Chapter 4
four
Barry
I listen to Petra humming gently in the bathroom, her shadow moving among the light that shines out beneath the door.
We’ve checked into our room. We’re minutes from going down to the welcome party being held for wedding guests.
I’m going to see relatives I haven’t seen in two years.
Some of them in over a decade. There will be strangers.
A lot of them.
After living in isolation so long, I’m nervous as hell.
But the main reason my palms are sweating?
They only had a room with one king-sized bed.
I’m sitting on it right now with my hands clasped loosely between my knees.
Hell, I was worried that sleeping in the same room with Petra, in separate beds, was going to be difficult. But the same bed?
I scrub my face with my hands, trying to ignore the memory of her mouth on my neck. Her whisper in my ear. I’m only going to say this once, but you did pay for the full Girlfriend Treatment, Barry. Normally, the experience includes unlimited sex.
Unlimited sex.
Those words have been rolling around my head like marbles for an hour.
If I gave in to the temptation, I could lose myself in Petra for two days straight.
A beautiful, interesting, funny, intelligent, compassionate virgin, mine for the taking.
She doesn’t recoil at the scars on my face.
My size and height and general bulkiness doesn’t turn her off…
Unless it’s all part of an act.
Sure, Petra doesn’t entertain clients on a regular basis, but she must know the ins and outs of professional escorting, since she grew up with it. What if she’s only humoring me? What if escorts are trained to do their job and be sensual, amiable, even when their client is…distasteful?
That must happen all the time.
This whole thing could be an act. A facade. Part of the fantasy.
Otherwise, why would this gorgeous creature imply that she wants me?
My ribcage floods with hurt, but I ignore it, knowing I’m being ridiculous. I paid for a companion. That’s exactly what Petra is. She’s doing her job. If anything, she’s doing it a little too well. But even if she’s an escort for the weekend, I’m not abandoning my morals.
Not even if we’re sleeping in the same bed.
Not even if my dick feels like it’s going to erupt every time she looks at me.
As the son of an unwed teenage mother, I know better than most how immoral it is for an older, experienced man to sleep with someone her age.
Good. Keep that in the front of your mind.
The bathroom door opens and I lunge to my feet, my heart sling-shotting up into my mouth. My plan is to get out of this bedroom as fast as possible. Down to the party where it’s safe and I won’t be tempted to fuck her.
Petra appears and my resolve shatters like a dropped vase.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
Somehow, she looks classy and sexy, at the same time.
She’s wearing this short, flowery little dress with a flouncy skirt, but from the waist up, the material is tight and structured.
It lifts her tits and shows off just enough of those creamy slopes to be tasteful, but still mind-blowingly hot.
Her legs appear buffed to a shine in the light, her delicate feet slipped into an equally delicate pair of high heels.
My cock is pounding with heat. Wicked, unspent need.
And that’s before I notice her hair, her makeup.
Gone is the copper cat eye. Instead, she’s made up like…a summer day. Hair loose, cheeks rosy and glowing. Her mouth…oh Jesus, her mouth. So pink and swollen.
I want to kiss her so badly, my tongue would roll out of my mouth if I managed to pry my fucking teeth apart.
“I told you I could pass for twenty-three,” she says, her voice a little halting. Shifting side to side, she looks down at her body. “Don’t you think so?”
I can’t speak. Only stare.
After a long stretch of silence, her throat works. “You don’t like it?”
Say something, idiot. “I like it.”
Her exhale of relief makes me feel terrible for taking too long to compliment her. “Oh. Good.”
“You’re perfect,” I all but growl. “I’m just nervous about the party. Seeing everyone.”
“Of course you are.” She comes toward me, one slow step at a time. “I promise everything is going to be fine. I’m your buffer, baby. And I can buff with the best of them.”
Why does she have to be so sweet?
Why does she have to call me baby?
Those two syllables turn my balls to lead.
Am I no better than the man who fathered me?
I attempt to wrestle back my lust and focus on the party. The reason we’re here. “There are going to be a lot of strangers down there. I’m going to make them uncomfortable with this.” I gesture to the right side of my face.
“That sounds like a ‘them’ problem.” She cocks a hip, her expression curious. “What is it about your scars that bothers you the most?”
I’ve never talked so openly about them before. Not with anyone but the doctor.
“The fact that they’re so noticeable, obviously,” I say. “The redness makes them look so angry. The scar tissue is shiny, different from the rest of my skin—”
“Red and shiny?” She reaches for my hand and tugs me toward the bathroom.
“I don’t think you should ever cover up your scars, Barry, because they’re a part of you.
You earned them being a hero. But…” I follow her into the dim, golden glow of the bathroom, the scent of her perfume invading my senses.
The cinnamon aroma distracts me so much, I allow her to position me up against the vanity before I know what’s happening.
“Just for the night, maybe we could adjust the parts that bother you most.”
When she unzips a gigantic black bag and it rolls out into a veritable drug store’s worth of makeup, my spine snaps straight. “I’m not wearing makeup, Petra.”
“Shhh.” She reaches up and strokes the side of my face, her fingertips trailing lightly down and around my scar tissue. “Trust me. I made myself look twenty-three, didn’t I?”
“Not really.”
She gasps, affronted.
“Maybe you did. But my brain already knows the truth. I only see nineteen.”
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“See? Nineteen.”
Petra sniffs. “I’m going to let you get away with being mean to me, in exchange for letting me put a little matte powder on your scars.”
“What the fuck is matte powder?”
Instead of answering me, she flicks open a little black dish.
I think it’s called a compact, but I’m not sure where I picked up that information.
Television, maybe. “It’s a tool to decrease shine and even out one’s skin tone.
I want to put on a foundation base first, but I think I’d spook you. Maybe tomorrow for the wedding.”
Petra lifts up onto her toes and taps a soft pad along the right side of my face.
I hold my breath and count the pretty gold flecks in her eyes, my pulse skipping over the concentrated furrow of her brow.
How gentle she’s being, as if I can feel anything in that region of my face.
It’s all dead. But the rest of me is not.
Against my will, my gaze moves to her ripe little mouth.
Those slightly parted lips, her gentle breath feathering my chin from below.
She sways closer to get a better angle and her tits settle against my chest.
Her hips brush mine, my erection tucked between our stomachs and she blinks rapidly, her pupils bleeding into her irises. “It’s hard again?” she whispers.
“Ignore it,” I instruct her, hoarse.
Wetting her lips, she nods unevenly and steps away. My hands curl into the fists to keep from yanking her back up against me. “Um. You can l-look and see what I did with the matte powder. Hopefully you don’t want to wash it off.”
Reluctant to take my eyes off her, I turn slightly to view the right side of my face in the mirror, surprised when…holy shit. They’re still visible, but far less livid. She’s toned down the red and eliminated the glare that draws so much attention. In just a double of dabs from her compact.
“Well?” she asks, clearly nervous.
I’m shocked to find my throat tightening. “You did good, Petra.”
“It’s a makeup miracle!” She bounces around behind me, making my lips twitch. “You can keep this compact. I have two more just like it. I’m so happy!”
“This is what you want to do, isn’t it?” I nod at her bag of tricks. “For a living.”
“Be a makeup artist? Yes.” She hums in her throat. “Maybe this is my niche. Putting makeup on men—”
Red. A sea of red envelops me in a snap.
I pluck her up by the waist, turn, and drop her onto the bathroom counter, lunging in between her thighs while her startled yelp still hangs in the air.
My chest is ripped open. In the space of two seconds, I’ve gone from amused and touched…
to unspeakably jealous. What the fuck is this acid thundering through my veins?
I’m not a violent man, but my fist is itching to punch straight into the mirror behind Petra.
“You stay away from men,” I roar behind my teeth, pressing my forehead into hers.
Her tits puff up and down. In alarm. Shock.
Christ. I’ve scared her.
I’ve scared myself.
And it’s not over. My fucking hands are shaking at the thought of her in another bathroom someday with a man who isn’t me. I’ve known her for such a short amount of time and yet, I feel the urge to kill this faceless man. I want to kill all men.
I hook my hands beneath her knees and yank her closer to the edge of the counter.
Closer to me.
The soft mound of her pussy collides with my throbbing length and she squeaks, her thighs having no choice but to be open wide around my hips.
I’ve wound her hair around my fist without conscious thought, and she looks up at me now, confused and nervous.
I happen to catch sight of our reflection over her head and immediately, I’m sickened by my monstrous behavior.
Look at us.
I’m twice her size. Maybe more.
I’m six-six, three hundred and twenty pounds of muscle.
She’s a fragile young girl, trembling in my grip. And I’m visibly enraged. Not with her, but any man she might meet throughout her life.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, ordering my muscles to uncoil. I release her hair and stroke the length of it in apology, praying for my pulse to stop sprinting. “I don’t know what got into me, Petra.”
She turns her face up to mine, studying my face with glassy eyes. “You got jealous.”
I hesitate a moment, then nod, ashamed for manhandling this petite fairy. “Yes.”
It that a dance of satisfaction in her expression? “I want a better apology for throwing me around,” she says, some added steel in her tone. “Don’t you think you owe me that?”
That takes me by surprise, but I’m further surprised to find that my cock is getting stiffer with some kind of foreign anticipation. Eager to hear what she’s going to say. Eager for her to…put me in my place. “Yes, I owe you a much better apology.”
Why do I feel like I’m going to come in my pants?
I’m supposed to be feeling shame. Regret.
Instead, my balls feel like they’re twisted into a pretzel, my breath suspended in my lungs while I wait to hear what she’s going to say.
Petra levers up slowly and rubs her mouth against mine. “I want a licked apology.”
My groan is ferocious.
It rattles up and out of my mouth.
She takes my hands and places them on her thighs, looking me in the eye while we both slowly, slowly slide up the hem of her dress, stopping at her hips. I can’t stop myself from looking down, panting at the sight of the nude, see-through thong that doesn’t hide a single soft inch of her cunt.
“Now,” she huffs, leaning back against the mirror and opening her legs wider.
And I forget she’s nineteen
I forget anything but getting on my knees and burying my face between her thighs.