by Mia Asher
“You’re grasping at straws here. Nothing is going to make me change my mind, particularly a broke guy who I dated for a month. Besides, with Lawrence I get to continue living the lifestyle that I’m accustomed to. The lifestyle that I like. And now I get to quit working and just have fun.”
“You’re being serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m being very serious. He’s waiting for another call from me to tell him that I’m definitely doing it, and then it’ll be a done deal.”
After two years of being best friends, Elly knows that I have a tendency to shut people out, particularly after they say something I don’t like. Yet, she knows that she’s the only person who can get through to me, and her next words prove that she doesn’t mind telling me like it is. “I could be wrong, Blaire, but I think there’s a huge difference between what you usually do … you know, date rich guys who you like … and getting paid to fuck someone. I mean, do you even like the guy?”
“Doesn’t matter. And in my opinion, it’s pretty much the same. I’ve never loved any of those guys and I’m pretty sure none of them ever took me seriously. To them I was just a thing to look at and fuck. And like Walker said, they saw right through to the gold digger. So yes, in my opinion this is better because at least I don’t have to pretend to love him so he’ll take me shopping. Lawrence only wants my body and I only want his wallet. It’s the perfect arrangement.”
“Of course it matters! This will be just a guy paying money to fuck you like a … like a—”
“Whore,” I finish for her. And she’s right. I date. I don’t fuck around, and most importantly, I don’t have time to fuck around, so no one-night stands for me. My body is my only tool, and spreading my legs open is my superpower. So if they want it, they better work for it—pay for it. Because, in the end, I want them to see me as an investment, and if I gave up the goods the moment they took me to a nice restaurant, why would they? The thrill would be gone.
Do I want to be the girl who gets to go on vacations in Rome? Or do I want to be the girl who gets her head pushed down while giving a blowjob to the asshole in the bathroom stall of a fancy club for a free drink?
Please … why bother? Aim high and you’ll reach the stars. Drink champagne and eat caviar.
Elly reaches for my hand and I let her take it. “I’m sorry, B … I-I—”
I cover our linked hands with my free one, suddenly feeling cold. “It’s okay … don’t apologize. I want this. And if you must know … I am attracted to Lawrence. Very much so,” I say, thinking back to yesterday and the way it felt being invaded by his punishing touch.
“But what about love, Blaire? Love is a beautiful thing.”
“It’s only beautiful when you’re on the receiving end, Elly. It’s hell when it’s not reciprocated. Trust me, I know.”
“Yeah, but that’s part of the package. Love wouldn’t be half as sweet if we didn’t know pain, if we didn’t know what it is to live without it. Listen, I know we’re still super young to even think about it, but what about a family or kids someday? I mean we’re not going to be twenty-three forever.”
I shrug. “A girl I met during my first few days in the city used to always say it took the same kind of effort to fall in love with a rich man than with a poor man, so we might as well fall in love with the rich one.”
“What a bitch.”
“Maybe … but at least she’s a smart bitch.”
And it’s true. I’ve always known that if and when I get married, it’ll be to money or someone who’ll advance me in life. I’ve never really bothered with the fairytale dream of marrying my high school sweetheart or the love of my life. My parents apparently married for love and look how they ended up. Look how fucked up their lives turned out to be. No, thank you. I’d rather not be emotionally invested at all but enjoy all the perks of being in a relationship … kind of.
Is Lawrence going to get me there? Probably not, but at least I won’t have to deal with lunatics who think that they own me, or love me, because I make them orgasm. I’m not a fool. I know they don’t love me one bit. They love the idea of me, and that’s what I’m selling.
I won’t be in danger of falling for him like I did with Ronan, but I’m cool with that. I don’t want love … I don’t care if Lawrence loves me or not because I won’t ever let myself fall in love. Love is dangerous. Love has the ability of breaking the unbreakable. Take Walker for an example. I didn’t love him and he still managed to hurt me. And I, for one, won’t ever be made vulnerable again. I won’t. I can’t.
As far as Lawrence goes, I’ve finally found someone who seeks the same kind of relationship I want.
IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS SINCE I last saw Lawrence. Two days since we made our agreement. When I told Elly that his assistant got in touch with me, I wasn’t joking. She made me fax her my blood work, and she emailed me Lawrence’s. She also went over the terms as to how I was going to be paid. Fifty percent would be deposited into my bank account at the beginning of a thirty-day cycle, and the other fifty at the end. That day, after I’d signed the contract and faxed it back to her along with my blood work, I went online to check if the money was there. Lawrence was a man of his word. Five hundred thousand dollars was sitting pretty alongside the rest of my savings.
I couldn’t believe it.
I sat staring at my screen for a very long time, the numbers blending together, willing myself to move, but I couldn’t. After a while, when it finally sunk in, I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
It wasn’t the money that made me feel ill. It was what it represented.
I chose Lawrence over Ronan. If I were a normal girl, I would follow my heart and disregard what reason was telling me, but I’m not. Far from it actually. I fell for Ronan as much as I was able to … as much as I could, but Lawrence …
When I’m with him, I feel unburdened by expectations. I don’t feel constricted. I don’t feel like I have to be a better person to deserve him. I don’t feel like my emotions are trying to get the better of me. Emotions aren’t trying to choke the life out of me. No, with Lawrence it’s all about pleasure, raw attraction, and desire—about the fine things in life. And those things aren’t love, generosity, or selflessness.
With Lawrence, I’m allowed to be the real Blaire. I’m allowed to be the selfish girl who likes to put herself first, the girl who would rather have an expensive bag than a love letter.
The study in his Park Avenue townhouse is a lovely room: opulent, masculine, powerful—just like the man himself. I’m wearing a backless, little black dress. The front is tame, but the back is extremely revealing. I cross my legs, feeling my thighs rubbing invitingly. Power and wealth in this magnitude are a huge fucking turn on for me.
I sit in one of the plush wine-colored leather couches across from his desk as I recall the things we did the last time we saw each other. Each memory pushes Ronan out of my head, diminishing the guilt until I can pretend it’s not there. Flushing, I remember the feel of his fingers moving inside me. After Lawrence pours two glasses of scotch, he makes his way back to this side of the room and hands me the drink before he takes a seat.
“Here,” he says.
When I reach for it, our fingers graze and I feel the heat emanating from his body. The electricity. His black magic. Our eyes connecting, he watches me greedily as a faint smile plays on his lips.
I bite my lip. “Thank you.”
He reclines lazily, an arm spread along the back of the couch while his free hand holds the tumbler with scotch, and studies me. “A penny for your thoughts,” Lawrence says in that low and raspy voice of his. He looks relaxed, but I can tell he is anything but. He wants me. I can sense it in the way his muscles tense as he waits for my answer. I can see it in the way his wolfish eyes devour me, stripping me naked.
Before I answer, I take a moment to stare at the magnificent man in front of me, and the longer I do, the desire in his green gaze saturating my every thought, the easier it gets to ignore the Blaire who thou
ght an afternoon spent with Ronan and his family was one of the best days of her life. The Blaire who thought life couldn’t get any better than when she was in Ronan’s arms and pure joy spread through her wildly. Yes, the more I stare at Lawrence, the easier it gets. And the selfish part of me wants to use Lawrence. I want to fuck Lawrence so hard, allowing him to come inside of me until it’s his name and his taste branded on my lips, and not the memory of Ronan’s tender touch.
I see no point in beating around the bush. “Where’s your bedroom, or are we going to fuck here?”
“Blaire, Blaire, Blaire … it doesn’t have to be that way, you understand?”
“Then tell me how it’s supposed to be because I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’m trying to stick to your rules. To do what you expect and want from me.”
“I remember my rules perfectly, but we can still enjoy each other’s company while fucking. It’s just you and me. A man and a woman seeking pleasure in the other. No games, no pretending. Can you do that?”
“No games and no pretending, huh? I thought you wanted my body, not my soul.”
“I want Blaire.”
“You might not like what’s underneath it all, Lawrence,” I warn him.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he says, removing his tie. I follow the movement of his hand as he tugs the silk and loosens the knot. When I lift my eyes, I find him watching me, waiting for my answer.
It’s funny how life works.
People can come into your life—be a part of your life—yet never know the real you; have no fucking clue who you really are. Then one unexpected day you meet that person who, in one glance, has you figured out. There’s no tainted judgment in his eyes, only acceptance. And maybe understanding. The need to be better, or pretend to be better is not there because you know he likes you for who you are—every ugly and broken part of you. That’s how Lawrence makes me feel. And unlike Ronan, who made me want to be a better person for that month we spent together so I could deserve him, I know I don’t have to put on a show with Lawrence.
I place the tumbler on the wooden coffee table in front of me. “Do you pray, Lawrence?”
He takes a sip before answering me, unfazed by the drastic change of subject. “I don’t. You?”
“I used to until I realized God is deaf. Now every time I kneel, it isn’t to pray.”
His quiet laughter fills the room. “If the devil were a woman and had a name, I believe it would be Blaire.”
I give him a cheeky smile. “You see, when I was a little girl I would plead to Him each night to make my parents stop fighting. To give my dad the strength he needed to stop drinking. To make my mom come back to me, or to take me away with her.”
I get on all fours and crawl toward him unhurriedly, each movement deliberate. The Persian rug under my hands and knees is silky soft, tickling the sensitive skin of my palms. When I’m between his legs, I rise to my knees and run a perfectly manicured hand over his cock, digging my nails lightly as the bulge in his pants turns solid beneath my touch.
“Already so hard,” I whisper before I put my head on his chest, and continue to rub him. In this position, I can hear his heartbeat get faster and louder with every decadent stroke of mine. I can feel him throbbing under my palm.
“I would beg him to make my parents notice me … love me. But he never listened because nothing changed. One day I woke up and she was gone. That little girl who cried herself to sleep while holding her dearest stuffed animal died. The urge to cry disappeared. Whether my parents were home, or bothered to look at me, stopped hurting me. I couldn’t give a fuck anymore. I grew up. I shed all my childish fantasies and finally understood how the real world worked. I learned that I could use my looks to get ahead. That values didn’t matter when passion and greed were involved. That money spoke louder than words, and that emotions were pointless.”
I raise my head and look him in the eye. “I’ve done very shameful things to get by, to get me where I am. Today that’s kneeling in front of you, one of the richest men in the world, with your hard cock in my hand. Tomorrow might be someone richer than you, more powerful even, but that’s who I am. I’m a survivor with my own set of rules. And not even your kindness will make me break them. And that, Lawrence, is the real Blaire,” I say, my chest rising with each breath.
“What was its name?”
“Whose name?” I ask, confused.
“Of the stuffed animal?”
“Why do you care?” I stall, not wanting to share that part of me.
“Answer me,” he orders.
“Winkler.” As soon as the words slip from my tongue, I feel more exposed to him than ever before. I feel naked. “Why did you want to know that?”
The world seems to stop spinning on its axis, suspending all movement as I await his answer. He leans down to whisper in my ear, his lips grazing my neck infuse my body with warmth, “I like the real Blaire … it’s her I want.” His voice is as rough as sand paper and his breath as soft as a butterfly’s wing, making my stomach flutter.
Nodding, our eyes connect and remain locked as I wrap one hand behind his neck, bringing his face closer to mine, and let the other continue to slowly rub his erection. As the fabric of his dress pants grazes the skin of my palm, wetness gathers between my legs. Yeah, I want him too. Badly.
“Take me to your room, Lawrence.”
His green eyes spark with light, with heat … with life. “Your parents were fools. I notice you. I see you. And right now that’s enough.”
HIS GAZE UNWAVERING, HE RAISES A HAND and lets the back of his fingers trace the curve of my cheeks, my jaw, and my lips. A pleased Lawrence nods, a seductive smile appearing on his manly face. Without saying a word, he helps me stand and guides us through the white hallways of his house to his bedroom. We walk past more abstract paintings, modern sculptures, and Chinese vases filled with white orchids on antique looking tables. The only sound filling our ears is the clicking of my heels.
My hands sweat.
My pulse skyrockets.
This is it.
But as we near Lawrence’s room, what seems to be a faraway memory washes through me, and it’s Ronan’s voice that I hear loud and clear …
“Why me, Ronan?”
“Because when I look at you, I see everything I want and everything I need.”
My chest contracts, but I won’t let thoughts of Ronan and our time together foil what’s about to happen. I lock those thoughts away in a deep, dark place. I’m here to sleep with another man. I’ll finally be able to put him in my past—where he belongs.
When we’re standing inside Lawrence’s bedroom, I notice that it’s quite neat. There are no piles of clothes thrown over a corner or draped over the brown leather armchair by the window. A large and seemingly comfortable bed covered in steely gray sheets is situated in the middle of the room. As I glance around, taking in every single detail from the gilded mirror on the left to the dark gray walls covered in more paintings, I notice a book left open and lying dormant on the nightstand.
I step away from the door, letting my fingers graze the expensive furniture. The opaque espresso colored wood feels cool to my touch and the black curtains feel like dark heaven in between my fingers.
Curious to see what he’s reading, I walk toward the nightstand. About to reach for the book I hear him recite a poem about spring and cherry trees that I also know by heart.
Pleasure settles deep within my chest as I turn in his direction and smile for the first time since we left his study. He’s propped lazily against a tall dresser, watching me with eyes that shine so bright in the semi-dark room as he rubs his chest, almost as if it’s his cock in his hand.
“Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Pablo Neruda. One of my favorite poets of all time.”
He smiles, nodding in the direction of the book. “I didn’t peg you for a poetry kind of girl.”
I shrug, trying to appear careless. “Since I had no one growing up, books
became my friends, my passion. And poetry … poetry makes me understand myself.”
Running a hand through my hair, I watch as Lawrence closes the space between us in two strides. He leans down and cups my face in his hands. His touch is sure and commanding, and I love it. “I’m done talking, Blaire. Get on your knees.”
When our gazes collide, a mutual gravity pulls us together and the result is explosive—light obliterating. A battle of power and wills with no winner in sight because it seems that we both like playing this game too fucking much. I get down on my knees in front of him, looking up as I watch him unfasten his black leather belt, loosen the button of his pants and unzip them slowly. He frees his already hard cock and gives it a couple pumps, giving me the opportunity to take in the sheer size and beauty of his magnificent erection.
My mouth waters.
Blood rushes to my brain, muddling my senses.
My cheeks feel hot. My pussy pulsates with life, with want.
“Open wide.” He grips my chin, raising it slightly and caressing my lower lip. “I’m going to fuck your mouth now.”
His words might be an order, but it’s me who has the control at this moment. It’s me who chooses to reach for his cock and wrap both of my hands around it as I caress his length. I lean in, put him inside my mouth and give him a long suck, my tongue tracing the pulsating veins. When my lips are wrapped around the hot silky skin of his dick, Lawrence closes his eyes, looking like he’s dying a delicious death. I pull him out and lick the head, tasting the salty flavor of his pre-cum as I hear a deep groan being torn from his chest.
The animalistic sound drives me insane. It’s the fuel that lights my insides with shameless desire. Need and want fill my every pore. My knees burning, I bring a hand inside my thong and rub myself, spreading the moisture of my body along my swollen clit. Lightheaded with pleasure, I push him deeper until my lips touch his balls.
He takes his suit coat off and throws it on the floor. His tie and shirt next, his eyes watch me fuck myself with my fingers while I suck him like my favorite lollipop.