To Have (The Dumont Diaries) (5 page)

He takes over, pants coming as he fucks me from below, thrusting in and out as he holds my body still with his hands, his finger in my ass gripping slightly as I come apart in his hands, a cry ripping out of my throat, animalistic in its strength.

I think he’s coming also, grunts coming from deep within his throat, his upward thrusts hard and fast, pounding and shaking my entire body with their strength. He releases my wrists, gripping my waist with both hands and forcing my body into action, pulling me up and down in rhythm with his strokes, until he roars, a primal bellow of ownership and conquer, his strokes slowing as the sound fades from his throat, wildness in his eyes, his mouth taking mine as his hips slow, his arms wrapping tightly around my body and holding me solidly against him. He marks me as his, strokes of his tongue speaking clearer than words ever could, ragged breaths coming from both of us as our mouths separate, and then reconnect, him tasting me fully as his cock softens inside of me. Then he pushes against my chest, lifting his mouth off of me and rolls over, depositing me onto the bed and kneeling on a tangle of sheets, his bare body towering above me on the bed.

I stare at him through drugged eyes, my eyes making a slow and delicious journey over every curve, cut, and bulge of his body. The best sex of my life has officially wiped me out, every muscle a relaxed mess of orgasmy uselessness. He breathes hard, staring at me, then wipes his mouth and hops off the bed, walking bare assed out of the room.

S
ilence
. No purr of air conditioner, no television from another room. Dead silence as I lay on the bed and try to figure out what I am supposed to do. Follow him? Clean myself up? Roll over and go to sleep? Or is now when he returns with a handful of dollar bills? My lack of expertise in the prostitution gamble puts me at a loss.

Then, his silhouette returns, passing through the lit doorway. I prop myself up on one elbow and smile lazily at him, wetting my lips to speak. My words die on my lips as he moves closer, his gait and build all wrong, too big for BlueEyes.

The man stops a foot from the bed, way too close for my personal comfort and I scramble for covers, for something to cover my nakedness.

“You should be used to men seeing you naked,” he drawls, his voice a mix of husk and southern. He is close enough for me to see his features, to recognize his face. One of the bodyguards; the one who drove us here.

My hands only feel tight fitted sheets, and I glare at him, my hands moving to cross in front of my breasts. “I’m not at the Palace now.”

It is a ridiculous statement, given that I am now at a point below that, having sex for money. But things are different outside the smoky glassed doors of the club. Just because I undress at work doesn’t give anyone and everyone a free look at my body. It is my body and right here, right now, I feel naked and want to cover up. Regardless of what this man has seen me do, I don’t want him to see me like this, and I feel this is my right.

He throws something towards me, the motion startling me.
A white towel
. I pick it up, realize it’s a robe, and cover myself with it, looking back at the man.

He has the audacity to smile at me. “Come with me. He wants you out of here and in the guesthouse.”

Apparently the spark I felt, the incredibleness that was our sex, is not shared by BlueEyes. I feel sudden irritation at the fact that I don’t know his damn name. I don’t typically seek out names, our regulars worth the effort — everyone else forgettable. But with tonight, and with the other visits that comprised our history — I should have, at some point, learned his name. But, other than the house tour, he has never uttered more than a few words.

Dance.

Suck it.

I’m going to fuck you.

An introduction is probably seen as a waste of words to this man.

I slip into the robe, my back to the bodyguard, not interested in giving him more of a look then he’s already had, my mind whirring as I cinch the belt, the soft fabric of the robe more luxurious than anything I have ever worn. I pull my hair out of the robe’s neck, stalling as I try to sort through things in my head.

Should I ask to return home? My cell phone most likely still has no service. Was the ten grand to include the evening? Does he want more sex? I turn, my hands out of things to do, and face the man.

“I’d like to ask your boss a few questions.”

He grinned, shaking his head at me. “He’s not interested in that. You need to follow me to the guesthouse. You’ll sleep there.”

“Sleep? Just sleep?” I raise an eyebrow skeptically.

“Just sleep. In the morning he might have time for a conversation. Otherwise, I’ll take you back to the club.”

Wow. A short response that covers most of my questions. “And when do I get paid?”

He grins, rubbing a hand roughly over his mouth. “In the morning. Any more questions? He wants you out of here.”

I hide my frown behind a small smile and move towards him, out the door and back into the greatroom. He leads the way, opening doors and ushering me to the guesthouse, my steps faltering slightly when we enter the smaller house.

Its walls are all glass, showcasing the city view along its entire back wall. It’s beautiful, modern and clean, a large bed set against a slate wall, huge prints adding color and texture to the walls. The bathroom sinks are open to the bedroom, a large Jacuzzi tub prominently set in between dual vanities, and I can see into a small room that holds a shower and toilet. A lounge area sits to the right, with a low-slung cream sectional atop a rich chocolate rug.

I feel a hand on my back and spin, bumping into the hard chest of the stranger. “Don’t touch me,” I snap, backing away as he raises his hands in innocence.

“My apologies. I’m Drew, Mr. Dumont’s driver and security. The other man is Mark. If you need anything, you can use the intercom system to page us. I live on property, so will always be available. The main house will be locked, please don’t attempt to enter it during the night, the security system is extremely sensitive.”

Mr. Dumont.
Another question answered, though I’ll be damned if I refer to him in that manner. I turn, stepping into the center of the room and look around. “I don’t know where my clothes are…”

“There is clothing in the dressers and closets, you should find something in your size there. I’ll be by in the morning.” He purses his lips, as if he has words inside that he is struggling to contain. “Goodnight.”

I don’t say anything, watching as he slides the door shut. I lock it behind him and cross my fingers that this glass box has curtains.

It does, and now I’m lying in a sea of lavender bubbles. I showered first, scrubbing my makeup off with a damp washcloth and washing my hair. Then I filled the tub, using a generous amount of bath gel and almost moaned with delight when I sank in.

I haven’t had a bath in almost four years. My college apartment had a tub; that was the last time me and bubbles have had any contact. It is a long overdue reunion and I rest my head against the back of the tub in bliss.

Of all places for me to spend the night, this glass box of luxury isn’t a bad deal. But I can’t fully relax, too many unknowns about BlueEyes. My cell phone’s lack of signal is a major thorn in my subconscious. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if I had the security of my phone then there wouldn’t be these pits in my stomach, maybe then I would relax and appreciate the fact that I am at a mansion, ten thousand dollars richer, and just had the best sex of my life.

It’s crazy that digital bars on a cell phone are the roadblock between me and a good night’s sleep. I curse under my breath and pull the drain plug, watching bubbles swirl towards the dark hole of Never Never Land.

B
right light. It shines in through the glass walls, the sun unforgiving in its announcement of the day. I try to place the sun, try to place where I am and who is waking me up. I roll, the sheets soft and smooth, which causes my eyes to reopen. Soft and smooth don’t describe my sheets. Cheap and scratchy are my norm.

Green eyes stare down at me. Green eyes that lead to a crooked nose, full lips and a few days of unshaven growth. The face is vaguely familiar and I blink, my brain fully waking up.
The security guy. Some name that begins with a D
.

“Time to get up. Mr. Dumont would like to speak to you.”

I cover my face in my hands, trying to wake up enough to think. “Then you’ll take me home?”

I hear a chuckle. “If that’s what you want.”

I sit up, pushing back the blankets and swinging my legs off of the bed. My brain hazily engages, memories of last night slowly clicking into place. “Wait.” I turn to the man with a glare. “I locked the door last night.”

He shrugs. “We have a key.”

I bite back a response, shooting him the stoniest glare I have, moving across the room and yanking open the closet door.

“I see you found some pajamas.”

“Yeah. You’ve got enough female clothing in here to outfit half of the city.” I grab a tee-shirt dress and a pair of underwear, the tags still hanging from the lace. Stepping fully into the closet I turn and shut the door on the man’s face, cutting off whatever words were about to come out of his mouth.

I feel a bit of adolescent pleasure at the slight, at the ability to show some of the frustration that is building up inside me. I pull the panties on, popping off the tag and tug the dress over my head, forgoing a bra. I study myself in the mirror, a critical eye looking for flaws. I look younger, my makeup-free face much different than the vixen look I go for at the Club. My hair is curly, a result of going to bed with it wet, the strands exacting their revenge in the form of uncontrollable volume and curl. I run my hands through a few times before giving up and opening the door. To one irritated green-eyed face.

“Sorry,” I say breezily, dipping down and grabbing a set of jeweled sandals from a basket by the door, examining the size before slipping them on. A size too big, but acceptable to get home with. Someone at the club will be all over them.

I can feel his frustration, the emotion making me smile, my spirits rising as we exit the house and head to the main home, sunlight dancing off of the pool’s water and sending playful highlights over my legs. I am close to getting paid, getting in that limo, and heading back home in style. With this payday, I will be flush for a while, six months at least, six months of no stress, no blowjobs, and no bullshit from Dibs over late rent or the utility bill.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. About getting paid, about going home, and about six months of bliss.

I
look at the document in confusion. My event-planning college courses never prepared me to read legal documents. But, despite my lack of legal knowhow, this document seems prepared for someone else entirely. Words that don’t belong near me jump from the pages.

Marriage.
Prenuptial.
Assumption.
Loyalty.
Confidentiality.

I set down the page and look at him. BlueEyes. Mr. Dumont, sitting on the other end of the long dining table. The same table on which I laid naked, touched myself before him and his guards, begged him for more as I exploded before him.

“I’m confused…” I say slowly. “Is this document for me?”

“Yes.”

Yes
. As if that one simple word gives me any answer whatsoever. “Why?”

“It’s a proposal. Last night was an audition of sorts. To see if we are sexually compatible. I have strong sexual needs, and you prove equipped to handle them. I need, for various reasons, a wife. I’ve had you followed for several weeks. You seem to have a fairly pathetic life, no security, no boyfriend, no familial connections. I am offering you a business proposition.”

No familial connections
. The statement hurts, reminding me of my abandonment of my father. An abandonment that our weekly phone calls doesn’t make up for. I glance back through the documents, taking my time, trying to calm my mind down from the hypothetical cliff edge it is standing on. “I don’t see a compensation structure.”

That produces a laugh, one short bark that holds no humor whatsoever. “Compensation?”

I meet his mocking smile head on. “Yes. Business propositions involve compensation on both parts. I understand what I am giving up, but fail to see what I am getting from this arrangement.”

He held out his hands, gesturing to the house. “This
life
. You are barely struggling by. I am offering you a life of luxury, with everything you want, at your fingertips. You will not have to work, not have to straddle sweaty men with wandering fingers.”

I arch a brow at him. “Like you?”

He doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, sliding back from the table and standing. “Look at the paperwork. If you are interested, sign the documents and return to the guesthouse — I will deal with you later. If not, Drew will give you your money and take you home. Either way, you will be paid.” He turned, grabbing a set of keys off of the counter and striding towards the door, his face a mask of nonchalance.