by Vivian Wood
He looks at my fingers touching him, but he doesn’t move. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I do.”
Take my hand, I think as hard as I can. Caress my palm with those strong fingers of yours. I want him to do it so badly and I realize I’m anticipating the sensation, not the victory of knowing I’m finally “finessing” him. His hands are beautiful, large and strong like he does spend all day on a construction site rather than in an office.
But he clears his throat and sits up, and his hand disappears into his lap. “Your allowance. I’ve got an amount in mind but you must tell me if it’s not enough.”
Oh, right. My allowance. I suppose I should be happy that he’s brought it up but I just feel disappointed that he’s pulled away. I force my thoughts back to the conflicting advice I’ve read about allowances. That I should set my own prices; that I should let him pick a number and then try and drive it higher. Misha’s said he’s got a number in mind so I suppose we should start with that.
“All right. I’ll tell you if I think it should be more. What’s the amount?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
I swallow, hard. Fifteen goddamn thousand. For an insane second I want to tell him it’s too much, that surely he can’t afford it. But that’s ridiculous. He owns a Bentley. He builds skyscrapers in London. He can easily afford it.
But why, asks a part of my mind which sounds suspiciously like my mother, does he want to pay fifteen thousand pounds a month for me?
I push the nasty voice away. Maybe Misha is kinky and is going to demand that I do strange things to earn that money. Does he have a foot fetish? A BDSM dungeon? Is he a furry? My limited sexual experiences have been so vanilla, but think I could get on board with almost anything as long as it doesn’t cause me actual pain. If he wants to suck on my toes for fifteen grand a month he’s welcome to them. I’m not precious about my feet.
“How often would you like to see me?”
He frowns at the tablecloth. “I don’t know. Enough to know you’re safe.”
“Pardon?”
“Shall we play it by ear? I’ll text you, and you can tell me if you’re too busy.”
I’m not sure if I like the sound of that but he adds, “You can tell me to back off if I’m being too demanding or that you need more money.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Have I just landed the holy grail of sugar daddies? He’s good-looking, generous, well-mannered. Sometimes he’s grumpy but I can put up with a bit of grumpiness for such a generous allowance. Before I get carried away, though, I should be sure about what I’m getting myself into.
“Do you have any other… What do you… Is there anything else I should know?”
He gives me a puzzled frown. “Nothing I can think of.”
My face floods with heat and I stare at him hard, willing him to understand. Sex, Misha. What will you want from me in terms of bedroom stuff? But he continues to sit there in puzzled silence and my nerve fails me. I’m not a virgin but the only boyfriend I had was in high school and neither of us were brave enough to talk frankly about sex. I should have practiced this in the mirror today, considering I’m now a sex worker.
Oh, well. I guess we’ll be playing that by ear, too.
I smile at him, letting the genuine gratitude and affection I feel for him fill my face. “Thank you, Misha. That’s a very generous allowance. I appreciate it.”
He drops his eyes and adjusts one of his cufflinks. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was a little flustered.
I’m not drunk but I am a little tipsy as we take the elevator downstairs. Misha doesn’t touch me but I’m hyperaware of him standing by my side, his eyes front and center. I would say this isn’t a man who has spent a lot of time in the company of women. Not talking to them, at least. Maybe he’s always paid for sex by the hour but it’s started to feel lonely.
Outside, the driver gets out of the silver Bentley and opens the rear door, and Misha turns to me. “I won’t be offended if you refuse, but may I offer you a ride home?”
I hesitate. Misha seems trustworthy but I still want to be cautious. I’m also curious about him, and if I accept I might be able to sidle up against him in the back seat of the car and I can ask him quietly what he likes.
I nod, and when we get inside the car I tell the driver an address—not my address, but one a few streets away. Then I take a look around the interior of the car. The seats are deep and broad and covered with quilted black leather. There are screens set in the seat backs and dim lighting. The windows are heavily tinted and a partition slides up between the front and rear seats to give us privacy. Misha and I are alone, but with a foot and a half of space between us.
He’s silent during the drive and I can’t think of a way to bring up what I want to say. I imagine, for some ridiculous reason, inviting him up to my room. He would seem like a giant in my box room, his expensive suit incongruous against the ten-year-old paint on the walls and the faded cotton curtains.
Twenty minutes later the car pulls up and I see through the darkened windows that we’re at the address I gave the driver, a quiet residential street with few streetlights. There’s no one around. I turn to Misha. I feel like I need to address the elephant in the car. Fifteen thousand pounds a month is a lot of money and it’s going to play on my mind if I don’t know what he wants from me.
Clenching my bag in my lap I look down at it and say, “How often did you want… Would you like me to…”
He peers at me, frowning, and I know I won’t be able to put in into words what I need to say. A crazy impulse overtakes me, and I sink down to my knees onto the floor of the car and slide between his legs.
Chapter Ten
Misha
“Ciara?” I reach down to help her off the floor. A moment later I feel her fingers tugging at my belt.
Oh.
Oh.
That’s what she was asking about earlier when she blushed and just now when she trailed off. She wanted to know about sex. I’m such a fucking idiot sometimes. I never said anything and now she thinks she has to do this.
I grasp her forearms and lean forward. “Ciara. It’s all right. You don’t need to do that.”
Her mouth is very close to mine and she licks her lips. In the soft lights of the car they look plump and deep pink and my gaze becomes locked on them.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
I’ve thought about touching her ever since she sent me those pictures. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head, in fact. But they were abstract thoughts about sex that were never going to come to fruition. That could never come to fruition, because I’m not who she thinks I am.
Now she’s offering to give me exactly what I want and my brain is presenting me with reason after reason why I should have sex with her. It’s what she expects. Sex is implicit in our arrangement. It’s what she thinks I’m paying her for. She might get suspicious of my motives if I don’t take her to bed.
I really, really want to taste her.
“Would you like me to? Be honest,” she whispers.
My hesitation tells her all she needs to know. Her fingers continue unthreading my belt. It clinks softly and loosens and I feel myself grow hard in anticipation of her touch. My hands caress her shoulders and her blonde curls glide against my knuckles. So soft. I push my fingers into her hair, caressing the back of her head, and she feels like heaven.
Ciara’s hand rubs me over my trousers and even that gentle touch makes me groan. She outlines my length with her forefinger and then traces the swollen head of my cock. I watch her, my breathing shallow, as she undoes the button and then slowly eases the zipper down. Her hand dives inside my underwear and pulls my cock out, hot and swollen in her cool fingers. A conceited part of me can’t help but admire how thick and long I look in her hands.
She licks her lips and I instinctively grasp the nape of her neck. Yes. Suck me. My gaze is locked on her face as her pink tongue slides across the broad head of my cock. Her hand caresses m
y length and she licks me again, wetting me thoroughly before taking me into her mouth. I feel the drag of her lips and then the lave of her tongue, and I groan and lay back against the leather seat.
“Jezus Christus, how did you learn to do this?”
Ciara draws her tongue along my length with delicious slowness. “I’m a whore, remember?”
Anger rolls through me even as she slides me to the back of her throat. Has she been seeing other men? Aren’t I giving her enough money? She’s not a whore, not even when I’m paying her for this. I catch hold of her hair tightly and force her gaze up to mine. “Listen to me. You don’t see any other men but me.”
She nods quickly, her mouth still full of me.
“I’m your daddy. Are we clear?”
She nods again and I let her go, sinking back to enjoy what she’s doing. “Fucking good,” I growl, as she continues to work my cock. She’s heaven with that mouth. I look at the blush in her cheek, the way her lips slowly suck me, her eyes closed. From the way her tongue is caressing me I would almost think she was enjoying this.
Her hands slide up and over my belly and she makes a little noise in the back of her throat. Maybe she is. Maybe she likes blowing me.
I reach down between her legs and grasp her silken thigh. She catches my wrist and draws her mouth away from my cock. “Don’t,” she says in a broken whisper. As if she’s ashamed of something.
But I need to know. Suddenly it’s the most important thing about this. Not the money. Not my fucking brother. Not me pretending to be something I’m not. Her. She’s the most important thing. And I need to know if she’s wet.
“Baby. Let me feel.”
Her blue eyes are filled with trepidation. I think she’s going to say no but without breaking eye contact she slowly spreads her knees for me. I caress the soft skin of her inner thighs and then slide my hand up to her sex. She’s wearing tiny, flimsy underwear and I stroke her softly. Then I delve beneath the lace. Christus. She is wet. We stare at each other. I don’t know who’s more shocked that she’s so turned on, me or her. Or maybe she’s just shocked I found out.
“You’re wet for me, baby?”
Ciara looks at me uncertainly, as if I’m going to be angry with her. “I’m not—I didn’t—”
But I’m not angry. Not one little bit. I caress her sex with my finger, finding the swollen nub at her apex. Her eyes flicker closed and her lips part. I keep rubbing and she whimpers my name.
“Misha.”
I ease the lace aside with my fingers and slide all along her slit, back and forth, feeling how slick she is. Loving it. Her hand tightens around the base of my cock, the blow job forgotten while she’s lost in these sensations.
I grab her wrist and haul her up across my lap, face down. I want to feel more of her. I ruck her skirt up until her ass in a tiny pair of briefs is bare to me. She’s breathing hard, her nails digging into my thigh.
“Open your legs,” I tell her.
“Your driver—”
“Fuck my driver. Open your legs.”
Obediently, she wriggles her knees apart. I pull her briefs to one side and get a good look at her. She’s so plush and pink and wet and my cock surges anew at the thought of burying myself inside her. I wonder if she’d like that. Does my sweet baby like being filled? I rub my middle finger through her wetness and she inhales sharply. When I find her clit it’s swollen with arousal and her whole body melts into my lap as I begin to work it. Her cries are muffled in her arms. I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the sight of her spread out in my lap, pussy bare to me.
“That’s it, ljubica,” I murmur, moving my fingers in fast circles. I want her to come for me, but not yet. I search through her folds to her slick entrance and slide one finger into her tight, wet heat. Her cries rise in pitch as I explore her, feel her squeezing me. I drive myself into her up to the third knuckle as she cries out. Imagining how she’ll sound when it’s my cock, not my hand, I fuck her with two fingers and she arches back into them, her hands pressed against the car door. She clutches my leg, pushing back, pushing away from me, but I slide my arm around and hold her tightly to me.
“No, you don’t. I’m not letting you go until you come all over my fingers.”
She makes a desperate noise and wriggles more, driving my fingers deeper into her. I realize she’s not trying to get away, she’s trying to take me in her mouth again. I loosen my grip and her hot mouth closes over my cock and she sucks hard.
“Ciara,” I growl as her lips slide up and down on my length. “Ljubica, you’re fucking perfect.” I watch the movements of her mouth on me as my fingers thrust in and out of her pink velvet pussy. She gives a muffled cry and begins to clench around my fingers with her peak, and I lose control, spurting into her mouth as my climax rocks through me.
When I open my eyes I glance around the car’s interior, breathing hard. That was fast and dirty and desperate, and absolutely perfect. I’ve never felt anything like it.
Ciara sits up and wipes her fingers across her mouth, her cheeks flushed and her hair tumbling around her shoulders. I pass her a bottle of water and she takes a drink. I watch her, marveling at how beautiful she looks, but she can’t meet my eyes.
“Are you all right?” I ask her.
She screws the cap back on the bottle and twists it in her hands. Then she nods, but I can see plainly that she’s not okay. Fuck. Did I hurt her?
“Ciara, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I, uh…I wasn’t sure if I’m allowed to…”
“Allowed to what, Ciara?”
Her eyes fall away from me, full of shame and uncertainty. With shaking fingers she adjusts her underwear and her dress, as if trying to undo all evidence of what just happened. I don’t want to undo it. I want to relive it already. I reach out to her, wanting to strip that dress off her and find out what she tastes like, but she puts a hand on my chest and stops me.
I don’t understand what the matter is and for a terrible moment I wonder if I forced her. “Ciara?”
Her face crumples and she bursts into tears. Big, gulping, body-wracking sobs, her face buried in her hands. Shit. What did I do? I can’t bear the sight of her crying her heart out and tentatively I put a hand on her shoulder. When she doesn’t shrink away I slowly pull her into my arms. Her body sinks against mine and I hold her close as she shakes in my arms.
“Ljubica, shh. What’s wrong?” I wonder if I’m doing this right and how long it will take her to stop crying. Surely it will just be a moment or two.
But she’s inconsolable, sobbing against my chest. Did I offend her in some way? Did I hurt her when I touched her? Is she a virgin? The thought didn’t even cross my mind because she’s twenty-two and she didn’t seem uncertain about what she was doing when she went down on her knees in front of me.
“It’s been a horrible day and—and this is just so con-con-fusing,” she hiccups. “You’re a client. I’m not supposed to feel anything when I’m with you.”
“Feel what?”
But she doesn’t want to answer that so I ask a question that I already know the answer to. “Ciara. Have you done this before? Sugaring?”
She wipes her face, drawing out the need to reply. “No,” she finally whispers.
I take her by the shoulders and make her sit up and look at me. There are mascara smudges beneath her eyes and the tip of her nose is pink. “That’s all right,” I say gently. “Neither have I. I’d say we were doing all right for beginners, wouldn’t you?”
Ciara tries to smile but it collapses before it reaches her eyes. “I just don’t know if I’m allowed to…”
I suppress a growl of frustration. I wish she’d just tell me what she means instead of trailing off all the time. I’m not a goddamn mind reader. “To what?” I snap, a little louder than I intended.
“Come.” And she bursts into tears again.
I pull her back against my chest and wrap my arms around her. Poor little thing. I know it’s not just the release
of her orgasm that’s made her so upset. Damir has frightened her and she’s still dealing with her parents’ deaths. The problem is, there’s no way for me to tell her that I understand. We had such a good evening, too, I think regretfully as she shudders against me. She seemed happy enough about accepting my money and I should have just left it at that. I shouldn’t have touched her.
But when I think of her soft, slick pussy beneath my fingers and the tight, sweet grip of her climax, I can’t regret what we did. I just wish she’d stop crying. I’m holding her. Why is she still crying? My shirt is damp against my chest and shimmers with smudged makeup. Her small hands are clenched on the fabric. I can’t think of anything to say to her that’s comforting, because I’m not made for kindness. I never learned how.
“Ciara, pull yourself together,” I say crisply.
She takes a quick, shuddering breath and pulls away. “I’m sorry. I’m not being very professional.” Her fingers swipe at her face. “I’m sorry. I’m all right now.”
I feel an ache of loss at her absence in my arms and regret my sharp words. I watch as she takes a compact from her purse and dusts powder over her nose and across her cheeks.
“I had a shock earlier today,” she says between pats of her powder puff, and her hand is shaking. “I thought I left my personal problems at home. I’ll try to do better.”
Watching her struggle to control her emotions is worse than her tears. Of course I want her to come if we have sex. I want her feel like she just did in my arms again as soon as possible. Her heated flesh, her arching back, her cries of pleasure. She liked it, even though she’s ashamed for wanting the man who’s paying for her.