I spun around, unable to hide my timid smile. I knew I looked good, but the question was, had he thought the same?
There was more to come before I found out.
Roman said, “Take off your dress.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
My heart fluttered and the air got caught in my lungs. It took me a few seconds before I managed to say, “Excuse me?” Not rude, not questioning, but mostly in disbelief.
Roman put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. He shrugged. “If you don’t want the job…”
“But—but, why?”
“It’s a professional formality, Kim. And to be perfectly honest, you’ve had a baby, and I need to examine what it is that I’m about to invest my time and money in. You wouldn’t purchase a Ferrari without taking it for a test drive, would you?”
“No, but you have to pay for it before you take it home, too.”
“Are we going to have a problem?”
“I guess not. Or…maybe.”
“There’s no maybe to it. I have a reputation to keep. You probably didn’t do any research before you came here, did you?”
“No, I didn’t have time.”
Roman stood and walked around the desk. Stopping in front of me, he moved close enough that I caught a hint of cologne. It smelled crisp and clean, like everything else about him.
He was at least six inches taller than me, even while I was wearing my platform pumps. I had to tilt my head back to look up into those beautiful blue eyes, into a face asking me to undress in a locked room. He put his hands on my shoulders, softly and reassuring. “Midnight Fantasy is absolutely the top service of its kind here in the city—you won’t find another one with our level of quality within five hundred miles. Governors, senators, celebrities, billionaires, they’ll fly here specifically to have a night out with some of our ladies.”
He stepped away and began strolling through the office, admiring things he’d already seen thousands of times. He wiped a finger across a shelf and examined it for dust, then moved on. I followed him with my eyes, watching the panther slink around the room.
“I’ve spent years building this business into something incredible. Something our clientele talk about for days or months after their time with us. They want to pay for something they can’t get anywhere else, and that’s the quality of women that we provide. Most of those other agencies out there, you’ll just get another pretty face. Some washed up actress or model—a piece of eye candy that knows when to smile and when to listen.
“But no, not here. I have doctors and lawyers on staff. Harvard graduates. MIT graduates. Experimental physicists and university professors. Intelligent, sophisticated, successful women that provide intellectual stimulation as much as physical. Any two-bit hooker with a slippery palm can give a client a handjob, but I seriously doubt they can discuss the current fate of the stock market or whether or not dark matter actually exists. Each and every one of them are drop-dead gorgeous, too. The total package.”
He stopped at the window and stared into the distance.
I walked over and stood beside him. “If they’re so successful, then why’re they doing something like this?”
Without looking at me, he said, “It pays better.” Sincere. Absolute.
It was baffling, the thought that women of that caliber would walk away from such illustrious careers; instead, they were getting paid to be someone’s date for the evening, or worse yet, to spread their legs for money. “Really?”
He turned slowly toward me, his eyes serious and face expressionless. “Yes.”
“That’s…”
“Unbelievable? It’s not so much, when you think about it. We’re all motivated by greed in some way. It just depends on what form it takes. Here’s mine—this is my greed: I want you to come work for me, but if you think for one second that I’m going to send you out with a client without inspecting the merchandise first, you may as well walk out that door. I can not risk my reputation on your modesty.”
Outside the window, the geese had returned, floating along, letting the river take them where it may. I felt like I was being swept away with them.
I said, “Why me?”
“Why not?”
“I’m nothing like those women you mentioned. Why would you want me?”
He put his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Because you…you’re absolutely exceptional, and I don’t think I’ve ever had someone as stunning as you walk through that door. Trust me, I’ve seen them all, and if you can move me that way, I can only imagine what a client would pay.”
Did you hear that, Dreama? Exceptional and stunning.
I blushed. Even though it was a compliment wrapped up in business and caked with greed, I’d never heard words like that before, not in reference to me, anyway. Maybe my sisters, but not me. Never me. I was too speechless to come up with anything original, so it seemed like a perfectly good time for an old, classic line. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“If I have, it’s never been true. Not until now.”
Call me naïve, call me easily manipulated, but every once in a while, a little sweet talk is all a girl needs. I’d just met him, but I felt secure. My inhibitions disappeared. I backed away a couple of steps, turned around, and lifted up my hair. “Is the money really that good?”
“Better than you would ever hope.”
“Then help me with the zipper.”
I felt him before I heard him. He was upon me, warm breath on my neck, tugging at the zipper. I listened as it slid all the way down, exposing my back. He hooked his fingers under the straps and pulled them away from my shoulders, letting the dress fall to the floor in a quiet whisper of material.
“This, too?” I asked, pulling at my thong.
“If you want.”
I took it off and pivoted, standing in front of him, completely nude except for my high heels, thankful that I had trimmed down there while I was in the shower. First impressions and all that. “Well?” I felt a mixture of humility and eagerness—self-conscious about my looks, but desperately craving his approval. What did he see? Was I desirable or just another naked body?
Roman put a finger up to his mouth, surveying, studying, and canvassing everything. “Spin around again,” he said. I did. “Now look at me, please.” When I twirled around, he smiled the way someone does when they get that long-awaited good news. A mixture of relief and gratefulness. “Perfect. Incredible.”
He moved closer to me and reached, putting his arms on my hips.
I tensed. Waiting. Waiting as he pulled me in with that beckoning gaze.
Roman bent forward and I opened my mouth, expecting a kiss, wanting his lips on mine. I inched my feet apart, welcoming him, wanting his hands to go where they belonged. I reached for his crotch and felt the growing bulge underneath his slacks. It was massive, bigger than anything I’d ever felt, but I was ready to take him, all of him. Whatever he wanted to do to me, I was his.
Stupid, foolish girl.
He put his lips to my ear and whispered, “You can get dressed now.”
Nooo! Oh my God, did I just screw up?
I stood speechless, ashamed, feeling so mortified that I could’ve fled from the room in all my naked glory.
Roman put a thumb and forefinger around my chin, then lifted gently so that I faced him. “I never get involved with the help.”
The help. Bastard.
My eyes watered, but I would not let him see me cry. I swallowed my shame as quickly as it had appeared and forced myself to retake control. “Your loss,” I said, with as much arrogance as I could manage.
He chuckled. The cheeky bastard actually chuckled. “That may be true, but rules are rules. Save it for the clients. Get dressed. We have some formalities to go over.”
Still partly offended, I had one last bit of snark left in me. I put my thong on, and as I pulled the dress up, struggling with the zipper again, I said, “What makes you think I’ll take the job?”
“You will,
” he said—not ordering, but confident. “You decided the moment that dress hit the floor.”
I didn’t want to admit that he was right. Mostly. I had my doubts, but they were quiet thoughts in the back of my mind, not the roaring screams of, “No!” like I’d expected.
“Have a seat, Kim. This is the important part.”
I crossed my arms and glared, defying him. My room. Being stubborn was one of my lesser qualities—it drove Dreama insane, always had—and I hoped it would do the same to Roman.
It didn’t. He reclined in his chair, rocking leisurely, tapping his fingers on the armrests, with the corners of his mouth pulled up into a half-smile, patiently fighting our battle of wills.
I wanted to win. I wanted to show him that I would not get down on my knees and service him like those misogynistic assholes back at my old job. I tapped a foot like a petulant child. He rocked and never stopped smiling. Seconds ticked by, maybe a minute, as we fought for power, in silence.
Eventually, I relented. It pained me and I hated the sense of defeat that came with it, but why continue the childish game when I knew—when he knew—that I would likely accept his offer?
I said, “Fine. Whatever,” and stomped over to the chair and threw myself into it, huffing and pouting. I wasn’t proud of my juvenile display, but I was too pissed off and disappointed by his rejection to care. I’d often felt the same way whenever I lost an argument with Dreama, and that association made it worse.
Yet I couldn’t shake the fact that even though I wanted to smack the smile off his face, he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen. It was foreign territory for me, being so angry with someone but wanting nothing more than to throw him down on the floor and really take control.
Maybe that’s why couples fight—my girlfriends, every one of them, had told me that makeup sex was always the best. All that anger and energy, that built up frustration boiling inside, it would come rushing out in a full-body release of ecstasy. I’d never experienced it, not with Marcus, not with anyone else I’d ever clumsily fooled around with under the covers in my dorm room, while my roommates slept.
The opportunity never came up. Back then, back when I was younger—four years ago, but it seemed like decades—when my boyfriends wanted to play “just the tip,” it had been different. So different and awkward, like putting a jigsaw puzzle together while blindfolded. I’d never been with anyone long enough to have a gut-wrenching, emotional fight that led to anything resembling makeup sex.
Right then, I desperately wanted to find out, but the moment had passed. As if it had ever been there in the first place.
One notch away from snarling, I said, “You mentioned something about formalities?”
“That’s a good girl.”
Insolent jerk. It would’ve been the perfect time for a succinct, well placed, “Asshole,” but I held my tongue. Instead, I burned holes through his heart with my eyes.
Roman reached down, opened a drawer, and removed a small stack of paper. He flipped through the pages and tossed it across the desk. “Look this over. I don’t expect you to sign it today, but I won’t wait long, either.”
I snatched it, showing my lingering displeasure, and read the word “Contract” at the top of the page.
He asked, “Would you like a drink?”
“Scotch, neat,” I said. “And it better be good.”
“Only the best for my best.”
“We’re past compliments, aren’t we?”
Roman frowned, and I couldn’t tell if it was sincere or if he was feigning being hurt by my indignation. “Don’t be that way. This is business, and we’re going to make a lot of money together.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I drove home with the contract lying on the passenger’s seat. It was so present, so real with the weight it held that I nearly succumbed to the urge to buckle the seatbelt around it.
As I pulled up to a stoplight, I glanced over at the stack of paper, compelled to grab it and fling the damn thing out the window. Such a strange dichotomy; this object that contained within it both my saved future and my eventual moral doom. Had I known at the time—where it all would lead—I could’ve ended everything before it had begun.
Back in the office, sitting across from Roman, I’d skimmed over the details. I had reviewed enough contract examples during my time as an MBA student to understand what I was looking at. It was a fairly standard agreement, and from a business standpoint I really hadn’t seen anything wrong with it, except for a single item.
Only one line had bothered me.
Roman sipped at his scotch as I read, politely silent, giving me the time I needed.
Honestly, I didn’t need a lot but instead, I read slowly, deliberately, and made him wait on purpose. Delaying his gratification and mine, for different reasons. Was it another immature move? Probably. But I didn’t care.
“Section Four, line three-C,” I said. “Aforementioned employee shall comply with all directives set forth during pre-counsel with assigned clientele. Any negligence on the part of the employee, up to and including refusal to meet the agreed upon terms, may result in termination and reimbursement of funds.” I flipped the papers closed. “I’m not sure I like that.”
Roman drained the remainder of his glass, and then crunched an ice cube between his teeth. It gave me gooseflesh—the sound was worse than nails on a chalkboard.
“That’s the most important line in the document. Aside from the one where I agree to pay you more money than you’ve ever seen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Actually, I do.”
“How?”
“Unlike you, I did my research. I know enough of your family history to assume that you’ve never seen what six zeros looks like in a bank account. Why do you think I made you wait so long before inviting you into my office? I had a…friend…look you up.”
“But you said you hadn’t had time to look at my resume.”
“I was testing you. Nothing major—I wanted to see how easily you sweat in uncomfortable circumstances. It won’t happen often, because we provide the highest quality protection—from a distance—but it will happen, and you need to be able to handle it. That’s where that stipulation comes in.
“If you refuse to meet the terms our clients pay for, then we’ll have problems. I review them on a case-by-case basis, in the event something happens that’s out of your control. I rely on the security detail for that. I trust their opinions and weigh their judgment into my decisions. However, if you change your mind halfway through dinner and decide you don’t want some billionaire’s dick up your ass, and it costs me money and a loyal client, then I have every right to terminate your contract.”
“Whoa, wait a minute. You want me to do anal?”
Roman popped another ice cube into his mouth and crunched.
“Stop that,” I snapped. My nerves were already marching toward frazzled, and I didn’t need the uncomfortable noise compounding things.
He held up his hands, resigning, apologizing with his gesture.
“So again, Roman, you want me to do anal?”
Roman shook his head and put a hand on his chest. “All I want is for you to provide the best possible experience to our clientele. What you agree to is your decision.”
“I have a choice?”
“Yes, you do. Here’s how it works: a client comes to us, says he needs a date for the evening, or maybe someone to accompany him on a business trip to Paris. We’ve seen it all and heard it all. Most of them attempt to be discreet like that. Some call it a date and that’s all it means. They’re bored and they want some worthy company for dinner. You go have a nice meal, chat about something like the fate of Zimbabwe’s economy and you’re done for the night. But—and this is more likely—they call it a date and what they really mean is they want you to dress them up like a baby and threaten to take their pacifier away while they masturbate on your feet.”
“Gross,” I said. “Are some of them reall
y that pathetic?”
“It’s not pathetic. It’s not gross. Think of them as needs, Kim. Unmet needs. We all have them, sexual or not. These men and women come to us so they can experience what they’re actually thinking about while they’re slipping it to their wives in the missionary position. They want someone to jack off their minds and their cocks.”
“If you’re trying to talk me into this, that’s not the image I needed.”
Roman grinned. “I thought you might say that. Look—all of this, everything we do here, it’s the truth in human nature. I can’t remember who said it, but if ‘character is what you are in the dark,’ then reality is what happens when you think no one’s watching. Or, in our case, when a client pays so no one else can watch.”
“And I’m required to do all this freaky stuff if I want a job?”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re required to do what you agree to do, before anything happens. A client comes to us with broad requests first, right? Take you, for example. He asks for a blue-eyed blonde in her early twenties, who’s business-literate and funny. We show him your picture and qualifications, along with the other staff members who match the request, he picks you, and we’re ready to move forward. He thinks two grand an hour will get him whatever he wants, but it doesn’t work that way. We up-sell him based on how perverted he wants to get and how far you’re willing to go. Up to a certain limit, of course. I have standards and I’m not Caligula.”
“I don’t think I have the guts to go very far.”
“And that’s your decision. You won’t earn as much, though.”
“How much can I make on a normal night?”
“Depends on your agreement, but it’s typically anywhere from five hundred to five thousand for an evening. We run on a commission basis here. You get twenty-five percent of the net, per client.”
I tried not to act totally blown away. I couldn’t even begin to guess what I would have to do for five thousand dollars for one night, but the amount was more than I earned in three months at a full-time job. “What if I only agree to a dinner date?”
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