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“Move along,” says my driver in a firm voice, the kind used for training dogs.
“Only too happy to,” he says with a sardonic laugh. “I hope you enjoy your piece of ass. I know I have.”
I wonder if this is what it would be like to be with her. Is this the kind of thing she experiences all the time? Or is it new? She seems shaken up by it, but wouldn’t a person have known it could happen? Wouldn’t a person have hesitated for this exact reason rather than take such a risk?
I put myself in the car and see that she’s sprawled out across the seats. Poor girl, she’s drunk as anything.
Don’t touch her, R, says one of my voices. The other argues and wins. I lift up her head, and sit on the seat underneath it, cradling her head between my thighs.
She makes a sweet sound and nestles in, and I feel a twinge of guilt, but not enough to make me stop. Her mouth is mere inches away from my cock. Her soft mouth. Her soft mouth that almost kissed me. One of her arms slips around the small of my back, and she’s hugging me as if I were a teddy bear.
With fear? Trepidation? I let my hand softly alight on her hair, its softness inviting me to stroke it. A sound comes from her throat, a small moan of happiness, as I let my fingers take one of her curls and tuck it behind her ear.
“Mr. King,” she says softly.
“I thought you were going to call me—”
“R,” she interrupts.
“Jordan,” I say.
“Don’t stop,” she moans and snuggles deeper into my lap. Her mouth is getting closer to my cock, and if the shaft grows any more, like it’s threatening to, it’ll meet her lips.
But she’s also so defenseless, lying there in my lap. Like a child who needs to be taken care of. And that’s part of this that I can’t deny. Dustin would be pissed as hell if he knew I was feeling these things about his daughter—that I want to take her and do all manner of unspeakable things to her. But it’s more than that too…some kind of tenderness I feel toward her that I’ve never felt toward anyone else.
I want to protect her.
Or I want to be the only one who violates her.
“Jordan, Jordan, Jordan,” I say softly as I stroke her hair. I guess we’re going to my hotel apartment here in Paris because I have no idea where she’s supposed to be staying or if anyone’s looking for her. She nestles more deeply into my lap, and I shift my hips, trying not to let my thick, engorged cock touch her soft, undefended lips.
5
Jordan
When I awaken in the unfamiliar room, I am alone. Sitting up in bed, I rub my eyes and glance around the gloriousness of this place. It is incredible—more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.
So this is Paris.
There’s no point in comparing it to my own hotel room, which I felt I splurged on. Here I could have whatever I desire delivered to me at a whim. In my hotel, I was scrounging for an apple in the morning. I bet if I called room service I could even order a seven-course meal. Even after last night, my stomach is growling. Still, my heart jumps a little at the idea. Could I manage to order anything? I wonder if they speak English in a place like this. They must, since it has to be the kind of hotel that’s full of international guests—but those guests are likely of such a high caliber they probably speak several languages each.
I each under the covers and realize I’m only wearing a bra and panties. Did R and I do anything last night? I’m embarrassed that I don’t remember everything clearly afte
r we got in the limo. Did someone yell at me? I hope I didn’t let him know how much I want him. Was I a mess? Ugh.
My hand falls to the side, and lands on a piece of paper. It’s a note.
Dear Jordan. I had to step out for business. If you’re reading this before I get back, feel free to relax in the hotel. However if you do stay, I want you to buy something in the lobby downstairs… AND I want to see evidence of your bravery. Don’t spend any money—simply tell them to charge it to the room. I insist.
You’ll need a formal dress and shoes for dinner, so that would be a good start. (Do you remember you agreed to accompany me to my business function tonight?) Key on the dresser so that you can get back in.
~ R
So his name starts with R. Right. I remember practically growling it at him last night, and I blush. I’m racking my brain trying to figure out if my parents ever called him by his first name around me. What could it be? Ray, Rock, Roland? Richard?
Thinking about seeing him tonight makes my heart flutter. I know my parents would be happy that he’s taking care of me in Paris, but there definitely is an undercurrent of something else. Or maybe I’m fooling myself, and it’s only on my side. But why would he want to spend so much money on me?
As I lie there in his bed, images from the night before start flickering through my mind. I remember lying in his lap. God, how mortifying. Him undressing me and putting me to bed. Him telling me I needed to learn to be braver as he slipped my clothes off my body, and laid me down on the bed. Did he get in with me?
