“Well, Mr. C, that depends on how long you’re in town,” I counter.
He pulls me close, the edge of his nose traces across my cheek, his lips close to my ear, he pulls and pins my arms behind my back. “Don’t ever call me that,” he demands. The heat of his breath tumbles down my neck.
I gasp, my heart thunders in my chest. “What should I call you then? I don’t even know your name.” The muscles in my shoulders pull with an ache. I whimper as he tightens his grip. The small injured girl deep within me climbs into the closet, curls up into a ball and tries to protect herself; but the woman I am, the one I became, the one who sells her body for money and grabs life by the balls finds this wickedly sexy. Something about him, the richness he has, the respect he commands, pulls at my gut. Soaking, I don’t care what he wants me to call him I just need him to fuck me.
“Do you like that?” he whispers. The dusting of his five o’clock shadow drags slowly against my face. His grayish blue eyes constrict, speaking volumes of who he wants me to be when I’m in his territory. I whimper again and nod slightly.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes,” I huff. Every nerve begging him to caress my skin, touch me like I’ve never been touched before.
He, the man who doesn’t tell me his name, let’s go of my arms and pulls my hands up behind my head. I weave my fingers together, he pushes my hands against the back of my neck. He slowly drags his fingers down across my cheek, pulling them across my mouth until my bottom lip rolls out. The muscles in his neck tighten as he swallows. I roll the tip of my tongue across my lips, tasting the desire I have to consume what he is willing to give me.
“Keep your hands there. Don’t move.” He inches his fingers between my waist and the top button of my daisy dukes. Shivers rush down my spine collecting in the swell of my pussy.
He reaches into my pocket, grabs my phone and tosses it on the table behind me.
“Anything else?” He breathes his words against my flesh as he leans in and presses his plump lips to the pulse slamming against the side of my neck.
“Yeah, eight grand and I will stay with you as long you’re in town.” I pull in a sharp breath. I go rigid when I feel his fingers unsnap and drag the zipper down on my shorts. His breathing focuses; his hard cock is wedged firm in his dress pants.
“Eight thousand and you will be mine and only mine? Whatever I want you to do, you’ll do? Whatever I need from you, you’ll give me? I call bullshit my beautiful Rose.” He slips his fingers across my hip bones, under my shorts and forces them down into a pile around the sexiest pair of red stilettos I own.
Without flinching, without thrusting my hands down between my legs to cover up, I stand there naked from the waist down, and I watch him take me in inch by slow inch. First my ankles, then my calves, across my knees his eyes drink every thirst-quenching cell. He caresses his fingers to my thigh, I don’t move. I’m determined to win this game. Whether he thinks it’s a game or not, I’m not going to give in. Eight thousand bones is more than a reasonable fee when he’s pulling me away from my regular dates. Granted, eight grand is something I would make in three very, very, good months. But he doesn’t need to know that.
His fingers dance across to the inside of my thigh.
“Step out of your shorts, keep the heels on.”
I do what he asks, all while my hands are still tucked against the back of my neck. My elbows are getting tight. He kneels down and moves my Daisy Dukes to the side. His nose is sharp against the inside of my leg, his fingertips skim up the outsides of my thighs, he stands up twisting his hands in the edges of my wooly sweater and thin black tank top. Our eyes tangle in a silent conversation, one where I think I understand what he’s asking before he speaks. I’m standing there for a moment frozen by his silence. Do I drop my hands to pull off my tank top and sweater, or do I stand here, unmoved until he tells me what to do?
“I want to see every inch of your body react to my touch.”
I nod and pull my hands from the worn out position behind my neck and start to drag my fingers around the thin edges of my black tank top.
“What are you doing? Did I say to move?”
“No, but you want my shirt off right, Mister.”
“Just put your hands in the air.”
He wedges his foot between my ankles and urges me to widen my stance. He pulls off my tank top and sweater in one swift motion.
There I am, in nothing more than a black lacy bra and my four-inch stacked red stilettos. The cool air in the room brushes my flesh before his hands caress across my waist and up my spine to the back of my bra. Catching my breath, I stand in front of him, shivers racing across my skin; he leaves goose bumps in the wake of his touch. He takes me in, completely. Erasing the space between our bodies, his fingers nimbly unclasp the hooks of my bra, releasing the pressure of my straps across my shoulders. My tits rest in their natural shape, my nipples rock hard every nerve in my body either ends between my legs or the points of my tits.
“My gracious Rose, put your hands down,” he breathes.
My nameless lover’s eyes bonding to my chest, he removes the loose bra from across my body. He pulls in a ragged breath with a tight smirk as he holds it out in his fingertips before he lets it fall on the pile of my clothes he left on the floor.
He caresses his hands across my shoulders, down past my elbows before he catches my fingers in his hands. Lifting my arms, he takes a step back from me. Naked as the day I was born, developed more than the moment my innocence was stolen, he leans his head to one side and looks me over. For the first time in my life, a man is looking at me like the woman I’m supposed to be and not the object I had become. His focus causes my heart to flounder in my chest. The air in the room tumbles against my vacant flesh; uneasy found a home in every cell of my body as I shift in my stance. The ticking of time clocks me in my head as I watch his vision drink from my exposed skin. He inhales another rough breath before he starts in on saying the words that drench my pussy in pure sexual desire.
“You are the perfect prick of a poisonous thorn, my beautiful blossoming Rose. Cautiously waiting for me to inhale, pluck and consume you from the bush.” His whisper turns into a raw growl.
Every part of my body melts against his words, weak in the knees, a pulse gallops between my legs. In this moment, I need him to take me. I don’t care if he gives me a fucking dime; he captures me with his eyes, and possesses me with his words. Is this nameless man going to be the one to finally give me the moment of true reprieve that I’ve been searching for my entire life? Heal me by the words rolling across the tip of his tongue, sewn effortlessly into every fiber of my being, I ache to have him steal my breath and slay my demons. Melting into any arrangement he’ll demand, I’m powerless in my intention to remain professional, suddenly, this is personal, very personal. I bend my arms in the attempt to fold into his body, needing to feel his lips consume mine, he takes a step back. My heart, clinging to the edge of my throat, crashes into the pit of my stomach.
“You don’t want me?” I ask, standing undressed by his words, feeling stupid because of how easily I let him play me into his game.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to, your actions said it loud and clear,” I say.
Torn apart. I push him away, turning to get my clothes; suddenly his body consumes mine from behind. His lips press against my ear, his voice is commanding. His chest is heavy against my back, and his arm is firm across my ribs as his hand captures my breast. His other hand becomes lodged between my legs as his long fingers are deep in my pussy.
“Don’t ever turn your back to me Rose. You agreed to be here for me, do whatever I asked,” he argues. His body is still draped over mine. His fingers unyieldingly plunging deeper and deeper into me, his thumb stroking rhythmically at my tingling clit.
“Yes, I agreed—” I breathe my words as I throb, responding to his fingers pushing and pulling. I rock my hips against his seamless rhythm. His breathi
ng ignites a burn through my body that I’ve never felt with someone before. Owned. By. His. Touch. Nobody’s ever made me want to come so bad. Problem is, I don’t wanna come before I get to feel his cock fill me.
“You have no idea what I want. Maybe I need you to ache for me. Maybe I want to watch you twist in your own flawless skin until you can’t take it anymore and you beg me to fuck you.” He pulls his fingers from inside me and in that mindless moment when the air licks at the fever surging at my doorway I turn into a slave to his demands. “I want you to beg me to fuck you.”
“Please . . . Mister . . . please, fuck me.” He’s got me. Twisted, taken and ruined.
He turns me around, facing him, his fingers digging into my biceps; he pulls me within inches of his lips.
“If you only knew how much I want to fuck you, drag the tip of my tongue across every inch of your body, consuming every ounce of your sweet nectar,” he whispers as he’s dragging the tip of his nose across my cheek over to the bend of my neck. He inhales my scent. Aching to kiss him, he breathes words that expose my soul.
“I want to make you come so hard, you’ll never forget who I am and how I ruined your pussy for any other man. Now, get dressed.”
Everything I am stops. I don’t feel my heart beating in my chest. My lungs empty, and suddenly I can’t catch my breath. The surge vibrating through my nipples turn to chills. I soften as he strips my ability to argue, I’m naked, and completely vulnerable to him.
“What the fuck? You can’t pull me to the edge, and leave me like this.”
“I just did,” he snaps as he picks up my clothes from the floor and holds them out to me. “And after tonight, don’t wear this outfit when you are with me.” His eyes restrict. His lips pull straight and colorless across his face, the edges of his ears glow with a touch of crimson.
“What do you expect me to wear?” I clip back quickly.
I collect my clothes in my all too shaky arms.
“Clothes I choose for you.” The back of his fingers graze my cheek before he turns and walks toward the elevator. Panic fires through my body. The little girl buried deep is afraid to open up to him, I’m scared. But the woman in me, the fighter that shields herself to all who tries to enter, she wants what he’s offering. I’m hungry to taste him, give him the energy that swirls just below the surface of my skin, I crave him to finish what he has started.
I toss the mismatched outfit onto the bed, pulling out my black lacy bra; I hold it up in front of my chest, desperate to stop him from leaving.
“So, you don’t want me wearing . . . this?”
He stops, turns back to me. The tip of his tongue slowly creeps along his upper lip, as his silvery-blue eyes, light up with an excited spark.
“No. No bra.” He shakes his head as he pushes the button on the elevator.
“Are you sure about that?”
“My fragrant Rose, I’ve never been surer about anything in my life. Put on those despicable clothes for the very last time and meet me downstairs,” he commands.
My mouth fell open, but not quick enough to rebuke his rudeness. He steps into the waiting elevator. Son of a bitch, he has rendered me speechless before the elevator doors close and he’s gone. What the fuck was that and what the hell? Nobody talks to me that way.
I stretch on my bra, pull on my despicable clothes for the very last time. He has no idea what he’s in for. If that nameless man thinks that I’m gonna let him finger fuck me to the edge of oblivion and leave me aching for relief, he’s sorely mistaken. I grab my purse from the huge round granite table in the entry and press the button on the wall. Minutes later the elevator doors open with no jester waiting to greet me. I step into the empty space and push the button with the bright-blue star.
The doors rumble shut behind me with a gut twisting bang and in the millisecond it takes me to inhale a heart settling breath; realization settles heavy in every fiber of my being . . . This nameless bastard got me. He owns me, mind and body. He’s the only man who has ever got me to chase down an orgasm . . . one demand at a time.
AS MY MEMORY was disrupted by the flurry of busy people and hum of washing machines, I shoved the magazine into my purse, pulled my clothes from the dryer and thrusted them into my laundry sack. The memory of the first night with Mr. C made my stomach churn. I knew our arrangement. It wasn’t built on anything more than the idea that he bought me for three days. Eight thousand dollars cash and the eight outfits, I was a high-priced fuck, period. Was it worth it? Financially, yes but emotionally, never. Besides it was over . . . water under the bridge . . . A reminder that Prince Charming didn’t exist in my world because there was nobody willing to invest anything more than money to fuck me. I was naive enough to want something more when I was nineteen, someone who took care of me, made me whole, wrapped their arms around me and gave me the life I thought I wanted.
I just wanted to get the hell out of this laundromat. The place was still pretty busy with people shifting their clothes from washers to dryers and from dryers to laundry sacks. It was getting late and there was no way I was going to take the night off. My six squares of sidewalk were open and waiting for my arrival. Not to mention Sybil and I still haven’t worked out our misunderstanding. Hopefully she’d be back on our corner tonight, so we could fix whatever the hell was going on between us.
I looked around and didn’t see Shane anywhere. Quarter lady was struggling with her clothes as she shoved them into a dryer, the handful of other people were wrapped up in their tattered books, and wrinkled magazines. I was thankful that nobody was willing or ready to carry on conversations with a perfect stranger.
I leaned down readying myself to hoist the sack of clean clothes over my shoulder when Shane caught my attention by clearing his throat.
“Hey, don’t tell me you were gonna sneak out of here. Sorry I got busy. You need help?” He reached out to take my laundry sack.
“No, I think I got it. You didn’t tell me you were the manager here.” I continued adjusting my grip.
“Well, you never really asked. And just so you know, I’m not really the manager,” he said as he dragged his hands across mine and tightened them below my grip. He pulled my clean clothes bag out of my hands and swung it over his shoulder.
“So you just randomly fix broken change machines and hang out in laundromat offices?”
“Yeah, well, something like that. Now where am I taking this, Miss Complicated?”
I wanted to say my apartment, but instead I just smiled and told him my car.
SHANE AND I met at Boxing Room, the Cajun restaurant that he swore by. I didn’t want to lead him on but I figured he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Maybe this would be the perfect place to explain that I wasn’t looking for anything right now.
I walked up to the restaurant, expecting it to be some rundown, shabby oyster shack where people didn’t have too many manners. To my surprise Boxing Room wasn’t like anything I expected. I peered through the window, it was modern and fresh. The bar curved around in front of the kitchen, while a couple handfuls of tables were scattered throughout the dining area. It was jumping with hungry people who ate with utensils and used their manners. Instantly, my judgment changed as I pulled the door open and soaked up the aroma of spicy garlic.
I scanned the room and noticed Shane was sitting tucked away in the back corner. He was absorbed in the menu, looking so . . . peaceful, so perfectly delectable. It may have been the restaurant that complimented his complexion that made my pulse thrash through my veins, or maybe it was the fact that he actually got me to meet him for lunch. I had worked so hard to resist him. Either way he was beginning to weaken my resolve.
I slipped past a couple of tables filled with people chatting and saw that Shane was watching me. His face beamed with desire, his eyes locked on mine, he dropped his menu as he stood up. Playing right into the idea that this was going to be too easy, once I saw him . . . suddenly, what we were doing wasn’t so cut and dry.
I t
ook a deep breath, pushed away the wisps of hair that tangled in my eyelashes and put one foot in front of the other. Chatting with the doubting voice in my head, I was supposed to be strong and definite in my feelings. Bruised hearts, well, they just didn’t heal as quickly as most people thought.
Don’t let him in, Rose. Stop looking at him!
I’m not.
Yes, you are, look away, did you forget you’re a hooker?
Maybe he won’t care!
Guys like Shane care, they don’t want used up broken women.
“You came!” Shane interrupted the shit talk in my head. He came around and planted a sweet delicate kiss on my cheek before he pulled out my chair.
Damn, and he’s attentive.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem, I’ve been keeping busy with these Cajun boiled peanuts and a second pint of Blue Moon.” He slipped back into his seat. “I’m so glad you came.” He picked up the menu from his chair and handed it to me.
“Oh, you already know what you want?”
“Sure, been here for a little while so, I’ve already decided on the Oysters on the Half Shell.” A smile broadened across his face.
My cheeks flushed. Suggestive to the complete and utter message he was sending, there was nothing lost on me in his choice of food.
We looked at each other, both waiting for a reaction to fill the silent moment between us. Suddenly Shane reached over to the empty chair next to him.
“Oh, and I almost forgot . . . this is for you.” He picked up a beautiful single yellow rose and held it out to me.
I froze. A chill tarnished my flesh as his actions marked and cracked through the rock hard shell I thought I had built so perfectly around myself.
Fuck, he’s already breaking through.
He pushed the rose toward me, waiting for me to take it. I didn’t.
“They say that a single yellow rose represents the beginning of a friendship. I looked it up online,” he said in a choppy defensive tone.
Broken Girl Page 7