Dirty Aristocrat (33 page)

I want her to belong to me. And only me.

From the corner of my eyes I see Brianna walking toward me. She is smiling. I don’t smile back. The thoughts in my head seethe so bitter and dark that I lose control. I stand up and begin to stride toward Lily and her punter. I see Brianna’s experienced eye sizing up the situation. She stops smiling and picks up her speed—not so she would make a scene, though.

I grab Lily’s hand. Her first reaction is interesting. It is one of pure repulsion. Then her gaze collides with mine and the expression is replaced by a mixture of joy, lust, and anger. 

The man turns to look at me. ‘Excuse me,’ he says pompously, as if it is
I
who has trod on his property. I’ve collected money from men like him before. Without their fancy lawyers they are sniveling, pathetic messes. They’d give up their mothers to avoid a scratch.

Fortunately for him, Brianna reaches us at that same instant. She is so smooth I have to admire her anew.

‘Mr. Walsh,’ she coos. ‘Jewel has a personal emergency that she has to take care of, but I have found two beauties to dance for you instead. Obviously, your champagne is on the house.’

Mr. Walsh accepts with ill grace. He has no idea how close he was to being floored. Brianna leads him away quickly.

Hiding the black lust in my heart I look down at the brazen little hussy coldly. ‘I believe this dance is mine.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ she says sarcastically.

I am still furious, but her scent drifts over me like a sweet cloud and lust writhes hot in my blood as my cock hardens too fast and painfully.

Lily

The walls and ceiling of the VIP room are mirrored. It is empty except for a small, round, low table, a large upholstered red and gilt chair, and another much smaller black one that the dancers use as a prop. He kicks the door shut, his heel slamming into the wood, and stands there, tall, proud. Pure alpha. Great! I am alone in the VIP room with one pissed off gangster.

In a silky, dangerous voice, ‘Did you enjoy that?’

Nervously, ‘What?’

‘Taunting me.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You looked right into my eyes. You knew I was waiting for you.’

I lick my lips. ‘This is my job.’

He walks over to the red chair and lowers himself into it. He takes two blue chips out of his jacket and puts them on the table. Blue chips are a hundred pounds each. Then he looks up at me.

In a voice like the crack of a whiplash, ‘Now strip.’

I feel my cheeks start to burn. Doing a dance for someone that you fancy like crazy is totally different. The adrenaline rush is undeniable. It surges inside me. I finally understand why the other girls wear tampons all the time.

Without taking my eyes off him I unzip my dress and let it slip down my body and pool around my ankles. His eyes rush down my body greedily, hungrily. From the speakers Snoop Dogg is singing, ‘
Tell me, baby, are you wet?
I just want to get you wet
.’

Just perfect.

Jake

She flicks her head flirtatiously like an animal in heat and deliberately presents her buttocks to me. I see her sex clothed in satin and puffed out between her spread thighs. I know exactly what she is doing. She is showing me the sweet wet heat at the center of her. The urge to reach out and touch. Fuck!

She moves her hips from side to side, slowly, teasing, provoking. Then she pushes back until she is inches away from my face. I can smell the heady scent of her arousal. It has hidden itself within the noisy smells of cheap perfume, sweat, sex, and seedy thoughts. It flowers in my face.

Like a wolf scenting the air, I inhale in quick bursts. She pulls back and my nose moves forward, following the intoxicating trail of her scent. Her hands skim lightly over her ribs and linger over the tops of her breasts, the skin satiny. She cups her breasts. I stare at her utterly riveted. She hooks one leg over the chair’s back and in one deft, smooth movement, sits down on the edge of the seat.

Keeping her body arched and her legs straight, she opens her thighs so her long, long legs make a fabulous V. The position is obscene and bewitching. She is good enough to eat.

I stare at the wet patch hungrily.

She holds the pose.

I raise my eyes up to hers. ‘How much to push the material aside?’

Something flashes into her eyes. She lids them quickly.

‘One thousand.’ Her voice is flat and cold.

At that moment no one else in the world exists. Only her, me, and something raw and too hot to touch. I reach into my pocket and pull out a handful of chips. There might have been two, maybe three thousand there. I hold them over the table and let them fall. Some hit the surface and roll away to clatter onto the floor.

Very slowly she reaches into the material and pulls it to one side. My eyes drop. God only knows how many pussies I have seen in my lifetime, but this time it takes my breath away. I stare riveted at the pink glistening whorls of wet flesh. In that position the hole gapes, as if begging to be filled, taken, fucked. Enticingly thick nectar drips out of it.

I raise my eyes to hers. Very deliberately she moves her gaze to my crotch, to my hard-on. I get it. She is angry. Even in this humiliating position she is helpless to fight the sensual call of her own body.

She smiles. ‘Want anything else?’

‘What else is for sale?’ My voice sounds cool and distant, but my heart is hammering in my chest. Afraid of her answer. Afraid she will become more than just a cock tease. Terrified she’ll become another fallen flower littering the ground I walk upon.

I see it clearly then. A flash of something far stronger than the liquid dripping out of her. Hatred. The violence of it shocks me. She doesn’t close her legs. She doesn’t pull the material over the gaping wound between her legs.

‘You’ve already bought everything that is for sale,’ she says quietly.

My heart leaps in my chest. Alive with some sort of great wild joy. ‘Cover yourself,’ I say curtly to hide the joy.

She pulls the material over her sex and puts her legs back down.

I take a black chip out of my jacket pocket. I didn’t know what I was going to use it for tonight—if I was going to use it at all—but I am immensely relieved and glad it is going to be used and for this purpose. I put it on the table and watch her eyes widen with astonishment.

‘This is for you to get dressed and go home right now.’

Lily

T
he door shuts softly behind him. I walk over to the table and pick up the black chip. It weighs the same as all the others, but wow! I never thought I would ever see one of these. Ten thousand sweet pounds! I sweep all the chips from the table into my satin bag and gather those that have fallen on the floor.

Then I get back into my dress and go looking for Melanie to tell her I am leaving early. I change back into my normal clothes and head to the cashier’s box where I cash everything except the black chip, and ask for the money to be put directly into my bank account. Shockingly, there is nearly three thousand pounds.

I pop over to reception and ask Toni to call me a taxi. Less than five minutes later she tells me the cab is outside. Steve, the doorman, walks me out. It is a thing they do, see us into our cabs. As we walk out we see the taxi driving off.

‘Hey,’ Steve shouts, and then goes silent when he sees Jake walking toward us.

‘Good evening, Mr. Eden,’ he greets politely.

Jake nods but does not look at him. ‘I thought I might as well give you a lift to mine.’

I gasp at the audacity.

Steve starts backing off. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he says, and makes himself scarce pretty quick.

‘How dare you give him the impression that I’m going back to yours?’ I storm.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No.’

‘You can come in my mouth.’

I gasp. My insides lurch, like being in a very efficient lift. ‘For God’s sake!’

He shrugs. ‘Better, surely, than having to hear all those men telling you they want to come in yours.’

I look down at the ground and see his expensive boots polished to a mirror shine. I regret it even before I say it. ‘I won’t bother, thanks.’

‘Why not, Lily?’

‘The truth?’

‘Of course.’ He gazes at me with those smoldering eyes.

And fire flows into my blood. Jesus! I’ve never had it this bad for any man. ‘I don’t do one-night stands.’

‘Whatever gave you the impression that it would be a one-night stand?’ His eyes are curious, quizzical, fascinated.

My heart swells. He sure knows which buttons to press. He takes a step closer. I should make him try harder. ‘I want to go on a date.’

He smiles, a look of genuine happiness on his face. ‘On a date? With me?’

I nod. ‘Could be fun.’

‘I knew I’d like you.’

I grin, feeling protected and precious. 

‘Come on,’ he says, and leads me to a white Porsche 918 Spyder.

I don’t know where the night is taking me—some distant warning that it could be dangerous clamors in my skull—but the call seems distant and inconsequential, and I turn away from it. I tell myself it is just a snapshot in time. Here, there, and then gone forever. Why shouldn’t I have this night? Without thought. Without consequence. Embrace, kiss, no rules, no guilt, just get and give pleasure. Only tonight. It will never be more, anyway. Not with men like him. For men like him, women come and go. So I will just do this one time.

I slide into the cool interior, and he shuts the door behind me.

‘Nice car.’

‘Yeah, I like it.’

He doesn’t have to drive far. The car stops in front of a deserted bar. All the windows are shuttered. A young man runs out of a darkened doorway and Jake chucks the car keys to him, and, putting his palm on the small of my back, leads me toward the darkened doorway.

I look up at him. ‘The place looks closed.’

‘It’s closed to some and open to others.’

The door is opened from inside. There are doormen just inside who nod respectfully to Jake and two receptionists who fuss obsequiously over him. We go through a side door and come upon a room that looks like the interior of a pub. It smells of beer and feet. The stools have been overturned on the tables ready for the floor to be cleaned in the morning.

‘What’s this place?’ I ask.

‘A gambling den.’

‘What?’

‘Yup. When the bar closes, the real activities begin in the back rooms.’

‘An illegal gambling operation?’

‘Something like that. Have a seat,’ he invites, and I sit on one of the tall padded stools next to the bar.

He goes behind the bar. ‘Do you want champagne?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m a bit sick of the smell of champagne.’

‘What would you rather?’ he asks softly.

‘Whiskey.’

He nods, grabs two glasses, puts them on the bar and reaches for a bottle in one smooth move. It tells me he has worked a bar before. He tips the whiskey bottle the way bartenders at swanky nightclubs do, from up high and continuously. The bottom of the bottle finds its way to the bar surface with a thump. We lift our glasses—there is no toasting—and drink. He downs his and picks up the bottle and refills his glass. A pulse throbs at his throat and he looks restless and edgy.