CHAPTER FOUR
Ella
A fter the explosive orgasm, I remove my hand from under my skirt.
“Taste yourself,” my narrator growls before I have a chance to wipe my fingers on a left-over dinner napkin.
“Maybe you’d like to taste me.” I wiggle my damp fingers close to his lips. “Oh, right. You have that no-touching thing.”
“Excuse me,” he says, leaving his seat.
The door to the first-class passenger bathroom closes and locks with a click.
I picture him in there, beating off. Smiling, I sigh, exhausted from the tension slowly leaving my body as blessed sleep claims me.
When I wake, I have no idea where the hell in the world we are, but a quick look out the plane window shows water as far as the eye can see. We’re still somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.
We took off at nine-twenty-five p.m., Sydney time with a scheduled arrival in Los Angeles at five p.m. My connecting flight is a red-eye to New York.
I wonder how many brain cells I’m destroying with all this recycled air.
The attendant graces me with a platter of food placed on the tray table that pops out from the side of the seat.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I didn’t order anything.”
“I ordered for us,” the voice next to me pipes up.
Balor appears rested, with a fresh shave and shaggy hair perfectly styled. Horrified at how ravaged I must look, I curl up under the blanket someone put over me.
The attendant hands over the same tray of food and he takes it.
“What did you order for us?” The covered dishes entice me to sit up.
“Belgian Waffles with all the works.”
“Ooh.” I sit up fully and grab my utensils. “What the hell time is it?”
“That’s irrelevant since whatever the hell time it is will change in a second at the speed we’re flying.”
“Are you some kind of engineer?”
“Close, I went to MIT.” He easily reveals that tidbit but recoils like he didn’t mean for it to slip.
I lay a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. I really don’t give a shit where you went to school or what you do for a living or that you can afford a jet and these glorious custom shirts.”
He narrows his eyes on my hand, but with a lip quiver, he ignores it. Gifting me with a smile, he says, “I like how you think. Now eat.”
“Is that a command?”
“Aye.” He lifts his silver dome cover.
Breathing in the warm cinnamon aroma, I can come again. And the exquisite presentation makes it so picture-perfect, I almost don’t want to touch anything. Almost. It’s hard to believe that people line up to make those cheap waffles for breakfast in hotels.
Two thick and crispy waffles sit stacked on a plate surrounded by dainty silver containers filled with whipped cream, mixed fruit, syrup, and powdered sugar.
Thank you, Daddy.
For sending me ahead and buying me this first-class ticket. Otherwise, I’d have never met this guy who dirty talked me into an amazing orgasm and ordered me waffles the next morning.
This feels like a date. The kind I’ve always dreamt about.
“I’ll be right back.” I unbuckle myself and smooth my dress .
“Where are you going?” he asks with a sharp alarm in his tone.
I halt, slipping my shoes back on. “To the bathroom to freshen up.”
“You look fucking gorgeous. Eat first.”
“Are you always so bossy with your dates?”
A forkful of waffles layered with each of the toppings stops right at his gorgeous mouth. “ This is not a date.”
“Too bad, because you’d certainly be getting lucky.”
“I will be getting lucky in about two hours.”
“I’m getting lucky right now.” I grab the top waffle, take a bite, and sigh at the warm crunchy texture.
That earns me a stifled laugh. “Not to be rude, but how much do you charge that you can afford a last-minute first-class ticket from Australia to New York?”
I nervously play with the whipped cream. Charge. Money. To sleep with him. Right.
I’m a better liar than I thought. He really believes I’m a hooker. It’s tempting to tell him no charge, but that could turn him off. He could think there are strings attached.
But I have no idea what a hooker who can afford first-class air travel charges for a five-hour fuck. Pretty Woman plays in my head. She asked for three grand for five days or something like that. But those were 1980’s dollars.
“Considering I’m off the clock, so to speak, and it’s all gravy, let’s say one thousand dollars an hour?”
He coughs into his juice. “That’s it?”
“You’ll be paying for the room?”
“Aye.”
“And the transportation to and from the hotel?”
A bushy eyebrow lowers. “Is this some kind of volume discount?”
“Exactly.” My stomach unclenches. “I don’t usually stay more than two hours with a...client. Five hours...”
“Five hours of unbridling fucking? Still one thousand an hour?” he says, pursing his lips dabbed with left-over sugar I want to lick off his mouth.
“Uh-huh.” I lean in, but he snaps back.
“What are you doing?” His sharp tone startles me.
“You have a smidge of sugar on your mouth.” I point. “I wanted to clean you off.”
He exhales and wipes his own mouth with a fancy napkin. This no-touching thing is real.
“Terms and conditions, butterfly.”
Narrowing my eyes, I return to my waffles. “Go ahead.”
“Once we’re in the room, and I’m a paying client, I touch you. You don’t touch me. Except your mouth on my dick. No kissing.”
I want to argue that the arrangement sounds odd and pretty cold, but he thinks I’m an escort. “Okay. Anything else?”
“I come anywhere on your body I want. I take you on your hands and knees. No face to face.” He leans in closer. “And I’ll pay you ten grand.”