“Anything else?” he said with a raised eyebrow, as if challenging me to ask for something he couldn’t produce, before strolling confidently over to the bed and sitting down, resting back on his hands, his legs wide apart, his eyes urging me to begin.
Okay, here goes nothing ...
I prowled towards him, in time with the slow, sexy beat, keeping my eyes locked onto his. The whole scene – the room, the music, the lighting, the sexy businessman – it all just felt so damn unreal, like I was playing a part in some movie.
And maybe that’s a good way to think of it, I told myself.
As I got near to him I rested my hands on his knees, leaning in, so my lips were almost brushing against his.
I let my hands move slowly and seductively up his muscular thighs, closer and closer to that place between his legs.
And as I finally reached it, I let my lips graze against his, my tongue dampening his lower lip as my fingertips brushed lightly over the hot hardness of him, straining against his suit pants, so eager to be set free.
As our kisses grew more passionate, his tongue slipped into my mouth and his hands brushed up my sides, and I felt my own body responding, too – my nipples tightening almost painfully and my pussy beginning to ache and throb. But I ignored the sensations as much as I could, knowing I needed to focus solely on his pleasure if I wanted to get him off as quickly as possible.
I gasped as his hands enclosed my breasts, sending a shockwave of pleasure through me as he cupped them roughly, eager to free them from my dress.
But I pulled away, just before he uncovered me, my heart pounding, my pussy throbbing.
“Turn around. Show me your ass,” he growled.
So I turned to grind my ass back against him, pulling my dress up around my waist, feeling the warmth and hardness of his cock burning against the bare skin of my buttocks.
Using his muscular thighs as balance, I worked him like that, pushing myself hard against him, grinding back and forth, feeling the heat of his cock burning against my pussy, shielded only by the cloth of his suit pants and the flimsy purple silk of my thong.
And fuck, I was getting so wet now, despite myself – my body crying out to him beyond my control.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “You really can move, can’t you?”
Once again, his hands moved to my breasts, this time succeeding in tugging them free from the front of my dress, causing me to gasp and shiver all over again as his fingers tweaked my rock-hard nipples, pinching them so tightly I had to fight back a squeal, all the while, my toned ass grinding back and forth against his cock, his breathing growing shallow, his movements becoming urgent.
“Enough of this,” he commanded. “I need you now. I want to feel my cock deep inside you ...”
By now I knew it was time to take things over the edge.
So I turned back again, kissing him hard and passionately, pushing my tongue deep and rough into his mouth as I reached down between his legs, my fingers caressing his cock through his pants, masturbating his shaft, working him faster and faster and then – even through that barrier of expensive tailored cloth, I felt his hardness grow even more, swelling and straining, my tongue flicking against his, my fingers teasing and stroking him, and then with a gasp and a shiver his whole body tensed and shuddered, his eyes widening in surprise and shock, a warm dark stain spreading over his crotch.
I pulled back off him wordlessly, not wanting to say anything to embarrass him, but both of us knowing exactly what had just happened.
“So?” I said, sweetly and innocently. “How was that for an audition?”
“Extraordinary,” he replied, begrudgingly impressed and obviously still reeling from the fact that I’d made him come from nothing more than a lap dance. “You’re a talented little tease, aren’t you?”
“Whatever do you mean?” I said, still playing up my innocence.
“Oh, you’ll find out tomorrow night,” he replied, eyes flashing, as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Bring it on,” I shot back.
“Until then,” he said with a sly grin, before turning to leave the room.
Once he’d gone, I pulled off my clothes and then climbed beneath the sumptuous white sheets, relieved that I would be going to sleep a virgin for one more night at least, and kind of proud, too, that I’d managed to get him off – without even taking off his pants.
CHAPTER EIGHT
So that’s how I ended up here, in this enormous bed. But one thing that wasn’t made clear in that damn contract was just what I’m supposed to do now.
But then, I didn’t read the damn contract, did I? Note to self: read before you sign, next time.
So, what do I do? Do I just wait here for him to come back again to ravish me? But surely he doesn’t want to fuck me all day long, does he? I can see the black dress that I was wearing yesterday, now lying in a rumpled pile on the polished wooden floor next to the bed. Am I supposed to just put it back on?
Then I remember him saying that there was an extensive wardrobe, which means there must be clothes for me around here somewhere ...
But where even is the wardrobe? And where’s the bathroom for that matter? I let out a long sigh of frustration. What are you supposed to do being a guest in a house like this? Do you just wait for breakfast in bed like some kind of fucking princess?
I shake my head decisively. I may be a lot of things, but I’m certainly no princess. And besides, I really need to pee.
So with that, I jump out of bed, grabbing yesterday’s dress from the floor and quickly pulling it on in case anyone walks in. Then I start by investigating this crazy room I’m in. It’s huge. And I decide to try out a few warm-up moves – a few lunges and stretches – just because I can. There isn’t enough room to swing a cat in my crappy little apartment, so being somewhere like this is a real luxury.
But I still haven’t found the bathroom, and after those warm-ups I need to pee more than ever. I look at the glossy white walls a little more carefully and for the first time I notice tiny indentations in them.
Hey, they must be handles ...
I give one a gentle tug, just to test out my theory, and sure enough the wall slides back to reveal ... Holy shit!
It’s a gigantic wardrobe, crammed full of clothes. And as I begin to look through them, I can see that they’re all gorgeous, and all designer labels, labels I could never afford in a million years: Dolce and Gabana, Balmain, Roberto Cavalli, Stella McCartney, the works. I run my fingers through the garments. The fabrics are such good quality.
I guess this has solved the problem of what I’m going to wear for the rest of the week.
Out of all that choice, I select the simplest thing I can find: a plain white dress. I don’t want anything too fancy, just something that covers me up a little more than the strappy black number from last night. I check the label, and it’s not something I’ve heard of – Roksanda? – but plain and unassuming as it is, I’m guessing it’s still probably worth more than a month’s salary back at the bar.
I gently lay the dress across the bed, then move along to another wall, trying another handle, and this time it opens onto ... Thank God!
It’s an absolutely enormous bathroom, done in the exact same style as the bedroom: bright brilliant white, with a huge rectangular tub, so big it has steps leading up to it, not to mention a massive shower, and of course a toilet.
After what feels like the best pee of my entire life, I start to think about running a bath, but in the end decide to jump in the shower. And the moment I turn the handles, I realize that this is nothing like the lukewarm, unreliable shower back in my apartment. It’s like being under a goddamn waterfall. Hot water comes spraying powerfully at me from all angles, soothing away any tiny little aches I might have developed during the night. And afterwards, I feel blasted clean, so fresh and incredible.
Next to the shower is a whole shelf of fluffy white towels, just like in a hotel. I wrap myself up in one, then pad back through fr
om the bathroom to the bedroom, and as I go, I find myself thinking that perhaps I could get used to this lifestyle.
I’m already getting used to the bedroom, and I use my newfound detective skills to locate a drawer full of underwear. I pull on a pair of sporty white panties, then put the dress on, giving my hair a rough towel dry, but deciding to stay makeup free – I’m guessing there’s a whole makeup counter in this place somewhere, but right now I can’t be bothered to find it.
Then I head out to explore the rest of this crazy house ...
§
I make my way past what seem like hundreds of doors, then head back down that plush red staircase. How could you actually grow up in a house like this? I wonder, thinking about my dad’s run-down Jersey duplex – the place where I spent most of my childhood.
I finally walk into this huge glass-walled conservatory that’s joined on to the side of the house. It’s filled with what look like orchids and other exotic flowers, the air full of their sweet, heavy scent, and the whole room is bathed in soft morning sunlight. And there in the center of it, at a glass-topped wicker table, set out with gleaming white china, sparkling glass and real cloth napkins, reading the Wall St Journal, is Dylan.
He’s dressed formally, in a sharp, light gray business suit. But I notice that he hasn’t put his tie on yet – it’s lying on the table next to him, a folded rectangle of the most perfect ice blue.
“Good morning,” he says, dark eyes flicking up at me from the pages of his paper. “You’re just in time to see me leave. I have to get back to the city. But I’ll return later tonight ...”
At this he folds his paper and lays it on the table, grabbing his tie and pushing himself to his feet.
“Please, make yourself at home,” he says, indicating the empty chair facing him. “The breakfast menu’s on the table, and someone will come and take your order shortly.”
And then, before I even have time to ask him why the hell he has a whole leather-bound breakfast menu to serve two people in a private fucking house, he’s left the room through another door in the back.
I stand there, dazed for a moment, trying to process this totally unreal scene before me: the greenhouse, the orchids, the wicker table and chairs, all of it feeling a million miles away from my life back in New York.
Then with a final shrug, I take a seat at the table and look over the breakfast menu, like I’m in the weirdest restaurant in the world.
“Good morning, madam,” a soft male voice says, a few moments later.
I look up from the menu, and there in the doorway is the same guy who greeted us when we first got here last night. Just like before, he’s dressed smartly in a neat black suit, his grey hair carefully combed.
“Have you decided what you might like for breakfast?” he asks.
It’s hard not to wonder if he knows about the ‘arrangement’ Dylan and I have. I mean, what else would a girl like me be doing here in his house? But if this guy does know, he doesn’t let it show, behaving as any high-class waiter would do and keeping his opinions to himself; just like I’m supposed to do back at the bar.
“What’s good here?” I ask, thinking how weird it is to be served by somebody else for a change. Because back in the real world, by the time I’ve paid my rent, I’ve never got any money left over to eat out – at least nowhere fancy than the occasional pizza with Nat, anyway. “What’s the chef’s specialty?” I add with a grin.
“I would recommend the Eggs Florentine, Madam,” he says.
“Awesome,” I say. “I’ll take that then, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says with a smile that suggests that if he does know what kind of weird arrangement Dylan and I have, he’s not judging me for it.
A short while later, he returns with coffee and orange juice and my eggs, and wow, they really are amazing.
“How was everything?” he asks as he begins clearing away my plate.
“Great,” I gush. “Really incredible. Thank you so much.”
He carries my empty plate out to what I’m guessing is the kitchen, and I sit there, finishing my coffee, wondering what to do next.
I consider going back to bed, but that seems kind of boring.
Instead, I push myself to my feet and head in the same direction the guy who just served me my breakfast went. I push open a set of double doors and sure enough, I’m in a large kitchen, big enough to serve a whole restaurant. I catch sight of him, stacking my dishes into a dishwasher.
“Excuse me?” I call.
He looks up at me startled, as if this is the first time one of the houseguests has ever set foot in the kitchen.
“Yes, madam?” he asks in the same professional tone as before. “Is there something we’ve forgotten?”
“Listen,” I say, walking over to him, “what’s the deal here? I get the impression I’m not the first girl who’s been dropped here like this. And I figure you’ve been here for a while. So what am I supposed to do with myself all day?”
“You’re very insightful, my dear,” he replies after a thoughtful pause. “The infinity pool has wonderful views. And the pool house has a superb collection of books and magazines. I would suggest relaxing there for the day?”
Infinity pool? No way.
“Hey, what’s your name by the way?” I say.
“James,” he says, meeting my smile with one of his own.
“Thanks, James. I’m Julia.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Julia.”
§
That afternoon, I find myself lounging by the side of the pool in a cute pink bikini, the sun gently drying my skin after a good long swim.
This is incredible, I think.
I literally can’t remember the last time I had nothing to do all day. And while I don’t think I could have this lifestyle all the time – I like to keep busy – you know what? For one day, it’s pretty damn great.
Just then I look up, and there’s James heading towards me, carrying something on a tray. He’s been so great and attentive – looking after me all day, making sure I know where everything is, eager to fetch me any little thing my heart desires.
“Wow, what’s this?” I ask as he arrives by my sun lounger.
I pull down my sunglasses to get a better look at the tall clear glass, crammed full of ice, slices of lime and sprigs of mint.
“It’s cocktail hour,” he explains, “so I’ve brought you a mojito. It’s the house special, you know.”
“Oh, well if it’s cocktail hour,” I laugh, “then I guess it would be rude to refuse. Thank you so much!”
“I should also let you know, madam,” he adds, taking on a more formal tone, “that Mr Campbell will be returning home in a few hours. There’s a dress selected for you on your bed. He has expressly asked that you wear it upon his return.”
§
The dress is beautiful – a Valentino, according to the label. I have to admit, I was kind of worried when James first told me about it. I mean, I don’t think any guy has ever picked out clothes that I’ve liked before. Actually, who am I kidding? I don’t think any guy has picked out any clothes for me period.
But this is perfect. It’s sexy but not slutty, and it’s got swing, too. I dance around in it in front of the full length mirror in the bathroom, the sequins glimmering in the light, the skirt flaring out just so. It hugs my curves in all the right places, hiding my lack of breasts, and it makes my ass look good.
Then I get to thinking about what’s gonna happen tonight.
I kept him at bay last night, but can I really do that for a whole week?
I doubt it.
Mind you, I am pretty good at keeping guys at bay. I’ve been doing it for years. Ever since I was a teenager I’ve been learning how to get them off without going all the way. So I’ve still got some tricks up my sleeve, and this week? I feel like I might just have to use them all.
Turns out I was right, there is a whole department store’s worth of makeup here, but in weather this war
m I just go for a little bronzer and some lipstick. Once I’m happy with my look, I make my way out of the room and start to walk down the huge staircase, just as Dylan arrives home through the front entrance at the bottom.
He sees me then stops in his tracks, mouth hanging open. He clearly likes what he sees, and I can’t help but want to please him. Because even though this is a business arrangement, some part of me still wants to make him happy. And besides, when he smiles, it’s a total killer.
“I see you got my message,” he says, his eyes burning.
“Sure did,” I reply. “This is quite some dress. Thank you.”
“Well, it’s on quite some body,” he says, quick as a flash, and I feel myself blush.
Fuck, Julia. Focus. You are not some stupid schoolgirl being picked up by her prom date. This is not romantic, remember? So get it together.
“So?” he says. “Will you do me the honor of joining me for dinner?”
Repeat: this is not romantic.
A laugh escapes my lips.
“What exactly is so funny?” he says coldly.
“You are,” I say, “with your Prince Charming act.”
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“And besides,” I say, taking his arm, “I don’t really have any choice now, do I?”
§
We eat in a massive dining room, at a table big enough to easily fit thirty, but it’s just set for two at one corner. James does the whole butler act to perfection while he serves us the most amazing dinner, matched with the nicest wine I’ve ever been allowed to drink a whole glass of. We tasted so many amazing wines at the bar, but I was never allowed more than a mouthful.
And tonight I feel like I’m in Downton Abbey or something. James has been so attentive to me all day – breakfast, lunch, cocktails, and now dinner. I’m starting to wonder if he ever gets any time off. The whole thing is out of this world. I’ve never been treated like this before. But it’s so new, so over the top, it’s kind of overwhelming, too, and it’s killing any conversational skills I might normally have.
Dance: The Collected Series Page 5