Chapter Seven
In which Sloan is rewarded for "putting herself out there."
Ivy/Sloan…
What just happened?
A million Euros? That can’t be right. Someone just shelled out a million Euros for one night? Oh, my god, I’m not hot or kinky enough for that kind of bid to make sense. Suddenly, my biggest worry isn’t having sex with a stranger. What if he demands his money back?
Standing there under those lights already took everything I had. The feel of my flesh trying to crawl off my body while I heard the guttural laughter and the shouts from the audience. My stepfather always tried to make me feel like nothing, but this is worse. It’s like I’m no longer human, just a thing to entertain them for the night.
I’ve had a total of two boyfriends, for fuck’s sake! I remember thinking after my first time, “Is that all?” I tried to read articles about how to be better in bed, thinking I was the problem. The first time I tried something new, my boyfriend at the time got mad and accused me of trying to take over.
Am I really going to be able to do this? Not only sleep with a complete stranger but do… what was it, spreading bar things?
Hell.
What else did I agree to on that list? Am I a prostitute now?
Sex workers never get any judgment from me. They’re just doing their job, like everyone else. But how am I ever going to look at myself again without disgust?
You’re doing this because Nate needs you. Stop whining and play your part.
The stylist finishes touching me up and gives me an encouraging smile. “A million Euros! Ben fatton , well done. That is a record, you know.”
“Really?”
“ Si , try to enjoy yourself. Your buyer looks very handsome.”
Cringing at the word “buyer,” I smile weakly and let one of the bouncers guide me to the waiting area in that lovely library room.
The other girls are milling around, talking to the club member who bought them. Some look really old, a couple look sweaty and a little drunk. There’s a man just finishing his financial transaction with Signore Mancelli, looking impatient and irritable. He turns to look at me and I suck in a gasp.
Well, shit. He’s gorgeous. Tall and hugely muscled, wearing a suit that’s clearly bespoke because normal suits don’t fit over shoulders like his. Black hair with reddish tints in the light, dark eyes, dark like he lives in the shadows doing nefarious things.
This guy is everyone’s type.
Slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket, he strides toward me, his long legs eating up the space and making me back up two steps. He must see that he’s freaking me out because he slows down, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Ivy. You’re even more beautiful up close.” His voice is deep and smooth, I can’t really hear an accent, maybe something slightly British.
“Thank you?” I wince. “Um, thank you. You’re a very pleasant surprise yourself.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his stern mouth.
“Shall we go?” He puts his hand on the small of my back and his touch jolts me forward. His hand is warm and firm and when I try to step away from it, his fingers dig in subtly, a warning.
He leads me through a series of halls, all dimly lit. I see why when we pass a group of people staring raptly at a huge viewing window into a room where one of the girls from the auction is tied to a black leather bench, getting flogged by her buyer. Based on her blissful expression, she’s enjoying it but the whole scene makes me stumble on those stupid high heels again.
His hand moves to my arm, steadying me. “Careful, darling.”
“What’s- what’s your name?” I try to sound confident, though all the courage I’d tried to build up is escaping like air from a balloon.
He’s silent for a moment. “Michael.” He sounds amused, though I’m not sure why.
“N- nice to meet you, Michael.” He leads me into a room furnished with an elaborate four-poster bed with thick, heavy wood posts covered in a sumptuous red velvet cover. The bed has a dozen pillows piled up, some with shapes that don’t seem to make sense. Other than a big wing chair and a dark wood armoire, the room is bare. It does not have a viewing window, for which I am profoundly grateful.
He’s opened the armoire and looking through whatever’s inside and I get a chance to ogle him. A dark gray suit and a crisp white dress shirt on a man is my kryptonite. Maybe this won’t be so terrible after all. His sleeve slides up as he reaches for something and I see a tattoo peeking out from his shirt cuff. A dagger that looks like it’s impaling his skin.
“Sit on the bed.”
His back is to me, but when I don’t move, he says, “Now, darling. Do as I say.”
A million Euros. Nate will get better. It’s just one night.
Gingerly seating myself, I put my hands on my lap, focusing on my breathing.
Putting something on the bed, just out of my view, he stands over me, cupping my cheek. “So beautiful,” his voice is a little raspy. “Are you going to be my good girl?”
“Y- yes?” I don’t know what I expected, maybe that we’d talk for a minute, at least a bit more than exchanging first names. There’s a tray with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and an assortment of cured meats and cheeses, but he doesn’t even glance at it. “Do you think I could have a glass of wine?”
His dark brow rises, but he nods, walking over to uncork the bottle and pour me a glass. I hold my hand out for it, but he cups my chin in his hand.
“Open your mouth.” Putting the glass to my lips, he makes me drink as he holds it, watching my throat work as I swallow the wine. It’s a red, smooth, and rich. Naturally, they would serve nothing but the best here. It still ends up tasting like ashes thanks to my anxiety, but maybe I can drink enough to make the next few hours easier.
After he lets me drink half a glass or so, he pulls it away. “Close your eyes.”
When I do, he slips something silky over my eyes, running a finger under it to make sure it fits snugly. I feel his hands on my hips lifting me to the center of the bed.
“Lay back against the pillows.”
“You’re a man of few words,” I smile weakly, but I scooch back until I feel the pillows against my back.
“That’s because I’m more interested in admiring you than talking.” His voice is very close and I startle a little. I didn’t even hear him move, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. He smells like mint and scotch, clean cotton, and expensive cologne. He presses a rough finger against my lips, as if telling me to be silent, then the calloused tip of it slides over my chin, down my throat and between my breasts. His hand slides under my dress, cupping one breast as his thumb moves over my rapidly stiffening nipple.
It’s just biology, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything.
When his mouth fastens over my other nipple, sucking at it through the lace of the dress, I yelp. His tongue is so warm, almost hot against my skin and I can feel the tip of his tongue playing with my suddenly and painfully sensitive nipple. When he growls, the vibration travels from his mouth to my skin like an electric shock.
My hands fly up, trying to grab something to hold onto, something to anchor me and he takes my wrists, pulling them over my head. “Hold onto the bedrail, sweet Ivy. Don’t move them. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sir? Where did that come from?
“Good girl,” he whispers in my ear before giving the lobe a sharp nip, making me yelp.
The blindfold is wildly disorienting and I grip the bedrail tighter. I can feel his breath on the bare skin of my chest and the lacy material of the dress sliding away, the rough feel of his hands, squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples, and chuckling every time I jump.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and for the first time, I can hear a tinge of something else in his accent. Just a soft burr that could be Irish, maybe? Scottish? Then his hands push my breasts together and his hot mouth swoops down on my nipples, biting and pulling and I can’t think of anything at all.
“Bad girl.”
“Huh?” I’m panting, embarrassingly eager and disappointed that he stopped until I realize one of my hands is gripping his shirt.
“If you can’t behave, I’ll have to tie you.” He sounds amused by this, rather than displeased and before I can think of an objection, I feel a soft rope twine between my wrists, binding me to the headboard. “Now be quiet, sweet lass or I’ll gag you.”
I suddenly remember that scary list of all the things he could use to gag me and I gulp, nodding rapidly. His knee pushes mine apart and his hands move again, sliding up the thin skin of my inner thighs, lifting the dress out of his way until I feel his thumbs stroking over the nearly non-existent panties I’m wearing.
“Such a good girl, you’re wet already,” he murmurs approvingly. He slides down my body, placing kisses on my stomach until his shoulders are blocking my legs open and he’s blowing a stream of hot air against the wet panel of my undies.
Oh, my god, I am wet! What is wrong with me? Something cold taps against my hip bone and before I can react, he’s cut off the only scrap of silk and lace left between my unprotected lady garden and his mouth. When he taps his finger against my clitoris, a… zing shoots up my spine, an electrical charge that makes my center throb like a heartbeat.
Sucking in a desperate breath, I try to keep quiet. I don’t want him to gag me. He licks me, a long, greedy sweep of his tongue from my channel to my clitoris, and back again.
“Sweet as candy, this pussy,” he growls as my back arches and I let out a long moan. His finger slides up inside me and I feel his lips back on my clitoris, sucking it into his mouth and tugging lightly.
“Mmmm…” Pressing my lips together, I try desperately to be quiet but no one has put their mouth on me before. It always seemed too personal and now a complete stranger is licking at me like I’m an ice cream cone and based on his pleased grunts, he’s enjoying it as much as I am. His thick finger curls, pushing hard against the delicate, sensitive places inside me and then he adds another one.
“Come, my sweet, good girl. Come for me.” I feel his mouth moving against my wet lips and he runs his bristly chin over my painfully sensitive clitoris and I do. I come with a gasp and a shriek and tugging mindlessly against my tied hands because the heat barreling up my spine and back down to my center feels like my entire lower half has detonated into a million pieces and my brain scatters with them, riding wave after wave of pleasure.
“Please, Michael…” I moan, “Please, no more. Let me… I gotta catch my breath.”
There’s a low, guttural chuckle and he adds a third finger inside me. “Not yet. Fuck my fingers. Work yourself on my hand.”
They curl inside me and then spread, stretching me and he’s fucking me, hard and fast, and when his lips fasten around my clitoris and he bites it, very gently, I scream. Like a banshee. Like an insane person because nothing could feel this good.