To Have (The Dumont Diaries) (3 page)

A
s a child, I always pictured limos and strippers to go hand in hand — like peanut butter and jelly. Yet I, in my third year in this godforsaken profession, have never ridden in a limo. I try not to gawk, try to nod professionally at the man who opens the door for me. I stumble at the door’s opening, trying to figure out the most ladylike way to get in, my mind flipping through every movie I can think of, none of them providing a solution. It doesn’t help that I am still in my bra and a g-string. I end up doing some sort of dippy crawl that is a disaster, my face flushing as I right myself on the leather seat. The door closes and I have a moment of silence.

The limo’s interior makes me feel right at home. The mirrored ceiling, with twinkling stars set into the headliner, is straight out of the low ceilings of the Crystal Palace. The black leather seats, ice chest of beer and wine set to one side, a velvet pillow lying against the front seat — are Stripperville USA. And for me, it is all incredible. High-class, fancy living, incredible. I am in a limo, with a wealthy stranger, pulling away from the Palace. If I squint hard enough, this is just like Pretty Woman’s final scene. Maybe I can be Julia Roberts. Maybe I can have a fairytale ending, despite my poor planning.

I shut down my fantasy when the other door opens, long legs making the easy transition into the car, nothing like the fumbling disaster I had been. I fix my mouth into an easy smile, crossing my legs and leaning forward, striking the pose that makes my breasts appear biggest and causes my cellulite to disappear. “Where are we going?”

He ignores my question, unzipping his pants and leaning back in the seat. “Make me cum.”

My Julia Roberts alter ego slumps in her hypothetical seat, heading back to never never land, which she never ever should have visited from. I keep my smile fixed, keep the disappointment from my eyes. “With my hand or my mouth?”

“Both.”

And so my first ever limo ride ends in the way that most stripper rides do. With me on my knees, automotive carpet itching raw spots onto my legs, his hand on my hair, pushing my head onto his cock, then pulling me off so that he can stare into my eyes. The car drives, I suck, and any excitement I have for the evening ends in a gulp of cum.

I wake up to a breeze. Ruffling my hair, my face tucked into the crook of the car, my forehead propped up by the interior wall. The window is down and the ride is rough, a steady bump as the limo moves over an uneven surface. I sit up, looking around and see BlueEyes sitting next to me, his fingers flitting across a phone’s lit surface. His fingers pause and I look up to find him watching me. “Sleep well?”

He has a nice voice, deep and masculine. Strong, one of those voices that causes you to trust the words that come out of it. His mouth is doing that thing again, where it twitches slightly, something akin to a smile, as if he has found something amusing but will refuse to share what it is.

“Yes, thank you. Where are we?” I look out the window, seeing only darkness — trees passing with no identifiable landmarks.

“Right now? We are about to turn down my driveway, and then we will be at my home.”

“Your home? I thought we were going to a hotel.” I look out the window again, troubled by this new information, wanting to hide my displeasure from him. How did I fall asleep? I remember sucking his cock, then drinking a vodka cranberry.
The drink
. Maybe he put something in it. And now I am in a strange place, with three men. Poor planning.

“I changed my mind. Your outfit didn’t really allow me to walk through the front doors without raising a few eyebrows. You will probably be more comfortable here.”

No, I would probably not. I will probably be more comfortable in a populated place, a hotel — where I can scream and someone can hear. Where housekeeping will eventually find my dead body. Not your home which, according to you, sits in the middle of nowhere
. I keep my face bland and reached for my purse, pulling out my cell phone. My heart sinks when I see the upper corner of the display. NO SERVICE.

“Is there a problem?” His voice sounds from beside me, a hint of laughter in it.

I shrug, trying to keep my voice light. “Nope.” I drop my phone back in my bag and turn back to the window, my eyes struggling to find something of hope in the blurry landscape passing by.

By the time the limo turns, pulling through a large gate and traveling down a long, tree lined drive, I have convinced myself of the worst.
He is planning to kill me, to cut off my limbs and feed them to his dogs. I will never see the Palace again, will never see Dibs, or my car, or Jezebel and the rest of the girls.
My palms sweat, my anxiety causing me to almost miss the beautiful details: an enormous house, built with contrasting textures of stone and glass, with huge windows dominating its landscape. Even from the entrance, I can see clear through the house, past artwork and elegance, can see the rise and falls of the city, a rainbow of lights and the sparkle of ocean water reflecting against the moon.
The city.
So we are not so far away. The glitter of city lights comforts me, gives me a sense of where I am. I feel his hand on the small of my back and look over, surprised to see concern on his face. “You seem afraid. Are you uncomfortable here?”

So much for my façade of bravery
. I risk a smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” And actually, I am okay — his concern spreading a sea of calm throughout me. Maybe this will be okay. Maybe he isn’t planning on killing me. Maybe I’m paranoid.

I am helped from the car by the driver, BlueEyes following me. He pushes gently on my back and I step forward, towards the glass house, unsure of what awaits me inside.

H
e holds the commands, saying nothing as we move into a vaulted great room with nothing but windows before us, the city lights lying behind a lit pool and landscaped gardens. There is a contemporary guest house, a mini version of the main house, set off the side of the pool. It is a beautiful view, enhanced by his decorating theme of glass and stone. He pulls my arm, sliding his hands down to grip my hand. I glance down in surprise, the image of my hand in his an unfamiliar sight. A smile tugging his lips, he pulls me forward, taking me on a brief tour of the house. Four bedrooms, an office, minigym, and sauna float by, his head close to mine, his hand moving to the small of my back, his words soft and accommodating. I’m not really listening to what he is saying. It’s all about the wood used in the floors, the furniture ordered from Europe. I’m half-listening and instead wondering whatthefuck is about to happen.
Why is he showing me around?
It seems, ridiculously enough, that he is trying to impress me. The tour travels outside, through a stone walkway to the pool, a glowing blue square that drops off into the city view, twin hot tubs on either side.

We step into the guest house, an unnecessary movement, since its entire interior is shown through the glass walls that make up three of its four walls. He points out the galley kitchen, the studio apartment, complete with a living room area, fireplace, walk-in closet and deluxe bath. He seems particular interested in my opinion, and I nod politely, a smile pasted on my features. “It is beautiful. You have a wonderful home.”

Then, we return, back to the great room, my eyes flickering over the two bodyguards, who now frame the door, their eyes following us as his body guides me towards the kitchen.

“Stop.”

I stop, standing before a large dining table, it surface smooth and, like everything else, glass. I feel his hand on my back, sliding upward and then the release as my top is undone. I turn to face him, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches back and unties the strings around my neck, his fingers trailing over my skin as he pulls on the final pieces that holds my top in place. I wet my lips, unsure of my words, not wanting to say what I need to say.

“We haven’t discussed money.”

“That didn’t stop you from sucking my cock.” He doesn’t smile.

I hesitate, feeling the fabric slide against my nipples as my top falls at my feet. “I don’t normally do this,” I whisper.

“What, leave the club?”

“No. Sex. That isn’t something I do with clients.”
And not something I am going to do for free. No matter how big your house is.
My body argues with my mind, physically pulled to the man, my hands wanting to reach forward right now and take his cock into my palm. My mind understands the reality of my situation and pushes back against my consumed-by-lust body.

His eyes bore into mine, blue depths with flecks of domination in them, his olive skin bending as he speaks. “Ten grand.”

I return his stare, wetting my lips as I feel his hands slide down my sides, feel them dip beneath the lace of my panties.
Ten thousand dollars
. A figure I can’t turn down. Not that, at this stage in the game, turning him down seems to be an option. “Okay.” I whisper.

He yanks outward, the quick motion startling me, a ripping sound heard, and then I am naked, feeling a tickle of lace as the ruined cloth that was my panties drops to the ground between my heels, my eyes passing over his shoulder and alighting on the two men who stand at attention, watching us.

“Your men,” I whisper, feeling the strength of his hands as they move over my body, gentle and caressing, my breasts the current object of their focus. His fingers spread, running lightly over my nipples, which stand to attention under his touch.

“They stay.”

“But…” my voice weak. “They can see us.”

His hands still and he steps forward, until my face is tilted up to his. “That’s the point. I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t be shy.”

I shut my mouth, hold my smartass response, don’t ask the questions that are burning on my lips.
Why do you need protection? Why do they have to watch us?
I think of the money to distract me, picture crisp dollar bills so I won’t have to think about the two men, their eyes following our movement. The men have already seen me give him head; this isn’t much different.

But honestly, sex
is
different. It’s why I don’t have sex at the club. I’ve gotten to the point where hand and blowjobs are as casual to me as dancing, though the aftermath plays havoc on my self-esteem. Sex has always been that one line I won’t cross, proof to myself that I am not ruined, that I am still pure in some fucked-up form.

He leans forward and kisses me, and I suddenly don’t need the image of dollar bills to distract my mind. Everything floods the moment his lips touch mine.

Soft, sweet lips. Not what I expect from this commanding man. He brushes my lips softly, my lips parting for him, immediately wanting more. A groan slips from my mouth before I have a chance to capture it. His hands move up through my hair, gripping and pulling its strands. He tastes me, spreading my lips gently with his and dipping his tongue inside. I respond eagerly, my body taking over my mind, shoving it aside forcefully as a wave of arousal hits me. His touch turns harder, his mouth more demanding and he moves me backward, my heels skittering over tile, till the edge of the table is against me.

His hands grip my ass, squeezing it roughly, one hand on each cheek and lifts me easily, setting me on the table, the surface cool against my skin.

“Lay down,” he bites out against my mouth, taking one, last, torturous sweep of my mouth before he pulls off, stepping back and watching me.

I grip the glass top, sliding backward until my elbows are resting on the glass. I watch him, watch as he unbuttons his sleeves. He breathes hard, his eyes glued to mine and walks towards me, stopping a foot from the table.

I can’t figure out this man. Or rather, I can’t figure out how I feel about this man. He is cold to the point of being an asshole. A demander instead of an asker — expecting me to perform as instructed. But that is what I am — a hired orgasm-deliverer. Pleases and thank yous are not required, only appreciated. But despite his cold exterior, I am drawn to him, insanely attracted to him. Maybe it
is
the money, maybe it’s as simple as that. More likely it is that face, those blue eyes set under thick brows, a mess of dark hair that begs to have me run my hands through it, a strong jaw and kissable soft lips. Lips he happens to know exactly how to use.

My thoughts abandon me as his fingers undo his shirt’s buttons, inch after inch of chest falling victim to my eyes. In his suit he commanded respect with his strong words and unyielding eyes. Without a shirt he has my full attention, a perfect build unveiled as his shirt falls to the floor. I pull my eyes from his chest and return to his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. Then there is the yank of a zipper, and my eyes drop.

He is magnificent, every line and muscle defined, framing a package that makes my mouth and sex water. This is the organ that I have already experienced, the one that has kept me awake at night and ended many self-pleasure sessions. I swallow as he strides over and stops before me, his eyes studying me carefully, his hand reaching out and pressing me back, ‘til I lay flat before him on top of the table.