Be My Babygirl

Then, I saw her.

Easily a foot shorter than the rest of them, she walked on heels like a girl playing dress-up, uncertain and wobbly on her feet.

Adorable.

Her dress hugs her curves in all the right places, showing cleavage but hinting at more beneath that fabric.

Stunning.

She filled her plate with food, and then came back for seconds, looking around furtively as if Miranda would come marching over any moment, wagging a finger and telling her to eat her leafy greens.

She was obviously hungry. Why?

Are there other things she’s hungry for?

She isn’t like the others. There’s something markedly different about her, a winsome wholeness I can’t put my finger on. She seems sweet, shy, like a lost little kitten. What the hell am I doing?

I call Rawley, my brother.

“Yo.”

I roll my eyes. “Yo,” I say with a grimace. “You need to tell me I’m not making a mistake.”

“Well that’s easy. You’re not making a mistake. Do it. Do it twice. Buy it! Buy three.”

I close my eyes, shake my head, and contemplate hanging up the phone. He must sense my hesitation, for he presses on.

“Okay, Darius. Fess up. You can tell Uncle Rawley what’s got you all in a tither.”

I shake my head. Jesus.

“I hired an escort for the night,” I groan. “In my own fucking hotel.”

“‘Bout damn time.”

I sigh. A part of me knew that he’d practically congratulate me, which is probably why I called him to begin with.

“You need that, bro. Do it. If you don’t, I’ll fly all the way to that swanky fucking rooftop whatever you own and kick your ass.”

“Like hell you will.” I’d like to see him try.

“Do it, Darius. You have to live a little. Fill the well, and whatever other sentimental bullshit’s written in the latest inspirational poster on your office wall.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes and shake my head. Framed college degrees are the only things hung up on my office walls, but he loves to give me shit.

“Make it good, bro.” He sighs. “Listen, I’ve gotta go.”

“Yeah. Alright, you go. Thanks, man.”

I hang up the phone, honestly no more at ease than I was before. Another shot helps, when my door buzzes.

I walk to the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Morrow, I’ve arrived with your guest.”

My guest.

“You may enter.” Logan has access to my apartment, but only enters after he asks permission.

A moment later, the door opens, and Logan comes in, followed by the stunning blonde. Her bright eyes take in the details of my penthouse, likely noting the opulence. She doesn’t speak for long moments, nor does she meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s intimidated.

“Thank you, Logan,” I say. “You may leave us.”

He gracefully exits, and the door shuts.

She stands just inside the door, clutching her small bag as if it will defend her against me. It won’t, but she’s cute.

“Come in.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morrow,” she says, her voice wobbly. “Your… your home is beautiful, sir.”

Sir.

I fucking like that.

“Thank you.”

I offer nothing else at first. I want to note as much about her as possible. The way she walks. Unaccustomed to heels? The gentle wave of her hair. Natural? The way she looks about as if to find a place to sit as far away from me as possible. Nervous?

My fingers tighten on the glass in my hand. It will be so goddamn hard keeping myself in check around her. Perhaps even harder to send her home in the morning.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it and blushes. She’s so nervous, it’s enticing, and a little voice in the back of my mind whispers, tempting me.

Could she be the one?

The one who doesn’t run.

The one who doesn’t call me sick or twisted.

I dismiss the thought with a scowl, and she must take it as my disapproval, for her cheeks flush hotter.

It doesn’t fucking matter who she is or what she likes, I’ll pay her well for her time with me and send her home in the morning.

She sits, then quickly rises again. “I’m sorry,” she stutters, getting to her feet. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t think I’m —”

“Sit down.” The command is sharp and rasping, and it makes her jump. She trips on the carpet, her heel snags, and falls toward the coffee table, banging her knee. She winces, cries out, and steadies herself on the glass table, both hands splayed out to steady herself, her full breasts nearly spilling out of her top.

I immediately regret my sharp tone, and I admit, that’s a fucking first. I like people jumping to my commands. I like them to be afraid of me. I haven’t risen to where I am by being Mr. Nice Guy.

But this girl… she’s a skittish little thing, and the very knowledge makes the low coil of arousal in my belly tighten. There’s something about her that’s so authentic and vibrant, it makes me feel alive.