Chapter Three: A Date with Mr. Armani

The Plaza’s lights dazzled Pearl. She ascended the red-carpeted stairs leading into the hotel’s main lobby, trying not to squint as she glanced around. Having only ever driven past the place — en route to more affordable entertainment venues — she had no idea where she would meet someone, or if she needed some kind of reservation to get in.

Hopefully not. Because she doubted that the reservation — if there was one — would be under ‘Mr. Armani’.

Why the hell hadn’t she asked more questions, like his name? Those infuriating initials on his business card? What the hell he wanted with her?

She was starting to feel way too sober to be dealing with all of this right now. The dope had worn off, taking with it that blissful cocoon of couldn’t-give-a-damn-but-I-could-really-use-a-cookie.

And the dress?

She’d never in her life felt this out of place, this conspicuous, this… unsettled.

“Hi, uh…” Pearl cleared her throat and tried again. The receptionist couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off Pearl’s shimmering waistline. “Is there a… waiting area? I can’t remember the name… I’m meeting someone there.”

“The Palm Court is right over there.” The receptionist pointed an imperious finger. “Who can I say—”

“No, that’s it. Palm Court. Thanks.” Pearl hurried away before the receptionist decided she had more questions or accusing stares to direct at Pearl’s dress.

She came to a halt a few feet from the entrance. A maitre d’ barred her way.

“Hi.”

“Evening, madam. Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m just waiting for someone.” Pearl pointed at the distant, palm-framed bar. “We’re meeting here at eight.”

“The name of the reservation?” the maitre d’ prompted.

Mr. Armani?

“Uh, I think—” Pearl began, taking a hesitant step back.

Someone brushed past her: the receptionist walked up to the maitre d’, glancing at Pearl as she whispered something into the man’s ear. The man’s eyebrow twitched and he gave a small nod. The receptionist gave Pearl a tiny, tight smile as she returned to her post.

“You may have a seat at the bar,” the maitre d’ said, gesturing.

“Thanks.” Pearl looked back over her shoulder, but the receptionist had disappeared behind a ridiculously huge flower arrangement.

Weird.

The Palm Court was just as brightly lit as the reception area, the air scented with wafts of unidentifiable food and cologne. Pearl headed for the circular bar in the center of the enormous room, Cheryl’s heels sinking into the carpet with every step. She collapsed onto the first available seat and let out the breath stagnating in her lungs since she’d stepped inside.

The name was highly original: the place had several potted palms strategically placed throughout. Everywhere she looked, tables and chairs and chandeliers and orchids slapped her in the face. It was overwhelming, stunning, disorientating.

Chatter filled the room, seeming too loud to be coming from the tables clustered around the tall palms, or those so neatly arranged on the vast carpeted floor.

“Something to drink, ma’am?”

Pearl snapped her head straight, giving the bartender a wide-eyed stare.

“What’s good?” she managed.

The bartender eyed her for a moment, his eyes skipping over the silver-encapsulated mounds of her breasts, her hair, her makeup free face. Then he gave her a slightly frosty smile.

“Perhaps a Cosmopolitan?”

Determined not to get freaked out by the bartender’s psychic powers, she nodded mutely.

He swung around and went to work. She caught sight of a few of the bottles he emptied into her cocktail: Cointreau, cranberry juice. The bright-red drink he placed on the counter matched her hair.

Pearl sipped it gingerly and tried to study the room without gaping. Most of the people here were dressed quite sedately, in darker colors and full-length dresses in matte colors. No one wore silver glittering anything.

Halfway through the cocktail, Pearl smuggled her cellphone out of her clutch purse and checked the time. Eight. How the hell had she managed to get here so early? Then again, why wasn’t Mr. Armani AKA Rich Creep not here yet?

Okay, that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything to deserve being called a creep, had he? Other than stalking her, correctly guessing her dress size, and making her wait in a hotel that probably charged more for this cocktail than it would have cost to buy all the different ingredients in bulk to make thirty of the damn things.

She forced another deep breath into her lungs. The bartender had moved away but kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye. He was young, perhaps only a few years older than her.

A bracing scent filtered into her nose: sandalwood, leather, something sweet. The fine hairs on the back of Pearl’s neck rose as goose bumps broke out over her arms.

“Punctual Pearl,” Mr. Armani purred into her ear.

His breath washed over her earlobe, the side of her cheek. She stiffened, her fingers tightening around the rim of her cocktail glass.

Air jostled around her as Mr. Armani slid into the seat beside her, eyes fixed on the bartender. His scent washed over her, more of the same but with a bit of ginger thrown into the mix.

“Sazerac,” Mr. Armani called out, lifting a finger in the direction of the bartender.

The man turned to her, one arm on the bar counter, the other resting on the back of his tall-legged chair.

Pearl was still frozen, air trapped in her lungs, fingers glued to her cocktail glass. Mr. Armani’s eyes touched her mouth, lingering until she wet her lips. Then his gaze roved down her neck, her breasts, her thighs. They settled for a moment on her heels. He smiled, and his gaze raced back up her body, fixing with unsettling fierceness on her eyes.

He reached out for the tumbler the bartender brought over, taking a swig without his eyes leaving hers.

“You’ve never been here before,” he said.

Pearl managed a shake of her head.

“Overwhelming?”

She remained frozen. His eyes finally left her, allowing her a moment to breathe as they settled on her drink.

“You didn’t make it very far.”

Pearl’s hand lifted, bringing the cocktail to her mouth without involvement from her brain. She tipped the remainder into her mouth and set the empty glass down. Booze stung her throat, and she barely managed not to wheeze.

Holy fuck, his eyes were mesmerizing. They were so lustrous, so green: a forest pool coated with duckweed. And whatever the hell kind of cologne he wore had pressed every rusty button she had.

She crossed her legs, hoping to stem the warmth blossoming inside her. She hadn’t even tasted the last of that cocktail. His smell had corroded her nasal passages, rendering every subsequent taste and smell worthless.

“Are you a mute?” Mr. Armani asked, taking another sip of his amber drink.

Pearl summoned words from deep within her constricted stomach.

“No. Not usually. I mean—” she broke off, wetting her lips instead of making sense.

“You seem nervous.” Mr. Armani ran his eyes over her again. “Someone in your profession should surely be comfortable around strangers.”

She inhaled sharply but paused. Was that supposed to be an insult? Thoughts were slippery, elusive things that vaguely resembled oiled eels.

He tipped back the rest of his drink and turned away to study the bartender. As if they had some psychic connection going, Mr. Armani tapped his fingers twice on the bar counter, and the bartender nodded.

Then those hypnotic eyes were back on her.

“Follow me.”

He stood, his leg brushing hers as he moved out from behind the bar.

In a dryer environment, anything flammable would have caught fire from the spark that leaped between them. Pearl jolted. Mr. Armani didn’t seem to notice; he strode toward a different exit, moving effortlessly between the guests.

Pearl wobbled when she came to her feet. She caught the bartender’s eye as she turned to grab her purse. The man’s smile had evaporated. Instead, a small crease had appeared between his eyebrows. He stepped forward, mouth opening as if to say something. A patron called out behind him and the bartender closed his mouth again, nodding his head in resignation and turning away from her.

Pearl’s hands trembled as she followed Mr. Armani through the Plaza Hotel.

Where the hell was he going?

Mr. Armani led her up a staircase sided with elaborate iron fretwork. What few people had previously been milling around thinned to none. They passed three uniformed hotel employees, all of whom gave Mr. Armani only the slightest bow of their heads when they spotted him.

A man wearing white gloves and the hotel’s uniform gestured toward an elevator barred by an intricate grate.

“Hector,” Mr. Armani said, with an amiable nod in the man’s direction.

Pearl’s stomach tightened: would she finally hear a name for her mystery date?

“Good evening, Sir.”

Nope: no illumination yet. Hopefully, sometime before the end of the night she could stop calling him Mr. Armani.

The elevator was large, quiet, and had no controls on the inside. What if it got stuck? How the hell would you call for help? Did this mean it only went to one floor? A private suite?

She tried to keep her feet still, but they refused her orders and shifted anyway. The elevator walls were covered in dull golden mirrors that reflected a darkened version of her face back to her.

Mr. Armani studied her reflection. Here, his green eyes weren’t that bright. The silver pinstripes in his otherwise demure charcoal suit didn’t gleam. He looked serious, intimidating. Her stomach fluttered and she gripped her purse with a white-knuckled hand.

The silence inside the elevator eventually got to her. She half-twisted toward the man, trying not to let the opulence of his suit distract her.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t turn to her, choosing instead to watch her reflection.

“We will dispense with formalities after dinner.”

“Exchanging names is a formality?”

Then he did face her, and she wished he hadn’t. His eyes bore into her, freezing her where she stood. His facial muscles hadn’t twitched in the slightest, but the intensity in his gaze gave his deadpan expression sinister overtones.

“That is not how this works.”

“What is this?” Pearl asked, wishing her voice was steadier.

“This is me inviting you to a dinner prepared by a world-renowned chef.” He cocked his head. “But if you’d prefer to dine on something bought from a street vendor …”

Pearl watched him for a few seconds and then shook her head. He gave a nod as if he’d known that would be her answer before straightening toward the elevator doors.

On cue, they opened.

Extravagant was a severe understatement. The lights, at first dim enough that she couldn’t make out anything more than the vague suggestion of furniture, bloomed into life as Mr. Armani walked through the front door. Apparently without any intervention on his part, except his presence. They illuminated a dizzying arrangement of furniture and ornamentation, one of which a chandelier of long crystals set in a rectangular base high on the vaulted ceiling.

Music — a lilting orchestral score — wafted out through an unseen sound system. The air was warm and heavily scented with lilies and vanilla.

She had no idea what floor they had arrived at — well, until she could force her gaze past the lush furnishings to the wall of windows beyond. When she saw the view, it became apparent they were right on the top of the Plaza Hotel, at least twenty stories above Fifth Avenue.

A moodily lit Central Park stretched out below, contained by a wall of uneven skyscrapers.

Pearl’s eyes slid back to the living room as Mr. Armani walked ahead, sliding out of his suit jacket and throwing it over the back of a long, rectangular sofa upholstered in silver suede. Two purple armchairs faced her, separating the set of silver sofas and their leather-topped coffee table. Her heels sunk into a plush white carpet, its fibers shimmering as light shifted over its surface.

But her eyes kept being drawn back to that vast jungle of foliage, black-green, lit by scattered lighting.

“Evening, Sir. The usual?”

Pearl forced her head to turn, watching as Mr. Armani met with a white-gloved butler, both coming to a halt beside a sleek grand piano.

“Yes. And a Cosmo for the lady. Tell Duran to set out a selection of Rollios in the dining room with iced coffee and sweets after.”

Instructions received, the butler left without acknowledging Pearl. Mr. Armani turned to her, fingers working at his cuffs.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing with a turn of his outstretched hand toward a sofa.

Pearl complied, putting her purse on the coffee table. The sofa happily swallowed her ass — despite its stiff-looking shape — as she wriggled into the myriad of silver and purple throw pillows behind her.

Mr. Armani sat on the sofa opposite her, pausing to scoop the excess pillows aside with a sweep of his bared arm. He was tanned. His arm muscular but trim.

His tie came off next.

Pearl’s stomach tightened with each additional item of clothing Mr. Armani discarded and adjusted.

With both sleeves rolled up, his tie off, shoes forlorn on the pearly carpet, and the lapels of his shirt bared to show his collarbones, he looked like a completely different person: still mouth-wateringly delicious, but more intimidating in his casualness. How was that possible?

The butler returned bearing a silver tray topped with a tumbler and a cocktail glass.

He set down the cocktail in front of Pearl, using a napkin with a faint typographical pattern embossed on it.

Still no eye contact.

Mr. Armani received his tumbler in his hand, napkin placed on the table in case he had to set his drink down.

Perhaps to shag her?

Pearl took a long swig of her drink and set it back on the napkin.

She wanted to look out the window but Mr. Armani spread his arms to either side of the sofa’s headrest and rested an ankle on his knee, demanding her attention.

“You are an exceptional dancer,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Mr. Armani took a sip of his drink and twisted the glass in his hand, rattling its ice cubes.

“How long?”

Pearl shifted on the sofa, sitting forward so the pillows wouldn’t crowd her. She took another sip before replying, setting her glass back on its napkin. The smell of lilies became stronger. She glanced beside her. Three fresh lilies rested in a glass bowl, their long stems curved inside its circumference.

“Three years. Give or take.”

“You chose this profession? Being a stripper?”

“I prefer pole dancer, thanks,” she murmured, completely failing to inject the necessary indignation into her voice. Another sip. “And yes, I chose it. I like dancing.”

“On a pole?”

Heat flared on her cheeks. Was he trying to make her angry? Why? Did he want her to leave? To storm out of this ridiculously lavish apartment and try to find her way out of the labyrinthine hotel?

Pearl downed the rest of her cocktail and set it on the napkin with more force than she’d intended.

“It’s good money. Goodish money.” She cringed. Had she really just said ‘goodish’?

Mr. Armani studied her silently as he took a sip of his drink. Then he nodded just once as if she’d confirmed whatever it was he suspected of her.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Acquisitions.”

She stared at him. “Which is what?”

“I acquire things,” he failed to elaborate.

Pearl tapped her fingernail against the side of the glass. “Can I get another?”

His eyes slid to her empty glass.

“No.”

Her spine stiffened. She itched to grab her purse and leave; her legs spasmed with the need. But she shoved calm into her raging thoughts.

She’d come this far.

She had no idea of his intentions yet.

And if she had to put up with his snobbery… well, at least she’d gotten two cocktails out of the man. And, what sounded like dinner. If a ‘Rollio’ was food and not something that involved sex.

“No?” She tried for flippant and probably got closer to bratty. She glanced around the apartment. “On a tight budget?”

Mr. Armani smiled at her.

It was the first genuine smile she’d ever seen from him. It split his lips open and flashed a row of white teeth at her. He twisted his wrist, making the ice cubes in his glass tinkle.

Goddamn.

Pearl shifted, swallowing her apology.

“I’d prefer it if you kept a clear head. We have important matters to discuss.”

Pearl rolled her shoulders, trying to get rid of the invisible centipede creeping up her spine.

“Important, how?”

Mr. Armani cocked his head again. His ice in his drink rattled, rattled, rattled.

“Why do you think you’re here, sweetheart?”

A stab of unease shot through her. Sweetheart? Sweetheart?

“I’m not sure,” she managed, her heart starting to hammer again.

“Yet you came anyway?”

“Curiosity killed the cat, right?”

Mr. Armani’s smile evaporated. He drained the rest of his glass, watching her over the rim.

Movement over his shoulder drew her eye. A massive staircase — ascending and descending — took up considerable real estate. A white-gloved employee, not the butler, balanced three plates on his arms. He went over to a long, rectangular dining room table and began setting the plates down.

“So are you going to tell me? Or do I have to guess: twenty questions style?”

As if sensing the activity behind him, Mr. Armani unfolded from the sofa.

“First, we eat.”

“Fine,” Pearl murmured.

She followed him over the deep carpets. Would it be rude if she took off her shoes? Probably. Then again… she studied Mr. Armani’s socks.

They looked more expensive than Cheryl’s shoes.

Mirrors filled the dining room: they were positioned in panels on the slanted walls and on the back of the leather dining chairs. Even the extravagant light fitting was made of reflective strips of curved steel.

A myriad of tea candles set inside a long, crystal container was the wooden table’s only decoration. That… and the food.

“Are you expecting company?” Pearl asked, eyes widening at the three platters arranged down one side of the table.

“Not tonight,” Mr. Armani said.

God, he was infuriating. Did he learn how to avoid giving direct answers in whatever Ivy-League university he’d attended? Maybe they offered courses in Glib Speech and Conversational Avoidance Techniques. Maybe he’d gotten his Doctorate in Smarminess, majoring in Being Mysterious.

He pulled out a chair for her.

She sat down before he could push it back and had to drag it closer to the table

Letting out a small, amused huff, he drew out the chair beside her and sat down, shaking his head.

She bit back another brimming apology. What did he expect? She danced on a pole for a living: no one had ever pulled out a chair for her. It looked more complicated than she’d expected — and she hadn’t been expecting it.

He turned in his seat, leaning his elbow on the table and facing her. Their sudden proximity, intensified by his unrelenting study of her face, was enough to send that centipede marching down her spine again.

Their legs were less than an inch apart. She could feel his warmth through the dress’s slinky fabric.

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“Uh… no.” She glanced at the food, her brow furrowing. Allergic? To what?

He nodded and turned to the platters.

It sort of looked like pizza. If pizza came with an almost translucent crust and tiny strips of toppings. Just what the hell the mass of greenery overflowing from two large, flat bowls was supposed to—

Mr. Armani’s tanned fingers grabbed two arugula leaves and lay them over the end of one of the pizza strips. He added a tuft of alfalfa seeds on top of that.

Pearl’s head cocked to the side. Mr. Armani rolled up the pizza strip, creating a small bundle of pizza and tufty foliage.

He popped it into his mouth, already rolling a new one while he chewed.

She mimicked him, choosing a pizza slice that looked as if it had shreds of pepperoni on it.

It was the best thing she’d ever eaten.

Okay, the best thing she’d eaten in a while.

Delicate, crispy… and that cheese?

Her mouth watered.

She closed her eyes. Who cared if Mr. Armani thought she’d been born in a barn? Not her. Not right now.

When she opened her eyes, his eyes slid away from her mouth, returning to the pizza.

They ate in silence, consuming more of the pizza Rollios than she’d thought possible when they’d sat down. The butler took away the platters when their gorging had slowed to a trickle.

She’d eaten too much, practically matching Mr. Armani for every Rollio he’d inserted into his mouth.

“I didn’t see any shellfish or nuts,” she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Why’d you ask if I was allergic?”

“Pertinent information,” he said vaguely.

She rolled her eyes at him, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

The butler returned with two servings of white-chocolate mousse and drinks frosting the outside of their zombie glasses.

Before she could taste either, Mr. Armani beckoned the butler to his side, murmuring into the man’s lowered ear.

“…prepare… leave… escort…”

The butler departed.

Pearl’s spine had frozen stiff, jerking her upright.

Her skin was too tight, her muscles straining as she tensed.

She’d prepared so many variations on her next question. Twenty, at least. She chose the one that answered as many of her doubts and curiosities as possible.

“Why do you have to pay for sex?”

Mr. Armani turned to her and gave her a pathetic excuse for a smile. He hadn’t even blinked at the question.

“I don’t pay for sex.”

She frowned at him, opened her mouth, found she had no words, and closed it again.

He ran a finger around the rim of his mousse. Dipped it inside. Traced a circle through the stiff dessert. He brought that scoop of chocolate to his lips and sucked it off, watching her with gleaming green eyes.

“Remove your dress,” he said quietly.

Pearl took a slurp from her glass: it was iced coffee. She still couldn’t look at Mr. Armani. Had she heard him right? Impossible. No one just came right out and said stuff like that. She took another sip, put her glass down, and forced herself to make eye contact.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked away from her. It was as if he was trying to judge what her next words would be before she spoke them. So sex. Now. Possibly right here. A thread of a memory insisted that she clarify how much this was going to cost Mr. Armani. Something about him having to put the money on the dresser. Wasn’t that how it worked?

“I should go,” she managed, her tongue feeling too thick to produce the words.

Mr. Armani cocked his head at her.

“What did you think was going to happen here tonight, sweetheart?”

“I told you, I didn’t know. I still don’t.” She got to her feet, her stomach queasy. “I thought I could… that if you wanted—”

“To fuck you,” he cut in. “But you came. You’re here, sitting in that chair. So you’ve made it this far, but now no further?”

She swallowed, grabbed her glass and took another tug at the straw. Her eyes flitted past him, staring out over Central Park instead.

Yes. Exactly that. She didn’t have the stomach for this.

“I should go,” she said again.

Mr. Armani got to his feet. This put the slab of his body inches from hers.

Heat rolled off him, cascading over her. She shivered and tried stepping back, but her knees bumped into the chair, halting her.

The man’s emerald eyes drew her, commanding her full attention. His face was set with no expression: mouth relaxed, eyes hooded.

He dragged his finger through the mousse again, scooping out a small mound of the confectionery. His other hand closed over the top of her arm.

“Were you expecting me to romance you, sweetheart?” he asked. “Perhaps ply you with my charms? Make this feel like a first date instead of an appointment?”

Pearl took a hitching breath, her legs stiffening. His touch was firm, but not inescapable. If she wanted, she could tug free and shove the chair out of the way and back out of the dining room and leave.

If she wanted.

Mr. Armani closed the distance.

His body was a furnace.

So fixated was she on his eyes, she didn’t see that mound of mousse until he’d smeared it over her collarbone.

She jerked at his touch, making a soft sound of surprise at the chill.

“I don’t have time for romance, girl. But there is something about the taste of sugar on a woman’s skin…”

Bending his neck, Mr. Armani closed his mouth over her flesh. The chill of the mousse disappeared, replaced by the heat of his lips, the brush of his tongue against her collarbone.

Pearl shuddered. Another breath, more unsteady than the first, filled her lungs. Her breasts pressed against the bottom of his pecs, her upper abdomen fluttering against his abs. The smell of him enveloped her, closeting her in cinnamon and sandalwood. Her arm lifted, but whether to knock him away or drag him closer she didn’t know.

“Stop shaking,” he whispered into her ear.

Her eyes, which had fallen closed at his kiss, were glued shut now.

Another dollop of ice-cold mousse decorated her other collarbone. This he removed solely with his tongue. Pearl shuddered, remembered that calm missive of his, and tried keeping herself still.

“You didn’t put lotion on your skin tonight,” Mr. Armani said. “Good girl.”

Three fingers trailed at a slant down the side of her neck.

God, how sticky was she going to be tomorrow?

Wait, good girl?

Her eyes fluttered open.

He studied her face, a faint smile etched over his wide mouth.

“What’s—” she cleared her throat “—what’s your name?”

He brought his fingers up and sucked the traces of mousse off them.

“Formalities after dessert.”

She wanted to argue, but he dipped his head forward again, his breath stirring strands of red hair against her ear.

Damn, his mouth was hot. The contrast between his heat and the chill of the mousse enveloped her, made her shiver.

“Keep still.” Not a suggestion, but a quiet command.

Pearl stiffened. She barely dared to breathe. She couldn’t breathe, not with him so close that his intoxicating scent filled every lungful of air. His cheek brushed her jaw. His hair tickled her lips.

Mr. Armani licked away the mousse from her neck. He sucked her skin, his teeth nipping her.

Her arm finally decided what it wanted to do. She slid her fingers into his hair, touching his warm scalp, moving her hand down to grip his neck—

Strong fingers closed over her wrist, yanking her away.

She gasped, shocked out of her enchanting bubble of lust. Mr. Armani straightened, tugged her wrist behind her back, and squeezed just once as if in warning.

“No touching.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s your first time, so I understand that you’ll make mistakes. Just don’t repeat them.”

She was still blinking up at him in confusion when his fingers glided under the shoulder of her dress and shoved it off her shoulder. It fell down, skimming over her skin, and exposed her right breast.

Her heart pattered in her chest, blood singing in her ears. She’d never been commanded like this, never had to obey someone’s orders. Was this what he was into? Bossing girls around, having his wicked way with them however he wanted, leaving them unsatisfied and not caring less?

Was she into this?

More mousse. Chilling the top of her breast. Circling her nipple. Each new streak removed with the same care and precision he’d used to paint it onto her.

Holy hell, but she could be. She really could.

Unable to manifest externally, her trembling now became internal. Her intestines coiled, her sex quivering with every feather-light touch of his lips and tongue.

She should have worn panties; arousal dampened her inner thighs.

He grabbed her waist, turned her, lifted her onto the table. It happened in one fluid motion so her ass was down before she’d snapped out of her concerns about underwear issues. She glanced beside her, worried that she might be sitting in designer pizza.

His mousse was empty.

Almost all of hers was gone, too. There was a small stab of indignation that he’d eaten her pudding. A flutter deep inside her that there was only a single mouthful remaining.

His hand slid under the dress’s remaining shoulder.

Pearl grabbed his wrist. Her breath came hard and fast, her lips parting as she looked up at him, wanting something from him, some kind of sign, unable to describe it even to herself.

He twisted his hand, escaping her pathetic grip in an instant. Grasping her in that same firm, suggestive circle of fingers, Mr. Armani maneuvered her arm behind her. Pressed her wrists together. Gripped both of them in a hand. He jerked the dress free from her shoulder. The silver fabric pooled around her waist, exposing her entire upper body to the apartment’s perfectly-temperate air.

Her nipples pebbled under his lingering gaze. She began to ache for him, her sex growing wet and hot the longer he stared at her breasts. She squirmed, trying to ease that yearning, only making it worse.

Mr. Armani spooned the last of the mousse onto his fingertip. His gaze returned to her breast, to her nipple.

Pearl moaned, squirming again.

The grip on her wrists tightened in warning. She forced herself to still, closing her eyes against the throbbing ache inside her.

Soft, cold mousse touched her nipple.

A hot, wet mouth sucked it off. His teeth closed over her bud, tweaking it. His tongue flicked against it.

Pearl arched her back, moaning again, her body shuddering under the ministrations of that masterful mouth. He released her with a popping sound. Her eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on his face. He had his head cocked, a ghost of a smile on his mouth.

“You enjoyed that?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

His expression changed from curious to disbelieving in a flash. Frowning, his hand slithered down her stomach. She stiffened, her mouth forming an ‘o’ of uneasy anticipation as his fingers danced over her skin.

Fingers skimmed her clit. Dragged through the soaked folds of her sex. One slipped inside her, spearing deep and fast.

“You did,” he said, sounding surprised and self-satisfied. “Good girl.”

That single touch had electrified her. She was a live wire, pulsing with lethal voltage… and nothing to earth her.

His hand disappeared. He gripped the bottom of her dress and slid it up her legs, baring her thighs and her sex. Pearl squirmed, wriggling her hands to try to free them, but he held her fast. His grip tightened until her wrist bones ground together.

“I could make this easy for you, sweetheart.” The man leaned back, fixing her with an auguring, green-eyed stare. “I could tell you I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for tonight.”

Pearl’s stomach clenched. A thousand dollars? He’d just quadrupled what she’d been intending to ask.

Mr. Armani’s gaze fluttered over her face, her breasts.

“But I don’t want the money to be the only reason you’re staying. It should be inconsequential.”

Easy for him to say: he was loaded.

Pearl licked her lips and tried to nod, but she was too aware of how exposed she was, how the mirrors behind Mr. Armani were reflected spans and spans of her own naked skin back to her.

“I want you to want this,” he said, his voice dropping to a deep whisper. “I want you to show me just how obedient and pliable you are. Can you do that, sweetheart? Can you be obedient?”

Pearl swallowed and managed a breathless, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes…” Pearl’s gaze flicked between Mr. Armani’s eyes. What did he want from her? What was he looking for—

And then it came to her, all at once, in a rush that made her exhale a short, light breath.

“Yes, Sir.”

Mr. Armani smiled another one of his rare, genuine smiles and released her wrists.

“Good girl, Pearl. Now lay back and spread those pretty legs of yours.”

Feeling wooden and unreal, like a toy version of herself, Pearl sank to the table. The wood was cool beneath her, both smooth and rough, slick and coarse. After two thundering heartbeats, Pearl lifted her knees, carefully positioning her stilettos on the wood, and forced her trembling thighs apart.

Mr. Armani didn’t look down. His gaze was fixed on her eyes, his face without expression.

“Hold onto something,” he said.

Pearl blinked at him. What the hell she was supposed to hold onto when he was the only—

“Now.” Almost a growl.

She lifted her arms and held awkwardly onto the rim of the table, inches from the top of her head. This obviously met with the man’s approval: his eyes finally left hers and began roaming down her body.

Her inflating lungs was the only movement she allowed herself.

Stay still.

Obey.

It’ll be over soon, right?

But somehow, for some unknown reason, she hoped it wasn’t. Yes, the position was awkward and revealing. Yes, this guy wasn’t exactly someone she pictured herself marrying, settling down, and having kids with. And yes, this whole thing was a thousand different levels of fucked up.

But she ached inside.

Maybe still from the touch of his lips against her skin… or maybe because of the fact that she wasn’t in control anymore. The decision-making part of the evening was over. All that was left was to hold tight and ride the wave.

Surf’s up, Pearl.

Mr. Armani draped his palms on her knees, sliding his hands over her thighs. In the background, the orchestral score that had been playing through most of the evening faded out.

Had he really planned everything in such detail? Pearl’s skin began to prickle. Was he playlisting classical music while estimating how long it would take them to eat, for him to suck mousse off her nipples, for her to fight and then relent? Had he—

But then the music came back, soft and ominous; the isolated, somber sound of a piano.

Mr. Armani snatched a fistful of her dress in his left hand, twisting the fabric. He jerked her hips closer and she gasped at the unexpected force of his movements. He ducked his head, grazing the top of her knee with his teeth as if hiding the ghost of a smile that now played on his mouth.

Pearl’s heart began stuttering in her chest. She tightened her grip on the table, trying to wring the nervousness from her body.

His mouth touched the inside of her thigh. He nipped and kissed his way down, making her insides coil ever tighter the closer he came to that pool of warm, throbbing darkness.

Something rasped, metallic and too loud in the eddies between those melancholic piano chords. Pearl’s legs quivered, wanting to slam shut, to deny him access. But before her muscles could overpower the command from her mind — keep still and obey — Mr. Armani’s tongue brushed her clit.

Pearl jolted, gasping. He’d still been inches away from her, and it hadn’t been his tongue she’d been expecting to touch her. But it was nothing more than a butterfly kiss, as brief as it was light. She quivered internally, squeezing out wetness as her muscles contracted.

The fingers of his right hand dug into her thigh, bruising her, and Pearl squirmed before she could stop herself. This was torture, him being so close; the threat of another flicker-touch sent aching waves of anticipation through her.

The piano music dipped low, those previously happy-sad chords becoming tense, almost angry.

That fist in her dress tightened. Mr. Armani hoisted her up, using the dress as a holster to keep her ass more than a foot from the tabletop.

Because that meant he didn’t have to bend low to eat her out.

Pearl moaned when his lips closed over her sex, his mouth sucking so hard at her that the pressure of it sent ripples of pleasure all the way to her whitened fingertips where they clung for dear life to the rim of the table.

Her eyes fell closed.

Mr. Armani didn’t have to hold her up anymore: her thighs and back trembled as she kept her hips raised for him, forced her legs apart.

He dragged his tongue through her folds, leaving flickers of electric kink in his wake. Two fingers found their way inside her, twisting her open and forcing her to draw a long, unsteady breath that rattled in her throat. Her back arched when his lips touched that bundle of nerves, that knot of coruscating pleasure he seemed determined to rip free.

His fingers probed her once, twice, and then withdrew. He smeared them over her sex, drenching her. His lips left her, his mouth closing briefly over the inside of her thigh where he drew blood to her skin, leaving behind a perfect circle of russet flesh.

Her ass thumped to the wood, her back no longer arching under the attention of his mouth, his fist no longer holding her up. She writhed, still riding the rise of that gentle swell of pleasure when Mr. Armani nipped at her knee again, grabbed the inside of her thighs with both hands, and wrenched them apart.

Shit, had she forgotten about her legs? Had they fallen closed? Did this count as disobeying him—

He thrust into her, shattering thought.

Pearl cried out, almost losing her grip on the table. She tried to dampen the sound by clamping shut her mouth. Her hands scrabbled for purchase, her back arching in an almost instinctual response to Mr. Armani’s sudden, violent penetration. She shuddered, mind slipping into a brief, blissful oblivion.

A slap to her ass brought her round with bleary-eyed confusion.

“Don’t you dare close that mouth of yours, sweetheart. I want to hear how hard I’m fucking you.”

What? She blinked across at him, wondering when the hell he’d taken off his shirt. Had she passed out? Fainted? Briefly visited another dimension in that soul-shattering instant he’d pounded into her?

His jaw clenched; the only warning she had. He drew out of her, an inch, maybe more. Then he burrowed his way back in, his hips slamming into the barely-adequate padding of her ass. Wrenching another cry from her, one she didn’t suppress. One she might even have embellished a little. It was impossible to tell with all the blood thumping through her veins.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his attention now fixed solely on his task.

Another thrust, harder. Pearl gasped, her spine curving. Mr. Armani slid his arm around her raised knees, hugging her legs against his chest. His other hand found a breast. He trapped her nipple between his fingertips, tweaking the already-pursed bud and drawing another gasp from her.

“Are you holding tight, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Sir.” The words weren’t hers, obviously. She’d never just blindly—

Another wordless yell filled the dining room.

This was no fucking wave: this was a goddamn tsunami.

It was only through the combined efforts of her grasp on the table and Mr. Armani’s grip on her legs that kept her in position as he hammered into her with hard, deliberate thrusts.

Somewhere in the background, piano chords described a torturous journey into the earth’s molten core. The hero battled oceanic monsters with tentacles and eyes on stalks in a midnight chasm where unearthly, glowing fibers streaking the darkness.

Well, in her head they did, anyway.

She could hear herself; moaning, gasping, crying out. She could hear Mr. Armani: groaning, grunting, growling. Her body didn’t belong to her anymore. He owned it now, gripping the title deed between his teeth as he drove her toward a cliff’s edge where certain death waited. His hand abandoned her breast — she’d forgotten about it — and his thumb brushed over her clit.

Her back arched. Her eyes slid closed.

She tightened her muscles, trying to get her sex away from his fingers, that feeling too intense to accept.

But he owned her. She would stay where she was until he was done with her.

She began to pant, becoming lightheaded from the rush of oxygen spiking into her brain. Would she pass out? Hyperventilate and then faint, laying here like a dead thing while Mr. Armani used her body for his own selfish pleasure and then roused her with another slap to her ass?

His thumb strummed her clit, driving thoughts of fainting from her mind.

Piano keys pounded from the sound system: had he turned up the volume? When? Maybe around the time he’d taken his shirt off, baring that weird, skull and roses tattoo slathered over his chest.

She shuddered, certain death racing closer at warp speed, faster than light, screaming as it shredded the sound barrier to reach her.

Pearl came before Mr. Armani did. Her climax slammed through her, leaving her breathless and writhing beneath the man. He drove into her with renewed ferocity, grabbing a handful of her hair and jerking her head up.

His mouth crushed hers. She could taste herself on his tongue and his lips as he devoured her, leaving her yearning for breath and the return of her mouth; something she’d erroneously assumed private property before he’d claimed it.

When he came, seconds later, his kiss abated with a finality that made her head spin. He held his lips against hers, a slow exhale filling her mouth with warm, sweet air.

He pounded into her a last time, jarring her, his fingers pressing deep pools into her thigh. Holding her still, his breath still mingling with hers, Mr. Armani’s luminous eyes fluttered closed. His muscles relaxed, and for just an instant he leaned into her, his weight sudden and overwhelming. But before her quaking body could collapse under him, the man straightened. Eyes flaring open, he gave her a last, fierce kiss, his teeth catching her bottom lip before he drew out of her.

Their friction had left her hot and aching inside. Pearl’s legs slid down, her muscles too unsteady to keep them up without the man’s arms slung around them. His hand closed over her sex, cool compared with her scorched flesh, and then that, too, was gone.

He tugged up the shoulders of her dress, his breathing ragged and forceful.

Pearl hugged herself, her own breath too fast, too unsteady. She closed her eyes, hearing the snap of rubber, the rasp of his zipper. Flutters of pleasure, stranded after her explosive orgasm, made her shiver. A hand ran over her hair. Her eyes flickered open.

Mr. Armani’s lips twitched into a fleeting smile as he stepped away and beckoned her to follow him with his free hand.

“On your feet, Pearl. Time to talk shop.”

Mr. Armani led her around the staircase and into a cozy entertainment room with a large flat-screen television fixed to the wall. Glass-fronted display shelves lined the walls, the room’s only couch facing another slanted window that looked out over Fifth Avenue.

Pearl sank down with a sigh of relief. Her legs were unsteady, her insides still throbbing.

God, she wanted to rip the man’s clothes off again. Yes, she felt as satiated as a cat with a tummy full of cream, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still devour several mice, a squirrel, and make a valiant attempt at a raccoon.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Whatever had possessed Mr. Armani in the dining room had evaporated; that sex god had been replaced with the officious businessman of before.

There was a manila folder on the coffee table — a loose sheet filled with text and a fountain pen on top of it.

Pearl stared at the papers as that arthropod of earlier began its long journey up her spine again.

“And that?” she asked, her voice husky.

“A non-disclosure agreement.”

“And under it?”

“A contract.”

She switched her gaze from the paper to Mr. Armani. He stared out the window for a second and then slumped down beside her. His arm snaked over the back of the couch, almost touching her shoulder, and he gestured with a loose-wristed hand toward the folder.

“Sign the NDA. Then you can read the contract.”

She stared at him for a moment. Those green eyes were bright with lingering residues of lust, his face still flushed. And yet, what had happened mere minutes ago could have happened to someone else; someone on a different continent, a different planet.

Pearl slid the loose paper out from under the fountain pen and scanned it. It seemed legit. Nothing nefarious here, right? Her eyes stalled on her name; Pearl Buchanan.

“How did you—”

“Sign it or leave.”

Her cheeks heated, and she flashed him a glare he didn’t seem to notice.

“What, I can’t tell anyone I came here and had sex with you? Lucky for you, I still don’t know your fucking name, so I doubt anyone—”

“Owen Morrison.”

Pearl took a deep breath, her voice faltering. “—would believe me.”

Her hand paused over the single sheet of paper. She scrawled her signature on it, dated it, and flapped it at him until he took it from her.

“There. Happy?”

He twisted his head in concession and flicked a finger at the contract.

“Read it.”

Pearl took up the folder. Her fingers traced the letters embossed on the bottom right corner.

F. P.

Not his initials. Maybe the company he worked for? Or his employer. It was almost impossible to believe that someone who lived in an apartment like this had a boss, but hell, her world view was currently busy having its head dunked in a toilet bowl, so what did she know?

“What does this stand for?”

“Read it.” She shot him a withering stare to which his only reaction was a small huff of amusement.

Pearl read the contract. Tried to read the contract. The entire thing consisted of legal gobbledygook. She made a show of scanning her eyes down each page, frowning at more dense sections of text, and pausing for a few seconds on the last page; the only piece of legible English phrase in the document was her name. There were several ‘addendum’s’ attached to the end, but she didn’t even bother trying to read those.

She snapped it closed and lifted her eyebrows at him. “I have no idea what this means.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” Mr. Armani exhaled slowly. “Do you have a lawyer?”

She cocked her head at him. “I pole dance for a living. No, I don’t have a lawyer.”

“Then you should find one.”

“Mmm… I’m good.” Pearl looked away from him, pursing her lips. “I’ve already made plans for tomorrow.”

“Would you like the gist of it?”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to him. “Obviously.”

Owen’s smile lifted. “A hundred-thousand dollars.”

“Is… how much this pillow costs?” Pearl asked, tugging at the corner of a black suede throw pillow nestled between them.

Owen huffed through his nose. “Is how much you will be paid.”

“For tonight?” Blood drained from Pearl’s face and collected in a congealed mass in the pit of her belly.

He laughed. “For a month of your time. Your… services.”

Pearl’s stomach twisted. So here it was, out in the open. And dear God, what an ugly, deformed thing it was. She sat back, whatever fire had been brimming inside her instantly extinguished by his words.

For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought Mr. Arm—Owen had had a thing for her. That he liked her. That he wanted her to be his girlfriend. Something soft and fluffy like that. It had felt soft and fluffy when he’d been sucking her clit.

No… it hadn’t.

It had been hot and dirty, not soft and fluffy.

Pearl shrugged into the sofa, running her gaze over the array of ornaments displayed on the walls: vases and books and figurines.

“Sex, right? Every day? Or… every night?” She pointed at the folder. “Does it say stuff like how often and what kinds and all that shit?”

“You’ve read it.”

“I’ve scanned it. It’s in lawyer speak.”

“Which is why I suggest you find one.”

Pearl took a deep breath, turning to him.

“I thought you didn’t pay for sex, now you want to give me a hundred thousand dollars to sleep with you for a month?”

“Not with me, sweetheart.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

Owen’s eyes sparkled. He’d brought his iced coffee with him, and he tugged at his straw as he studied her over the rim of the frosted glass. She opened her mouth to repeat her question, louder perhaps, but his flash of a smile cut her off before she began.

“Have you heard of the Fox Pit?”

Pearl’s mouth slowly closed. Her eyes flashed to the document, to the initials embossed on its corner.

Mystery solved.

“Should I have?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“We try and maintain a low profile, so hopefully not.”

“We, who?”

“It’s a gentlemen’s club.”

“That’s… disgusting.”

“Sex?”

“A sex club. They’re disgusting.”

Owen shrugged. “We provide exclusive membership for gentlemen with an exceptionally high net-worth. Membership includes the use of our facilities in Vermont and the services of our foxes.”

“You want to hire me out to a bunch of billionaires?”

Another sip of iced coffee momentarily halted the interrogation. Those green eyes fixed on her, unreadable in their intensity.

“Our members visit the Fox Pit where you and the other girls stay. They can—”

“Wait.” Pearl sat forward with her hand raised. “There are girls that have agreed to this?” She stabbed the folder, sending the pen rolling onto the coffee table.

Owen caught it before it fell to the floor.

“Yes. Nine, in fact.” He set the pen back on the folder. “We are looking for an even ten.”

Pearl gaped at him.

She eventually closed her mouth, but this didn’t help with the production of words. None that made sense, anyway.

“You… how… why would…”

Owen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take the contract, Pearl. Have someone read over it. I’ll need your response by midday tomorrow.”

He rose, paused, and stared down at her.

Pearl found her feet with effort but did manage to glare back at him. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she said.

Owen’s only response was a small, knowing smile.

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