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Her life really was pitiful if such pleasure could be so easily given.
I hated the zing of the question that rose from the back of my mind. The question of when I last felt such pleasure myself, even if hers was so fucking pitifully obtained.
“Thank you again, sir,” she told me as I rinsed the shampoo clear. “It really does feel great to be clean.”
I turned off the flow of water and handed her a towel from the rack, leaving her to rise and wrap herself as I unbuttoned my soaking shirt. Her eyes were on mine as I removed my cufflinks and placed them neatly on the windowsill. They were on my torso as I shrugged the fabric clear and tossed it to the floor by the towel rack.
“Use the toothbrush in the pot and dry yourself off thoroughly before you get in bed,” I barked, dropping my trousers with my back to her as I headed for the shower and turned the jets back up. She remained in the corner of my vision as I lathered myself up with the same ferocity I’d shown her minutes earlier. I didn’t grace her with a single look as she did as she was told at the bathroom sink.
My toothbrush.
I couldn’t believe I’d actually instructed her to use my toothbrush.
Her efforts were serious. She brushed her teeth for an age before swilling her mouth out and turning her attention back to her towelling.
I felt her eyes all over me as I lathered my swollen cock and made sure not to grip too fucking tightly. It was only when I’d finished washing my hair and reached to turn off the water jets that she seemed to realise how long she’d been gawking. She abandoned the towel on the rack and retreated to the bedroom in a hurry.
She was under the covers and staring at the bathroom door when I’d done my own teeth and towelled myself dry enough to head on through after her.
I flicked off the overhead lights in favour of bedside lamplight and climbed in my own side, stretching out beside her as she rolled to face me.
The distance on the mattress between us thrummed. I could feel her thoughts churning over how much more she would have to deliver this evening.
The answer was nothing.
I told her as much.
The answer was that the sixty days were about money from end viewers and performances on webcam, not for personal pleasures off screen in my private chambers.
“Our prior interactions were merely for training and testing,” I said with a flat tone, allegedly disinterested. “I am concerned with my clients’ pleasure. Not my own. Your being here is for end users and certainly not for me, sweetheart.”
I expected at least some relief. Not for the hurt and embarrassment that flashed across her face.
“But I… I thought you…”
“You thought what?” I prompted. “Thought I was personally interested?” I forced a laugh. “This is a business, little girl, not a fucking hobby.”
I raised a leg under the covers to hide my still present hard on.
Again, I could feel those thoughts ticking over in her head. Tick-tocking. Spinning like dancing pixies behind her eyes.
I changed the subject.
“Was the pasta sufficient? Your nutrition is essential if your performance is going to be worthy of the viewers for the coming weeks.”
She nodded. “Yes, thank you, sir.”
“You can earn nice meals here,” I said. “You can also earn the reward of eating them at your own leisure.”
“Thank you, sir,” she repeated.
My fingers would have gladly forced pasta into that wet little mouth all over again, but I kept my tone nonplussed, a professional at work and nothing more.
“Sleep,” I instructed. “Tomorrow will require another serious performance from you.”
She shuffled. Edged a little closer.
Her eyes were filled with something more in that moment.
Filled with her afresh.
Paige Emmerson.
Student.
Young woman struggling to make her way through life.
Sister.
I knew what was coming before it came, but oh fucking hell she didn’t know what was coming in return.Chapter ThirteenPaigeI picked the wrong moment, not that there ever could have been a right one with a man like Brandon Grant.
I was lulled into a false sense of security. Lulled into the moment by a man who seemed calmly business-like as he lay beside me.
It wasn’t just about the business, and I knew it. I felt it.
It was underneath his cold tone as he told me I was nothing more than a cash cow to make him money on screen. Underneath the iciness in his eyes as he told me this was business for money and nothing more. Not about pleasure. Not about want. Not about me.
But I knew it was about more than that. I’d felt his hardness, and that wasn’t just for the cameras. I’d seen the swell of him in the shower and I’d felt it in his touch on the mattress earlier; it was about so much more than the people watching from a distance.
