Chapter 10
Cal
‘I’m holding back here,’ I promise her as I take pity on her and reluctantly guide her hand off my dick and onto my thigh, where I keep it pressed under my palm.
‘I promise. Give me the nod and I’ll be unleashed.
But it’s got to be what you want. This attraction has to run both ways.
There are a million guys at Alchemy who’d love to give you every inch of what you need, so if you want a full audition, let’s go. I’ll line them up for you.’
I pause to let her catch her breath, because this is a lot. I’m a lot, especially for a woman who’s been with one guy for years and years. A woman who’s feeling disconnected, through no fault of her own, with her sexuality and her power.
I meant what I said. The most important thing is that Aida finds someone she’s attracted to, as well as someone she trusts. She’s skittish as hell, but I’d put money on her being into me. That’s not arrogance—that’s me priding myself on having a pretty good read on women.
She’s stunning. Not just stunning, but sexy, with those mesmerising eyes and that plump red mouth.
And, thank fuck, her ex hasn’t fully destroyed her confidence, because she’s still Aida Fucking Russell and she’s still got the star quality, the gravitas, that made her famous and that keeps people coming back for more.
I wait.
‘You’re—I find you very attractive,’ she says now. Her tone is stiff, haughty even, like she’s trying to impart her views of me in a businesslike way.
Like she’s trying to hold herself together after I basically made her touch my dick.
She gives a nervous little laugh. ‘Believe me, my attraction to you is not a problem. You’re hot—totally gorgeous.’ She waves the hand not pinned to my thigh in my general direction.
‘I’m glad it’s not one-sided,’ I tell her. And I am. Really fucking glad. That would have been gutting, handing her off to someone better suited to the job.
I can tell you right now, no one is better suited to the job of transforming this spectacular woman into a whimpering, blissed-out, well-fucked, post-orgasmic puddle.
No one.
What she can’t possibly know is quite how honest my confession just now was.
I’m holding back here.
Because I know exactly what she wants from me. I know what Gen wants from me, too. Believe me, I understand the assignment. The service that’s required of me will be a dirty-lite one, if you like.
You know. Dirty, but not too depraved. Rough, but not too rough. Dark, but not too dark.
A little good girl here.
Some open your legs there.
Perhaps even the occasional hands on the wall or show me how well you take my cock.
Vanilla with a bite.
And that’s absolutely fine. I can deliver that low-kink smorgasbord in my sleep. I can turn on the charm, and seduce her, and relax her, and make it feel like I’m coaxing, pushing, a little too hard when, really, it’s exactly what she wants.
She’s beautiful, and she’s had her needs neglected to an extent that’s pretty fucking criminal. She wants to be corrupted just the right amount, until she feels wanton and audacious and red blooded.
Quite right. And I’m absolutely the man for the job. I’ll do it with a cock of steel and a smile on my face, because it will be my privilege to bring this woman back to life.
Still, I’ll be holding back. Holding back the predator, the marauder within. The one who lurks in the shadows, scrupulously tethered in his cage as he bides his time.
Because this is about her and her needs and not about me or mine. She’s a classy, sophisticated woman who deserves a classy, sophisticated dalliance.
And that’s exactly what I’ll give her.
By my standards, anyway.
* * *
We eat light—dips and chips and antipasti—and the cocktails keep on coming.
As they do, she relaxes before my eyes. I suspect it’s the alcohol, but hopefully my little dick-trick icebreaker played its part.
I understand she’s nervous about what lies ahead, but I won’t tolerate her being nervous because she doubts my level of interest.
In her or this project.
We’ve spent the majority of the meal grazing on delicious bites and discussing the logistics of the documentary.
I didn’t fully grasp until now how much leeway she has with it.
Azure has agreed to a two-part series with her, with a loosely articulated format (mainly to-camera interviews), but the content is at her discretion, and apparently the folks at Azure are excited to see the series ‘unfold organically’ as she takes her journey.
It sounds like a tonne of artistic licence and probably the exact format she needs to explore this path.
I suspect they don’t hand that level of ownership to just anyone.
But when you’ve stunned audiences with the artistry, the insight, of your reporting for decades, like she has, I suppose you’ve earned the right to latitude.
Hearing her talk about her plans for the programme, her hopes, is fascinating. But she’s still skirting around the meat of the issue to an extent I find highly amusing.
We’ve edged closer to each other. The bar’s got even busier, but our vantage point allows us a clear view to the burlesque-slash-cabaret that’s kicked off on stage.
Right now, a guy who I think is supposed to be channeling Sexy Jesus is writhing on a pole in a loincloth.
Fair play to him—his abs must be made of steel.
The music is sultry and loud enough to justify my putting my mouth closer to her ear as I trail the arm nearest to her along the back of the bench.
‘Have you thought about how you want to kick things off?’ I murmur in her ear.
She stiffens, the edge of her glass tugging deliciously at her bottom lip. I gently remove the glass from her grip and put it on the table. There’s a droplet of liquid where the glass was, and I brush my thumb over it before sucking said thumb into my mouth as I await her response.
‘Kind of,’ she says. ‘I mean, obviously. But I’m not sure I’ve gotten it straight in my head yet.’
‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Because I have.’
She turns her head sharply towards me. ‘You have?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
It’s true. I have. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’ve thought of little else, in fact, since Gen casually dropped the bombshell that I’d be schooling one of the most spectacular women on this country’s television screens.
And I have a tentative plan.
A plan that’s heavy on caregiving and taking it slow and pampering her with just the right amount of debauchery.
A plan that’s the perfect definition of dirty-lite.
A plan I have no intention of divulging to her at this time.
Instead, I intend to fuck with her, in the best possible way, for as long as I can get away with.