Chapter 5
Evangeline
Raphael ushers me past the doorman. He’s completely indifferent to the man's curious stare as we stroll through the lobby of the upscale Park Avenue building that houses Raphael’s penthouse. He's gawking and I can't blame the guy. We're a sight to see – me with my legs bare, wearing nothing but my tall heels, that gold scrap of fabric and Raphael's suit jacket wrapped strategically around me. It's obvious that Raphael is much older and wealthier than I am. The doorman’s assumptions are right. I am essentially a high-paid escort and Raphael did just spend a shitload of money to have me.
But his intentions are pure.
He’ll bring me into his home tonight. He’ll offer me a safe, warm place to sleep. He’ll make sure to get me back to my parents in one piece. But he has no intention of fucking me. He has no interest in commanding me to my knees and ordering me to take his cock down my throat. He won’t spread me out on the living room floor and tie my hands to the foot of the coffee table so he can drill his cock into me. He won’t flip me onto my stomach and pull my hair while he sinks balls deep between my ass cheeks.
But damn – The idea makes me so hot I can barely keep from humping the nearest phallic-shaped object.
Jeez, Eva! Calm the fuck down!
On a scale from one to ten, how inappropriate is it for me to be totally turned on right now? I mean – with the whole sex slave thing still hanging in the air and all.
I’m not even mad at myself because what woman in her right mind wouldn’t be affected by him? He’s so male.
I stare at his taut ass as he strides powerfully across the lobby, iron-pressed shirt tucked seamlessly into the waistband of his impeccably-tailored tan slacks, silver-streaked hair barely kissing the collar of his shirt. God. He's so confident, so in charge. It's insanely sexy. It makes me feel safe. It almost makes me forget about my debt and the auction and the fact that he quite literally owns me.
He hits the button on the elevator panel with one fluid movement and the gleaming steel doors open instantly. He steps aside and lets me get on first. Chivalry is alive and well. And it smells mouth-watering like musk, testosterone and body heat.
I lean against the mirrored wall and he positions himself against the wall opposite me. My pussy tingles as the air-conditioned draft flits over my exposed skin. His gaze moves slowly from my heels, up my calves, my thighs, over the fabric of the jacket draped over my body, up my throat. The moment his eyes finally fall on mine is electric.
That's lust staring back at me. No doubt about it.
But there’s also a note of shame in his expression.
Raphael has always been in my life. And he's always been kind. Convincing my parents to go easy on me when I landed myself in trouble. Trying to talk sense into me when my teenage hormones had me running wild. Teaching me about foreign cultures, economies and political systems. He's a big part of the reason I wanted to model in the first place. I wanted to travel the world like he has, see different places, experience different things. I’ve also had this stupid fantasy that one day he'd look at my picture in a glossy magazine spread or in a lingerie show and just for a second, he'd find me beautiful.
Oh stop it, Eva. Don’t go embarrassing yourself with your delusions.
My core tingles, the sensitive flesh reacting to the exposure to the air and the intensity in Raphael's gray irises. His scent permeates the jacket and it isn't helping matters at all. The thought of his fingers stroking me ‘there’ causes goosebumps to rise on my legs. My desire dampens the space between my thighs. Oh my god. I can smell it infusing the air.
I want to lean in and kiss him, brush my mouth against his full lips, run my fingers over his stubble. But then what? I don’t exactly have a game plan.
Mercifully, the doors slide open on the top floor and the trance is broken. Raphael gestures for me to step off of the lift. And Christ help me but there's an extra sway in my hips as I walk toward the door of his penthouse suite. I'm a woman. I can't help but want this man to want me. Even the fact that he's my father's friend and a solid 20-plus years older than me doesn’t allay my lust.
He reaches around me and opens the door. As it swings open, minimalist opulence comes into view. My parents have always gushed about how incredible this place is but their descriptions clearly haven’t done it justice.
A dimly lit living area spreads out before me, the New York skyline lingering just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room is decorated with dark suede seating and low-pile carpets centered in the middle of the gleaming marble floor. A tall bookcase stretches from wall-to-wall, housing what must be a thousand books. The leather throw pillows tossed strategically on the couch and the decorative sculptures placed about the room add a well thought-out pop of color to the understated, masculine décor. And everything smells like him. It’s crazy. I want to throw myself onto the couch and bury my face in the cushions just to be engulfed by that intoxicating scent.
Raphael doesn’t seem to mind my curious inspection. "I'll show you to the guest bedroom," he says coolly.
He leads me down a corridor, past walls of abstract art and photography, and opens the door to a large bedroom. Everything looks sophisticated and unobtrusive. None of that gaudy, tacky décor you see on all those new money reality shows my best friend, Annaleigh, forces me to watch whenever we hang out.
“The shower’s right in there. Make yourself comfortable while I go grab you some fresh towels.” He disappears out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I take the opportunity to look around. A massive bed draped in deep blue sheets sits across from an enormous window broadcasting the city’s twinkling lights. A geometric light fixture hangs from the ceiling, casting an intimate glow. I run a finger along the heavy, wooden dresser. Feels expensive. Everything in here seems high-end. Quality. Raphael Silver likes expensive things.
And I think that I happen to be one of them. A little thrill skirrs through me.
I could literally feel him struggling to keep his eyes off of my body as we stepped onto the lift, as we walked into his apartment, as he pointed the way to the bedroom. I wish he wouldn't. I want his eyes on me, appreciating every inch of me.
Stop it, Eva!
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to spend the night in this man’s house without getting myself into trouble. Serious trouble.
A sudden knock at the door startles me. I head over and open it. With a slight grin, he hands me a bath towel and a warm blanket. There's a large black T-shirt folded on top of the pile. "Sorry, I don't have anything else you can wear..." His voice is so deep, so masculine. I find myself blushing.
Evangeline Brooks doesn't blush or get bashful.
"That's fine," I whisper. “Thank you.”
Our eyes linger on each other one last time and I feel awareness tickling my belly. I want to reach out and touch him, rake my fingers through his hair, trace the fine lines around his eyes, put my lips in places they have no right to be.
A tiny voice in my head whispers that maybe I should make a move. I’ll admit it – I’m usually a tease, a flirt. I’m never shy to tell a man just what I want and exactly how I want it.
But this day has shaken me to the very foundation of my self-confidence. I'm just glad that it's over and that I have a warm, safe place to spend the night (without some sick, pervy billionaire ordering me to call him Master and shove fist-sized sex toys up his ass).
Yes, I'm mortified that my father's best friend had to save me from the mess I created for myself. But at the same time, I'm grateful and relieved because this night could have taken a sharp left turn into disaster.
Raphael speaks, interrupting my thoughts. "Good night, Evangeline."
I try to steady myself on a deep inhale. "Good night, Mr. Silver."
With a curt nod, he disappears out the door, leaving me standing there. And boy, I wish he'd offered to tuck me in.