by Penny Wylder
I hesitate for a second, lost in thought–mostly thoughts about his hand just inches away from my pussy.
He misunderstands my hesitation because his eyes flash. “It doesn’t have to be your actual house. You can give me a friend’s address, or a place nearby. I won’t follow you without asking again.”
My chest tightens at the thought. He thinks I’m mad about today, about him coming to work. I shake my head, reach up to grip his shoulder. “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” I glance down pointedly at his hand in my pants. “How could I complain?”
He relaxes a little, smiling again, and I give him directions to my place. It’s not far, only a ten-minute drive. Normally I ride with Diana or walk home. But now, for the first time ever, I find myself wishing I lived a lot farther from work. Anything to drag this moment out. To get more time with him.
We pull out of the parking lot as his hand slips beneath my panties and his thick, strong fingers spread around my pussy lips. He doesn’t touch me, not quite yet. Just everywhere around me, letting me feel his warm palm against my mound, his fingers exploring my inner thighs.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Corbella,” he murmurs, eyes on the road. “I fantasized about you last night. Thought about fucking you in my shower, pushing you up against the cold tile wall and feeling your legs wrap around my waist. I got off thinking about the little moaning sounds you’d make as I fucked you…”
My pussy clenches, heart thrashing. “I fantasized about you, too, sir,” I whisper. Then I get distracted for a second as he drags a finger along my slit. A faint moan escapes my lips.
He chuckles. “I love how wet you get for me, my little slut.” His fingers spread my pussy lips wide, and his middle finger circles my entrance, teasing. “Tell me, whose pussy is this?”
I swallow hard. “Yours, sir.”
“Tell me again.” His finger presses against my entrance, poised to take me, not quite giving me what I want, not yet.
“It’s your pussy, sir.” I cry out the last words, as he thrusts his finger deep inside me. “Fuck, oh, fuck, it’s yours; I’m yours.” I hardly realize what I’m saying, it feels so good when he curls his finger inside my pussy.
He slips it out, and I whimper in protest. But he doesn’t leave me hanging for long. Soon he pushes two fingers into me, fucks me gently while his thumb circles my clit. He doesn’t quite touch my clit, as though he knows how sensitive it is right now, from what feels like ages of deprivation, unmet desire.
“One rule,” he says, and my eyes flash over to him. He’s still focused on the road, cool as ever, as though nothing is going on below the belt. Belatedly, I realize we’re driving right through downtown, with dozens of people crossing the street in each direction, or sitting waiting for the lights to change in cars around us. Did anyone see me? Notice what was happening, the way my mouth parted and I moaned with desire?
Shit.
But also, fucking hell that’s hot.
I clench around his fingers, unconsciously. “Yes, sir?” I ask, panting with effort at maintaining a straight face.
He strokes his thumb over my clit, and it’s so electric I jump against the seat, sucking air through my teeth with a hiss. “You have to finish before I park outside your place. Or you’ll get no release from me.”
I glance at the intersection where we’re currently idling, waiting for the light change. Shit. Only a few minutes left. “I understand, sir,” I murmur, nodding, even as I arch my hips up against his hand.
He adds a third finger inside me, thumb still resting against my clit, not moving, just putting pressure on. Then he starts to fuck me in earnest. Thrusting faster as the light changes and he hits the gas. I lean back against the seat, arching my back, trying to keep my face under control even as my body writhes with pleasure. I’m half distracted, worrying about the distance home, and half lost in pleasure every time he thrusts into me again, deeper, fingers curling against my front wall, grazing that G-spot over and over.
Just as we turn onto my street, it finally hits me.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Come for me, slut.”
Right on cue, the orgasm sweeps through me. My hips fly up off the seat of their own accord, my shoulders digging into the backrest, my legs trembling with the force of the orgasm. I cry out something, though I’m not sure what. All I see are sparks across my vision; all I feel is a deep throb of release, something unspooling inside my belly.
Then he slides his hand out of my pants, and brings his fingers to his lips to taste me, one at a time.
I’m still catching my breath, staring at him, waiting for my next orders. He catches my eye and smirks.
“I’ll see you in two days, Corbella.”
I blink, startled. Then remember where we are. We’ve already parked outside my place. Time to go.
I don’t want to, though. I want to drag this moment out. Make it last longer–forever, if possible. Taking a risk, I lean across the gearshift to cup his cheek in my hand. I kiss him, slowly, gently. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets me kiss him. But his lips don’t move against mine–I get nothing back in return.
When I draw back an inch to look at him, questioning, his eyes are dark and unreadable. He’s holding something back… But what? Why?
“Corbella,” he murmurs, and this time the command has gone from his voice. We’re out of dom mode, back into normal Giovanni mode.
Is it strange that after just two days of knowing one another, I already can tell what’s normal for him?
“You need to think about what you’re doing,” he says.
My eyebrows draw together on their own, a little frown of confusion. “What do you mean?” I ask.
He continues watching me in silence for another long moment. Then he shakes his head, laughs a little ruefully. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.” He taps the door button to unlock them. “I shouldn’t be trying to talk you out of something I want, after all.”
I’m still watching him, making no move to leave. I want to figure him out. I want to understand what makes him tick. I want more than just sex from him, I realize. I want to know him.
But he glances toward my house pointedly. “Goodbye, Corbella.” And at that, I have no choice.
I push open the door and step out of the car. Slam it behind me, and stand on the curb, watching his taillights fade into the distance. Even after he’s gone, I keep standing there, watching the space where he used to be, thinking. Wondering.
Is it all in my head? This dissolving line between us, the idea that we’re more than just client and escort? That he could want me for more than just his whore?
Maybe I’ve imagined it all. Maybe he just wants to fuck me, business-arrangement style, and be done with it.
But then, why did he come to my coffee shop today? Why seek me out, when he’d already told me he wouldn’t see me for a few more days? And why did he go quiet now, almost warning me off?
I shouldn’t be trying to talk you out of something I want, he said. Which almost makes it sound like he’s worried about me, in spite of himself.
But why?
I don’t know what to think anymore. None of this is what I expected when I decided to start escorting.
And yet, I don’t want it to stop…
3
Remember why you’re doing this, Corbella.
I’m standing outside Giovanni’s house–mansion would really be the better term. It’s huge, four stories of gabled turrets and tasteful gardens around it. Homey but intense all at once. When he sent me the address last night at a little after one in the morning, I immediately googled it and saw it was in a rich area of town. I wasn’t prepared for this, though. Standing in front of the reality of this guy I’ve been fucking–or everything but fucking, actually.
Not only is he a hot sex god, but also he’s also rich? How can he possibly be single?
That, right there, is the problem. I’m assuming he’s single. Assuming he’s looking for a girlfriend, when really, he�
�s just hiring me to fuck him. For all I know, he could be fucking a dozen other escorts at the same time. Or he could have hired me for my discretion.
I know absolutely nothing about this man, so I need to stop thinking about this situation as normal.
That’s the real problem. What happened in his car was so normal. Me in my coffee shop clothing, making out in a parking lot after my shift. Hooking up in the car, him driving me home. It was all so boyfriend/girlfriend, the way he surprised me at work and begged me to meet him in the car.
It didn’t feel like an escort and a client. It didn’t feel pre-arranged, like a business transaction. It was unprompted, spontaneous lust. Like a date.
I shift in my heels. Under my coat, I’m wearing the shortest dress I own, bright red and slim-fitting. It shows off my ass perfectly, especially since I’m only wearing a slip of a thong today.
It’s not just for my sake that I need to keep the boundaries clear. I’m doing this for a reason. I got into this business because I had no other choice.
Saving someone I love means more than anything. It means that no matter what, I need Gio to keep paying me. Even if I have feelings for him, even if I’d sleep with him for free. I need the money.
Or she’ll be the one paying the price…
I shut my eyes, waiting for the wave of anger and fear to wash past me. I’m used to suppressing it these days. It’s been long enough that I’ve come to terms with the reality. I know what I need to do. For her sake, not mine.
Whatever it takes, I cannot let this thing with Gio and me become real.
Straightening my shoulders, I steel myself for this. I need to act professional. Not let myself get carried away again. Because this cannot get personal. He needs to keep paying me.
I unbutton my coat which I wore to disguise the ridiculously short dress I’m wearing, and climb the short set of steps to his massive front door to ring the bell. I’m not sure what I’m expecting–a butler maybe, or a servant to answer it?
Instead, the huge oak door swings inward to reveal Giovanni himself, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, complete with a dark gray tie. For a moment, we both freeze, taking one another in. I watch his eyes dip over my body appreciatively, and I’m busy doing the same to him. Fucking hell, the man looks amazing in a suit. I can only guess what it costs–the suit looks custom-tailored, so he must have spent a fortune on it.
I blink, startled, when I realize he’s stepped back from the doorway to wave me inside. Dammit. I’m already failing at playing it nonchalant.
“Thank you for having me,” I say, as I step over the threshold.
“Thank you for coming.” His eyes spark as they catch mine. “I trust your last couple of days have been good ones.”
If you define good as completely consumed with fantasizing about you at every possible moment, sure, I think. But I bite my tongue on that one. Keep it professional. “Very, thank you. And yours?” Why are we both sounding so stilted?
Maybe he’s made the same resolution I have. Resolving to keep our relationship a working one, nothing more.
“Fine,” he replies. “Except for how sore my cock is from the number of times I jerked myself off thinking about you.”
My cheeks flush bright red even as I clench my thighs tighter at the thought of him fantasizing about me. Of course, I was doing the same thing, thinking about him all night. And this morning. And maybe in the car on the way here…
“I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of choosing the menu,” he adds, after turning away without further comment and leading me deeper into the house, toward an elegantly-set dining room.
I blink at the white tablecloth, crystal wine glasses, fine china dishes and silverware that’s probably real silver from the looks of it. It takes a second for my brain to catch up. “Menu?” I ask belatedly, frowning.
“I enjoy cooking for my guests,” he replies.
I assumed when I got his message yesterday with the address and a prompt to wear my best dress, that we’d finally be sealing the deal. He wanted to fuck me at last. That’s what I figured.
I hadn’t counted on dinner first. After all, he’s a client, not a date.
I linger in the doorway of the dining room. This is exactly the kind of line I need to be drawing right now. The kind of invitation I should decline.
On the other hand, he’s the one paying. What if this is part of his kink? Wining and dining me before he beds me? He said he enjoys cooking for guests–maybe he means guests like me. Maybe this is all part of the fantasy he’s creating.
I tell myself that’s all it is. Another fetish. Another experience he’s paying for. I force my legs to move, to cross the ridiculously large dining room and take a seat in the chair he pulls out for me. I can’t remember the last time a guy pulled out a chair for me. I brush my dress under myself as I take a seat, suddenly wishing I wore something less risqué and a little more tasteful.
“I didn’t realize you cooked,” I say, glancing up at him once I’m perched on the chair.
He trails a hand over my shoulder, barely a touch, and yet the suggestion of his fingers against my skin raises hairs on the back of my neck. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Corbella.”
“Yet,” I challenge, a sparkle in my eye. Then I bite my tongue. Shit. That sounded a lot like flirting.
Luckily he doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes flash bright with amusement. “Good thing we have a nice long night ahead of us, then.”
He leaves the room, leaves me with my stomach tingling and my hands quivering. Why am I so nervous? Is it because I’m intimidated by the glamor, or just because I know I’m way too turned on by Giovanni?
I don’t have too much time to wonder. He’s back before long, carrying a tray of food. I half-stand, meaning to help him, but he freezes me in place with a glare.
“I’ve done this plenty of times, Corbella. Please, you are my guest. Sit.”
He’s got that obey-me look on again, so I slide back into my chair. I force myself to sit still as he places the tray on the table between my seat and the one he clearly intends to take, which in my opinion is too far away. We’ll barely be able to play footsie, let alone run our hands up the insides of one another’s thighs…
I shiver.
Giovanni makes another trip for wine, pours us both glasses without lifting the silver lids off of the plates yet. Already a delicious smell drifts through the room, something succulent and savory. It’s making me drool almost as much as the sight of him in his tight-fitted suit, dark eyes flashing with humor as he raises his glass in a toast. I mirror him, lifting mine as well.
“To the most beautiful whore in the world,” he says, and my cheeks burn bright red at the sudden, unexpected reminder of who I am and why I’m here. Then he winks. “And a wonderful human being, to boot.”
I smile–I can’t help it, he has one of those smiles that demand you smile back in response. I lift my glass in acknowledgement and drink with him. Before he sets his glass back on the table, I raise mine too.
Two can play at this game.
I understand what he was doing with that toast. Reminding me of our places. Of the reason we are both here. Reminding me not to take this too far or let it grow too real.
“To the best first client a whore could ever ask for,” I say, and flash him a wink. “And a pretty damned sexy one to boot.”
He laughs out loud, but there’s something sad around the edges of his mouth, the turn of his eyes, as we lift our glasses in unison once more and drink together.
Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. For a moment, it almost looked as though he was thinking the same thing that I was. That I wish we’d met under different circumstances. I wish this could be more than the farce it needs to be, for both of our sakes.
In another life…
Well. That’s always the way, isn’t it?
At least we’ll have tonight. At least we can tear these clothes off one another and fuck
ourselves senseless, even if it’s only this once.
Then he lifts the lids and my heart sinks straight through the floor, I swear. Because damn if he isn’t an even more perfect specimen of man than I already imagined.
One plate contains our appetizers and there are two bowls of soup, something pale and laden with veggies and meat, and it smells absolutely heavenly. The other is the best-looking piece of honey roast that I’ve ever seen, expertly glazed, resting in a bed of sautéed greens and surrounded by a puffy pillow of perfectly pureed potatoes. I want to launch myself at it right here and now, it smells so fucking good. Almost as good as the chef himself.
But I force myself to wait patiently while he serves me a portion. He wields the knife like a pro, slicing off a piece with ease, and I can see that it’s melt-in-your-mouth tender. He sets the plate next to me, along with the soup, and I sit with my hands folded, waiting for him to take his seat as well.
Once he does, he looks across the table to find me waiting, and a pleased smile crosses his lips. “You don’t even realize what a natural sub you are, do you, Corbella?” he asks, his voice thick with desire.
I bow my head, smiling faintly at the compliment. “No, sir,” I murmur.
He chuckles softly, voice full of wonder. “You may eat now,” he says, lifting his own spoon. “But only if you promise to tell me what you really think. It’s the first time I’ve tried this particular recipe.” He gestures to the soup before he digs in.
One bite and I’m already in even more danger of falling for this man. I close my eyes and groan softly, not faking it in the slightest. “This is amazing,” I say, once I’ve spooned a few more mouthfuls down greedily.
“You aren’t just saying that because I paid you to be here?” He smirks at me, flashes a wink.
“I would never.” I hold his gaze as I eat another spoonful, trying to pick out the individual flavors. There are so many spices, I don’t know where to start trying to place them. “Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, watching him as he continues to eat. “Are you a chef or something?”
He laughs at that. “I’m not good enough to go pro. Besides, more hours in a chef’s life than I’d care to spend at work.” His mouth quirks a little.