The next thing that floors you are his eyes. You know those crazy drawings of Nordic aliens, their ice-blue eyes. That’s what his are like. Piercing and magnetic. Shit. I couldn’t stop staring. Those crazy eyes slide over me, lingering on my breasts, and then pulling back, and narrowing on my face.
I want to smile, but I am frozen.
‘Where is…’ he makes a rolling motion with his big, powerful hand. Stella was right, after six months, twice a week, she has not even registered enough for him to even remember her name.
‘Stella,’ I supply helpfully.
‘Where is … Stella,’ he asks quietly. His voice is deep and the accent is strong and actually extremely sexy.
I clear my throat. ‘She couldn’t make it. I’m here to take her place.’
He nods. ‘Ok,’ and going to the massage table lies on it face down.
I gaze at the splendid body, the muscles, gleaming in the dim room and think of Stella. God, I’m not surprised she’s all in love. I am vaguely aware of a kind of animal attraction. I want to touch him. The sexual desire is so strong, it is as unsettling as a fingernail on a blackboard. It sets my teeth on edge. It’s almost like making love. I take a deep breath. Right. Swedish. Make it hard, Stella is saying in my head.
There is a strange feeling inside my belly. I feel hot and excited. A light sheen of sweat starts on my body. I wipe my brow with the back of my forearm. I flex my fingers and move forward.
I pick up the oil that has been warming in the hot water. Jesus, suddenly the smell of oil feels too musky and erotic. I gaze at his sinewy neck and feel the hair at the back of my own rise. He is like an animal, a big cat. Sleek and dangerous. I put musky oil back down and pick up a random bottle.
I pour the warm, lemon scented oil on the plateau at the base of his spine. I watch it pool. Then I take a deep breath and open the massage with a long, slow stroke. He doesn’t react. I shift my hands down to the two mounds of the gluteal muscles. They are firm strong and tight … and bulging insolently.
Make it hard. He likes it hard.
I dig down and get to work, careful not to make the mistakes that amateurs make – work too fast. My breathing rate increases, but the man does nothing. Just lies there silently. I move to the front of him, grab his shoulders and push down his back with my thumbs and finger pads..
Smooth and sensuous.
My hands roll back. It is almost hypnotic to feel my palms sliding down the tatted skin, and feel the muscles underneath move. By now sweat is running down my back. I have been so caught up in the job I do not see his hands move, but they are without warning cupping my buttocks. For a few second I freeze, more in shock than anything else.
The inert body moved!
Then I jump back in horror. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’
He lifts his head and looks at me with those wicked eyes. ‘I figured since you are not a real masseuse you were a hooker.’
‘What gave you that crazy impression?’ I demand outraged. How dare he?
His eyes slide down to my breasts. I look down and the scarf is dislodged and my breasts are practically spilling out of my uniform. My ears burn as I pull the scarf upwards and clutch it against my chest.
‘Well, I’m not a prostitute,’ I deny hotly.
His reaction is swift and smooth. He rolls to his side and lands lightly on his feet like a cat or someone with some kind of stealth training. He straightens. Naked and utter unashamed of his body he takes a step towards me. Shocked and a little frightened I take a step back, but the wall pulls me up short. He stops a foot away from me. His palms land on either side of me.
I gaze at him with wide eyes.
‘Then why did you massage me like that?’ he asks hoarsely,
The breath escapes me in a rush. ‘Like what?’ I whisper.
‘Like you want to taste my cock.’
‘I didn’t. I don’t,’ I stutter.
‘Then why are you fucking wet?’ he asks softly. His eyes drop to my mouth.
‘I’m not,’ I say clearly.
His hands leave the wall and grab my hips. ‘Do you want me to make a liar of out of you?’ he asks.
‘Don’t touch me,’ I spit.
He pulls me towards his naked body until his rock hard cock twitches against my belly.
A strange languor overtakes me, and I am suddenly struck by the desire to submit. To let him have his way. To let him fuck me hard. Because I know it will be a hard fuck. Yes, I’d be just a nameless fuck, and yes, there will be the walk of shame afterwards, but I can live with all of that. The thing that stops me is the thought of facing Stella.
‘How dare you?’ I gasp, outraged.
He laughs, a humorless, cold laugh. ‘Is that a challenge or a fucking invitation?’
‘It’s a fucking warning,’ I say furiously.
Ignoring my fury, he runs his fingers along my inner thigh.
I draw in a sharp breath. ‘Let go of me or I’ll scream.’
His eyes light up. They are like the underside of certain fish, slivery blue. He lets go of my hips. One of his hands comes up to my face. He drags his thumb along my lower lip while I stare up at him, mesmerized by the naked lust in his eyes. The fingers of his other hand arrive at the apex of my thighs.
‘Don’t,’ I whisper.
He brushes his fingers along the crotch of my panties. There is no expression at all in his face when he finds them soaking wet. Without a word he pushes the material aside and inserts a long finger into me.
Holy fuck. My body starts trembling.
‘Don’t. I don’t want you to,’ I order, but even I can hear how weak my voice sounds. My brain is already thinking of his thick girth pounding mercilessly into me.
He withdraws the finger and jams it back in. ’Don’t?’ he taunts.
Blood rushes to my head and pounds so hard I can’t even think.
‘I … we … oh … ah … shouldn’t.’
He doesn’t even bother to answer me. Just keeps up the steady finger fucking. I am so excited I feel as if I already at the point of no return. To my utter shame and humiliation I climax, and really hard too, all over his finger.
He smiles, a condescending, triumphant smile.
And suddenly I feel sick at what I have just allowed him to do to me. Jesus, I have behaved like a cheap slut. I swallow hard. I can’t even look him in the eye. How could this have happened to me? He made me come with one finger! And that digit is still inside me and my muscles are contracting helplessly around his finger.
‘Take your finger out of me now,’ I say in a cold, hard voice.
‘Why? Are you ready for me to replace it with my cock?’ he mocks insolently.
I am so inflamed that it seems natural that he should bear the brunt of my fury. My right hand flies up towards his cheek. It never connects. Instead a band of steel curls around my forearm.
‘Don’t ever do that again. I don’t like it,’ he says very softly.
I try to wrench my hand out of his grasp, but it like someone has poured concrete around it. His impassive eyes watch my puny struggles almost curiously. Like a child watching an insect it has caught before it pulls its wings off.
I take a deep breath. ‘Let me go,’ I cry.
He curls his finger and starts stroking my inside walls and I automatically feel my body begin to respond to his manipulation. Oh no. I can’t allow him to take total control of my body again. I stare into his eyes.
‘Please,’ I beg. My voice sounds strange and strangled.
One corner of his mouth lifts. It makes him look at once beautiful and cruel. He pulls his finger out of me and releases my hand. ‘Fly away little bird,’ he says dismissively.
I feel so ashamed I am almost tearful. No man has even reduced me to a feeling of such utter lack of worth. To him I am nothing but a sexual object. He thought I was offering myself, and he just helped himself even after I objected. And now he is just getting rid of me. My knees feel like jelly.
&nbs
p; I press my lips together and take a sideways step. Some part of my brain tries to make sense of what has just happened. It’s OK, you’ll never see him again. No one will ever know what happened here today. It’s just one of those inexplicable moments that you have never experienced before. A powerful man totally floors an inexperienced idiot!
I straighten my spine. You know what. I can do the walk of shame. So what. I take one step in the direction of the door and another step and then another step. I put my hand on the handle and his voice, like warm honey, pours into my ears.
‘Hey, if you ever need help or anything, anything at all, call me.’
I shouldn’t have responded. It would have been better, more dignified to walk out of the door without even an acknowledgement that he had spoken. Instead, I whirled around.
‘If you think I need more of what you just dished out, you are much mistaken. You can take your arrogant offer and stuff it up your ass.’
‘The world is a dangerous place, rybka. You don’t know when you need a helping hand. It is better to have a friend than an enemy.’
I look at him scornfully. A man like him could never be a friend of mine. He’s the exact opposite of me. This man has ice water flowing in his veins. I nearly fainted at a pearl farm when I found exactly how pearls are harvested. (The cut through the flesh of the poor oyster and dig around until they locate the pearl. Ugh.)
‘I wouldn’t come to you if you were the last fucking man on earth.’
He shrugs. ‘One day you will come to me again and you will be eager for what I dish out.’
‘You’ll die believing that.’
‘I made you come harder than you’ve ever come using just one finger. You’ll be back for more,’ he says confidently.
I feel heat start climbing up my neck. ‘You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
I shake my head with disgust. There is no way to win an argument with someone who cannot be made to feel ashamed of their rude and arrogant ways. I open the door and walk out.
Chapter Three
Zane
I watch her leave the room and hear the muffled sound of her footsteps go down the best of Italy’s pink marble. I hit the button on the intercom. Noah replies almost instantly.
‘Get Corrine to come up,’ I tell him, and remove my finger from the button.
I open a drawer and take out a condom. I tear it open and fit it on to my dick. The door opens and Corrine slinks in with a seductive smile. She is blonde with long legs and a great pair of tits. She is wearing a semi transparent white blouse, no bra, an extremely short black skirt and as I have stipulated, no panties.
I don’t like wasting time.
I grab her by the wrist and throw her against the wall. She gasps as I rip her top open. Her pink-tipped breasts strain forward. I look at them without any feeling. I am dead inside.
‘Suck my nipples, Zane, please’ she pleads.
But I’m not in the mood for that. If my mouth gets anywhere near those breast I’ll bite hard enough to leave marks. I feel that vicious.
I hold my hand out and she immediately hooks her leg over it giving me an uninterrupted view of her shaved, beautifully swollen and creaming sex. I never got to see the other one’s pussy. It is her pussy I want to see open and dripping for me. I won’t rest until I have her in this position of utter submission. Until the day I train her to hook her leg onto my hand and beg me to suck her nipples and slam hard into her I won’t be satisfied.
I ram my cock directly into Corrine’s little hole and she makes a grunting sound. Today the sound irritates me. I place my palm over her mouth and twist her face to the side so that I don’t have to look into her eyes, carry on thrusting hard.
The room fills with the wet sound of my flesh slapping hers. I come in record time, so quickly, in fact, that Corrine moans and desperately rubs her unsatisfied sex against me in a submissive, almost animal like begging gesture. I stay still until with my palm covering her mouth and her leg hooked over my hand, she finds her own release.
Immediately, I pull out of her clinging body and turn away, but not before I glimpse into her half-hooded eyes. At the desire and need still shining in them.
‘Zane, I—’ she whispers.
‘Get out,’ I say coldly.
I hear the sound of her clothes rustling, a small sulky sniff. It’s nearly time to get rid of her. She leaves and I feel like punching the wall.
‘Damn you,’ I grate. ‘Damn you to hell.’
Cover Designer: http://www.ctcovercreations.com/
Editor: http://www.loriheaford.com/
Proofreader: http:// http://nicolarheadediting.com/
CRYSTAL JAKE
Published by Georgia Le Carre
Copyright © 2015 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN:978-1-910575-11-6
You can discover more information about Georgia Le Carre and future releases here.
https://www.facebook.com/georgia.lecarre
https://twitter.com/georgiaLeCarre
http://www.goodreads.com/GeorgiaLeCarre
For
Samantha Bailey
Who wrote Stripped
&
Christian Plowman
who wrote Crossing The Line
This book wouldn’t have been the same your deep knowledge.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I sincerely hope I don’t leave anyone out, but no doubt I will. And when I do remember I will give myself a hard time and make it a point to mention you in the next book.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart to Nicola Rhead, Caryl Milton, Elizabeth Burns, Sue Bee, Cariad & Nichole from Sizzling Pages, B.J. Gaskill, Rene Giraldi, Chelle Thompson, Sandra Hayes, Terry & Donna Briody-Buccella, Tina Medeiros, Sharon Johnson, Tracy Spurlock, Simona Misevska, Irida Sotiri, Lan LLP, C.J Fallowfield, Drew Hoffman, Nadia Debowska-Stephens, Maria Lazarou & Nancy of Romance Reads.
BOOK 1
Ha, ha, ha, bless your soul.
You really think you’re in control.
Well…
—Crazy, Gnarls Barkey
PROLOGUE
Crazy
‘NOOOOOOO,’ I HOWL, but there is gravel or grave soil in my throat, and nothing other than an ugly, dried-up rasp travels out of my mouth. My head shakes back and forth like a mindless wind-up toy. Even my body is denying the horror before my eyes. Without warning my knees buckle under me, and I find myself in a heap at the doorway of his flat. Frantically, I begin to crawl toward him, screaming, babbling.
I can’t lose him! Not him! Oh God, not him. Please. Not him.
Two feet away from his body and it occurs to me: this is just a nightmare. Of course it is. It has to be. Any moment now I’ll wake up. And the first thing I’ll do? Call him and tell him how much I have missed him, how much I love him.
I feel the floor scrape against my bare knees. It isn’t a nightmare. It is real.
We haven’t spoken for two weeks. I had exams and when I called his mobile, it went straight to voicemail… Shit excuse. I should have called again, I should have emailed. Why hadn’t I? I should have known.
I hunker down over his body, my pose ungainly, heavy, that of a suffering beast. My buttocks hit the floor and my legs fold up and cross under me. I press my fingers against my open mouth and stare at him. His lips and fingers are blue
and the rest of him is ashen and still. He can’t be dead.
It can’t be real!
The stillness of a dead body is impossible to describe. And yet when you see it you refuse to believe it. You always think it is a trick. A mistake. A ploy…. But a needle is embedded in his arm, which is blackened with the skin stretched and unreal. It looks as if it belongs elsewhere. That is not my brother’s arm. I know my brother’s arm as intimately as I know my own.
My breathing is shallow and trembling. I suck a huge burst of air into my lungs and pull the offending needle out. My stomach twists. It should never have entered his body in the first place. I throw the syringe away. It hits something and rolls on the wooden floor. It also leaves a tiny hole in my brother’s flesh that does not bleed. I swallow hard. My hands are shaking badly.
That means he didn’t suffer, a voice whispers in my head. He did not even have time to pull it out before he was gone to wherever it is he went to.
Oh God! He is nineteen. He can’t be gone.
CPR. I should give him CPR. There must be something I can still do. I grab his shoulders and try to drag him across my thighs, but his body is so heavy, so cold, and so stiff and foreign that my shocked hands fly away from his shoulders as if they have touched fire. I gaze at him as he lies unmoving. The blood that ran without rest during his short life has stilled within his veins. Everything has cooled and hardened. He is like a piece of wood.
Dirty Aristocrat Page 24