“There’s the price of admission, of course. That you will pay directly to The Exchange. After I’ve given you a reference. And make no mistake, you must have a reference. The admission…well, I’m sure Arthur Benoit will cover that for you. But he’ll also need to give you some sort of fake identity, something that will make you appear to be in line with their usual clientele. Do you think he’s up to it?”
Dugas is standing behind her chair now. Jonathan watches the man with the intensity of a cat watching a bird through a window. Emily studies Jonathan’s facial expression with the same focus.
“Arthur would do anything to get Ryan that letter,” Emily says. “Short of…hurting people.”
“No,” Dugas whispers, hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “Of course not. Pain is not on the menu.”
“And the price for your reference?” she asks.
Gently, he pulls open the flaps of her robe, exposing her breasts to the humid air. Her eyes flutter shut against her will as she braces for the feel of the man’s hands on her flesh. But the feeling doesn’t come. He continues to tug on the robe instead until the loose knot in the tie comes undone. Suddenly her thighs are exposed, and then her sex.
Jonathan gazes into her eyes, trying to read her every emotion, ready to spring into action as soon as she gives him the word, she’s sure of it. But her head is swimming and there is heat traveling the length of her body. Rather than feeling violated, being gradually exposed this way makes her feel included in a delicious secret.
“The Desire Exchange isn’t just about your fantasy,” Dugas continues. “It’s about surrendering to the fantasies of others as well. To do that, you have to let go. Of labels. Of limits. Of fears.”
“I’m still waiting to hear your price, Mr. Dugas.”
The older man chuckles. “As if you’d ever say no, Miss Blaine. You’d be risking your incredible inheritance if you did.”
“I’m risking my incredible inheritance by agreeing to find the only rightful heir. Some of us are motivated by other things than money, sir.”
“Yes,” Dugas says. With one final tug he separates the flaps of the robe and draws it down over her back, rendering her fully nude and exposed. “Desire.”
Jonathan is on the edge of his seat, nostrils flaring, rock-hard pecs rising and falling with his deep breaths. The head of his olive-skinned cock has emerged from the waistband of his briefs, glistening with his arousal. She tells herself it’s just Dugas acting the part of the masculine aggressor that has Jonathan engorged. It can’t be her, for Christ’s sake. How many times has he seen her breasts before now? But she’s right and she’s wrong at the same time. It’s not just her. And it’s not just George Dugas. It’s all of it. All three of them, the setting, the hint of danger, and the act of pure will that brought her here. It’s this sudden swirl of desire they’ve been swept up by, and Emily realizes it’s about to render comforting labels irrelevant.
“Nobody does anything for just one reason,” Dugas whispers in her ear. “You can pretend you climbed onto my roof because you were after information that will help you find this Ryan Benoit. But you’d be lying. You’d be lying if you didn’t also admit you wanted to see the expression on your best friend’s face while he was in the throes of passion with a strange man.”
She is not a prude. Her life has had its fair share of satisfying sex, but never sexual adventure. She knows what it feels like to be desired, mostly by men who found her nature mothering and her ample curves delicious. But no man has ever placed her on display as if she were a work of art, certainly not a man as rich and powerful as George Dugas. And just as he refrained from making leering comments about her body, he refrains from poking her or tweaking her as if she were a piece of meat. Rather, he has unveiled her, making her feel as if there were a source of energy emanating from her that can alter the room.
Dugas runs three fingers on each hand very lightly down her bare shoulders. Despite the humidity, gooseflesh spreads outward from his twin touch and she feels herself moistening.
“Why is it so difficult to give pleasure to the people we care for the most?” Dugas asks. “This is the type of question you’ll have to answer if you visit The Desire Exchange. And you’ll have to answer it with your entire body, not just your smart mouth.”
Dugas withdraws, walks around the back of her chair and takes a seat in his chair. His expression is fixed and serious now.
When the silence between them becomes too much to bear, Jonathan says, “So your price is…the two of us, together?”
“With each other,” Dugas says in a gentle whisper.
“And you’ll give me the reference I need to get to Ryan?” Emily asks.
“I’ll give you the reference you need to get to The Exchange. Ryan will be your responsibility.”
“Emily…” Jonathan says softly. He’s gazing into her eyes. “Is this what you want?”
She’s not sure what he’s referring to exactly—the reference Dugas has just offered or the chance to make love to her closest friend. For the time being, they are one and the same, and so the question seems irrelevant, the real consequences of what they’re about to do as distant as a foreign country she might never get the chance to visit. Staring into Jonathan’s eyes, Emily says, “Deal.”
Jonathan swallows. Even as he sinks to his knees before the rattan chair she’s sitting in, his hands coming to rest gently on her bare knees, he stares into her eyes as if he’s afraid she might change her mind at any moment and whatever he sees there will be the giveaway. For a few seconds, they just stare at each other, as if she were a queen on his throne and he, a knight about to humble himself before her over some terrible failure of courage. Her heart races, as fast as it did when she found herself hurtling through the open skylight moments before.
Then, suddenly, his lips are against hers, the impact of his hard body rocking the chair back on its hind legs for a few seconds. The arc of pleasure that courses through her entire body is electrifying because its chief current is the white-hot thrill of the forbidden—it’s Jonathan! Her first schoolgirl crush! Her best friend!
How many times had she listened to him describe his various sexual conquests, feeling a strange blend of arousal and jealousy? How many times had she felt the same way listening to his few boyfriends describe the magic he could make in the bedroom? And now she gets to have a taste for herself. And it feels like magic. His kisses are hungry, insistent, and he’s taken both of her nipples in between his thumb and forefinger and he’s pulling on them gently while rolling them back and forth at the same time, with just enough pressure to drive her wild. Because he knows what drives her wild. She’s told him hundreds of times over the years in casual conversation. Girl talk, they used to jokingly call it. And he’s remembering all the details now. He must be. And the result is anything but girl talk.
One hand works her right nipple; the other seizes her mound, the heel of his palm pressing against her opening while he dazzles her clit with three dancing fingers. In her ear, he whispers, “I’ll take care of this, angel.”
Angel! To hear his cherished nickname for her in this context makes her juices flow. His fingers work faster with this fresh assistance. He’s trying to comfort her, she knows. Trying to put her at ease with their strange witness and the coercion that’s brought them to this point. But she doesn’t want to be comfortable. She wants some of what he’s given countless men, and who knows how many clients.
“You better,” she whispers back.
The genuine lust in her voice startles him. His lips leave hers, but his fingers work harder on her clit. He’s staring into her eyes, and she watches the change overtake him. Watches the act fall away at the sound of the unbridled passion in her tone. Watches him lick his full lips and dive for her glistening sex. Her cry sounds pained, but the feel of Jonathan’s tongue invading her folds is pure bliss. God, he’s good at this. Are there women among his secret clients? This thought makes her even hotter.
He’s ge
ntly sawing three fingers in and out of her, a slow and steady rhythm that works counterpoint to the mad, insistent flicker of his tongue back and forth over her nub. Every now and then he takes a break by licking his way up her inner thighs with long strokes. But it’s all a constant, unbroken dance between his mouth and her sex. Not for a second does his mouth leave some part of her flesh. She’d seen his tongue a thousand times, of course, when he was taking a big bite of food or licking his lips in mock hunger. She’s always known how long and thick it was. But the prospect she might one day feel it against her tender opening seemed as possible as sprouting wings and taking to the air.
“Jonathan…” she groans.
“Do you like that, angel?”
“More…”
He goes back to work. Her eyes drift open. She expects to find Dugas pleasuring himself a few feet away. But the man is sitting upright and fully clothed, looking thunderstruck, riveted, drained of all sarcasm and arrogance. The sense of power she feels at the sight of him is overwhelming. It appears as if his entire, vast world—the mansion, the glittering swimming pool, and the guards—has receded from his view. The only thing that exists for George Dugas now is the spectacle of her and Jonathan indulging a long suppressed passion.
“Stand up,” Emily says. There’s a small kernel of fear at the center of her desire, a fear that when Jonathan follows her order, she’ll see a limp noodle resting inside his briefs and realize this was all a show for his client.
But somehow, while eating her out and probing her with his skillful fingers, Jonathan managed to pull off his briefs, so when he gets to his feet, he brings a thick, glistening column of flesh inches from her face.
Jonathan stares down at his own cock with an open-mouthed look of wonder. Then he gives her the same look, as if her unbridled desire has shocked and sidelined him, while rendering him fully engorged and full of unexpected hunger for her.
Now it’s her turn to remember the things he likes. She takes his balls in one hand and places the head of his cock in between her lips. Jonathan’s always told her he can’t stand it when guys try to deep throat his entire shaft, that he’d much rather have the head of his cock worked in tandem with the steady strokes of a powerful hand. And even his not-so-close friends knew how much he loved having his balls played with. So Emily combines all three, while Jonathan gently twines his fingers through her hair. She can tell he doesn’t want to cup the back of her skull in both hands. He’s probably not fucking her mouth the way he’s used to fucking some dumb trick he picked up at a bar.
“Emily,” he whispers. The soft insistence in his voice only turns her on more, makes her as wet as if his fingers and tongue were still working her over down there. She’s always been afraid to admit how turned on she is by Jonathan’s combination of boyish sweetness and hard-bodied perfection. And now she’s got the feel and taste of him to add to this mixture.
She draws the head of his cock from her lips with a wet pop, and then slides down in the chair, spreading her thighs.
Jonathan sinks to his knees in front of her, while reaching behind him to pull a condom from the pocket of his rumpled jeans.
Once he’s sheathed, he takes her ankles in both hands. His muscles ripple and tense as he finds the perfect aim against her wet, throbbing pussy. He locks eyes with her as he presses into her. With men he must be used to more resistance because his eyes widen when he slides into her with ease. Suddenly he’s beaming with excitement and pride, as if they’ve found the last piece of a puzzle.
The sudden, delirious sense that Jonathan is hers—for now, entirely and completely hers—fills her with as much force and speed as his hard cock. As his thrusts gain a steady tempo, she brings her hands to his pecs, his nipples, down his abs, clamping her legs around his waist, driving him further into her until their sweat-slick bodies are sliding together, and he’s whispering in her ear, “I never knew you were such a dirty girl, Emily Blaine.”
“Yes you did.”
Their bodies may be on display, but these whispered words belong just to them.
She’s never been fucked with this amount of skill and coordination before. There’s the pure thrill of it being Jonathan. Then there’s the undeniable skill Jonathan has acquired over years of being, by his own description, a sex demon. His cock is doing the least of it. It’s the flow and motion of the rest of his body, the energy he pushes behind it, and of course, the hand he’s returned to her hard, throbbing nub.
It feels as if he’s pushing her past the delirium. She’s lost all control of the words coming out of her mouth.
“Fuck me like you fuck your clients, Jonathan.”
“Really? Is that what you want, angel?”
“Fuck me like you fuck all those men,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“And women? Are there women?”
“No,” he says, breathless. He’s pulled back some so he can look into her eyes, and so his right hand can have better access to her mound. “No other women. Only you.”
When the orgasm hits her, she screams with as much surprise as bliss. She was so busy focusing on his words and staring into his eyes she almost didn’t feel it coming. In a single fluid motion, Jonathan pulls out, bends down and brings his mouth to her clit. She shudders and rocks, one hand clutching the back of his head, jamming his mouth harder against her throbbing, searing sex. As the last waves of pleasure course through her, she feels a different motion and when she opens her eyes, she sees Jonathan pull the condom from his engorged cock. He's fisting himself now, brow creased, lips parted, working toward a veritable eruption. Politely, demurely even, he turns to one side.
She’s not having that at all.
“On me, baby,” she says.
There’s that look of surprise again.
“I said on me,” she repeats, firmer this time.
Chewing on his bottom lip, Jonathan gets to his feet, stroking his cock. The he erupts. His mouth flies open. Strangled groans rip from his throat. Emily remembers what Dugas said only moments earlier, about wanting to see the expression on Jonathan’s face when he was in the throes of passion with a stranger. And he was right. Only the stranger had to watch this time, and the one in the throes of passion with Jonathan was her.
Her breasts, her stomach, her inner thighs—they’re all splattered with his seed. And just when it feels like desire is about to retreat, leaving behind the sticky, cooling reality of their situation, Jonathan sinks to his knees and begins licking his eruption from her skin. Slowly, dutifully. Gently passing the tip of his tongue over her sensitive, aching folds as he moves back and forth between her thighs. Then up her stomach. He takes his time licking her breasts clean, making sure to pass over and briefly suckle each nipple as he does so.
Then they’re eye to eye and Jonathan is smiling at her expectantly. A little dollop of his cum rests in the corner of his mouth, and before she can think twice about it, she scoops it up in one fingernail and places it in between her lips. The sweet taste surprises her.
“Pineapple,” Jonathan whispers. “It’s my secret.”
“I gave you that secret,” she whispers back.
And suddenly they’re both laughing.
Then she’s rising into the air. He’s picked her up in both powerful arms. Before she realizes where he’s taking her, the pool’s warm water has risen around them both. She clamps her legs around his waist to keep from floating free of his hard body.
Perhaps he really does want to hold her this tenderly, this close. Or maybe he just wants some distance between them and their one-man audience.
Does it matter? He’s still holding her. That’s all she cares about for now. That, and the fact that George Dugas has started to applaud.
4
As a fresh storm pummels the French Quarter, Emily lies in her best friend’s arms, his breath making gooseflesh on the back of her neck. They’ve snuggled like this before countless times, but never after rutting like porn stars for the secret delight of a voyeur
istic millionaire. Where Jonathan has draped his arm across her chest and hooked one of her legs with his, there is heat just under her skin that feels new and fresh, fueled by a part of her that’s been covered over until now.
His cozy, two-room apartment is one of many inside an old French Quarter mansion just a few blocks from the restaurant where they both work. At her request, he’s opened the door to the second floor walkway outside his bedroom. This way they can listen to the rain slap the banana trees and rattle the building’s old, sagging gutters. This way Emily can fool herself into believing the storm’s song will eventually drown out her nagging worries George Dugas won’t make good on his promise.
She’s always loved the way a good storm in the Quarter softens the raucous echo of the drunken revelers, filters out the odors of booze and sweat, and purifies the fertile scents of sweet olive and night jasmine. Tonight there’s also the gentle sound of Billie Holiday’s voice drifting in from the apartment next door. Jonathan’s neighbor is a D.J. at a karaoke bar. On more than one occasion, he’d told her classic jazz and the blues are his only effective tools for emptying his head of the rock anthems he’s forced to play incessantly every night at work.
She’s been quiet for a while now, ever since it became clear Jonathan knew nothing about The Desire Exchange beyond vague rumor. And she’s tired of speculating about what The Exchange, as Dugas called it, either is or isn’t.
Probably just a bunch of Eyes Wide Shut nonsense, Jonathan has proclaimed more than once. Bunch of rich old dudes in masks and robes, playing with each other in some big warehouse out in the swamp. She’s inclined to believe him.
And that leaves them with other matters to discuss.
“Do any of them hurt you?” she asks.
“Do any of who hurt me?”
“Your clients, silly.”
“There aren’t that many. Low volume, high price point. That’s my business model.”
“That’s also not an answer.”
The Surrender Gate: A Desire Exchange Novel Page 3