by Marata Eros
He wants me. It's in his face, the determined set of his jaw. Those eyes that never waver, soften, or fall from mine with the rawness of my words.
In fact, if I were to guess, I'd say the enigma I represent is part of it. Though he might not acknowledge it.
“I don't want a relationship.” I say it because even if the great Jared McKenna wants a relationship, he can’t have one with me. I can at least be honest with that much.
He exhales sharply, his eyes piercing me. “That's fine.”
I lean back, feeling a vague sense of disappointment. Ignoring it, I ask, “So what now?”
“We enjoy each other's company. You are agreeable to that?”
I grin. Oh... this can work. As long as he doesn't figure out that I'm dancing at his revolving lap club. Thorn didn't seem interested in revealing our arrangement for reasons unknown. If he can keep his perverted trap shut, this might work. I certainly don't think Mick will be interested if he finds out that I'm one of his dancers. My mom can be secure for the short future she has left. I can throw caution to the wind because the rules of life no longer apply to me. I have free license to experience whatever I want.
I nod. “Yes.”
A smile plays over his lips as Mick orders for me. He's good at taking care of everything.
There are some things that a person can't manipulate.
~ 10 ~
I forget I'm with a billionaire. I forget what Doctor Matthews told me.
I even forget my mom.
For one night.
Mick makes me laugh. I just hope he doesn't make me cry.
I won't fool myself though.
We move through the tables of the other diners, their eyes on Mick then me. He drapes my shawl around my shoulders as we step into the elevator, and I shiver as his rough palms slide against my skin.
I enjoy the view as the elevator eases its way to the ground. Not the view of the city but the view of Mick as he leans against those fragile looking walls that cage us with an apparent indifference for his own safety. I stand in the middle of the elevator and watch him watching me. Mick's arms are crossed, a new set of cuff links blink back at me in a glittering wink in the cool blue lighting. The elevator kisses the ground with a soft nudge, and the doors slide open into the 60s retro décor.
Mick takes my elbow and I stop walking. I look around for Henry, scanning the parking for a glimpse of an actual car, wondering where he's parked.
He turns back, his large hand cupping the boniest part of me. “Henry can take you home.”
“Oh... you're... are you coming with?”
He nods, and I notice his lips twitch as he tows me along. “He drove me here first then went back for you.”
I'm so glad I seem to amuse the hell out of him.
I frown but allow him to lead me to the limo. Henry stands sentinel beside it, resplendent in a tux. It seems too elegant a wardrobe for his position, but he seems comfortable—as if Henry just grew out of the ground beside the sleek length of the limo, two halves of a whole.
“Sir,” Henry says with a slight nod.
Mick gives him an affectionate slap on the back before he hops into the limo. The sight of it twists Henry's lips into an almost-grin. I see the affection Henry has for Mick, and it makes me wonder.
Actually, everything about Jared McKenna makes me wonder.
Mick takes my hands as I slide in opposite him; he holds my hands and lets me drop when my butt hovers an inch above the plush leather upholstery. I laugh as I sink down and catch his eyes gleaming like obsidian marbles. I can't make out what he's feeling. I want to.
Anyone who can make me forget the things Mick has is a tonic I need.
And there I am, back to the addiction that is him.
The limousine pulls away from the curb, and we cruise through the noise and lights. Walls of people line the sidewalks, crawling to the various destinations in their lives as lights blur in a rainbow of neon and diamonds.
My eyes roam his form. Mick's hands rest with languid casualness on his knees. His socks disappear into soft black leather shoes. I can't tell if they're the same ones I picked money off. I swallow hard, looking at his trim waist, the tie tack securing a red silk so deep it's sunset burnt down to smeared tangerine. It perfectly complements his understated rich copper hair. Finally, my eyes lock with his, and he laughs.
“Did I pass muster?” Mick asks lightly, and a blush flames to life on my cheeks for the second time.
The unwanted heat leaks over into places I don't realize it will. I cross my legs, suffocating my sex as if it'll tell my secrets.
His eyes dip to the movement, and his small smile widens.
I frown, and Mick laughs again.
“Yes,” I say with a perfectly sullen bite.
“What have I done that offends you, Miss Mitchell?”
Everything... nothing.
I can't believe he's still calling me that.
Mick leans forward until our knees are a breath away from touching.
I feel the limousine slowing and blurt, “You're so rich!” I must be insane to say what I'm thinking. A recent trend.
Mick cocks a brow and puts his hand on my knee, barely beneath the lightweight material of my dress. A soft gasp breaks the seal of my lips as his eyes shift to my mouth, his favorite part of my body. For now.
“You are prejudiced because of my wealth?” Mick asks, and his breath is now on my face, minty and fresh.
I'm in too deep. “Yes. No. I don't know.” I'm so confused. Why do I have to find something so intoxicating when I don't have time to partake?
He cups my chin with his free hand while the other lightly dances over my knee, causing a rush of moisture to my panties. My thighs clench tighter, but nothing numbs the subtle throb.
Mick turns his head, his stubble whispering against my jaw. “Let me kiss you, Miss—”
I interrupt, “Faren.”
His eyes press into mine, stealing my thoughts like water finding a crack in a stone. “Faren.” He says my name like a melody, the heat from his lips a fraction above mine.
I gulp my reluctance like medicine I don't want to take but must. I whisper my response against his skin. “Yes.”
I think he'll crush my mouth, ravage me like I've heard about. Worse—I think he'll be lustful.
I want whatever he'll give me. I admit it.
Mick’s lips move over mine, rolling the softness of his mouth over my lips and attaching to the arch of my cupid's bow. He moves to the corners of my mouth and pecks back and forth as I remain placid. My hands clench to keep from launching at him like a ravaging animal.
The limo parks.
Mick moves his hand farther up my dress, his fingertips grazing where my garter attaches to the stocking. He slides a finger under the circular attachment as his other hand circles the nape of my neck. He licks beneath my jaw before he dots my mouth with another bead of heat and flesh. My hands break away from my lap and slap the leather as I lean back, eyes shut as I pant. Mick's mastery turns to the deep hollow of my neck, my heart rate no longer a secret to his mouth.
His tongue.
“Touch me,” he commands.
There's no way I can say no. Any argument was lost long ago.
I move my hands to his shoulders, expecting him to move or come forward, but he doesn't. Mick doesn't pause in his rhythm, but continues as his face dips to my breasts and nuzzles them. His hand is at my upper thigh, only a wish away from where no one's been.
I bury my hand in his hair and hang on for dear life.
“That's it,” he encourages as his hand dives beneath me to cup my ass. The lace shifts when he jerks me forward.
I gasp in surprise, and the heat of his tongue takes me while I moan into his open mouth.
Mick's legs are between mine as his hand moves to my lower back. He kisses me everywhere skin is showing. My shawl slips to the floor unnoticed, and he kneads the globe of my butt.
Then we hear a sharp tap on the glass.
Mick moves back, carefully disengaging himself from the tangle of our limbs.
I sway a little and feel a flush so far from my earlier embarrassment it seems like a shadow. Mick holds my hands, his perfect hair standing in haphazard spikes from my hands diving through it.
He looks so beautiful I want to cry.
Mick gives a satisfied chuckle. “God, you're good.” His eyes rove me head to toe, satisfied with my boneless dishevelment.
I don't reply for a moment, my intellect swimming somewhere far away from my body. “What?” My eyes go to the window where Henry waits. I look back at Mick, confusion and arousal making me fuzzy.
“Good?”
I’m still reeling from the most intimate make out session of my life. I don't regret using Jared McKenna. He’s both a distraction and an experience sent from heaven. Sexual amnesia—Mick makes me forget everything but him. I don't know if it's a talent, skill, or destiny, but whatever he's selling, I want it. Of course, nothing's free.
“Yes.”
“The blushing virgin act is such a turn on... But you don't have to act.” Mick chuckles. “I know you're twenty-two. We can be adults about this. You say you don't want a relationship and I'm all for it. You don't have to pretend with me.”
My stomach drops like a stone as he studies me, reading my expression.
“Faren, what is it?” His eyes grow sharp in the shadows of the limo. Mick really doesn't know what he said, the rug he tore out from underneath me.
I'm falling, and I'll never catch myself.
I think I want to puke. “I'm going to go now,” I say like a robot as Henry opens the door.
I guess my clawing for the handle gave it away.
“Faren, wait.” Mick gets out right after me.
“No,” I say, backing away.
“I thought we were being honest?” His voice has more than impatience threaded through it. There’s some other emotion I don't recognize, and I don't want to look too closely at it.
I nod a little too quickly as I catch Henry dive back into the driver's seat in clear escape. “Oh yes.” I stalk back to him and poke him in the chest. It bounces off the wall of muscles.
“Maybe you're not so smart, Jared McKenna.” Stab, poke.
His eyes narrow as I drop his nickname.
“Did you ever think you don't have it all figured out?” I ask with soft menace. I'm so angry I feel sick.
Or I just feel sick. Heartsick.
I stare at him. When his expression darkens, I walk off. I don't wait to see if he gets his elephant of a conversational faux pas. I jerk the apartment door open and shut it with a kick that echos in the hollow corridor.
The heel of my stiletto embeds in the grated iron. I jerk out my foot, leaving the shoe there like the physical manifestation of fury it is.
I feel Mick watching me, and I ignore him as I limp to the freight elevator. I move through the doors with one shoe on, ready to turn and send him off with a world-class death glare. I want Mick to disappear.
I turn, and he's gone.
So is my stiletto.
~ 11 ~
Kiki rifles through my outfits as I lay on my bed, hands crossed over my stomach as I stare at my ceiling. The old beadboard ceiling has the original creamy paint, which has alligator crazing throughout. Kinda like my heart now.
The days of what's left stretch before me like a black ribbon of road sinking into an uncaring horizon.
“Gawd, you're a wet blanket, doll. Just sayin'.” Her full lips purse, and she gives me what I like to think of as the mom look.
I don't put much stock in it. I have a mom. She's not really alive, but her presence is more powerful than it's ever been. It motivates and orders my steps each day.
She tosses a deep bronze dress on the bed, eyes it critically, and says, “Come on, get up. Get out of this depressing funk or whatever the hell you're jonesing at.” Her dark eyes search mine. “No pity parties on my watch. Let's do this.”
She's right. I can't tell Kiki everything. She knows enough already.
I roll off my jammie bottoms and cami to slide on the second skin outfit she chose, my hair still damp from my shower. I move to the full-length mirror. I admit her choice is a good one. The deep bronze material shimmers as I turn, and it accentuates the slight caramel color my hair possesses.
The color of the dress makes me think of Mick's hair.
Mick the prick. I watch a sad little smile pop on my face like a weed that needs plucking.
Kiki scrunches her nose. “Why do you look like you're gonna throw up in your fuck-me shoes?”
Good question. I jump when the buzzer sounds.
“I'll get it,” Kiki says.
I nod. My eyes move back to my reflection. I know the outfit will be a real hit for the laps that await me tonight, like I care. I've already tabulated my earnings. My mind dismisses the emotional tally that keeps building.
I don't know how much longer I can stomach the breast fondles, hand jobs, and other “extras” they want from me. Hanging onto my virginity isn't such an accomplishment when innocence is taken in increments.
Chunks of who I am are stolen right from underneath my nose. My mind focuses on two nights ago.
That night.
That kiss.
Mick.
That wasn't thievery; it was consensual. It touched something in me that had never been caressed, awoken. I could dance on a thousand laps and never experience the tender assault of every sense I had from Mick.
My head snaps to the front of my apartment, and I walk in there.
I forget I'm wearing the costume for my set.
Jared McKenna is standing in my living room.
I suspect he's tired of me ignoring his texts and calls for the past forty-eight hours. Yeah... that's probably it.
We regard each other for maybe three heartbeats while the late afternoon sun streams into the apartment, half of it cut by the tall building north of my own. It illuminates Mick, setting his hair on fire and shading his jaw, making the cleft at its center a deep pocket of shadow.
His eyes don't meet my face.
He's too busy looking at my outfit. What little there is.
A hot flush rises to the surface of my skin. Mick's gaze lingers at the knot of material at my neck then sails to the deep v of the bodice and the almost-sheer straps that hardly cover my breasts. The thinness of the fabric doesn't hide the betrayal of my nipples. They harden at the sight of Mick, the memory of what he's awoken in my body an involuntary reaction I'm helpless to stop.
His eyes take in my breasts. They move to where the skirt skims and cups my butt, the satin material clinging to my every curve.
I know it will hitch up to reveal my panties when I straddle laps tonight.
I swallow my nausea at the thought of being that close to anyone.
But him.
Then I remember what he thinks: I whore myself out. Mick presumes I act like a virgin in affectation.
He can't know that's the only real part of me. To assume it's not possible is a blow I'm not sure I can overcome.
But Mick is also right; I am some kind of whore.
If he only knew.
These thoughts race through my mind in those brief transparent moments of introspection as his gaze finally lifts to meet mine. I see many things contained in his tight expression.
I latch on to the one I want to see, dismissing all others.
Disappointment.
Kiki looks between us as if we’re a ping pong match, having not gotten a word out of me post-Mick date. “Well”—she looks at me with wide eyes that say, you're so talking about this later—“I can see the two of you have to discuss… stuff.”
I want to hurt her.
Kiki looks into my face and gives a subtle shake of her head, her eyes brimming with thoughts of matchmaking, cupid's bow strung taut.
“Stay,” I beseech. I keep the pleading out of my voice by the slimmest of margins.
“No, you're right, Miss.
..”
“King,” Kiki says with a purr and eyelash flutter.
Forget hurting. How about murder?
“You're an insightful friend to understand that Miss Mitchell and I need to straighten out some misconceptions.” His dark eyes tell me how he likes straightening those out.
That gaze holds a hunger only a banquet of food would satisfy.
I'm the first course.
Kiki swipes her keys out of the bowl and grabs her jacket. I follow her to the door as a swarm of butterflies inside me vies for escape. Their fragile wings glide and sing beneath my skin. My nervousness is a living thing.
She hugs me. “Whatever the hell your problem is, solve it,” she whispers. “Don't play this stupid!”
What she doesn't realize is I'm not playing. I'm slowly losing.
Everything.
Kiki releases me and tosses herself out the door. I close it behind her, touching my forehead to the solid wood. I wish that when I turn around, Mick won't be there. I can't bear any more of his assumptions.
I can't stand to be near him and not touch him.
“Are you ever going to turn around?” His voice, a gravel-threaded melody, commands that I answer, and I turn slowly. He rakes a hand through his neat hair, sending it into disarray. “Jesus, Faren, don't tell me you're going out in that?” His voice sounds as if he's in physical pain. That is so not the real issue.
“Why do you care, Jared?” I walk into the kitchen, slam the tea kettle on the burner, and light it carefully. Let him get an eyeful. I don't give two shits. My hand trembles around the kettle, and I switch to my good one. Great, my hand was good through work with six patients, and it decides to stop working in front of him.
I have lap dancing in four hours, I remind myself. I hunch in on myself.
Don't let him see how much he hurt me. How much I'm hurting myself.
Don't.
I'm so deep in my thoughts I yelp when I feel him slam into me. He triggers every bad memory of what I've gone through, and I get so scared I stop breathing. Gooseflesh springs up everywhere.
“What are you doing?” I yell.
Mick doesn't answer. He tears me away from the stove with a smooth spin and slams me against the wall. Only his palm holding my back keeps me from ricocheting off the surface like a broken doll.