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He leans back and stares up at me, stricken.
“Your crew’s eyes. Your employees’ eyes. All of your subordinates. It’s important to look smart. To look impressive. Do I look impressive to you?” I prop a foot up on the edge of the couch. “Are you my subordinate, Richie?”
He swallows, fights off a nervous laugh, then shakes his head. “I have no idea what I am right now other than … in some kind of alternate reality where things like this actually happen to me.”
“Yeah? Feels a little different in person, huh? I seem taller to you, right? Bigger than life?” With my foot up on the couch, my crotch in these tight white pants practically hovers over him. Strangely, his eyes are locked onto mine—not my body. “The difference between me and just some rando you picked up off the street is the added advantage—or perhaps disadvantage, in your case—of my knowing each and every one of your dirtiest fantasies.”
A stone-cold sobriety hardens Richie’s eyes.
It’s as if he didn’t, until now, realize that fact.
“Does that make you nervous?” I ask, reading the change in his eyes. “The fact that I happen to know exactly what turns you on? Even the weird stuff? Even the stuff you’d never admit outside the confines of a keyboard? Hmm … I’ll bet I can stay fully clothed in this captain outfit you love so much and just talk to you, teasing you with my words, and you’d be rock hard the whole night.”
His heart is racing.
The man is at a complete loss for words.
And he should be.
I’m working him up the exact way I would if we were online in my chat room. If a mouse button was in front of his tensed fingertip right now, I’d be banking tips every second, wringing his wallet dry from my expert-level cock-teasing.
I realize I’d better bring it down a notch.
Once things go sexual, it’s difficult to pull back.
“Of course,” I say, lightening my tone as I lift my foot off the edge of the couch, step back, and drop casually onto the armchair next to the couch, “I can also kick back with you, chew the fat, and relax with our high-dollar midnight room service, if you’d prefer.”
Richie needs a second to gather himself. “Yes.” He puts on a smile. The tension in it—and his glass irises—betray his still-racing heart. “Yeah, that’s … that’s probably for the best.”
My eyes flick down.
Prediction correct: He is rock hard.
He seems to follow my gaze, for at once, his hands go for his crotch, adjusting his dick to make his erection less obvious. “So, um …” He clears his throat. “I just, um … I want to be clear that, um … that I didn’t intend for tonight to be—”
“—an in-person private show?” I shrug. “It’s all good. No harm in having a little fun. And there’s nothing wrong with being a little sexual. After all, it’s what connected us in the first place, isn’t it? Besides, I know you don’t have ulterior motives.”
“Oh, do you?” He’s still adjusting himself. He’s probably going to have a difficult time going soft with me anywhere near him for a while—especially after what I’ve just gone and done to the poor guy. I’m basically a walking, talking Viagra now.
“Yes, I do. You’ve proven it in many ways.” I kick back in my armchair, legs spread lazily, one foot propped up on the glass coffee table, my shiny dress shoe on display. “And it wouldn’t matter if you did have ulterior motives anyway, because as you well know, I am not an escort.”
“I do know that. I respect that, too,” he adds.
“No matter how much you offered to pay.”
“No, no. I wouldn’t dream of trying to pay for you. I wouldn’t even think it. I wouldn’t want it … not like that. The room service is just a nice gesture I’m doing for a friend. Not payment. And I—”
“Oh, you’re not paying for that. I am.”
He gawks at me, for a moment forgetting his hard-on. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my guest tonight. Besides, it goes on my tab.”
“Hmm … alright. Thanks. And I fucking love Chopin’s nocturnes, by the way.” I run my finger over the music remote sitting on the end table next to me, drawing circles around the play button. “I’d give anything to see him tickle those ivories live.”
Richie seems to take a moment to exhibit surprise. I’m not sure if it’s on account of my knowing who the hell Chopin is—or that the beautiful piece of music playing right now is specifically one of his Nocturnes—but he offers me a quick smile, perhaps to cover up his shock. “I love his Nocturnes as well. But you are aware that he died over a hundred and seventy years ago, right?”
I roll my eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”
