Alexander

I spend my entire working life facing people down without so much as breaking a sweat. I never lose a stare-off, haven’t done in all my years in the courtroom.

I don’t do nervous. I’ve never done nervous.

But tonight, as I check the knot of my tie is positioned just fucking so, I’m definitely feeling a shiver of trepidation.

I don’t know why this one night is even registering on my radar. It should be nothing more than a dirty little fuckfest, no different to any other time I’ve reached in my pocket and paid generously for the experience I want.

But her lucky stone is in my trouser pocket. Her pretty eyes are in my head.

The promise of a second round on her tight little cunt has my dick standing to attention before I’ve even fastened up my cufflinks.

I feel the ridiculous urge to buy her something. A beautiful bouquet of orchids like the ones downstairs. Belgian chocolates maybe.

But cliché gifts seem cheap and unoriginal, and a girl like Amy is anything but cheap and unoriginal. I have a half a million shaped dent in my bank account to prove it.

I take a bundle of notes from my safe and slip them into my jacket pocket, Claude’s ridiculous compulsory tip sorted.

There’s a niggle in my gut as I say goodbye to Brutus, and that niggle won’t let me cross the threshold.

I already know what I’m going for as I head upstairs. I input the code to my cabinet and my eyes sweep immediately to the second shelf down. A polished fire opal, its colours so glorious in the light.

This stone transfixed me, captured my eye at an auction in Dubai almost a decade ago.

I had to have it, at any cost. I paid well over the fucking odds for it, but I didn’t care. I felt nothing but relief as that gavel came down.

It’s a fitting gift.

I wrap it in a burgundy silk handkerchief, slipping it into my pocket along with the cash.

The niggle in my gut is gone when I face my front door for the second time.

But not the nerves.

The nerves are still right fucking there.

* * *

Melissa

I had to buy a dress today. I chose a pretty red number that fits tight at the bust and flares over my hips. Dean approved in the store this morning, and even Joe clapped. A definite win.

And so was the red lipstick to match.

I picked up the shoes and handbag at a discount store on the way back home, and they may have been bought on a budget, but I feel just fine as I head on through Delaney’s reception with a smile on my face.

Round two.

I’m really going in for round two.

I’ve had a smile on my face all day, and I’m happy. Lighter than I’ve felt since… just since.

It feels so strange to feel this light inside.

I count down the minutes in my assigned room on the first floor, my eyes twinkling through my last second mirror check, and then I’m up and away, heart pumping as I make the ascent to the top floor.

Mr Brown in suite seven tonight – Claude’s confirmation email told me so.

I count down the doors. Ten, nine, eight.

Seven.

Door number seven is in an alcove on its own.

It swings open as soon as I knock, and I’m not looking at the floor today. My eyes meet his in a heartbeat, my smile bright as he stands aside to let me in.

“Amy,” he says.

Black suit, white shirt, black tie. A ghost of stubble.

“Hi,” I say, and the flutters in my tummy are too much. I take a breath.

“You look considerably more at ease this evening,” he says, and there’s a smile there, just a hint. I can’t stop staring as he crosses the room. “Champagne?”

He pulls the bottle from an ice bucket before I’ve answered, pouring me a glass even as I’m nodding.

“Please.”

I notice the case on the bedside table. I notice how his scent lingers in the air between us. I notice the way he’s looking at me, as though he’s a cat about to pounce.

It’s familiar here, the layout of this suite is similar to the one previous. Virtually identical.

I drop my handbag on the dresser.

He already has a tumbler of water. “Cheers,” he says, and I raise my champagne.

“What are we toasting?”

“A long and mutually beneficial working relationship,” he tells me.

Long.

“To us,” I say simply, and his jaw tightens. He closes the distance to clink my glass, and stays there, his body so close to mine.

The scent of him makes me heady, and so do the bubbles on my tongue.

I want to kiss him, but I don’t know how.

I want to slip my hands inside his jacket and hold him close.

I want to feel the hardness of him against my belly.

But I stand still. Waiting. Wanting.

“I’m assured you’ve accepted a six-month exclusivity term,” he says. His voice is super professional. Guarded.

“Yes.”

“I trust you read the small print?”

I attempt to recall the bits I noted, but my mind is fuzzy. Excitement and nerves aren’t the greatest recipe for flawless recall. I tell him so with a smile, and hope that excuses my ignorance.

“Excitement?” He seems taken aback, even though his gaze is steady and his jaw is firm. It’s just something in his eyes, something I can’t put my finger on.

My cheeks are burning, and I don’t know what to say. I don’t have a smart quip to hand, or some sexy one-liner that makes me sound like a sex goddess. I don’t have anything to offer him but the honest truth, which is such a joke in itself given the route I’ve taken to get into his bed in the first place.

My eyes are on his, my throat dry as I cough up my answer.

I hope he can’t see my pink cheeks under my foundation. “I, um… I wanted to see you again.”

No. That’s not the truth. Not anywhere near.

I love you. I’ve always loved you. I can’t stop thinking about you.

I’m Melissa Martin, the girl who bought you a cupcake. The girl who ironed the shirt you’re wearing. The girl you bummed a cigarette to outside my school gates.

He reads people for a living, and I know it. I can feel how he’s reading me right now.

His eyes are dark and fierce, the steel of his jaw just as intimidating as it was in the meeting room weeks ago.

My confidence deflates, my breath unsteady as I dip my head. I’m back to staring at his feet, the mirror shine of his brogues so stark against the cream carpet.

I feel the heat of him. I feel his breath on my hair.

And then his fingers are under my chin, tipping my face to his.

“Flattery is unnecessary.”

My eyes widen. “But… it’s not…”

His stare could cut me in half and leave me bleeding on the floor.

I want him to kiss me. I want him to wrap his fingers around my throat and take away my ability to speak any more stupid words.

But he doesn’t.

He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out an envelope.

“I like to get the practicalities out of the way first,” he says, and I feel weirdly sad as I take the money from him. Feel strangely deflated as I thank him and drop the bundle in my handbag. He finishes up his water as I clasp it shut. “I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced in the aftermath,” he says.

“Tender,” I admit. “But it was no problem.”

“Good to hear.” He clears his throat. “In other practicalities, you’ll be staying until morning. We’ll meet at this time every weekend.”

“Okay.”

“If you’ve revised your hard limits after our last encounter, now is the time to air them.”

I shake my head. “No revisions.”

He doesn’t understand me, and I know it. I can see his mind whirring behind those dark eyes, digging and reasoning and trying to fit my pieces together. I feel it. I feel him.

But he won’t. He can’t.

He’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Without any of them.

“You’re quite extraordinary,” he tells me, and I feel that, too.

“So are you, Mr Brown.” I can hardly breathe. I can hardly think. I can hardly do anything but yield to the way my body feels when he’s near.

I watch his throat as he swallows. I watch his mouth as he takes the breath I’m craving.

My body moves as his does, my tummy fluttering as we meet in the space between us, and my hands really do slip inside his jacket, my mouth already open for his as he lowers his face to mine.

I’d burn all the cash in my handbag for one single moment like this.

I’d give him everything I owned just for one breath of his breath.

And I think he knows, somewhere deep inside. I think he knows this isn’t Amy Randall, some random girl being paid for sex with a stranger.

I think he knows he knows me, because he groans when his fingers twist in my hair, and I feel his heartbeat against my shoulder. It’s fast, it’s really fast.

Nearly as fast as mine.

He tugs my dress up and over my head, and unclips my bra and drops it loose. His fingers hook inside my knickers and shimmy them down my hips, until there’s only me, naked in discount shoes. He parts my thigh with his, and the fabric of his trousers is so soft against my pussy. He hitches my ass and holds me tight, and I rock against him, loving the swell of his crotch against my belly.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders for leverage, and he takes my weight, grinds against me until I’m panting into his mouth, my eyes hazy and unfocused as he urges me faster.

I’m going to come in his arms before he’s even taken his jacket off, and he wants it, I know he wants it.

“Horny girl,” he breathes, and I shudder.

My clit grinds against his thigh. My chest presses to his as I suck his tongue into my mouth.

I lose my mind as I tip over the edge, squirming against him without a scrap of reservation as I moan like the whore I technically am.

And when I stop, he doesn’t. He doesn’t let me go as I breathe ragged breaths into his mouth. He doesn’t let up his grip on my ass as he walks me backwards to the bed and lowers himself on top.

His tie falls between my tits and tickles me. The lapels of his jacket are smooth under my fingers.

“You like the suit,” he comments, and I nod.

“I love the suit,” I tell him, and I guess that’s why he stays in it. I guess that’s why he unbuckles his belt and pulls his cock free with his clothed flesh against my nakedness.

I groan as he pushes inside, but my pussy is ready for him this time. I grunt with discomfort at the stretch, but he’s hard and fast, shunting deep as my thighs part to take him.

“Fuck me,” I hiss.

And he does.

He fucks me so hard I bite his shoulder to quell the grunts, his ear against mine as he takes me. I take his ass in my hands and urge him deeper, even though it fucking hurts, and I can hear the noises my pussy is making, the wet slaps as he pounds my flesh.

“This is insane,” he growls, and it makes me smile.

He has no idea.

“I love it,” I whisper, and he lifts his face to search my eyes.

I hold him, one hand in his hair as my thumb brushes his jaw, and there’s nothing I can do to hide how much I want him. Nothing in the world I could do to play this cool.

So I don’t.

I kiss him. Hard.

He shudders.

I stroke his face and he groans.

I wrap my legs around his waist and roll my hips to take him deeper, and I’m groaning too.

He comes with his forehead pressed to mine.

“Fuck!” he says with a grunt and his eyes closed tight.

He’s tense as he explodes, his whole body taut as his heart races through his shirt.

And then he collapses. I love taking the weight of him, love the way he crushes me into the sheets.

I listen to him breathe, my fingertips teasing the back of his neck as he calms.

When he meets my eyes his are no longer cold.

“I have a gift for you,” he says.

* * *

Alexander

I feel completely fucking unhinged as I prise myself from her arms.

I feel like I’ve just been inside Amy’s fucking soul, not just her pussy.

She’s either the best hooker in the world, or the worst – either playing a straight up scam with world-class stealth, or falling in deep with the man who popped her cherry.

I’m not sure which I’m most afraid of, and I’m no longer nervous. I’m fucking petrified.

And yet I can’t fucking stop.

Her smile is gentle. Her fingers brush my arm as she rolls to face me. “A gift?”

She’s still breathless. Her lips are puffy from kissing so hard.

I prop myself on my elbow before I can think better of it, dipping straight into my inside pocket for the fire opal. Her eyes widen as she catches sight of the handkerchief and she gasps when I tumble the gemstone free. It lands on the bed between us, and her fingers dither halfway, her mouth open.

“But this isn’t…” she starts. “This can’t be…”

“A gift,” I tell her, and press it into her open hand. “A lucky stone to replace yours.”

“Fire opal,” she whispers, and my heart starts pounding again. “It’s too much…”

I hate those words.

I hate the way they make me feel.

Over-generous. In too deep.

Rebuked.

Like leaving vintage wine on a kitchen island and finding a thanks but no thanks note when you get home.

“Do you like it?” I ask, and my tone is harsher than I intended. I register the shock on her face.

“It’s beautiful,” she tells me. She runs her thumb over the smooth face, back and forth.

“Don’t offend me. I want you to have it.”

And I do fucking want her to have it.

I want her to carry a piece of me with her, in her handbag, everywhere she goes. I want her to carry that ridiculously priced gem around every day, checking just to make sure it’s still with her.

The likelihood is that it will never stay in her handbag, and I know it. She’ll probably shove it on a windowsill somewhere, maybe in a drawer for safekeeping.

Maybe she’ll even sell it on to a raw stones specialist. Maybe I’ll find it listed at my next specialist auction.

But none of that matters.

What matters is the way she’s looking at me. The shock in her eyes as she realises I’m being serious, that this beautiful stone really is for her.

“One of your collection?”

“Yes.”

“Is this your favourite?” she asks, and I know I’m definitely fucking insane when I answer her.

“One of them.”

“Thank you. I’ll treasure it,” she says, and then she smiles.

My emotional discomfort eases the moment I see the pleasure in her eyes.

She loves it just as much as I do, maybe even more. She tips it to the light and the red inclusions sparkle.

She sighs a happy sigh. “It’s lucky,” she tells me.

Her contentment makes me smile. “How do you know?”

She stares me right in the eye as she answers, and I was right. Her fucking soul is swallowing mine whole.

“Because it’s from you,” she says.