Chapter 4
Tilly
That’s all he says, although it’s enough to get the other occupants to glance our way. I’m pretty sure it’s clear to everyone on board that the names haven’t been randomly chosen. Prostitutes turn tricks, and their clients are Johns.
Or maybe it’s not clear. I doubt anyone in this elevator is unfamiliar with the terms, but would anyone be thinking about that sort of thing? It’s clear enough that Mokushiroku — or John, I suppose — has no need to pay for sex. Unless that’s his thing.
That could be his thing, I don’t know. Until John proposed this, I didn’t think it was my thing, either. Being Emerson’s mistress makes me feel like shit these days.
It didn’t used to, though. It used to be exciting.
He once promised he was going to leave his wife for me, that I wasn’t his mistress, I was the love of his life, I just came into it too late.
He never loved his wife, he told me. It just felt like the right thing to do for his career, and it’s not like he dislikes her. They’re happy, but they’re not in love.
I believed everything except his promise of leaving her for me. I pretended like I did, acted excited about it because that’s what he wanted me to do. But I always knew it was a game.
I lead John to the room, but he keeps a hand on my back. He’s propelling me down the hall, not quite knowing where I’m going, but it’s a subtle, accurate touch.
I know this move, whether John realizes it’s a move or not. Emerson has always walked half a step behind me and used his hand to gently steer me to the room. That way, it’s less obvious that this isn’t where I’m supposed to be.
I can feel the heat of John’s fingers through my corset, and I wish I’d worn lower-cut bloomers just so he had access to my flesh there again. I want to feel his hand on my spine. I want that touch. That control. That possession.
My whole body is abuzz before I even get to the door.
John takes the key card from me and scans us in. He’s the one who opens the door, reaching above me so he can prop it open for me to enter first. I do so and immediately tuck myself in by the coat rack. It’s my room, but I know my role well enough.
If John is in any way unsure of himself or his role, he doesn’t show it. He strolls right in, closes the door, and throws the security lock. I watch as he passes me, giving me the chance to look at him as I haven’t really yet. He is—
Stunning.
He’s in those high-heeled boots that go the entire distance up his legs.
I’ve costumed enough superheroes in my life to know that they’d make anyone’s ass look good, but they make his ass look good.
The fact that his ass has the same bronze shimmer that the rest of him has, and the shimmer hasn’t highlighted any imperfections, tells me he doesn’t have any imperfections there.
Anywhere. Again, working on the sets of superhero movies gives me a unique perspective on the male physique.
I see the signs of dehydration on John, but I’ve seen that technique so many times from the men I costume — including Emerson — that I have a good idea of what John will look like once he’s drunk his body weight in water.
Softened lines, an extra ridge on his hips, but he’ll still be exceptional.
With his dark complexion, I bet he’s every bit as exquisite when he’s hydrated.
That gives me my first twinge of nerves as he enters the dining room, lifts one of those boots up onto the seat of a chair, and motions for me to approach.
He has chosen his costume to accentuate every perfect inch of himself.
Even his hair looks incredible. I can tell by the way the lighting hits it that it’s his natural hair, and he’s managed to shape his afro in a way that looks carefree but still flawless.
I am flawed. I have chosen a costume that hides every flawed inch of flesh, that’s tucked away every extra inch, that has so extravagant a hairstyle, a high pony flanked by the most extravagant curls, no one would think it strange I chose a wig for this.
It appears that I’m showing a lot of flesh — flesh that’s always been several shades lighter than my father’s or sister’s, having taken after my mother instead, but now manages to look both ashen and jaundiced — but even my bracers were deliberately chosen for their coverage.
Beneath them, I look like a junkie.
I swallow the stone in my throat but keep my eyes on John.
He’s observant. I’ve spent the last few hours trying to figure out how he’s known exactly what I need, stressing out for a while there that he might be psychic and know my entire world is melting, but I’m pretty sure he’s simply observant.
So he’ll see that my nerves are biting me a bit, that lump in my throat, but he’ll also see the way I hold my attention to him, refusing to submit in the obvious way.
He’ll see the swing of my hips, the confidence in my steps.
He’ll see the way my lips part and my eyes tilt up to him to peer through my lashes as I follow directions when he tells me to kneel at his feet.
He likes it, I can tell. He’s trying to keep a stern face, but he’s only so successful at it, the pleased smile tugging at his lips and his heavily lashed eyelids hanging low over his soft gray eyes.
“Unzip the pocket, Trixie,” he commands, and I’m thankful for my career in this moment.
It takes me only a second to see the cleverly hidden pocket on the inner seam of his boot.
I maintain my eye contact as I pull the zipper tab, but it hits me then that these boots are natural leather.
They are handmade, custom work. Probably bought on a website but cobbled to order.
These are expensive. The kind of expensive that isn’t splurged on a cosplay; the kind of expensive where you just don’t look at the price when you order because it’s unfathomable that they’d be a number you might reconsider.
He’s got money. I guess I should have known that from the perfectly fitted and blended prosthetics surrounding his eyes, but I could have written that off as a secret skillset. A social media model who specializes in this kind of thing, maybe. But not these boots.
Also, in this position, with his leg lifted and his knee tilted out, I’ve got a full view of the most horrendously constructed codpiece ever, as well as a lot of smooth skin where I’d expect hair or pinpricks of razor burn.
The bulge of his thigh and the taut interior of it.
I want to drag my tongue up that ridge of sinew.
I’m thinking I’ll be getting that opportunity soon enough, and heat pools in my core at the thought.
I dip my fingers into the pocket, expecting to find a foil-wrapped condom there. Possibly a whole strip of them, but pull out a wad of cash.
Eighty-seven dollars.
I can’t hold back my cough of a laugh. “I don’t actually need—”
“I own you,” he says before I can continue my protest. “I offered to buy you for the evening for eighty-seven dollars, and you agreed. Now take it.”
I swallow, his intensity warm and unexpected and intimidating.
I could use the money. Fuck, I’m drowning so deep in medical debt it’s not really a tangible thing anymore, but I’m struggling just to get through the month on what little I have coming in.
I’m a contract worker who hasn’t been able to work for most of the year.
But I want him to think I’m pretending to be an escort; I don’t want him to think it’s also my reality.
Do nurses play naughty nurse? Do teachers play naughty teacher? Is it so weird that an escort might play naughty escort, too?
I tuck the money into the pocket of my belt.
“Now take my boots off,” he commands, and I lower the long zipper slowly, tracing the trail of smooth, exposed leg with my other hand. No bronzer here, just miles of dark, smooth flesh.
I remove the first boot, but even after I’ve tugged it free from his foot, he leaves it propped up on the chair.
When I turn to the second boot, it puts me closer to him, and I take that opportunity to drop my eyes to his crotch, excitement pooling between my legs at the thought of what must be there.
Even if he’s not particularly well endowed, I’m betting he has strength and stamina for days. I bet he fucks hard.
Fuck, he better. The more I think about it, the more I need him to fuck me like I’m nothing but a possession, a thing. I need him to fuck me like he picked me up off the street corner and has every intention of tossing me back there when he’s done.
He grabs hold of my chin, tilts my head back up. “You are a hungry little whore. You fucking love whoring yourself out, don’t you?”
I nod in his grip, his pinky grazing my lip with the tilt.
“Have you whored yourself out to anyone else today?”
I shake my head.
He leans down to bring his face closer to mine.
His pretty eyes sparkle, but I see something manic in them, too.
He’s getting into this. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?
Because I’ll know. If that’s a used cunt, I’ll know when I’m stretching it on my cock.
So you better not be a lying whore, Trixie. ”
“No, John. I’m an honest whore.” Who bites his thumb, making him grin. Yeah, we’ve got this figured out, and I am going to be the best whore.
I anchor one hand on his abdomen, above the thong, but the stupid thing is so low that I can literally feel how he’s glued it to his skin.
My touch alone is enough to make his cock thump angrily in its confines.
With my other hand, I lower the boot zipper, stretching my arm so I can suck on his thumb.
It’s soft. I suppose I noticed it before, but everything is piecing together now. His build, his waxed skin — his legs and stomach are definitely waxed — his careless but flawless hair, his expensive boots, his soft hands.
He must be an actor.