Dirty Love Romance

“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.”

I do, and he follows, turning on the water. I brace myself for a jet of cold, but it’s warm right off the bat, and only grows warmer as he shrugs out of his suit coat. I watch through the glass as he begins to undress, undoing the buttons on his stiff shirt, and then dropping that onto the pile of our clothes on the bathroom floor. He notices me watching, and lifts an eyebrow.

“Get yourself wet for me, Corbella,” he says.

I tilt my head back and let the water wash over my face. I regret missing the show since I’d been enjoying watching him undress, but I know better than to disobey my client now. I run my fingers through my hair, soaking it through, and spin through the water until my entire body is wet. When I open my eyes again, he’s down to his boxers, still watching me with that steadfast gaze.

“I said get yourself wet, my little slut.” He smirks, as his gaze drops to my pussy, on full display through the clear shower glass.

Right.

Flushed, I slide my hands down my stomach to my crotch. Circle my fingers over my mound, feeling the faint press of new stubble there, then inching lower to spread my lower lips. My fingers feel cold at first, but between the heat of the water and my own desire, it doesn’t take them long to warm up under my careful ministrations.

When I look up again, Giovanni is watching me with hooded eyes. He steps out of his boxers, kicks them aside, and opens the shower door once more, revealing his full, rock-hard erection in the space between us. For a moment all I can do is stare at the hard length of him, and marvel at the memory of that gorgeous, thick cock between my lips, gliding along my tongue, thrusting down my throat.

I swallow again and feel the damp between my legs increase from watching him.

“You can stop touching yourself now, Corbella,” he says as he steps into the shower with me. It’s roomy, so there’s enough room for both of us to stand side-by-side comfortably. And with the multiple showerheads, we’re both ensconced in the warm rush of water.

I drop my hands from my body and he wraps his hands around my wrists, gently lifting my arms to place my palms against both walls of the shower, the glass cool against my skin.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs as he leans in to nuzzle his face into the crook of my neck, kissing the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A shiver rushes through me, one I couldn’t possible suppress, but other than that, I manage to hold my body perfectly still, arms spread wide.

He steps close to me, close enough that I feel the brush of his erection against my leg, and my belly clenches hard at the sensation. His body warmth envelops me, just for a moment, as he reaches over my head for something behind me. Then I hear the sound of him rubbing his palms together, lathering, just before his fingers delve into my hair, massaging my scalp gently with shampoo that tingles–mint, I figure.

I close my eyes, lips parting with a sigh as I relax into the touch. He works his way over my head, massaging my temples, kneading the base of my scalp, his fingers dropping down to cradle my neck before they slide back up along the sides of my head.

My lips part in a faint sigh of enjoyment, until his hands drop and he gently pulls me forward under the stream of water to rinse. Then I sigh again, this time in disappointment that it’s over.

But of course, this is Gio. He’s only just getting started.

He threads conditioner through my hair, then leaves it there, and reaches for another bottle, on a shelf beside me. Shaving cream, I realize.

My face flushes.

Nobody has ever shaved me before. Of course, the ladies at my salon have waxed me, but that’s different, clinical. It’s just a squirt of hot wax on my poor, sensitive nether region, a few sharp yanks, me biting my lip trying not to scream, and then done.

This feels so much more intimate. So much more vulnerable than just going to a salon.

Giovanni nudges my legs wider apart with warm palms, and I obediently spread my legs. I’m spread-eagled in the shower stall now, like the female version of the Da Vinci man, and I can’t help sucking in a sharp gasp of steam as he presses his palm flat against my mound, spreading shaving cream all above my pussy. Then his hand delves between my legs to spread it along each of my pussy lips as well, until the white creamy foam coats every inch of me.

Only then does he remove a small razor from the shelf, and wrap his body half around mine, curled against my side so that he can get the easiest angle, as he strokes the razor across my mound.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. Invasive, strange… and hot as hell. By the time he finishes shaving the top of my pussy, I’m wetter than I’ve been all night. He reaches between my legs to continue his work, pausing to add a little more shaving cream to my lips first, and the smirk on his face tells me that he’s noticed all too easily how excited this is getting me.

“Enjoying being pampered, Corbella?” he asks, his voice a purr.

“Of course, sir,” I murmur in response, eyes half-shut, still lost in the feeling of his touch. His fingers are like a drug–I wish he would never stop touching me.

“Good.” He leans in to kiss my neck, my jawline, the corner of my lips. Not quite kissing me, not yet. Probably because he can sense how damn much I want him to. How I want his mouth to sink into mine, claim me again. “Because next, it will be my turn,” he murmurs. “To take from you what I wish.”

His hand, still between my legs, cups my pussy tightly at that. The fire in my belly roars hotter than ever.

“This is your body, sir,” I whisper, eyes fluttering closed as I do. “Take whatever you want from me.”

He chuckles softly. Slips one finger between my lips to stroke along my slit, coating his finger in my juices. “Oh, I will. Believe me, darling…”

A few more strokes of the razor and he’s finished shaving me. He cups his palms under the stream of water and uses that to rinse the rest of the cream away from me. Then, without warning, he drops to his knees between my legs.

“Sir,” I gasp, hands on his hand. Half of me wants to stop him, to protest. He said next would be his turn, and this feels an awful lot like more of my turn.

But the rest of me screams to let him do whatever he will. To let him give me that orgasm again, that heady rush that only he can bring on.

So when he pushes his nose between my thighs, I part my legs on either side of his head and open myself to him. His tongue trails along my slit, over the sensitive lips he just shaved, and I have to brace myself by resting both hands on the top of his head, leaning over him, my body instinctively curling in on itself.

He licks me deeply, hungrily. Slides his tongue inside me and tastes me, wraps his lips around my clit and sucks gently, making me groan and clench my fingers in his hair. He wraps his arms around my thighs, his fingers digging into my ass hard enough to leave marks. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to stay on my feet, keep my head on straight as he drives me over the edge. It doesn’t take long before I’m screaming my release, the hot rush of the orgasm making my knees shake and my fingers dig into his scalp.

He’s grinning when he stands up again, scoops me up in one strong arm and spins me until my back is pressed against the glass of the shower, cold and hot all at once. His mouth claims mine in a deep kiss, and I part my lips, soaking wet in every sense of the word and eager for him to take this to the next level. The taste of me on his tongue makes me hungrier for him to take control of me fully.

Yet still, despite my eagerness, I am not prepared when he breaks away from the kiss and gently brushes my hair back from my forehead. “I’m going to change the pace tonight, Corbella,” he says. His eyes hold mine, dark and impossible to look away from.

“Yes, sir,” I breathe, the only thing I can think to respond now, with my body still pulsing from the climax he just gave me.

His smile widens as he opens the shower door and steps out. He wraps a towel around his waist, tosses one my way. I fold it around my hair and leave the rest of my body dripping wet and on display. He seems to appreciate that, sizing me up even as he leads me into the adjacent bedroom.

“Do you remember what you need to say to me if you want me to stop?” he asks, and my insides clench in sudden nerves.

“I say ‘when,’” I respond. I remember that clearly. There’s no way I could forget the animal shine in his eyes when he first gave me my safe word. The confidence with which he possessed my body just afterwards.

“I have a confession to make.” His sharp gaze snares me once again, and this time the clench in my body isn’t so much anticipation as it is fear.

Here it comes. The catch. I’ve always known there must be one, some reason he’s single–or maybe that in itself is the catch. He’s not single. He’s buying my silence as well as my body, because he’s got a girlfriend or a wife off on a trip somewhere who will be home any moment and end this budding… whatever it is we’ve gotten ourselves into.

Instead, he tilts his head, studying me. “I have darker tastes than I’ve allowed you to see yet, Corbella.”

I can’t help it. I let out a sigh of relief, almost a laugh. His eyebrows rise.

“That entertains you?”

“No, I just…” Then I stop myself. What? I was just worried that my paying client might have a girlfriend and so I wouldn’t be able to fill that role in his life? This is exactly the kind of line I need to not be crossing right now. So instead I just shake my head and bow it in submission. “I apologize, sir.”