Dirty Silver (The Dirty Suburbs Book 7)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  So why do I want to fuck her straight into the next fiscal year? Just one look at her has my cock rising like the inflation rate.

  She turns away from the window and our eyes lock in the dim cab of the town car. Our gazes hold for much longer than appropriate. Even through my irritation, I can't help the reaction in my gut. Evangeline Brooks is an exquisite, young woman. With her soft-looking lips, her gold-spun hair, those eyes, a mix of blues and greens that I’ve never quite seen before.

  And I'm a man. I have my weaknesses.

  The vulnerability in her stare stirs something depraved in me. God, I want to tear her apart. And on some level, I have every right to. I have the transaction record to prove it. But I'm not a predator. She fucked up and now she just needs someone to take care of her. I can do that.

  "The jet will leave in the morning," I tell her. "You're going back home."

  Her eyes go wide. "Home? I can't go home! My parents think I'm in Europe. I told them I'm shooting for Vogue Paris next week. I can't go home."

  "Eva..." I say in warning.

  "No no no no no. I'm not going home!"

  "I won't just leave you out there on the loose to get into any more trouble. You obviously can't be trusted out there on your own."

  She folds her arms across her chest and pouts. "Then I'm staying with you."

  My insides tighten at her ludicrous suggestion. "You can't stay with me."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I have things to do. I have to work. I'm flying out to the Caribbean tomorrow evening for a meeting." And because I'm a dangerous man sitting here next to you while you're wearing that goddamned shimmery swath of polyester.

  "So I'll go with you."

  That is not an option. "Eva, this isn't a game. I have things to take care of."

  "I won't get in your way. I promise." She pouts those perfect lips and I want to come all over them, watch my seed dripping off of them. I try to push the image away but now that I've thought it, it's branded on my brain.

  I feel my resolve already beginning to waver. I hesitate to answer her.

  She hisses at me. "Why did you buy me if you just plan on packing me up and shipping me off?"

  What the hell does she mean by that? My cock aches at the idea that my new ‘sex slave’ may actually want me to put her to use. Maybe little Eva does want to get to work, fulfilling all of my darkest, dirtiest desires.

  That’s a ridiculous thought. I didn’t do this to satisfy my unfulfilled cravings. I did this to save her, to free her from whatever trouble she was about to fall into.

  "I bought you –" the words taste vile on my tongue "–so that none of those sick fuckers could." I had no other choice. I couldn't just sit by and watch those wealthy scumbags trade her around like any other commodity on the market.

  This is Eva.

  I remember talking her father out of grounding her when she stole his car keys at 15…And then she got in trouble for skipping a semester’s worth of Geography classes…And she went through that whole emo phase, wearing black lipstick and shredded jeans…I witnessed all of that.

  So, I couldn't just sit by. I had to do something.

  "How are you any different from them?" she challenges. "You were there at that auction too."

  Something sour twists in my chest as she questions my integrity. I hate that she would doubt the kind of man that I am. "I was there to close a deal."

  "What kind of deal?"

  I snap. "Look Evangeline, this is not up for debate!"

  Her lips go tight and her eyes begin to water despite the steely determination in them. She trains her gaze straight ahead.

  "What were you doing at the auction?" I ask, my voice softening.

  Lewiston was right about one thing. The women in that place are in trouble, desperately seeking a quick fix to their problems. That’s the only reason a woman as beautiful as Eva would participate in something like that. She’s running from something or someone. The look on her face when she was on that stage told me that she was terrified to be there. There has to be some good reason that she was at that auction. I have to keep my anger in check. I want her to feel safe opening up to me.

  She lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. "I owe my modeling agency nearly one hundred thousand dollars. The owner was threatening to go to my parents since they co-signed my modeling contract with me. I couldn't let him do that. He suggested the auction as an alternative."

  "What?!" I roar. My blood boils at this information. I hate knowing that some perverted asshole put Eva in this dangerous situation just to make some money.

  She shrinks back at my outburst. "S–S–Sometimes, when models owe money to the agency, Simon sends them to the auction."

  "I'm going find that fucking bastard and I'm going to end him!" My thunderous voice shakes the cab of the town car. The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. My sharp gaze causes him to quickly look away.

  "Mr. Silver, please. Don't do anything crazy,” Evangeline begs, “I'll pay him off and he'll go away."

  "The hell you will! You're not giving that animal one dime!"

  "But he'll sue my parents!" she shrieks. “Or worse.” She pushes her tears away with trembling fingers. "I won't let that happen! I can't!"

  “You think he’s dangerous?”

  She looks incredibly small when she brings her questioning eyes to me and lifts both shoulders in a shrug.

  Oh Eva.

  I heave a sigh. What a shit storm! "I'll take care of it," I promise softly, "Don't you worry."

  A tear courses down her cheek and she turns toward the window, giving me her back. "I'm just glad you're the one who..." Her words trail off. "Thank you." She whispers quietly.

  She's glad I'm the one who bought her. She’s glad to be my property. Holy fuck. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 5

  Evangeline

  Raphael ushers me past the doorman. He’s completely indifferent to the man's curious stare as we stroll through the lobby of the upscale Park Avenue building that houses Raphael’s penthouse. He's gawking and I can't blame the guy. We're a sight to see – me with my legs bare, wearing nothing but my tall heels, that gold scrap of fabric and Raphael's suit jacket wrapped strategically around me. It's obvious that Raphael is much older and wealthier than I am. The doorman’s assumptions are right. I am essentially a high-paid escort and Raphael did just spend a shitload of money to have me.

  But his intentions are pure.

  He’ll bring me into his home tonight. He’ll offer me a safe, warm place to sleep. He’ll make sure to get me back to my parents in one piece. But he has no intention of fucking me. He has no interest in commanding me to my knees and ordering me to take his cock down my throat. He won’t spread me out on the living room floor and tie my hands to the foot of the coffee table so he can drill his cock into me. He won’t flip me onto my stomach and pull my hair while he sinks balls deep between my ass cheeks.

  But damn – The idea makes me so hot I can barely keep from humping the nearest phallic-shaped object.

  Jeez, Eva! Calm the fuck down!

  On a scale from one to ten, how inappropriate is it for me to be totally turned on right now? I mean – with the whole sex slave thing still hanging in the air and all.

  I’m not even mad at myself because what woman in her right mind wouldn’t be affected by him? He’s so male.

  I stare at his taut ass as he strides powerfully across the lobby, iron-pressed shirt tucked seamlessly into the waistband of his impeccably-tailored tan slacks, silver-streaked hair barely kissing the collar of his shirt. God. He's so confident, so in charge. It's insanely sexy. It makes me feel safe. It almost makes me forget about my debt and the auction and the fact that he quite literally owns me.

  He hits the button on the elevator panel with one fluid movement and the gleaming steel doors open instantly. He steps aside and lets me get on first. Chivalry is alive and well. And it smells mouth-watering like musk, testosterone and body heat.r />
  I lean against the mirrored wall and he positions himself against the wall opposite me. My pussy tingles as the air-conditioned draft flits over my exposed skin. His gaze moves slowly from my heels, up my calves, my thighs, over the fabric of the jacket draped over my body, up my throat. The moment his eyes finally fall on mine is electric.

  That's lust staring back at me. No doubt about it.

  But there’s also a note of shame in his expression.

  Raphael has always been in my life. And he's always been kind. Convincing my parents to go easy on me when I landed myself in trouble. Trying to talk sense into me when my teenage hormones had me running wild. Teaching me about foreign cultures, economies and political systems. He's a big part of the reason I wanted to model in the first place. I wanted to travel the world like he has, see different places, experience different things. I’ve also had this stupid fantasy that one day he'd look at my picture in a glossy magazine spread or in a lingerie show and just for a second, he'd find me beautiful.

  Oh stop it, Eva. Don’t go embarrassing yourself with your delusions.

  My core tingles, the sensitive flesh reacting to the exposure to the air and the intensity in Raphael's gray irises. His scent permeates the jacket and it isn't helping matters at all. The thought of his fingers stroking me ‘there’ causes goosebumps to rise on my legs. My desire dampens the space between my thighs. Oh my god. I can smell it infusing the air.

  I want to lean in and kiss him, brush my mouth against his full lips, run my fingers over his stubble. But then what? I don’t exactly have a game plan.

  Mercifully, the doors slide open on the top floor and the trance is broken. Raphael gestures for me to step off of the lift. And Christ help me but there's an extra sway in my hips as I walk toward the door of his penthouse suite. I'm a woman. I can't help but want this man to want me. Even the fact that he's my father's friend and a solid 20-plus years older than me doesn’t allay my lust.

  He reaches around me and opens the door. As it swings open, minimalist opulence comes into view. My parents have always gushed about how incredible this place is but their descriptions clearly haven’t done it justice.

  A dimly lit living area spreads out before me, the New York skyline lingering just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room is decorated with dark suede seating and low-pile carpets centered in the middle of the gleaming marble floor. A tall bookcase stretches from wall-to-wall, housing what must be a thousand books. The leather throw pillows tossed strategically on the couch and the decorative sculptures placed about the room add a well thought-out pop of color to the understated, masculine décor. And everything smells like him. It’s crazy. I want to throw myself onto the couch and bury my face in the cushions just to be engulfed by that intoxicating scent.

  Raphael doesn’t seem to mind my curious inspection. "I'll show you to the guest bedroom," he says coolly.

  He leads me down a corridor, past walls of abstract art and photography, and opens the door to a large bedroom. Everything looks sophisticated and unobtrusive. None of that gaudy, tacky décor you see on all those new money reality shows my best friend, Annaleigh, forces me to watch whenever we hang out.

  “The shower’s right in there. Make yourself comfortable while I go grab you some fresh towels.” He disappears out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  I take the opportunity to look around. A massive bed draped in deep blue sheets sits across from an enormous window broadcasting the city’s twinkling lights. A geometric light fixture hangs from the ceiling, casting an intimate glow. I run a finger along the heavy, wooden dresser. Feels expensive. Everything in here seems high-end. Quality. Raphael Silver likes expensive things.

  And I think that I happen to be one of them. A little thrill skirrs through me.

  I could literally feel him struggling to keep his eyes off of my body as we stepped onto the lift, as we walked into his apartment, as he pointed the way to the bedroom. I wish he wouldn't. I want his eyes on me, appreciating every inch of me.

  Stop it, Eva!

  I’m not sure how I’m supposed to spend the night in this man’s house without getting myself into trouble. Serious trouble.

  A sudden knock at the door startles me. I head over and open it. With a slight grin, he hands me a bath towel and a warm blanket. There's a large black T-shirt folded on top of the pile. "Sorry, I don't have anything else you can wear..." His voice is so deep, so masculine. I find myself blushing.

  Evangeline Brooks doesn't blush or get bashful.

  "That's fine," I whisper. “Thank you.”

  Our eyes linger on each other one last time and I feel awareness tickling my belly. I want to reach out and touch him, rake my fingers through his hair, trace the fine lines around his eyes, put my lips in places they have no right to be.

  A tiny voice in my head whispers that maybe I should make a move. I’ll admit it – I’m usually a tease, a flirt. I’m never shy to tell a man just what I want and exactly how I want it.

  But this day has shaken me to the very foundation of my self-confidence. I'm just glad that it's over and that I have a warm, safe place to spend the night (without some sick, pervy billionaire ordering me to call him Master and shove fist-sized sex toys up his ass).

  Yes, I'm mortified that my father's best friend had to save me from the mess I created for myself. But at the same time, I'm grateful and relieved because this night could have taken a sharp left turn into disaster.

  Raphael speaks, interrupting my thoughts. "Good night, Evangeline."

  I try to steady myself on a deep inhale. "Good night, Mr. Silver."

  With a curt nod, he disappears out the door, leaving me standing there. And boy, I wish he'd offered to tuck me in.

  Chapter 6

  Evangeline

  I shrug his suit coat off of my shoulders and hang it on the back of the door. Peeling off that stupid bodysuit, I toss it in a pile on the other side of the room. I take a quick shower, way too exhausted to fully appreciate the state-of-the-art shower jets and pull Raphael’s T-shirt over my head. My stomach knots up at the musky scent of the fabric. It smells like him. Masculine and potent. Dizzying.

  I grab my phone out of the coat pocket and scan my messages as I approach the bed. Four missed calls and two text messages from Annaleigh. She wants details about the top-secret fashion show I told her I was doing tonight. God – I hate lying to her.

  She’s my best friend. Always has been. And when my big brother Prescott got the bright idea of marrying her a few months ago, she became my sister-in-law. She is hands-down one of my favorite people in the world. But I can’t tell her what’s really going on. I’d never be able to face her again.

  She thinks I live this luxurious life. As far as she knows, I own a breathtaking condo overlooking Reyfield River, I jet-set around the world, my face shows up in popular magazines, I have it made. Her assumptions are so far away from reality.

  I push back the comforter and climb into the soft, warm bed, thumbing through my phone.

  Annaleigh: Why aren’t you answering your phone? At fashion show?

  Annaleigh: Call me, ok! :)

  Smiling to myself, I pull up my video-calling app and dial up my bestie’s number. She answers almost immediately.

  "Hey, what's going on, girlie?" She settles in on her couch and pushes her black, overlong bangs aside. I spy the soda and bag of chips under her arm.

  Just seeing her face makes me feel so much better already. "Nothing much," I say. "I see you still haven't trimmed your hair."

  She rakes her fingers through her strands. "Ugh! No time. So busy with work. And when I get home, my husband seems to think that I should be cleaning and doing laundry all night." The bitterness in her voice is amusing as she pops open her cola and takes a long swallow. It's no secret that Annaleigh is the world’s most outrageous slob.

  My brother's face pops up over her shoulder. "Ignore her," he tells me. "She makes it sound like I'm running a labor camp over here. I'm ju
st trying to maintain basic hygiene so that we don’t end up bunking with rodents. Is that so unreasonable?"

  She glances up at him with a teasing smile. "I put an ad in the paper for a cleaning lady." She shoves a handful of chips down her throat.

  He rolls his eyes. "Didn't I tell you not to do that? I don't feel comfortable with a stranger coming in here twice a week."

  Annaleigh bats her lashes innocently. "Baby, if we hire a cleaner we'll have more time for us. I'd rather spend my free time making you happy than spend it scrubbing the toilet."