Mirror, Mirror

by Amanda McIntyre

  Mirror, Mirror

  Amanda McIntyre

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  “How much did he pay you?” I enjoyed watching this one dress. He had a slow methodical style, much like having sex with him. His dark eyes twinkled in the twilight of the afternoon as he fastened the cuff of his dress shirt. My heart ached, but more than that, my body ached to have him just once more.

  “Does it matter? Was it good for you?” His boyish smile produced a sexy dimple on his firm jaw.

  I stretched luxuriously beneath the smooth white hotel sheets and returned a savory smile. “It was perfect, darling. I just hope that it was worth every cent he gave you.” I sat up and leaned back against the tufted headboard, not bothering to cover my nakedness.

  He chuckled. I chuckled in return. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not paranoid. Despite my age, I keep myself fit. My body has always been a sense of pride for me. It’s so much easier to find good clothes. Having had the good fortune to marry late in life and to a man twice-before married and, like me, not interested in having a family allows me to enjoy a tight, firm body as well as my dear husband’s wealth.

  My afternoon lover sauntered to the edge of the bed, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his tan, chiseled and smooth chest. The man could have been navy SEAL by his physique. He wouldn’t tell me his name, and I knew it was better this way, just like the others before him.

  “You were fantastic,” he whispered, leaning toward me to offer a soft kiss of approval.

  “I know,” I whispered as I curled my hand around his neck, tufting my fingers through his wayward dark hair. I loved the way it curled up at the end of his collar. His kiss was sweet and thorough, producing a throbbing between my legs that screamed with need. I wanted the warmth of his young, firm body drilling deep into me, his breath hot against my shoulder, muffling his exquisite determination.

  He pulled away and slid a strand of my hair over my ear. His deep brown eyes, the color of fresh, hot espresso, stared into mine.

  “You’re one of the best, sweetheart.”

  “True, but I bet you say that to all your clients.” I held his sexy gaze, perhaps to challenge him, perhaps because I wanted to keep my pride. It was no secret to either of us that my husband paid him to service me, because he couldn’t get it up himself.

  The first few months of wedded bliss had been like a Ken and Barbie dream date come true. We traveled to exotic places, dined in the moonlight on white sandy beaches. He showered me with trinkets and baubles in appreciation. Yes, the sex was hot, a trifle stilted, but satisfying. His age and the meds for his high blood pressure had some effect on his performance, but he was and still is a man of innovation. His gifts of diamonds and flowers soon gave way to an array of toys that he used with great skill to satisfy me when he wasn’t able to.

  But as time wore on, I could not help but begin to note the detached, vacant look in his eyes when we made love.

  I held tight to my charmed life.

  I didn’t think about it much until after his freak boat accident, a year after we’d married. It occurred when he was entered in a boat race while vacationing in the Mediterranean. It left him a quadriplegic, but still a very wealthy man.

  My gaze was drawn to lover number seventeen as he slipped his watch over his wrist. He was one of those men you’d look twice at on the street, or in a restaurant. He exuded a youthful confidence, a calm sense of being comfortable in his own skin, which, by the way, looked exceedingly good on him. For a brief moment I pretended that we really knew each other, but the truth was, I didn’t even know his name. That was part of the bargain.

  “Not true. I don’t say that to all of them.” He grinned as he pushed from the bed and resumed dressing.

  I slid from beneath the sheets and toyed with showering, wondering if he might be enticed to stay if I offered Instead, I decided to wait, not wanting to wash his heavenly, masculine scent from my skin just yet. I turned purposely to watch him as he tucked his crisp, charcoal-gray dress shirt into his tailor-made pants. I had to give him credit. He was a professional, and dressed the part very well. His silver ring, likely a college fraternity keepsake, glinted in the light streaming through the window. The man had magnificent hands. My body tingled even now with the memory of them gliding with exquisite precision over my flesh.

  “You look as delicious dressed as undressed, darling.” I smiled and crossed my arms casually over my full breasts, still tender from his teasing. I had no shame in standing before him without a stitch. Given the slightest signal that he might be interested, I would gladly have offered myself to his pleasure again.

  “Has he got you on the schedule for next week?”

  He cleared his throat, but refused to meet my eyes. I knew something was up and that likely it wasn’t what I’d hoped it was.

  “I’m sorry, but this is the last time.”

  “You aren’t serious?” My god, in comparison to all the men my husband had paraded in my direction in the past six months, this man was an Adonis. Exceptional, grade-A, off-the-charts sex. I couldn’t just let him leave. Not like this, not without knowing why. My eyes darted to the mirror and I saw a flicker of desperation cross my face. I turned my focus back to him.

  I knelt on the bed facing him, my knees not so discreetly parted, straightening my shoulders for the desired effect, hoping that would persuade him.

  “Just like that? Was it so bad?” I pouted and looked through hooded lids at him.

  He shook his head slowly, pausing as he closed his zipper, and raked a hand through his unruly hair. I loved that about his hair. It was sexy and tousled as if he’d just gotten out of bed, which he had. And I wanted him back there where I could muss it again, hold it tight in my fists as my climax shook my body. The thought made me wet and I eased my hand between my legs, my nipples tightening as I held his gaze.

  “You do know that we’re good together, don’t you?” I stroked my slick folds, gliding my other hand deliciously slowly over my breast.

  The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed delightfully with his hard swallow.

  “I’ve…I should…go,” he choked out, but his eyes were fixed on the languid stroke of my fingers.

  “Are you absolutely sure you have to run off so quickly?”

  I sighed through my parted lips, aroused by my own hand and the hungry look in his eyes. It was a decadent sensation, this control I possessed.

  “He…said until four.” He jerked his gaze from my pussy to check his watch. I could see his will crumbling. It was 4:05.

  I offered him a soft moan for good measure.

  “Shit,” he growled, and in two strides jerked me up from the bed and slammed me gently against the wall, his mouth boring down on mine until I had to shove at his shoulders to breathe.

  “Go for it,” I whispered with a smile, unbuttoning the shirt he’d so dutifully fastened seconds before. His body trembled next to mine, his fever clear as he yanked his belt free and flung it over his shoulder. He wasted no time dismissing his pants and briefs in one motion, picked me up by the hips and braced me against the wall.

  I sighed blissfully when he entered me, grinding against me, adjusting my hips until we fit tightly together.

  Saddled on his perfect cock, I curled my arms over his shoulders and hooked my ankles at his waist. My breasts pressed to his hard body. I leaned forward and softly bit his shoulder as he began to move within me.

  Lovers dancing a tango old as time.

  He tucked his face against the curve of my neck and with the grace of his slow-easy style, proceeded to take
me to the edge of oblivion. A piece of my heart broke free of the pure, sexual ecstasy and for a brief moment I pretended we were together, for always. He was hard and slick, and smelled like a lover’s dream. Where my husband had managed to find him was anybody’s guess. More than once that afternoon I’d imagined him working in a fine men’s clothing store, or seated behind the executive desk of a successful company.

  The fantasy of our being a couple lasted less than the time it took for us to crash hard and fast into one another, our bodies jerking in primal rhythm to satisfy the ancient urge. The ferocity of his breathing mingled with his deep chuckle.

  “My god, you’re fantastic,” I uttered through the shuddering aftermath of my climax. He lowered me to the floor and rested his forehead to mine.

  “You’re right, we are good together.” His eyes rose to mine then and in them I saw a look of regret.

  Reality was a bitch. There was so much more that I wanted to say, but I dared not risk it, not now and likely not ever. My husband was a very powerful man despite his disabilities.

  “Perfection, love. You better go now.” I dipped beneath his arm before he had the chance to kiss me again. I got lost in his kisses.

  I slipped on my peach-colored satin robe and this time kept my eyes lowered as he dressed. I couldn’t chance the piece, however infinitesimal it might be, of my heart to have any feeling toward him.

  It wasn’t part of our agreement.

  He dressed facing away from me and we spoke no more. I didn’t even look up until I heard the door shut quietly behind him. I walked to the oversize mirror and studied my reflection. With great calm, I picked up my hairbrush and stroked it through my short brown hair. There were just a few strands of silver showing my age, but nothing so noticeable a good hairdresser couldn’t fix.

  Yes, I was still a viable, passionate woman and I could rival any of the twentysomething divas I often lunched with and who often looked to me as a “seasoned” woman for advice. What a strong and wonderful marriage I had. Wasn’t I the lucky one?

  I wondered how many others like me existed out there. One or two? Ten or twenty? It wasn’t exactly a topic you might bring up at an afternoon charity tea.

  We, whose lives, mastered by passion, are caught somewhere in a vortex comprised of need and circumstance. We agree to whatever is necessary to derive a moment of pleasure in an otherwise cold and sterile world and be able to enjoy the good life.

  The phone by the bed rang and I knew it was Paul. I picked up the remote phone receiver, my throat still dry from the mind-boggling sex. I grabbed the bottle of champagne, praying there was a little left. All that was left of the ice was chilled water. There was enough for one glass, maybe two.

  “Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?”

  I’d become a pro at disassociation. “Why, of course—didn’t it appear so?” My response was short, rather snappish, and I reeled in that part of me that remembered the look of regret on my lover’s face. With careful precision I steadied the bottle as I poured the golden nectar into my glass. I glanced up, my eye catching my lover’s glass still on the nightstand.

  “You looked lovely, as always, Charlie.”

  The soft tone in his voice caught my heart unaware as it did always, and what’s more, he knew it would. I closed my eyes, draining the glass as I held the receiver a few inches from my ear.

  “Was he as…proficient as the others?”

  I hated the part where he insisted on analyzing every moment, but I played along. After all, the man I’d just let ravish me all afternoon was off the scale in terms of “proficient.”

  “He was,” I agreed, setting my glass on the dresser, readying to pour another glass. I wanted to embrace the bubbly haze of the champagne and enjoy the afterglow a bit more. Maybe I was being selfish.

  “He won’t be back, you know. I can keep them just so long, and then they get on with their lives. This one mentioned a fiancée, I believe.”

  Two pricks in the same moment, one on the phone and one to my heart.

  “I thought it must be something like that. He told me it was his last time.” I licked my lips and stared into the mirror. I was careful not to say too much, give him too much praise. Yet if I showed any displeasure, I wasn’t sure what my husband might do.

  My reflection stared back at me, my eyes still bright from sex, my cheeks flushed from arousal. But I could see his face, his ice-blue eyes peering at me, dissecting my every nuance.

  My gut twisted, but I fought hard to keep my expression objective, almost apathetic, but not quite.

  Paul could read me like a book, and if he had an inkling that I might have actually had some feeling for this man, or any of them, he’d sever our agreement, and then where would I be?

  “Will I see you at home soon, then?”

  My eye caught the champagne bottle, condensation running in rivulets down its side, leaving a pool on the dresser. “In a little while. I’d like to shower first.”

  “Understandable.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I’ll have Jenkins waiting downstairs, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Fine, thank you.” The words stuck in my throat mixed with the bile forming there. I hung up, refusing to look again in the mirror.

  Chapter Two

  “I want you to wear the pearls this time.”

  It was a cloudy day, causing me to have to turn on the lamp beside the bed. I stood transfixed at the bedside, studying the long strand of pale pink pearls that lay across the satin coverlet. I picked them up and let them dangle from my fingertips. They were quite beautiful, really, glimmering in the soft glow of the lamplight.

  “Any particular reason?” I asked, speaking into the phone’s receiver. A gentle knock on the door pulled my attention for a moment.

  “You’ll think of something, dear. You always do. For me, Charlie—wear them for me.”

  My dear husband’s health was beginning to deteriorate and with it, I feared, his mental state. It wasn’t enough that he paid other men to have sex with me, or that I succumbed to every one of his odd demands—now he was giving me props. Before, he’d let me handle things on my own. But this—this made me feel cheap for some reason.

  “Fine,” I replied, not wishing to deliberate the new concept. I slipped them over my head, and they hung past my hips.

  I swallowed the remaining champagne and poured two glasses, carrying them to the smooth gray stone foyer. I opened the door and there, dressed in an impeccable Armani suit, was the human equivalent of a fine Italian race car. Polished, perfect and very sleek. The Italian prize offered an equally perfect smile.

  “Charlie?” His accent breathed my name softly, making the Ch sound like Sh.

  His dark, hungry gaze took me in from head to foot. He leaned against the door frame with the casual flair of a man who did this every day.

  “That’s me, and you must be…?” I handed him the flute and waited, wondering if my question would trip him up. I couldn’t help teasing; sometimes it broke the ice.

  He grinned, his teeth white and even, bright against his beautiful olive skin, but he did not answer. Instead, he plucked the glass from my hand and sauntered past me, his head on a swivel as he scoured the suite.

  “See anything you like?” I eased the door shut and leaned against it. A wicked desire rose up my spine as I imagined the tight ass hidden by that jacket. I had to give my husband credit for finding men who looked exceptionally good in quality clothes.

  He grinned over his shoulder and took a sip of the champagne.

  “Would you perhaps like to take a few moments to get to know each other?” He looked past me to the original Monet hanging on the wall in the entry. Chances were he had no desire to know anything about me any more than I wanted to know more about him.

  “Let’s not waste any time, shall we?”

  He tipped his glass toward me. “Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets.” His smooth baritone accent slid over my flesh as he sauntered toward me.
He removed his jacket and folded it carefully, laying it over the stark-white leather couch.

  I tipped my head and offered a pleasant smile.

  “Here, my lovely lady? Or would you prefer to escort me to your bedroom?”

  It wouldn’t matter, of course, to my husband. His surveillance included every room on hidden camera. The poor men were the only ones who didn’t know that their performances were being closely watched and rated by the man who’d solicited their services.

  For me.

  “What do you prefer?” I swallowed my drink and placed the flute on the front hall table. I met him halfway, brushing close by him so I could inhale his cologne; let it begin to intoxicate my senses, mingle with the heady champagne. It was easier if I could imagine what type of man he might be like under different circumstances.

  He drew me against his chest, reaching around my waist, where he began slowly drawing my blouse from my sensible gray pinstripe pencil skirt. Today I’d worn the four-inch stiletto heels. I kept my focus on the rain as it smacked against the picture windows. The view was exceptional, of course, careening high above the other rooftops of the city, an unobstructed view of the horizon. Only the best for my husband.

  His hand slid beneath my blouse, his smooth fingers tentative as he unfastened the clasp at the front of my bra. The pearls caught beneath his hand, gliding over my flesh in an admittedly erotic and delightful way.

  I glanced beneath hooded lids to the gold, gilded antique mirror above the fireplace and smiled. It was genuine.

  My Italian storm gathered quickly, removing my clothes first and then his with methodical precision, until we both stood naked in the dusky light of the pelting thunderstorm, with the exception of my heels and pearls, of course.

  “Turn around,” he urged, holding the pearls as I faced from him. The pearls tapped against my spine, cool and smooth to the touch. My body curved instinctively into his as he pressed against my back, providing a preview of his magnificent size against my bottom. He was a maestro with his hands, commanding my breasts to attention, strumming my clit until I ached.