Dangerously In Love (17 page)

Chanelle got a quick image of a big fat rich slob. She exhaled and managed a fluttery wave as Hershey pulled out of the parking spot. She walked back to her apartment with a vague sense that she’d not only waved goodbye to Hershey, but also to the life she’d known.

While other dancers tricked at the drop of a dime, she never stooped that low; she had too much self-respect for that. But that world of prostitution had been haunting her, pulling at her for a long time, and now she found herself mentally waving a white flag.

Stripper. Exotic dancer. Go-go dancer
. Those labels would no longer apply to her. She let out a sigh of resignation. After tonight, she’d officially be a ho.

D
ayna spent an entire night and a half the next day in jail. The degradation was beyond anything she’d ever known. She didn’t call her mother because her mother would need her father to handle things, and she was too embarrassed to call her father because she’d surely have to go through his secretary or his wife to get to him on the phone. Her shameful predicament was certainly not her father’s wife or his secretary’s business, so Dayna had no choice but to turn to Cecily to come to her rescue.

No bail was required. She was released on her own recognizance, but was ordered to vacate her home. Dayna was escorted home by two male police officers. Cecily came along for support. Dayna took a deep breath when the squad car parked in her driveway. Instead of ringing the bell, one of the officers pounded on the door. Dayna supposed that making unnecessary racket was standard procedure when the enforcers of the law came to call.

Reed opened the door. As she entered her home, her legs felt weak and she thought she’d collapse and wail in despair, but she’d shed so many tears while sitting in that awful cell, there were none left to cry.

“Mr. Reynolds, I’m Officer Porter,” one of the officers said. “This is Officer Buckley.” He indicated his partner by turning slightly toward the younger police officer. “We’re going to escort your wife while she gathers her things.”

Then the officer turned toward Dayna. “Mrs. Reynolds, do you understand that you’re not allowed to come back to these premises until your hearing in thirty days?” Dayna bowed her head solemnly and nodded.

Reed wore a huge white gauze bandage on his forehead. He looked stricken. His lips twitched and his eyes blinked uncomfortably, then closed briefly as if everything—the wound inflicted by his crazy wife, her self-imposed exile from their home—was simply too much for him to bear.

But Dayna wasn’t fooled for a second. As Reed struggled to look like an emotionally broken and physically abused husband, his lips twitched because he was probably fighting the urge to break out in a fit of uncontrollable and triumphant laughter.

“Do you want to start upstairs?” Officer Porter asked Dayna.

“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. That she was being evicted from the home she’d bought and continued to pay for was an unspeakable travesty of justice. She swooned ever so slightly. Cecily patted Dayna’s arm soothingly and then squeezed it in support as she assisted her friend up the stairs.

“Stay down here, sir,” ordered Officer Porter and then the two officers hurried up the stairs, following closely behind Dayna and Cecily.

She made her way to the top. The feet that had bravely climbed each stair step paused and seemed unwilling to cooperate further. An unexpected wave of lightheadedness made her stick out a hand to steady herself against the wall.

“It’s going to be all right,” Cecily murmured and gently nudged her along. Dayna detected a quaver in her friend’s voice that could only mean Cecily didn’t really think it would be all right. She was as befuddled as Dayna by this strange turn of events.

Sensing Dayna’s weakening spirit, Cecily took the lead, steering Dayna and the two escorts to the guest room, where the majority of Dayna’s personal possessions were stored.

“I’ll pack the stuff on top of the dresser and in the drawers,” said Cecily, snapping open a deep square beauty case. “You get your clothes out of the closet—your shoes, pocketbooks, and things.”

The bathroom was next and then the master bedroom, where a few of Dayna’s possessions remained.

Except for Reed’s clothing and other odds and ends, everything in the room—in the entire house for that matter—belonged to Dayna, yet the officers stood guard in the doorway with their arms folded, distrustful eyes glued to her as she sorted through the closet and rustled through the drawers. They stared at her suspiciously as if they expected she’d try to pull a fast one and slip something that didn’t belong to her in one of the extra large trash bags that Cecily had the foresight to bring along.

Finally, it was over. All things she needed were packed in a set of Samsonite luggage, a cloth duffle, and plastic trash bags.

The police marched her and Cecily down the stairs. As they passed through the large and beautifully furnished living room, dragging baggage that contained only pieces of Dayna’s life, a wayward suitcase bumped against an end table, knocking over a heavy silver frame.

Instinctively, Dayna stopped and readjusted the frame, momentarily forgetting she was repositioning a wedding photo of herself and Reed. She suddenly realized that Reed’s eyes in the photo were those of someone far worse than a scoundrel. There was such evil in Reed’s eyes, Dayna felt a chill. Why hadn’t she noticed that before?

Reed was settled in a chair, his head tilted toward the arm of the chair, resting on a pillow. With a palm placed gingerly over his sutured and bandaged forehead, he clenched his teeth and grimaced dramatically as he used his other hand to shift himself upright. “I hope you realize you can’t keep coming back and forth every time you think of something you forgot,” he said scornfully.

Cecily jerked around. “Shut up, you no-good—”

But Dayna stopped Cecily’s bitter words with a sharp tug to the hem of her blouse. She pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to dignify her husband’s ignorant outburst.

The battle was far from over. She’d die before she’d allow her horrible husband to win. In thirty days she’d be back with a vengeance to reclaim her home and repair her shattered life.

H
ershey told her to always carry some kind of protection when out with a client, but Chanelle didn’t feel threatened enough to actually pack a weapon inside her purse. Carrying a gun was out of the question, so she gave some thought to retrieving a steak knife from a kitchen drawer. Scowling, she shook her head. She’d pick up a can of pepper spray the first chance she had.

Swathed in a tasteful powder-blue sundress, Chanelle exited the cab in front of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. She carried a small overnight bag that was stuffed with exotic dance costumes.

In a matter of minutes she would be selling her body to the stranger who waited for her on the twenty-first floor. The thought of having anonymous sex filled her with self-pity, not fear. Adding insult to injury, the notion of walking unescorted into the lobby of the posh hotel gave her a serious case of the jitters.

Her imagination ran wild with horrific images. The worst-case scenario was the possibility of being apprehended by security for sex trafficking before she even stepped foot into the elevator.

Although she was in a state of panic, Chanelle entered the imposing hotel lobby with her head held high. She gave the impression of a confident young black woman, accustomed to the finest things in life. Putting on a show for nosey observers, she walked purposefully to the elevator, jabbed the button, and then impatiently threw up her wrist to check the time.

The elevator arrived and she stepped inside with a self-assured stride that conveyed ownership. Once alone in the elevator, she allowed herself the luxury of falling against the wall and hyperventilating before pressing the button that would deliver her to the twenty-first floor.

Chanelle stepped off the elevator and looked around for the arrow that would point her in the right direction. She located the room and knocked. She took a deep breath as she braced herself for an hour-long session with a horrible pervert.

The door opened.
Oh my God!
The words almost traveled from her mind to her mouth, but she quickly composed herself. The client nodded his head and gave her a devilish smile.

Ignoring her brain’s command to stay calm, Chanelle’s lips formed into a smile and then scrunched up and became a seductive pucker. The man standing in the doorway was fine as shit! Dark and swarthy, with straight black hair and angular features, he wore baggy shorts and a white sleeveless T-shirt. Obviously Italian, with a cocky air, this man was not the fat slob she’d imagined.

He invited Chanelle in with a sweeping gesture and moved to the side, allowing her a clear path, then he closed the door and leaned against it. His eyes, filled with lust, traveled her body. She flung him a provocative look and permitted her own eyes to journey from his hairy legs, past his broad shoulders and handsome angular face, up to the pitch-black hair on his head.

“Marc Tarsia,” he said.

“Sensation,” Chanelle said, offering her hand.

But instead of shaking it, Marc pressed her hand against his lips. Then he turned her hand over and kissed her open palm.

Her skin felt seared; she held back a gasp. Under normal circumstances, this act of boldness would have offended her, but not today—she was feeling sexually aroused. The moisture between her legs confirmed that.
This man is dangerous
, she thought, avoiding his eyes as she glanced approvingly around the luxurious suite.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

She brought her attention back to Marc. “Um…what do you have?” she asked casually as her eyes traveled to his left hand. His third finger was bare. No wedding ring. Deliriously happy, she wanted to shout
hallelujah
, but settled for tossing him a brilliant smile.

“I don’t know. I haven’t checked out the wet bar.” He sauntered to the other side of the room and peered inside a glass cabinet.

She didn’t really want anything more than a Pepsi, but she needed Marc distracted for a moment while she gathered her wits.

“I see a couple bottles of Moët. Do you like champagne?”

She nodded her head.

“I can order of bottle of Dom if you don’t like Moët.”

Dom Perignon! Dayum, dude must be working with some stacks
. “Moët’s fine,” she said sweetly, hoping the champagne would have a tranquilizing effect. She needed something to calm her frazzled nerves.

She thought about her personal motto:
The only thing a client can offer is a ticket out of the ghetto
. Allowing the significance of the words to settle into her mind, she sank into the well-cushioned sofa. But her body was telling her something entirely different. She cut her eyes at Marc and observed him on the sly. Without a doubt, he was the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on. He radiated power; it was palpable.
Dayum! He has it all…money, good looks, and power
. Power was an aphrodisiac for Chanelle. Her physical attraction to Marc rendered her stupid motto a moot point. Excitedly, she ran her fingers through her hair.
I’m in trouble
, she giddily admitted to herself.

“You’re really pretty, ya know that?” Marc was standing next to her. Chanelle beamed a thank-you as she accepted the glass of champagne.

“You’re much prettier than my boat.”

“Your boat? What are you talking about?”

Marc laughed. “I chose you when the lady who owns the service ran down the list of names of the girls.”

“Oh…” Chanelle said, still unenlightened

“And since I own a boat named
Sensation;
I thought me and you might really hit it off.”

“Okay, I see,” she said, really seeing things much clearer.

“You like sailin’, baby? I’d love to take you out on my boat.”

Did she like sailing? How the hell did she know? Unless you counted the ferry ride from Penn’s Landing to the aquarium in Camden, New Jersey, she didn’t have much sailing experience under her belt.

Chanelle took a quick sip from the glass, reminding herself to sip slowly. Marc drank straight from the bottle, looking extremely masculine and appealing as he tilted it to his lips.
Sexy muthafucker!

Although Chanelle preferred her men taller, Marc’s gorgeous face and ripped physique more than made up for what he was lacking in height. She turned inquisitive eyes to his groin and wondered if the chink in his armor lay there. I hope not, she thought and shook her head.

After taking a few sips of champagne, Chanelle said, “I’m gonna change into something more comfortable. Okay?” She gestured toward the bathroom.

“Make yourself at home.”

She took another sip and set the glass down. Clutching her purse and overnight bag, Chanelle sashayed to the bathroom. Heat emanating from Marc’s smoldering brown eyes scorched her back, then moved to her buttocks. Instinctively, she arched her back, causing her moneymaker to protrude even more. His eyes lingered on her butt cheeks until she was behind the closed door and out of his line of vision.

The bathroom was exquisite, she admitted as she gazed at the glass-enclosed marble shower. Damn, she deserved this kind of luxury twenty-four-seven. And Marc could give it to her. If she played her cards right, her lifestyle could change overnight. Excitement coursed through her body as she invoked a mental image of his left hand and recalled his bare ring finger.
Oh yeah, it’s on!
Then she began to undress.

Wearing a one-piece red suspender thong, sheer red thigh-highs, and blood-red stiletto heels with ankle straps, she re-entered the room, throwing her hips from side to side as she made slow sensual strides toward Marc.

“You’re looking hot, baby. Get over here.”

She crossed the room, stood before him, and seductively placed a red stiletto on the sofa in the space between his thighs. “I might be too much for you. Are you sure you want to take this ride?” Her voice was low and sexy.

He planted a kiss on her well-toned thigh. He raised his head. “I can hang,” he said with a confident glint in his eyes.

“Is that right?” Insisting upon a reversal in power, Chanelle turned around and pushed her rear end in the empty space, forcing him to open his legs wide to accommodate her butt cheeks as they brushed against his groin.

Skillful in the art of seduction, she gave him a lap dance that was perfectly timed to the music in her mind. She smiled triumphantly when she heard his lustful groan and felt his manhood spring to life. Yes, she was in control. She had to strip him of his power—make him weak.

He reached around her and cupped her breasts. Hot fingers deftly moved the fabric aside and encircled her nipples until they became as hard as pebbles. Chanelle gritted her teeth, gave up, and gasped. Damn, every part of her body felt sensitive to his touch. He had to stop touching her, she decided as she dropped to her knees. Marc quickly came out of his shorts. He wasn’t wearing underwear. Interesting.

Usually, she would have saved the best for last. But this was an emergency. She and Marc were engaged in a power struggle. She was backed into a corner and had no choice but to pull out the heavy artillery.

She examined his package. It was a nice-sized dick—not too big and definitely not too small. Nice color, too. Light brown, smooth, even toned. Chanelle dampened her lips and flicked her tongue against the perfectly shaped mushroom cap, making moist circles until Marc thrust upward, silently begging her to take more.

She licked the shaft. Marc made a throaty gasp. She stopped, took a swig of champagne but did not swallow until she drew him back inside her mouth, coercing him to slosh through the cool sparkly liquid.

He desperately entwined his hands in her hair and cried out in exquisite pain.

Finally swallowing the champagne, Chanelle threw back her head and opened her throat, allowing him to drive deeper. She made her throat constrict, giving him the sensation of tightening vaginal muscles. Marc shuddered; Chanelle smirked. There was no doubt about it; she was a master at giving some good damn head.

“Stop,” he pleaded in a choked whisper.

“Had enough?” she asked, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I surrender.” Marc held up his hands.

“Completely?”

“I’m all yours.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” She smirked again, took his hand, and boldly led him into the bedroom.