Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

He gripped my wrists. “No, next time. Next date.”

“Why next date? Why not now?”

“Because I said so. When I set up our next date, Henry will tell you which hotel, and what time to be in the lobby. If you recognize me when I come in, we’ll have our date. If you don’t recognize me, too bad. No date, no money, no tip. No seeing what I look like.”

“How am I supposed to recognize you? Magic?”

He took my wrists and pulled my hands up, and flattened them against his cheeks. “Feel me. Learn me. You’ll be able to recognize me.”

Oh, God, I was touching his face. It felt so sudden, so intimate. I tried to think how he looked from the contours I felt. His cock was still inside me—I knew his cock. I knew it well. But everything else, I was feeling for the first time. He moved inside me, fucking me as I raped his face with my sense of touch.

Stubble. I knew there would be stubble. Soft eyebrows, taut cheekbones, a masculine nose, not too pointy, not too prominent. At least I didn’t think so.

I traced his lips next. They felt firm and rough, and warm under my fingers. He opened his mouth and bit me, just above the knuckle. I laughed and felt his cock buck inside me. I’d never recognize him, but this was wonderful. I reached up to explore his scalp, and the texture of his hair. It was short, a little prickly. Cropped close on the sides, but a little longer on top. Much longer near the front.

“What color is your hair?” I whispered.

“That’s cheating,” he whispered back. “Are you going to come or not? The water’s getting cold.”

He made me come about thirty seconds later, because he knew how to do that, and the whole time I groped his face, trying to picture him.

“Talk to Henry,” he said as he drained the water from the tub. “Tell him you agree to be exclusive. And find me next time we meet. You know enough by now to pick me out of a crowd.”

I didn’t think I did, but perhaps I’d recognize him by some internal lust-meter. How could I not recognize the man who’d given me so many orgasms? I’d give it a try. At least I wouldn’t have to wear this damn eye mask anymore.

He threw a towel over my shoulder, and we dried off. Afterward, he led me back into the room. “Sit,” he said, and I sat when he forced me down, trusting a chair would be there. “Did you bring extra clothes?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes, Sir. Use your damn manners.”

“Yes, Sir, I brought extra clothes.” I hoped I didn’t sound too sassy. He put a hand on my back and shoved me forward in the chair. Oh, Jesus.

“Be still,” he said. “Don’t move.”

I felt a weird, tingling sensation on my back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. I finally realized he was writing on me. Too much to hope for, that it wasn’t permanent marker.

“What do you do, that you have so much money?” I asked while he scrawled across my back.

I didn’t think he’d answer, but he said, “Design.”

“What do you design?”

“None of your business.”

High fashion? Web design? What kind of designer made enough money for Park Hyatt call-girl sessions?

“I thought you might be an Ivy League English professor, with all the poetry,” I joked.

He did a flourish with the marker against my lower back. “Poetry is just another form of design.” I heard him cap it and zip his briefcase, and then begin to dress. My hands were free. I could have unbuckled the blindfold and looked at him before he could stop me. I could have finally seen what he looked like, and satisfied my curiosity. Of course, I also would have lost his trust, and possibly the ability to see him again. My whore hands stayed curled in my lap.

“There’s a pool here,” he said. I heard the whispery sound of him sliding on his shoes. “Did you bring a bathing suit?”

“No.”

“Next time, bring a bathing suit. Will you stay here tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can if you want. I won’t come back and bother you.”

It was almost sweet, how he wanted me to stay in these ritzy hotel rooms after he left me. Like he wanted to spoil me. More likely, he knew I’d think about him the entire time I was here. While I was on the bed, I’d think about him. While I was in the bathroom, I’d look at the tub and remember his skin against mine, and the smell of the soap, and the soft, scratchy loveliness of his hair. If I wasn’t so chicken, I could know the color of that hair.

I would know the color of that hair, next time. Did that mean he trusted me now? I got a sickly, nervous feeling in my stomach at the idea of him revealing himself. Mere eye contact would feel like a crazy-scary level of intimacy after the way we’d begun.