by Warren, Skye
She puts up a startled fight. “Wait. What? I don’t—”
“I need to taste you,” I say, damn near begging. I don’t know what I’ll do if she says no. I need the salt sweet on my tongue. I need her velvet folds against my mouth.
“Yes,” she breathes, and I let out a whoosh of relief.
I spread her legs, ready to dive in—but I pause to look at her, because I haven’t. How backwards this sex is, when it’s paid for. Sex first and kissing later. A blowjob first and looking later.
She’s pink and pale, like a flower when it’s first bloomed. The idea of other men using her, without any appreciation of what they have, makes me sick. Even though I’m one of those men.
I nuzzle against the inside of her thigh, and she gives a breathless, ticklish laugh.
Next comes a gentle bite, a graze of my teeth, because sometimes pleasure hurts. She makes a mewling sound that turns my cock to steel again.
I lick her from the base of her sex to her clit, lingering at the slick nub, swirling it with my tongue, lapping with increasing force until she shudders and jerks and comes. At the end her hands come to tangle in my hair, to hold me still where she wants, and I groan my approval.
Need builds to a fever pitch. I fumble in my pants for another condom, wincing as it slides over my still-slick cock. God, I’m going to ache when this is over, and I won’t regret a thing.
She’s still swollen from coming, and I press the head of my cock into her pink flesh. She squirms, and I murmur soft words. “It’s okay, sweet thing. You can take me.”
“Wait,” she gasps. “Wait. Wait.”
I pause with only an inch of me inside her, gasping at the strain. I want to plunge inside her heat. I want to fuck her hard. Instead I’m held captive in this space, panting. “What is it? I can go slower.” I don’t know how, but somehow I’ll find a way to slow down if that’s what she needs. “Is this too fast?”
“No. Go ahead. Do it.” Except her voice doesn’t sound excited anymore. She sounds strained. Her face is pressed sideways into the couch, and I turn her chin so I can see her eyes. Tears glisten there. Shit. I yank myself out of her, ignoring the yowling protest of my dick.
“What the hell is wrong?” Jesus. I force myself to calm the fuck down. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Just do it.”
She holds her legs apart so I can—what? Plunge inside without any more foreplay? Fuck her even though she’s crying? My insides turn cold. Nothing about her pose looks sexy now.
It just looks like someone trying to please me. Because that’s what she is.
My cock is still hard, still hopeful it will get to be inside her, the stupid fuck.
I collapse onto my back next to her on the couch. “Jesus,” I mutter. “Someone did a number on you, didn’t they? Probably several someones. I’m going to hell for this.”
She brings her knees close together and wraps her arms around them. It’s a protective pose, and something in my heart cracks at the sight. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“It’s just that my first… my last… the one customer I had before you… he wasn’t gentle with me. Not like you were. So I don’t know why I freaked out like it would be the same.”
“You’ve only had one customer before me?”
She whispers staring straight ahead. “It hurt so bad.”
Christ. I want to ask if she was a virgin before that or if she’s ever had good sex. What a fucking world to live in, where there are women with no other choices. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“No, what you did… it…” Her cheeks turn the same shade of pink as her pussy. “It felt good.”
So tempting. It’s so fucking tempting to spread her legs and show her how good it can feel to play with her clit while I pump into her pussy. To fuck her bare and then lick the liquid from her pussy. I want to do so many things with her, but I’m not going to.
It hurt so bad.
Fuck.
Chapter Eight
Sutton
I wake up to the sound of Bowie, my rooster. He reminds me I need to check on the goddamn hens. Thankfully I have Whitney who lives in the guesthouse or all the animals would have starved by now. Including me. Even so I’ve been shirking my duties. Exactly like Dad used to do. Hell.
A faint movement from beside me. Ashleigh becomes still.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing a casual voice.
She gives me a cautious glance. “Hi.”
Does she think I’m going to kick her out as soon as she opens her eyes? I convinced her to come to my bed only after swearing I wouldn’t touch her. And I managed to do that, despite the blue state of my balls. “Sleep well?”
She moves each arm and then each leg, checking that they’re all there, as if I might have ravenously eaten a limb overnight. She treats me like I’m a monster, because that’s exactly what I taught her I am.
“Breakfast?”
The idea of food loosens her up. A sigh that can almost be called content. She stretches like a cat, long and decadent, with a little shiver at the end. “I love breakfast.”
“Perfect. I’ll make migas.”
“Migas? I was thinking like a bagel or something.”
“Migas are better than bagels.”
She looks skeptical, and I have to laugh. “Fresh eggs from my chickens, onions, garlic, jalapeno. Black pepper and salt. Corn tortillas, cheddar cheese. And my homemade salsa.”
“You make your own salsa?”
“It’s easy, and a million times better than from the jar.”
She still looks uncertain. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a spicy breakfast before.”
“I can make it mild. But here’s the deal. If you don’t love it, we’ll find bagels for you.”
A flush colors her cheeks. “I mean, of course I’ll eat it. And love it. I didn’t mean to be demanding. God, I’m so hungry I would eat about anything. I’d eat jalapenos like they were grapes.”
The reminder that she lives hand to mouth makes me cold. It’s one thing to use her for sex when I’m pissed off and heartbroken. Another thing to see her too skinny body in the light of morning. “Is there someone I can call? A sister? A friend? Someone who can help you get on your feet.”
She looks away. Her profile looks stark against the pale light. “No.”
“Maybe there’s a shelter. Or somewhere that helps women who—”
“No.”
“How did you end up doing this?”
“It’s none of your business, Sutton. You didn’t buy that from me. You bought my body and my time. You paid for my mouth, which you love so much, but you didn’t buy my secrets.”
Her agitation fills the air around us, a crackling energy that bites at my skin. I stroke her arm, her cheek, the tender side of her neck. “Hey,” I whisper. “You’re safe with me.”
She meets my eyes then, and she looks haunted—it’s a look that carves into my soul. One of pain and despair. One I’d do anything in that moment to erase. “Am I?”
“Yes. There will be migas and bagels, because why the hell should we choose? And then…”
“And then?” she asks, resigned, already knowing the answer.
And then she’ll go back to the street, to another man to fuck. God. I can’t stand the idea. I don’t care if that makes me hypocritical and jealous. I can’t deal with the idea of someone touching her. And I definitely can’t stand the idea of her being hungry. “Listen, I really need a plus-one for this wedding. I don’t want to sit alone and deal with everyone’s pity.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “So you want me to—? God no.”
“Why not? You enjoy spending time with me. You know I can make you enjoy it.”
“Because I’m a prostitute. Why do I have to spell it out?”
“No one there will know. Even in the off chance they’ve seen you on the street, they won’t put it together. People see what they expect to see.”
“What if I wan
t them to know?”
“Then tell them. What the hell do I care? Do what you want. Just come with me.” I don’t know why it’s so important to me that she comes. So that I can give her more money? Yes. So that she’ll be safe for another night? Yes. There’s something else, though, some ineffable sense that I’d be lost without her.
“I don’t want them to know,” she says on a sigh. “But I don’t have a dress.”
“Then we’ll go shopping.” I glance at the alarm clock. “We have enough time to make migas, raid Nordstrom’s, and show up on time to the wedding.”
“I don’t know—”
She wants to. I can tell that much. And I’m suddenly suffused with the desire to see her in something expensive, something comfortable and luxurious and sexy—the very opposite of her cheap satin halter and black mini skirt that are somewhere on the floor of the living room.
I could probably convince her using only my charm. Maybe tell her she’s starting to mean something to me, even after only one night. Except that would change the terms. This should be about money.
“Two thousand dollars,” I say gently.
She doesn’t meet my eyes this time. “Sold.”
Chapter Nine
Ashleigh
He takes me to a boutique called Steph’s in the Heights, a stylish part of the city. There are no racks of clothing. Only a bevy of gorgeous women, smiling, pensive, and sly. It takes me a minute to understand that they’re like mannequins showing off the clothes in various poses. A woman in all black shows us to the back.
“Hello, my love,” a woman says, giving Sutton a kiss on both cheeks. “Tell me you’re doing well and that you’ve forgotten all about that traitor.”
“Hello, Steph. I heard that traitor dropped a small fortune here last week.”
A sniff. “Yes, but I didn’t even tell her that the navy jumper looked pedestrian.”
He grins. “Is it because you care about me?”
“Yes, you foolish cowboy. Now tell me what you’ve brought me.”
“This is Ashleigh. She needs a dress.”
“She needs a makeover and a donut. Look how skinny. Don’t starve yourself for the men,” she tells me. “It’s never worth it.”
“There will be time for donuts later. We’re in a rush.”
She gasps. “The wedding. It’s today.”
“That’s right.”
“You give me no time. None. What are you, a size two?” Her sentences run together giving me no room to answer. “Never mind. I’ll start bringing dresses. We can’t waste a single moment, not with men who wait until the last minute.”
I stand on a small platform while Sutton lounges on a sofa. Dresses are held under my chin while Steph makes pronouncements. This color looks like puke. Here, this one, it’s like it was made for her. No, I despise it. Throw it away. Why do we have this dress?
“Perfect,” she exclaims over a particular dress with pale blue ruched fabric. “Now, take off these terrible clothes so we can try this one.”
She doesn’t move from standing next to me. There don’t seem to be any dressing rooms, only walls covered in thick crown molding. “Where should I change?”
“Right here,” she says, exasperated. “Come on. Undress. No need to be modest with Steph. Or with Sutton. Sutton appreciates a woman’s body, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Sutton says from the sofa, his voice sardonic.
“Oh, but I don’t—” Embarrassment heats my cheeks. I’m standing on a pedestal. Is this what rich people do, undress on pedestals? God. And even worse, I’m not wearing a bra or underwear. I struggle for the words. “I don’t have any—Under here, there isn’t—I’d be naked.”
Neither of them looks particularly shocked by my confession. Sutton isn’t shocked because he undressed me last night. He did more than undress me. He lifted my skirt on the sofa and licked between my legs. From the heated look in his bright blue eyes, he’s remembering the same thing.
“This is better,” Steph says. “We’ll need a strapless bra for this dress. And we’ll find you silk panties. Stockings and garters. The whole ensemble will be new.”
The whole ensemble will be new. How easy that sounds. How alluring.
I wonder if I’d feel new, too.
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s too much money. We only need a dress for the wedding.”
Sutton relents. “Let her use a dressing room, if it helps her feel better.”
The expression on Steph’s face is uncompromising. It’s impossible to tell how old she is. She has a commanding air and sophisticated clothes—a short dress with high, almost military sleeves. But her face is unlined and softly pretty. Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “This wedding,” she tells me softly. “Everyone will be looking at Sutton. Everyone will be looking at who he brings. Don’t you want to look your best?”
Because they’ll be judging him. I may only be a prostitute, but he’s right. They don’t have to know that. I can look beautiful and wealthy—like them. “Okay,” I say, reaching for the hem of my halter top.
The fabric falls to the floor, and then I’m topless in front of Sutton and a stranger. My nipples turn tight under their gazes, one heated, one assessing. Next I push down my black mini skirt. I step out of my heels, too. With the outside of my foot I push the whole thing off the pedestal.
Then it’s just me standing there, completely naked—afraid and ashamed and also exhilarated. Those clothes are the only thing that marks me as living on the street. Without them I could be anyone. I could be someone who’s never had rough, cruel hands on her. Someone who belongs by Sutton’s side.
Steph lifts the pale blue dress and it falls down my body. As soon as it touches my thighs, she says, “No, definitely. All wrong. The blue matches Sutton’s eyes, and that’s the only excuse I can make. I was distracted by them.” She gazes at me, sly. “Aren’t his eyes distracting?”
“Yes,” I admit, because I’m staring into them right now.
He’s watching my body with lazy possession, relaxed on the sofa. It’s the kind of relaxed a wild animal would have, coiled in rare repose. His gaze shows all the heat and sensual intent.
Steph holds up another dress to my naked body. “No no no.”
And then I’m revealed again. It’s an endless covering and reveal, an endless dressing and undressing. Every single time Sutton turns hotter, until it doesn’t seem possible that he should feel more turned on. It must be contagious because my own skin starts feeling hot and itchy.
“This is the perfect one,” Steph says when she holds up a gold slinky thing.
It’s the same thing she says about every one I’ve tried on. Despite the glittery sheen, the fabric is soft against my heated skin. It’s like a caress. Instead of shouting no no no, Steph turns me gently to face away from Sutton—until I’m looking at a large set of mirrors.
The reflection takes my breath away. The gold dress falls perfectly on my body, highlighting curves in a way that feels elemental. My hair looks tousled from so many dresses going over it. The gold brings out natural champagne strands. I look like someone else entirely. A different species than the scared, hungry girl who lives in a sugar factory. I don’t look anything like me.
“I love it,” I breathe.
Triumph makes Steph look like a general having won a war.
In the mirror, Sutton’s expression is arrested—as if I’ve taken him by surprise. “Yes,” he mutters, almost to himself. “She looks incredible. Jesus. No one will recognize her like that.”
My heart sinks, because of course they won’t.
And of course he worried about that.
Chapter Ten
Sutton
St. Martins is the oldest church in Tanglewood. It’s been through a plague and a flood and a fire—all the Biblical threats. And here it stands in modern, hand-bricked glory. Light shines in every hue through the stained glass windows. Jesus drags his own cross in one of them. He rises from the dead in another.
&
nbsp; I wouldn’t have expected Harper to get married in a church. It’s a little traditional for her. She could have gotten married knee-deep on an endangered coral reef or in zero gravity on a private space plane. Maybe she could have painted the church out of thin air. She eschews everything ordinary. Or at least it seemed that way. Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought.
Hugo stands in a throng of bridesmaids with his usual charm, making the women blush. He even disarms the men with that grin, the one that invites you to share in some undefined secret, looking old-world debonair in a tailored tux, his black hair in artful disarray.
We have that in common, the ability to make friends in any room. The ability to charm our way through every woman and most of the men. While meaning none of it, feeling nothing.
The relief in his dark eyes, that’s real enough. “Thought you might not come.”
“I said I would.”
He gives a soft huff of laughter, looking away. “You left early last night.”
Lust. Anger. They merged into something ugly last night, something that had almost made a young woman the target of my revenge. I could have turned into my father. Maybe I did. “I made an appearance. Same as I’m doing now.”
He glances at my tux. “I suppose you visited Mrs. Cheung.”
Someone should alert the media. The next diet craze—alcoholism, thanks to the research by Sutton Mayfair. Six weeks of bingeing stripped away every spare centimeter of space, leaving my frame lean and hard. “She didn’t appreciate me showing up without an appointment.”
“I’m sure she didn’t,” Hugo says, his voice mild.
He’s the one who discovered Mrs. Cheung when we were broke as hell and trying not to look that way. The tailor shop squats between a dumpling house and a Chinese movie theater, mostly hidden by gnarled bamboo plants allowed to run wild.
We can afford Italian designers and bespoke suits now, but we like to remember where we came from.
“She charged me a ridiculous amount of money. And tried to set me up on a date with her niece.” She also gave me a rather colorful setdown in Cantonese while she tucked and trimmed my tux yesterday. A small price to pay to appear presentable today.