, without thinking. Stupid. It’s obvious by the hesitant tone in his voice, and the past tense, that something happened.

Giovanni’s mouth tightens. “He got sick. Stomach cancer. The place went out of business, bankrupted from trying to pay all the medical bills. Restaurant business is pretty cutthroat. Combine that with a lack of private health insurance, and well…”

I wince, my fist tightening around my spoon. “God. I’m so sorry, Giovanni…”

He shakes his head and takes a long swig of his wine. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t make it any less painful,” I reply. He looks up, startled, and holds my gaze for a long moment. I try to communicate to him without speaking that I know what he went through. My father died young too–it’s why my mother was forced to remarry, so she could afford to stay in the neighborhood where we lived, send me to a good high school, keep us both fed and clothed.

It’s how I wound up with my shitlord of a stepfather. And the whole messy, god-awful situation he’s plunged both my mother and me into.

I can tell that Giovanni wants to ask me a question, but also that he’s thinking better of it, watching me now. After a long moment of silence, he lowers his gaze back to his plate. “Thank you,” he says, and I tilt my head, confused, until he adds, “For complimenting the food. I’m glad you like it.”

When we reach the second course, I can’t stop complimenting him, actually. It’s just too damn delicious. The meat is perfectly done, practically a pat of butter on my tongue it’s so soft, yet with a glazed, semi-sweet crust, and hell, even the veggies are mind-blowing. I didn’t know healthy greens could taste so good.

We talk a little bit more about ourselves too, both of us dancing around anything too revealing. Not that it matters at this point–I know where he lives, he knows where I live and work. It doesn’t seem normal for clients and escorts to know this much about one another, yet here we are. And over the course of our dinner, I learn a few more things, too. For example, he was in the Navy for a while–that’s where he got so ripped–before he went into business.

He’s vague about his job, but from what I can tell, it would probably go right over my head anyway. Hedge funds, business investments, finance. I never paid much attention to those topics.

Clearly, judging by my current predicament, that was a mistake.

He asks a lot of questions about me too, and I admit as much as I can. I talk about my mom remarrying, about not loving my stepfather. I don’t mention that I used to work for him, of course, or just how much blackmail he’s currently hanging over my head. When Giovanni asks about my own career, I just say that my previous job was well paid but turned out to be less ethical than I could handle, so I quit. That turned out to be a bad idea, and I wound up living at a friend’s house working in a coffee shop.

When he keeps prying, I catch his eye and tell him rather pointedly that I think he can work out the rest.

That, at least, shuts him up.

We finish our food, then our wine, while moving on to lighter topics. Favorite sports, music, movies. We have a lot of those in common, it turns out. Right down to liking the same underdog football team from a city that’s pretty far away from our town.

We talk for so long that I lose track of time. I lose track of everything but this moment, the feeling of his dark eyes studying me, his low, sexy voice revealing tiny details about his life here and there, a puzzle with which I start to build a picture of him.

He’s not what I expected. Not shallow or callous or demanding. He’s kind and caring. He asks about me, seems genuinely concerned by my problems–not that I’m willing to share, but still. It’s sweet that he wants to know.

I want to ask why he’s single. Why a man like him, a total drop-dead hottie with cooking skills and a huge mansion he lives in all alone, hasn’t been snatched up by about a hundred girls yet. But I know that’s insensitive to ask. None of my business.

And besides, asking it would lead to a deeper kind of opening up than I think either of us should be getting involved in right now.

We’re keeping this professional. It’s not a date.

As if reading my mind, Giovanni tosses his napkin onto the table and pushes his seat back. “Right,” he says, standing. “Shall we move this party upstairs?” His eyes spark when they catch mine, full of meaning.

I swallow hard and fold my napkin. Place it onto the table as well and rise from my chair. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

As we leave the room, he rests a hand on the small of my back, and taps a button on the wall. A call button, I realize. So there are assistants here, or at least some kind of staff. I wonder why he served me himself, then. Why he didn’t just ask one of his staff to serve us the food, or cook for us in the first place.

Is he ashamed of me?

Then I remember what I’m doing here. Maybe he doesn’t want his other employees to know that among their ranks is a hooker he’s bought.

He guides me up an ornate staircase to a second floor landing, then past that to the third floor which is mostly occupied by an enormous bedroom suite. I’m still gaping at the size of the king four-poster bed that dominates the room, when he tightens his palm against my lower back, pressing hard enough to lead me straight through the bedroom and into the bathroom instead.

This is equally enormous, with a Jacuzzi tub that looks large enough to fit at least four people, complete with jets set into its walls. The view from the tub is gorgeous, a glass-paneled nighttime view of the whole town, sparkling against the panes. There’s a shower too, a glass-walled room with so many nozzles that I bet he could set it to spray him from ten angles at once.

That’s where he leads me now, pausing just before the glass doors to grip the hem of my dress in his hands, and whip it over my head in one smooth motion.

I gasp, folding my arms around my waist instinctively, but he grasps my wrists and peels them back, holding my arms at my sides while he gazes down at my body, naked save for my matching lace bra and panties.

“You have not shaved yet today,” he observes, pursing his lips.

“I…” My cheeks burn hot. I didn’t think he would notice, since the hairs are still relatively short. “I got a wax a few weeks ago, it’s only just starting to…”

He cuts me off with a gentle caress, both hands cupping my waist and sliding down to my ass. I expect a spanking, a smack, something. But he just massages my ass gently, kneading me with both hands until my body reacts against my will, relaxing against his chest as I let out a soft sigh of pleasure. “That’s quite all right, Corbella. I’m glad, actually. I want to get you ready for me.”

I tilt my head, still pressed against his strong chest, to gaze up at him. “Ready for what?” I ask, my voice low and full of excitement.

He merely smiles in response. “

Take off your underwear.”

I unclasp my bra first, in slow, sinuous motions, keeping my eyes locked on his. I let it fall down my arms, toss it to the side, and then shimmy out of my panties, making sure to sway my hips side-to-side so he can fully appreciate my assets. And appreciate them he does, practically devouring me with his gaze.

Yet he doesn’t touch me. Not yet.

He opens the shower door. “Get in.”