Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

“You look like you could use a drink,” the redhead piped up.

“Yeah.” I stared at the floor, confused. I considered buying an evening with this beautiful girl, and guilt swam in my head. It was wrong. Illegal. Which only made me more curious to try it.

“What’s your drink?” the sales assistant asked. “Scotch? Whiskey?”

“Whiskey.”

She touched a hand to her ear, activating the low-profile earpiece I hadn’t noticed until now. “Can I get a glass of whiskey to room two?” Her gaze focused on me. “Straight, or on the rocks?”

“Rocks,” I croaked out, and the redhead relayed it into her earpiece.

It was harder for me to leave now that I’d ordered a drink, but my mouth was a desert. Each second I stayed in the room, the longer my subconscious had to plead its case it’d be okay to go through with this. The sales assistant had said the girl on the table would do whatever I wanted, including talking, after we’d reached a deal. So, I could look at this as an expensive paid interview.

I didn’t have to do anything more with her than what I’d already done.

Although a part of me wanted that very much.

> My thoughts were so distracting, it didn’t register my drink had arrived until it was cold in my hand. I swallowed a huge gulp while the redhead’s expectant gaze seared into me. She wanted an answer to her offer.

“Fifteen hundred,” I announced between sips. “All right.”

-3-

Grant

A startled, pleased smile warmed the redhead’s face. She glanced down and threaded her fingers through a lock of the blonde girl’s hair, playing with the glossy strands fanned out on the table.

“What do you think?” she said softly. “Do you accept?”

The girl’s lush lips parted, and the single word was uttered on a breath. “Yes.”

A jolt of electricity washed through me. Was it from finally hearing her voice? Or the power she’d just given to me by agreeing to my offer? In the end, it didn’t really matter. As soon as the deal was done, my anxiety and guilt vanished. She could have said no, but she hadn’t.

The saleswoman stalked toward the exit on her heels. “Enjoy your evening.”

When the door clicked closed behind her, the only sound in the room was the ice tinkling in my glass and the rush of blood pounding in my head. I stared at the girl, lingering over every curve. She was so gorgeous. Absolutely perfect.

But what happened now? I took another long sip of my drink. Maybe the subtle burn of the alcohol would clear my thoughts and give me a better plan. Or any plan.

She squirmed for a half-second, and her face contorted. It put me on alert. “What’s wrong?”

She snagged her bottom lip in her teeth and looked embarrassed. “Nothing. It’s, uh . . . nothing.”

All her answer did was make my stomach turn. Maybe she didn’t want me after all—

I took two steps toward the door before she blurted it in a rush, “So, this is really stupid, and not at all sexy, but I have a mosquito bite on my ankle.”

I blinked, unsure what to do with the information.

“It itches like crazy,” she admitted. To help explain her situation, she moved her arms, pulling against the black straps restraining her. Instantly, the basic voice in my head responded. Help her scratch her itch, and she can help you with yours.

“Which ankle?” I asked, moving back to the side of the table. “You want me to untie you?”

“Only if you want to, sir.” She wiggled her toes on her right foot, and the glossy red nail polish glinted in the light.

Technically, I didn’t need one, but it gave me an excuse to touch her, so I set my glass down beside her knee and peered at her long legs. A faint, pink bump lifted from her skin just above her anklebone.

“I’m told,” I said, “they always go for the ankles. Some people are more appealing to mosquitos than others. I’m a lucky one who doesn’t get bit much.”