WORD OF OUR NEW SUPERSTAR has spread like wildfire. London has been here one week, and her bookings are already out of control. Good for business, sucks for me.
I stare at my inbox, filled with requests. I can go about this two ways. Work her like a dog and forgo stealing time with her myself, or make her an elite and charge an extra fee for a session with her. This will weed out the cheap garbage and free up her schedule and the holy ground between her legs.
Shit. I rub my cock. Just thinking about her gets me excited. I haven’t touched her since last Sunday. Just sat back and watched as client after client indulged in her. Getting more than their money’s worth.
I shouldn’t be jealous, but I am. It’s childish. But dare I say it, London is special. And I don’t mean just to me. It’s her whole persona. The way she presents herself. Her quiet strength and muted humility. Her unsurpassed beauty and sharp intelligence. The vulnerability in her eyes contrasting with the confidence in her speech. She’s a silent storm I want to drive straight into. The problem is, so does everyone else.
Including Kayne.
He’s called on her twice this week, which is unheard of for him. But I knew once he was exposed, he’d go back. That’s how it works. I help break the ice with a new woman. He takes it from there, although he usually prefers working out his aggressions on a punching bag instead of a pussy.
Not in this case, I guess.
I can’t really blame him. If I were more of a douchebag, I wouldn’t give a shit how many men she fucked on any given day as long as I got to sink inside that hot cunt too. But that’s not me. I’ll sacrifice.
Wait my turn. Wait for the right time. Because when we are together, it’s going to be all that much sweeter. Hotter. Combustible.
“Hey, asshole.” Kayne barges into my office without so much as a warning knock.
“What’s up?” I glance at the screen dismissively.
“This came yesterday. Forgot to give it to you.” He drops a medium-sized brown package on my desk. I spy the return address and know exactly what it is.
“Thanks.” I hit send on my email and then give Kayne my full attention.
“No problem.” He crosses his arms and looms imposingly. It’s not him trying to be a dick; that’s just the way he stands.
“Still no word from south of the border?” I ask.
“Nothing. But I’m confident he’ll contact us.”
“You ever going to tell me what you did to instill such confidence?”
Kayne shakes his head, his off-colored eyes guarded. “Some things are better taken to the grave.”
“When you say shit like that, it scares me.”
“It should.”
“I don’t like you harboring things.”
“I’ll be fine once we burn his fucking complex to the ground.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.”
“Then I’ll just have to trust you. As frightening as that is.”
Kayne smiles wickedly. “My unpredictability keeps us alive.”
“Says you,” I scoff.
“We’re still here, aren’t we?”
“Barely.”
“I can live with barely.”
“That’s because you’re reckless.” I stand and scoop up the box.
“Isn’t that why you like me?”
“Whoever said I like you?”
“I’m sorry. Love me.” He bats his eyes like the fucking idiot he is.
I chuckle reluctantly. “You’re a moron,” I declare. But we both know I do love him. Like an annoying stray you feel sorry for and keep feeding because the guilt would eat you alive if you let him starve to death.
“Any word from the elusive Mr. A?” Kayne asks as he walks out of the room with me. He’s talking about Alistair. My free-roaming uncle.
“Only a picture message of a surfboard on a beach. He’s having fun wherever he is.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“What? Your Mexican getaway wasn’t relaxing enough?”
“Keep walking before I pummel you.” We split off, Kayne in the direction of the gym and me up the stairs to London’s room. This package is really for her.
“London?” I knock, but no answer. It’s Sunday, so she’s probably with the rest of the girls unwinding. There’s an entire mobile spa downstairs. The house will be quiet for a while.
I crack open the door with the intention of leaving the box with a note when I hear the shower. I know I shouldn’t. I should just leave her be. She’s had a long week. But even as I try to talk myself out of it, my feet gravitate to the sound of the running water and the image of a naked, soapy, redheaded goddess.
But the reality is far more different than the fantasy, because when I enter the steamy room, I don’t find London standing under the spray lathering up or washing off. I find her curled in a ball on the floor, sobbing.
Rushing to the shower, I haul open the glass door. “London?”
She looks up at me with a fright. Then her gaze turns lethal.
“Get out!” She grabs the bottle of shampoo and chucks it at me. I deflect it with my forearm before it hits me in the face. Damn, the woman can throw. “Get out right now!” she screams like a banshee, and I take the hint. Backing out of the room, I quickly give her space. My heart beats like a battering ram as I lurk by the doorway, waiting for the shower to turn off. Once the water stops, I peek into the bathroom, just to make sure she isn’t thinking about doing anything stupid.
Which, by the looks of it, she isn’t. She’s just standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in a towel, staring at herself.
Jesus, she makes my chest ache.
As much as I want to wrap her in my arms and demand she tell me what’s wrong, my instincts instruct me to do the exact opposite. To give her the space she needs and let her come to me.
I leave her tidy bedroom silently with high hopes she’ll do just that.