He doesn’t seem concerned about manners or small talk. As soon as he finished, he had zipped his pants, helped me back to my seat, and then gotten on his cell, his fingers busy across the screen, emails sent and replied in rapid succession. I curl my knees to my chest and lean against the cushion, watching the lights of Destin, then Santa Rosa Beach, then gulf-front homes, go by.
“Here.” He holds out his jacket, covering my goose-bumped legs. “You look cold.”
“Thank you.” I tuck my hands in between my thighs and wonder where we are going. Maybe Panama City Beach, though they have their own strip clubs there. Chances are, if he came to Sammy’s, we are probably almost there.
The limo slows in a bit of late-night traffic, and I watch the stark-white homes of Alys Beach, a neighborhood of the uber rich who all prefer cookie-cutter homes devoid of any color. I wonder what they do when they get drunk at their wine dinners and stumble home. Do they get lost in their mirrored maze of identical homes? During the spring, is their all-white landscape tinted yellow from the pollen?
Watercolor, then Seaside passes, the tiny communities filled with preppy teenagers on bikes, their Vineyard Vines polos bobbing through the crowded streets. I watch two girls perched on the hood of a Range Rover, cell phones in hand, the screen’s glow lighting up sun-burnt young skin. I want to roll down the window and scream at them to all go home, to study, to appreciate the fact that life blessed them with fucking perfection. They’ll never be in a polyester minidress and leopard-print hooker shoes, trading dignity for greasy bills.
I close my eyes and relax against the headrest.
NATHAN
These kids are assholes. Not that he can talk. Twenty years ago, he was stealing sips of bourbon in the fucking box at the Derby. Spending spring breaks in Kiawah, and fingering Stacy Hanover against the side of her dad's Ferrari on Christmas Eve.
His parents’ death almost saved him, in the twisted cruel way that God worked. Their car accident cut off the cash flow, and made him realize exactly how quickly a trust fund could be depleted. He’d been practically broke when his sister had bailed him out, loaning him ten million dollars and believing in his vision of redeveloping a struggling neighborhood in Nashville. That loan, and her faith, had been the building blocks of Dumont Development, and the man he had become. Her investment, and her expectations, were the only things that had saved him from the future that waits for every one of these rich teenage pricks.
He looks away from a cluster of giggling teenagers and over to the tiny curl of a body, pressed against the limo's opposite door. She couldn't be farther from him, her position one that lights every protective fuse in his body. He turns away, his hands instinctively tightening into fists. He's not here to protect her. He's here to use her. And the sooner she understands that, the better.
CHAPTER 6
We end up in Rosemary Beach, at a fancy hotel where a valet opens my door and helps me out while staring at my legs. I clutch my purse to my chest as we ride up the elevator, this time with only one bodyguard beside us.
I lean toward Nathan and lower my voice. “Is the bodyguard staying in the hotel also?”
He glances up from the phone in his hand. “Does it matter?”
I shift, watching the numbers climb on the elevator’s display. Does it matter? Probably not. He seems to be there to protect Nathan, not myself. If anything, should a bad situation arise, it’d be better to fight off one man than two.
The elevator sounds, and the doors open. The bodyguard gestures me forward, and I step out.
CHAPTER 7
“Stop.” Nathan’s word is a growled command and I instantly obey.
We are just inside the suite, a pale room decorated in blues and creams. The windows are dark, and in them, I see a small reflection of myself, a thin slice of vulnerability, framed by the two men. To my left, a large dining table. To my right, Nathan. I look to the table, and wonder if the tremble in my bones is visible to the men.
His hand touches my back, sliding my hair over, pulling the strapless minidress down, over my breasts. There is the light dig of his fingernails, and then the clasp of my swimsuit style top is undone.
I turn toward him, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches up and unties the strings around my neck, his fingers trailing over my skin as he pulls it away. I wet my lips, stalling. “We haven’t discussed money.”
“That didn’t stop you from sucking my cock.” He doesn’t smile, and the first real stab of fear hits me.
I shiver in the cool air, feeling the fabric brush against my nipples as my top falls at my feet. “I don’t normally do this,” I whisper.
“What, leave the club?”
“No. Sex. That isn’t something I do with clients.” And not something I am going to do for free. My body argues with my mind, physically pulled to the man, my hands wanting to reach forward right now and take his cock into my palm. My mind understands the reality of my situation and pushes back, winning the fight.
His eyes are thousand-foot depths with flecks of blue domination in them, his tan skin stretching over perfect features as he speaks. “Ten grand.”
I swallow as his hands slide down my sides, pushing the minidress lower. I feel a cheap stretch of fabric as he slides the polyester over my hips and then drops it to the floor. His fingertips, a little rough on their surface, trail back up, over the curve of my ass, and I feel them dip beneath the lace of my panties. Ten thousand dollars. A figure I can’t turn down. Not that, at this stage in the game, turning him down is necessarily an option. “Okay.” I’m not sure if I actually speak the words or just mouth them.
He yanks outward, the quick motion startling me, a ripping sound heard, and then I am naked, feeling a tickle of lace as the ruined cloth that was my panties drops to the ground between my heels, my eyes passing over his shoulder and colliding with the man who stands at attention, watching us.
“Your man,” I whisper, feeling the strength of his hands as they move over my body, gentle and caressing, my breasts the current object of their focus. I am a woman conditioned to touch, conditioned to stolen gropes and caresses, some worshipful, some crude, all of which occur in the smoky air of Sammy’s. Here, in a room that smells of ocean and money, with a man that reeks of class and power—every point of contact is magnified, my senses overwhelmed, my heart crying out for more.
Ten thousand dollars. I hope he is gentle. I hope he is kind. I hope, what is about to happen, isn’t something that I will regret for the rest of my life.
His fingers spread, running lightly over my nipples, which stand to attention under his touch. “He stays.”