In my pathetic needy moment, I swiped the screen open and was momentarily stunned to see a fresh message there, and I remembered that I’d left the phone on silent. I flicked a glance at Fritha. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought she’d stop me looking at it. But she was still mouth-breathing, so I opened the message—mentally preparing myself for either I want to lick you senseless or Fuck off and never speak to me again.
Instead, Finn had texted:
I don’t understand why you’re doing that job. I wish you weren’t.
I blinked at the wavering words and, in my smashed state, I interpreted it as, You’re terrible at that job. I wish I’d never fucked you.
I frowned at my phone, remembering that he’d told me I was incredible, but that could have been a lie. Must have been. Maybe I wasn’t as ‘experienced’ as he’d expected me to be. Maybe it hadn’t been worth all the trouble it had caused, with Katinka getting shitty and…
No… my brain was slowing down, swaying, blurring. I needed to be unconscious.
Somehow I managed to push buttons to delete his awful message. Then I dropped the phone back into my handbag. After that, I slept. Which was just as well. Too much had happened to both Fritha and I. We needed our oblivion, and there’d be plenty of time when I woke to delete his contact details.
Because I never wanted to see those warm green eyes again. Yet strangely, despite my aversion, I spent an inordinate amount of time dreaming about dreadlocks brushing my thighs while his warm, sexy tongue made me whimper and moan and scream.
CHAPTER FIVE: Damien
Good news. A week later, I was installed in a glamorous, ultra-modern apartment in central Sydney, not thinking about Finn every ten minutes. I was a cooler, more self-contained version of myself who would easily be able to perform the tasks of a Husband Sitter while keeping her emotions in check.
My ‘husband’, Damien, was a forty-something corporate suit with a slightly-graying black crew-cut and black framed glasses, so he looked like a hunky, older Clark Kent. Nothing like Finn at all, which was perfect. Damien’s wife, Minarette, who I’d already nicknamed Molotov, was thankfully gone, off on some art tour of Italy or Estonia or wherever she’d come from. Her imperious glares during our interview, which her husband had conducted, coupled with her white Mod Squad shift dress and matching knee-high boots, frankly intimidated me. Her black asymmetrical bob, which only sharpened her already honed cheekbones, was terrifying in its perfection.
Yet again, I was no competition for the wife.
Perhaps that’s why she wanted me there. She’d set up the interview. And she’d thanked me—albeit in a haughty, I’m better than you tone—as I’d left, as though she definitely wanted me to take the job. But I hadn’t needed convincing. Damien, who was clearly the straying kind, was sexy in an Esquire kind of way, I liked their apartment, it was only for a week and paid ten grand, so how hard could that be? Plus, I was getting through Brittany’s debt and getting over Finn.
I hoped.
It would all work out perfectly. Or so I thought, right up until Damien arrived home on my first afternoon there.
I heard the key in the door, then the sound of his leather shoes on the oversized white entry tiles. He stopped just out of sight.
“Jillian?” he called, as if he suspected I was a no-show.
“I’m here,” I called back, waiting on the lounge, sprawled out like a hooker wearing black high heels and a black leather bikini tied up at the sides.
Neither of them had given me any clue about what to expect, so I was making it up as I went along. One thing I was sure of, however, was that Damien expected sex. I wasn’t there to cook or fold clothes or fall in love. I was there to keep a husband satisfied, to earn good money, and if I was lucky, have memorable sex while I was at it. Knowing all that, I really wanted to get the first bonk out of the way.
I could also hear Fritha’s voice in my head: The best way to get over one man is to fuck another. So I was determined to fuck Damien. Today. Because I seriously needed to get Finn and his sexy green eyes out of my head. It didn’t matter how many times I told myself he’d been cruel to me when his wife came home, all my stupid heart remembered were his kindnesses, his gentleness and his ready smile when my stupidity had been on display. He’d seemed to genuinely like me, beyond the amazing sex. And I sure as hell liked him way more than I should.
So I was relieved to be distracted by Damien coming into the room, eyeing me up in my next-to-nothings.
He smiled. “You don’t need to try that hard.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m turning myself on. You can look after your own arousal.” Dear Lord, just saying the words made me feel hot and powerful. If this was sexual liberation, I think I was going to enjoy it.
His smile widened. “Do you have many costumes?”
Costumes? I had a split-second of thinking about wookies and wondering if I should have clarified that I wasn’t up for anything freaky, before I remembered that I wanted adventure. I forced myself to say, “Not yet. But I can get some.”
He pulled out his wallet, retrieved a card and put it on the glass side table. “Use this to buy whatever you need. It has a ten thousand dollar limit.”
Okay. Just dressing up. I could do that. I might even buy some props. “Any special requests?”
“I am partial to fairytales.” His dark eyes glinted wickedly behind the glasses. “I had a thing for Alice in Wonderland when I was a boy.”
I opened my legs and put one high heel on the floor beside the couch. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He nodded. “I’d like to see what you can do.”
“Right here and right now?” I licked my very red lips.
“It will be fast.” He was already pulling off his tie.
“Good. I like a fast fuck. Among other things.”
“Don’t swear,” he said, and kept undressing.
That gave me pause, but not for long. There’s something about a man getting out of a suit that’s inherently sexy, so I shelved Don’t tell me what to do, okay? to watch him divest himself of his black jacket, shirt, belt, shoes, socks, trousers, briefs and finally his black watch. For some reason the black glasses stayed on. But I wasn’t giving them much attention because Damien worked out at the gym. He was toned and confident with it as he stood in the middle of his minimalist lounge room with its white leather couches, chrome and glass tables and plush white carpets, like superman caught in mid-change.
He looked hot as hell, but I didn’t move. I just gazed up at him, instinct telling me that he liked to be the boss. He had a condom in his hand that he’d removed from his pants pocket, and while I watched him, he ripped open the packet and put it on his fully erect penis. So we were really doing the business. Good.
“I’m going to show you something,” he said, “but you won’t move. You’ll stay right where you are.”
“Sure,” I replied easily, but my radar was going off. Some undertone of wariness in his voice told me he expected me to react to this.
“Look at my back,” he said. Then he turned slowly and I couldn’t help my gasp of shock. His front had been hard and hot and sexy. In horrible contrast, his back and even his gorgeous butt were crisscrossed in white scars, as if he’d been beaten. A lot. “She likes to punish me,” he said and shrugged.
Shrugged!
I swallowed loudly and my fingernails bit into my palms. Dear God, he didn’t want me to do that to him, did he? The warmth of my arousal went suddenly cold.
He turned back to face me and despite the horror he must have seen on my face, he smiled. “I’ve learned to accommodate her, but it’s not what I like.”
I swallowed again, even more unnerved now, if that was possible. “What do you like?” There really wasn’t anything else to say, but I didn’t want to know. I wanted to jump up, grab a coat and run out of the apartment, with or without my belongings.
He took a step toward me, naked except for a condom and his glasses. More than a bit scary no
w. “I like to earn my punishment,” he said softly. “If she’s going to beat me, I want to have done something that’s worthy of the pain.”
“Okay.” But did that mean straight sex? Or did he want something kinky? “What did you have in mind?”
“You know that she’ll watch the video of us together.” He pointed at a camera I knew was in the corner of the room. “She might be watching us now. She can do that from her phone.” He closed in on me until he was right beside the couch, his erection wavering over my slutty pose. “I’d like to make her jealous.”
Okay. That didn’t sound kinky.
“How?”
“I want to fuck you where the neighbors can see us.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t expected that. But it was good. If other people were watching, he was less likely to do anything weird. And the thought of being exposed warmed me up in places I hadn’t expected. I glanced up at his erection again and felt my nipples tingling, as though they wanted to feel his cock rubbing over them.
“Give me your hand,” he said, so I stopped thinking and reached up.
He pulled me up off the cool leather of the couch and hard against his man-scaped chest, my breasts bouncing against the tough muscles and then settling here. His condomed cock pressed into my belly.
Then he leant in and whispered against my ear, “Touch my ass,” so I did, liking his bossiness, and loving the feel of his hard butt cheeks under my hands. I brushed my fingertips over them, then grabbed handfuls and kneaded them, pulling them apart and up and around, wanting to feel his cock inside me while I did that. But I forced myself to go back to feathering touches against the top of his legs, over his thighs and his butt, then across his lower back as he licked and sucked on my neck and untied my bikini—first the top and then the bottom.
So far, Finn was still lurking in the back of my mind, as if he was critiquing Damien’s performance, but I was confident a thorough fucking from another man would remove him forever. Otherwise, he might still be with me when I moved from one husband to the next, like a disapproving ghost. That would be freaky.
When I was wearing only my black patent leather high heels, Damien lifted my butt and I got the idea and wrapped my legs around his hips, being careful not to jab him with my spiky heels. He carried me to the picture window that looked down on the busy main street and the skyscraper opposite. Then he pressed my back against the cold glass. I thought I’d seen offices there when I’d been moving in, but in this position all I could see was over his shoulder to the apartment behind him.
He’d be able to see people watching us, however, and I could tell it was turning him on. His breathing was ragged as he reached between us and guided his cock into me. I was slick, so it was a smooth maneuver. He wasn’t as gigantic as Finn, but it was still a more-than-filling experience, and when he started to pound into me, shifting my hair to one side so he could kiss my neck and suckle on my ear-lobe, I felt like I was a porn star, a million times sexier than I ever had during humdrum sex with Doug.
People would stop to watch this. I would! How often do you see a gorgeous hunk of male flesh and a not-too-bad girl going for it against a glass wall? It was sexy as hell, and with his five o’clock shadow and hunky corporate crew cut, he was turning me on. When he arched my back so he could suckle on my nipples I started to pant, and then he brushed the sandpaper of his jaw line against one nipple and it stung with such fierce pleasure I wanted to moan.
For some reason I was being quiet, and I wasn’t sure why. Did I think people could hear us, as well as see us? Well, that wasn’t possible, so I turned off my internal censor and said, “God I love that feeling.”
“What else do you love?”
“I love being watched.” That was turning me on big time. “And I love imagining Molotov sweating while she watches us fuck.”
“I told you not to swear.” He pulled back and looked into my eyes.
For a suspended moment, we were still. The situation could go a couple of ways, but I really wanted him to keep fucking me so I said, “Sorry. You got me excited. I’ll try to stop.”
“Thank you.” His manners seemed incongruous while he had his cock hard up inside me, but he went back to licking and sucking and scraping my nipples while he pounded into me and I completely lost it. Somewhere the pain and the pleasure got mixed up, and the spasms inside my breasts connected with spasms lower down and I was falling apart in his arms, yelling and making a spectacle of myself for half of Sydney to see.
When I’d stopped, he pulled out of me and turned me around, pressing me against the glass, gathering my wrists and holding them with one hand over my head before entering me again from behind. In my orgasmic shuddering, I hadn’t paid attention to him and he clearly hadn’t come yet. I don’t normally like things to go on and on after I’ve got my bliss sorted, but staring down at the city street below, seeing the odd head lift, probably wondering why a disheveled brunette was plastered naked against the window, was exciting.
The whole front of my body pressed on the glass and my already-abraded nipples rubbed as he pushed me up and down on the cold surface. I loved the pseudo-bondage of having my hands held above my head. Then he pulled my hips back toward him with his other hand, which he slipped in front to stroke on my clit. My eyes popped open and I started to moan. Fuck. I was going to come again. So soon.
“Give it to me, baby,” he crooned. “Give me the orgasm.”
And I did. I slammed back into him, my ass shuddering as a second blinding orgasm swept over me, making me scream this time as my fingernails scrabbled against the glass over my head. He gripped my wrists tighter.
“Oh my God…” I could hardly breathe, and still he pounded into me from behind, working me as if he was a piston.
I seriously wanted it to be over then, but clearly it wasn’t. And when he pulled out of me, still hard, and let me go, I almost puddled at his feet. Instead, he looped an arm under my hips and picked me up—with one arm, I swear! Then he carried me to the back of the lounge. I was so limp I just let him drape me over it, so I ended up with my ass up over the back of the couch and my body sprawled over it with my head almost reaching the seat. He spread my legs and slipped inside me again.
I would have said Enough but he grabbed a handful of my hair in one hand and my neck with the other and held me down as he started to fuck me again. It should have been scary or demeaning or insulting or something. But Jesus, it felt like the sexiest thing I could imagine. I was restrained. He was holding me still, as if I had no choice but to be fucked for as long as he wanted to fuck me. Was this how he got back at his wife? Was she such a control freak that he had to do whatever she wanted? Maybe she tied him up and whipped him? Made him do freaky things to her?
So if this was how he recaptured his masculinity, by fucking me any way he wanted to, should I complain? I wanted to be fucked by one man so I could forget another, and this was certainly the sort of sexing that would wipe every other man out of your mind. So I put my hands out in front of me on the seat, crossing my wrists as though they were tied.
He must have been watching, because he said, “Yes, little paid whore. You do what I want.”
Bingo.
“Anything,” I said, although of course that wasn’t true. I suspected he just want to hear compliance, not actually enforce it. “And I promise I won’t swear.” I could care less if he called me whore. I knew it was all play acting.
“Good,” he grunted, and I felt it then, that swelling that comes before a man orgasms. It pushes against your insides, making everything feel tighter. Then he let go of my hair and my neck and gripped my hips to hold them down while he jackhammered into me, those last shuddering thrusts that bounced me against the lounge before he groaned out an orgasm that seemed to come from some place deep.
Thank God.
I really didn’t think I could take any more. But I lay still and waited.
He was quiet for a while, his hands still gripping my hips. Then he pulled out of me and s
aid, “Good work, Jill. I’m going to have a shower. After dinner you can blow me then we’re done for the day.”
Wow.
Perfunctory.
I was just blinking about that, wondering how often he planned to have sex with me when he added, “And because I’m pleased with your performance, I’ll transfer another thousand into your account tonight. If I’m satisfied by the end of the week, I’ll double that.”
Fuck me.
“Thanks,” I managed to say softly.
Two thousand on top of the ten I’d already been paid. If I kept getting bonuses like that, I’d be able to bring Brittany home sooner. I couldn’t stop grinning like a loon. And to be honest, I was pleased that the after-dinner delight was a blow job. My nethers were over-worked, and I looked forward to resting them. I liked oral sex, so that would be relaxing. And if he wanted to boss me around and tell me how to do it, fine by me. Directions were always welcomed.
I heard him pad away, picking up his clothes as he went, but I stayed where I was, seeing how I felt about what we’d just done. I was calm now that it was over. And I could also feel that there was no affection, no emotion with Damien the way there had been with Finn. This was all about sex, and that was actually a relief.
Whether that crazy fuck had deleted Finn from my mind wasn’t clear, but I wanted him gone, because no good would come from mooning over a guy who pushes you away, especially one you could never have. I was sure the only reason I kept thinking about him was because I couldn’t have him. But with luck, Damien would keep me so busy planning by day and fucking by night, I wouldn’t have time for regrets or what-ifs or whatever else my brain was gnawing on.
So I pushed myself up from the lounge, squeaking the white leather in the process, then walked around it gathering up my black bikini. Would Molotov still be watching? Perhaps I should look pleased with myself? I wasn’t quite sure how to do that, but I knew she’d see real enjoyment when I performed fellatio later that night. I loved salty food, and I particularly loved the smell of a man’s freshly washed pubes. There was a muskiness there that really turned me on.
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