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But it’s not enough.
I’d be happy to write this insanity off as pure addiction running wild, but if that were truly the case I’d be happy to stave away the beast with porn or webcam girls, or even a cheaper rut with Elena or Candice in the interim.
But I’m not happy with any of those options.
There is only her. Only her tight little cunt and those big blue eyes. Only the way she takes whatever I give her.
As I cruise through my workday with a distinctly sunnier disposition than the one I’ve come to know, I wonder whether I’m teetering on the edge of some kind of mental breakdown. Yet, I’ve been there before and it wasn’t like this. I’ve stared into the abyss of meaningless compulsive paid-for sex and come out the other side unscathed, time after time, and this isn’t that.
This feels different.
She feels different.
Different enough that I message Claude on Wednesday morning and order him to book both Delaney’s and Amy for this very same evening.
Looming mental breakdown or no, I’ll be having that girl’s pussy tonight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MELISSA
EVEN DEAN CAN’T HIDE how impressed he is when I tell him I’m on again for this evening. He makes me dinner as I search through my wardrobe, scouting for something vaguely suitable that Mr Henley hasn’t seen me in already.
It’s no good. I’ve got nothing super dressy other than the red and pink I bought especially, and so it’s done. A choice taken out of my hands.
I’m going to have to go as myself this evening.
I hope that the floral patterned tunic dress is enough. It’s not fitted or fancy, but it’s pretty. At least I think so.
I give Joe his bath before I leave, playing with his floating boat toys amongst all the bubbles and lather. He laughs as one capsizes and it makes me laugh too.
I love how he smiles. I love how his eyes sparkle.
I love how happy he is.
I tell Dean so once I’ve settled Joe into bed. Tell him how grateful I am here’s here to support me. How great he is with Joe.
He nods. “I love the little guy,” he says, and I believe him. It’s written all over his face.
I gulp down my pasta and finish up my makeup, and I have no time to take the underground across town this evening, so I take a cab. I have to call Frank at New Start on the way across town, apologising so hard that I won’t be able to help out this evening. But as it turns out it’s a major win of monster proportions, a stroke of lucky fortune much earlier than I’d intended it to happen.
“Not to worry,” Frank tells me. “These things happen. It’s a longshot, but we have a team running at Brickwood on Friday if you fancied stopping by.” He’s already backtracking as I answer. Already telling me that I shouldn’t feel pressured.
“I’d love to,” I say. “Friday works.”
I take directions like I’ll need them, confirm the times as though I don’t have a clue what they are.
He tells me he’s looking forward to it, that he can’t wait to introduce me to the Brickwood team.
My heart races with it all.
I just hope it’s not too soon. It could be way too soon.
I push that worry away as the cab pulls into Delaney’s.
I’m early, but only by ten minutes tops. Barely enough time to check into my own room and head up to Mr Henley in time.
But it turns out that doesn’t matter.
I’m paying the driver before I see him. Giving my thanks as I catch Mr Henley from the corner of my eye.
He’s waiting. Watching. Making no secret of the fact that he’s staring as he waits for the car to pull away.
I gesture to my outfit before I’ve even said hello.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was in a rush. Little warning. I, um…”
He looks me up and down. “No apology necessary,” he says, “I like it.” The smile at the corner of his mouth makes it clear I’ve passed the wardrobe test.
I take a breath. “Hi,” I say.
“Good evening, Amy,” he says.
And screw etiquette, because damn if I know how a paid-for escort is supposed to act in public. I close the distance and wrap my arms around his neck, and he smells absolutely gorgeous as I press my lips to his cheek.
I pull away but he doesn’t. His hand rests on my back as he opens the door for me, and stays on my back all the way to reception.
I watch his handwriting as he checks in, love the way he flourishes his fake signature with a flick of his wrist.
I’m not expecting the receptionist to recognise me, not dressed like this, but she does.
“Will you be checking in too, Miss Randall?” she asks with one of those super professional smiles which always make me nervous.
Mr Henley looks at me, and it must be obvious I don’t know what to answer, because he does it for me.
“Miss Randall will be staying with me,” he says, and she nods.
“Enjoy your stay.”
His smile is all for me as he answers. “We will, thank you.”
It’s so strange stepping into the elevator with him. So strange to be staring up at him in just the same way I did at Grosvenor Henley in my stupid uniform on day one.
“I’m glad you could make it at such short notice,” he tells me.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I reply.
I take a breath as we step out onto the top floor corridor, and my hand brushes his as we head over to suite twelve at the far end. He takes it, his fingers possessive as they land on mine. His grip is firm. Demanding.
“I have an early start,” he tells me as we get to the door. He slides the key card into the lock. “I must be out of here by six.”
“Six,” I say, and I can’t stop smiling. It’s later than I thought, longer than I thought.
He closes the door behind us, and he’s still so close. His hands land on my waist as he walks me backwards into the room. His fingers trail up my spine as I raise my face to his.
“I’m not in the habit of mid-week appointments,” he tells me. “I have to be focused. My job is demanding.”
“Selling stationery,” I whisper with a smile. “Yes.”
His breath is warm against my lips. “I lied,” he tells me. “I’ve never been a salesman in my life.”
And it’s right there, the urge to tell him I lied too.
But the urge leaves the moment his mouth lands on mine. Fades to nothing as his hands tangle in my hair and hold me firm.
“I’ve been thinking of you,” I whisper between kisses. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
His hands land under my ass, and he hitches me, lifts me up and onto the dresser where it’s so easy for my legs to wrap around his waist. I tug his tie loose and drag it free, and my fingers are so much more certain this time as they work their way down his shirt buttons.
He breaks the kiss enough to reach inside his suit jacket, and I know he’s going for the cash, practicalities first. But I don’t want him to. I don’t want to pull away and put that money in my bag. I don’t want to cheapen this.
I push his shirt and jacket from his shoulders in one motion, and he doesn’t fight me, just lets them slip to the floor.
His body is divine. His skin so firm under my fingers, the tickle of hair so perfect against my palm. I kiss his neck, and he tastes as good as he smells. I feel his groan as my lips press to his Adam’s apple, and his stubble tickles my cheek as I sweep to his ear.
“I’m crazy about this,” I whisper, and he stiffens in my arms. “I’m crazy about you.”
“You don’t know me,” he says, and reaches for my chin. He brushes his thumb over my mouth as he stares right through me. “You don’t even know my name.”
Touché.
“And you don’t know me,” I admit. “But what’s in a name?”
His eyes are so dark. So serious.
“Amy Leigh Randall,” he says. “Thirty-four Brooklyn Road, EC1. Twenty-one year
s old. Two younger sisters, Gemma and Belle. Your mother is a nurse, works at Saint Richmond General.”
My mother is dead.
My stomach lurches. My shock is all genuine.
He brushes my cheek as he continues. “One credit card with zero balance. No driving offences. No criminal record.”
“But how do you…”
“You studied business and management,” he tells me. “But you dropped out last spring to take a position as a cattery assistant. I guess you like cats more than you like law, Miss Randall.”
“But I…”
I have no words. I don’t even like cats. I like dogs. His dog.
“I searched through your bag,” he admits. “I wanted to know who you were.”
“You searched through more than my bag,” I whisper, and he nods.
“In my line of work I have to be… thorough…” He pauses. “I understand if you wish to leave, Amy.”
But I don’t. I’ve never been further from walking away from him in my life.
“You didn’t have to tell me…” I breathe. “I wouldn’t have…”
“Known?” He isn’t smiling. He’s stern and serious, and so beautiful he takes my breath. “No, you wouldn’t have known. But you do now.”
I unbuckle his belt. “Why did you want to know me?”
He grunts as I slip my hand around his cock. I work him fast, hoping I’m doing this right. Hoping he likes this.
He rocks his hips, shunts into my grip, and he’s so hard. His cock throbs against my fingers.
“Why did you want to know me, Mr Brown?” I ask him. My voice is so soft, barely more than a hiss.
He tugs the neck of my tunic down enough to see my white lace bra. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, and it sounds pained. “Because this is sending me fucking insane.”
Oh fuck, how I smile. I work his gorgeous dick in my fingers and the dresser bashes against the wall with a thud, thud, thud as he thrusts back at me, and I smile. I smile at him.
“My name’s not Ted fucking Brown, either,” he tells me. “It’s Alexander.”
