Selling Out (24 page)

“Stop playing. Give me what I want. What you want.”

I expected him to deny it, to say that was what he had been
doing all along. Instead he shook his head. “I can’t let go. It would be too
much.”

He added as an afterthought, “For you,” and I wondered
whether it meant the opposite. Whether it would be too much for him.

Stroking his hair, I felt a rush of longing. “I don’t want
the watered-down version of you. I don’t want some experience you think I
should have—the careful boyfriend, the gentle lover. I want you.”

He placed openmouthed kisses on my skin. “You deserve all of
that.”

I groaned in lust and apprehension as he reached the crease
below my belly. “I don’t know.”

“Say no if you don’t want it. I’ll stop.” Though it didn’t
feel like he would when he pulled off my shorts and spread my thighs, his hands
like iron bands holding me open. It didn’t feel like he was capable of stopping
or hearing me at all, when he licked and sucked at my cunt as if he were
starving, dying, and could think of no better way to go. I bucked into his mouth,
my body confused, caught between sensitivity and arousal, between overexposure
and never having enough.

Rough groans escaped me, animalistic sounds of pain and
pleasure, nothing like the sexy moans I could make on command. I grabbed at the
sheets, searching for something to anchor me. There was no seduction from
either one of us, only desire. There was no teasing, only taking. I took
pleasure from his mouth, and he took all my reserve, all my fear and
loneliness, leaving only wild abandon and a sense of pure acceptance.

His fingers pushed inside me, rocking, working their way
between tender flesh, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to tell him, but I
couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything but the sharp ache
he drew forth. Then his mouth was over my clit, and his hands rough and
insistent, and I tumbled off the cliff, crying out in wordless relief. I could
feel my inner muscles clench around his fingers, pulling at them in an attempt
to bring him deeper. Even as my body floated in blissful stupor, I wanted him
inside me.

He rested his cheek against my hip for a moment before
sliding off beside me. Rolling to my side, I examined him. My orgasm softened
my vision, as if I were seeing him in a dream. His eyes were closed, the angles
of his face more distinct from the darkness and his arousal.

I peeled the clothes from his body with a foreign sense of
wonder. I had done this so many times but never with him. He stayed passive for
my perusal, taut with arousal but too conscious to rush me, too kind to force
me. His body was corded with bands of muscle, a sinewy sculpture dusted with
light brown hair. As I tugged his briefs down his hips, his erection hung heavy
over his lean stomach, thick and dark.

I reached over and stroked a finger from tip to base.

“Don’t,” he gasped.

I smiled lazily, echoing his words. “Do you need me to
stop?”

“God, no. Just go slow. I’m so fucking close.”

I fisted his cock, relishing the burn of his hot, silky skin
against my palm. He sucked in a breath. I stroked him with the same rhythm he
had used on himself. He bucked and moaned, delirious in a matter of seconds.

His hand enclosed mine for two strokes and then fell back
onto the bed. His head fell back too as he ceded control to me. I could see the
struggle in the lines of his neck, in his teeth, in his lip, in the grunts that
matched each downward stroke of my hand. But he must have thought it was
important to give me this power, and so I resolved to use it well.

Leaning over, I flicked my tongue over the tip of his cock,
tasting saltiness and sex as he pushed up into my fist. I let him linger there,
the head of his cock glistening and begging for more. I gave another quick lap
at the slit to match another downward thrust. Again and again, I exacted sweet
revenge for some nameless slight. For bringing me to this point where I wanted
his arousal more than his release. Where I wanted to hold him at the brink for
eternity, if only to see his eyes saturated with lust and desire and need.

I varied my licks—at the tip, riding the vein along the
side, at the base where his cock met his groin. A tease, all of it, trying to
see how far I could push him, how much he would take. It seemed limitless, his
agony, as he staved off his climax. This wasn’t the pleasurable pastime in the shower
but a fight, a struggle—an exercise in torture and devotion.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he chanted under his breath.

I loved that he swore during sex. He would occasionally
swear around me but was for the most part very respectful. Fuck respectful. I
wanted his coarseness, his crudity, every dirty thought he ever had.

“Do it,” I whispered.

“I don’t—” He gave up midsentence—gave up pretending not to
know, not to want, not to dream of owning me the way I dreamed of being owned. With
his hand behind my head, he guided me to the tip, not to lick or suck him, but
to take all of him, to swallow him down. I moaned with my mouth full of his
flesh and felt his balls tighten under my caress.

Even in this, I wouldn’t give in too easily. I went slowly,
laving my tongue along the underside but without the proper rhythm to bring him
to orgasm. It was far too early to submit completely. He understood what no
other man ever had—for me, pleasure was freely given, easily bought. It was the
withholding that measured my trust, and the permission for him to bring me in
line.

He nudged my head down, and when I acquiesced, he did it
again, over and over, until he let out a choked sound and released warm, salty
cum onto my tongue. I caressed him softly with my tongue as he shuddered
through his climax, his hands tangled in my hair, grasping and reaching as if
he couldn’t get close enough.

I felt languorous from making him come, more gratified by
his pleasure than my own. I climbed up his body and rested my chin on the
ridges of his abs.

“Well, did you survive it after all?” My voice came out
husky.

After a moment, he said, “No. Not ever, Jesus.”

Which wasn’t really a complete or coherent sentence but felt
just about perfect. We dozed in bed. By which I meant, he fell asleep almost
immediately, a stuttered snore emanating from him. Typical man. But I didn’t
have to wake him so he could tip me or anything, so I felt pretty good about
it.

Instead I could lie there and overthink everything. Was that
part of the typical, noncommercial sex experience?

What did we just do?
I asked myself, even though the faint saltiness on my tongue was answer enough.
Would everything change, or nothing? What did he feel for me, and was it
exactly the same as what I felt for him? How stressful. On the whole, I might
have preferred a couple crisp C-notes.

Well, almost. Except for the amazingly wonderful part that
made me feel bursty inside.

It was an urban legend that prostitutes don’t kiss on the
mouth. I preferred to think of it as the greatest PR campaign ever run. Since
everyone thought we never did it, we didn’t have to, all without insulting the
client or lowering our price.

But kissing is far from the most heinous of sexual acts, and
money will buy every single one of them. Every client I kissed thought they
were the one exception… Now,
that
was
the way to receive a great tip. Undercommit and overdeliver, the recipe for
success in every industry.

I had kissed countless men, endless clients, but never had I
lost myself in it. Kissing had always been a messy clash of mouth and teeth and
tongue, and never had I gloried in it.

“I want it to be real
between us,”
Luke had said, but this wasn’t real, just the opposite. Real
was flesh and blood, and this was so much more. When Luke kissed me, I ceased
being the sum of my past, and he was no longer the next man in line. I was no
longer a body to be used, and he wasn’t a grunting weight to use me. In that
moment, I was a woman, and he was a man. We were lovers with no time to bind
us, no secrets to thwart us, no enemies to hurt us—but none of that was real at
all.

The next morning, I woke up with only the ruffles for
company. I heard intermittent clicking from outside the bedroom and a low voice
I recognized as Luke’s. I padded out and found him seated at the kitchen table
with a laptop and a spread of maps and papers.

“No.” He spoke into his cell. “That will take too long. I’m
talking hours, not days. He’s weak now. The longer we wait, the more time he
has to build back up.” There was a pause. “Okay, let me know what you find.
This is it. If we’re ever going to bring him down, it’s right now.”

After setting down the phone, he stood and greeted me with a
kiss on the cheek. He wore loose-slung jeans and a soft gray T-shirt that gave
his green eyes a smoky look. His jaw was silky smooth and smelled of
aftershave. It was so domestic, so casual, that I felt my throat tightening.

I turned away. “Is there any coffee?”

“You don’t drink coffee.”

Then I remembered that he had made me tea last night. “How
do you know that?”

“I didn’t realize it was a state secret,” he said lightly,
reaching over to the stove and pouring me a mug of steaming water. He handed it
to me along with a box of assorted teas. “Sorry I don’t have anything better.”

“I’m not a tea snob. Just wondering how you know I don’t
drink coffee.”

He rolled his eyes. “I pay attention, okay? All those
meetings we had when you were my informant. You drank soda or tea or water, but
never coffee.”

“Are you always so observant?” I asked.

“Are you always this suspicious?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a detective. Being observant is part of the
job description. Besides, I was into you. By that, I mean hopelessly obsessed
and crazy into you. You tend to notice someone’s beverage choices in that
state.”

I stared, mouth agape, as he made his casual pronunciation
of being into me. What did that even mean? Besides amazing. He had already
turned back to his laptop and was squinting at the bright glare.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m not usually so slow on the uptake,
but it’s early, and in my defense, we almost died last night. Did you say you
were into me?”

He looked up, seeming slightly amused by my confusion.
“Sure. I’m pretty sure everyone knew that. Except possibly you.”

“There’s a reason for that. I just can’t think of it right
now. Oh, wait. I know. It’s because you refused to touch me or really even look
at me the entire time I was your informant, which is almost the entire time
you’ve known me.”

“That was to keep from jumping you.”

“Which would have been bad, because…”

“Aforementioned reasons.”

He sounded almost cheerful. Dear God, was he a morning
person?

“The age difference. The guilt. The impropriety, considering
my position of authority. The impossibility of a long-term relationship while
you were an escort and I was a cop.”

I had written off his objections last night, but in the
sunny light of morning, they did seem like awfully big hurdles. “And now?”

“It’s a little late for regrets.” He raised his eyebrow. “Do
you regret what we did?”

Did I? It terrified me, but I wasn’t sure that counted. It
thrilled me, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit that. “As sexual escapades
go, it was rather tame.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“You’re not the first cop I’ve slept with, if that’s what
you’re asking.”

“It wasn’t.”

I threw up my hands. “Then I don’t know what you want from
me.”

He was definitely amused. “It’s the morning after. I
declared my feelings for you. Now is generally the time you do the same for me.
Unless you don’t have feelings for me.”

There was a protocol for this?

“Is that it, Shelly?”

He stood up and approached me, blocking me against the
counter. His green eyes leveled with mine, measuring me, assessing.

“Is that all? Was I nothing more than a quick, meaningless
fuck?”

Oh God, he was going to make me say it. And if I didn’t—what
then? There were rules, apparently. Maybe he wouldn’t touch me again. “I have
feelings,” I admitted sourly.

I waited for him to throw it back in my face, to smirk or
boast. Instead he dropped a quick kiss on my lips and said, “Good.” Then he
returned to his work, adding, “There’s bread for toast or fruit in the fridge
if you’re hungry.”

Leaning on the counter for support, I caught my breath.
Could it really be that simple, one declaration, then another? Could there
really be hope for us, just two ordinary people caring for each other?

“I need to send an e-mail off. Can I use your computer?”

He hesitated for a moment before standing. He gestured to
his laptop. “Go for it. It’s not traceable.”

I pulled up a browser and typed off a quick e-mail to Allie,
asking her to check on Ella—and Philip.
Trust
but verify
seemed like a good policy with them, the self-destructive good
girl and the honorable bastard.

I believed that Philip would honor the terms of our deal,
and Adrian could play nanny with the best of them. Ella was the unknown
quantity. A girl with a crush was a dangerous thing.

But leaving her there had been more than convenience; it was
a life insurance policy. If I succeeded with Luke, she’d go back to her old
life, untouched and intact. If I failed, if I died, then the safest place for
her was with Philip. Even if she had to pay rent with her body, at least she’d
be alive.

After hitting Send, I turned my attention to the maps spread
under and around the laptop.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

“Tracing Henri’s payment from the brothels in Roseland.”

“Ah.” Not so ordinary after all. I sat down heavily at the
table.