Jared

 

 

 

Belinda warned me that this girl is a feisty one. A girl with a strong mind who isn’t a professional in this business. She's never once done anything like this and likely never even considered it before the day she walked into the agency for her interview. I know more about her than she thinks I do, and so far I like every single bit of it.

Except for one thing.

Her job could pose a problem. I will be surrounded by nosy media and paparazzi either way, especially if – no, when - anything from my past resurfaces. Hiring a girl to fulfill all of my needs – to be my little slut behind closed doors and a presentable partner for the public at the same time – is meant to lessen the dark spots of my flawed character.

I'm not a good man, but I have to make people believe that I am.

Bringing a reporter into my own home – and especially my bedroom – seems like the most stupid idea I’ve ever had.

It's an unnecessary risk, a risk I wouldn't take if she didn't enchant me the way she does.

There's something about her that speaks to me, something that makes me think that she might be exactly what I’ve been looking for, exactly what I’ve needed. She's smart, determined, and ambitious.

I no longer want to work for money by the time I'm thirty.

According to her, that is her main reason for being here, the reason she’s willing to sell herself to me. Of course, I need more than that. There are certain things that can't be faked, and if she's not even the slightest bit turned on by what just happened between us, she's not going to work out for me.

But her eyes and reactions tell me that she is. Her pupils were dark, her cheeks showed that telltale flushing glow, and her breathing admitted her lustful agitation.

And she hates herself for it. She has this delicious fury of a first timer, a strong and tenacious woman who takes no shit from others. Yet here she sits with her pussy wet and throbbing because I ordered her around like a pet.

Pushing her buttons could be a lot of fun. I love watching her react to me, and she’s obviously intrigued by what I have to offer, even though she has a hard time admitting it to herself.

We clinked glasses after she declared that she wanted to stay, but neither one of us has said another word. She emptied half of her champagne waiting for me to take the lead.

Very good.

"Why did you want to meet me?" I ask, catching her gaze.

She looks confused, cocking her head to the side and pursing her lips as she contemplates a response.

"I didn't know I would meet you," she says eventually. "Your inquiry was vague and anonymous."

"I wouldn't call it vague," I object. "It very clearly states what I would expect from you."

She rolls her eyes at me.

Big mistake.

I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table as I move in closer to her.

"Do that again and I'll bend you over the table right here and now," I calmly tell her in a low voice. "And spank that attitude out of you."

The look on her face in response to my warning is priceless. I can almost see the rush traveling through her body, the heat, the excitement, the desire to test me, just to see if I would actually do it.

I would.

But she's smart enough not to test me, not yet.

Her anxious fascination is quickly replaced by anger. Of course. It's just a split second during which she allows the irrevocable allure to wash over her before she remembers who she is and who she wants to be right now.

"Excuse me," she snarls in a tone that's heavily underlined with disgust. "What the hell did you just say?"

"You heard me right. Do that again and I'll spank your tight pretty ass until it's blooming red."

"Do what again?"

"Roll your eyes at me."

She grimaces, unsure what to make of what's happening. Her inner turmoil is so visible that I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

"Well, that's simple," she huffs. "Just don't say anything that makes me roll my eyes at you."

I can't help but let out a little laugh at her defiance.

"You're brave, I give you that."

A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, but she doesn't quite let it happen. She can't. It would tell me too much.

"You still haven't answered my question, though," I remind her.

She casts me a quizzical look.

"Why are you here?" I rephrase my earlier question. "On one hand, you're saying this is purely for research, but on the other, you told Belinda - and me - that you're in this for real. What's your deal?"

She bites her lower lip and reaches for her safety net, the almost empty flute of champagne. I would order her another one, but not until we've eaten something. I don't want her to make any decisions while intoxicated.

"You're right, that was misleading," she admits. "I just wanted to point out that... this is not what I do. Not what I normally do."

"Why?"

The confusion on her face intensifies.

"Why are you so set on making sure that I don't mistake you for a professional escort?" I clarify. "What would be so bad about that? And why do you even care what I think about you? I'm here because I want to buy you. Doesn't that pretty much set the stage for our relationship?"

She furrows her eyebrows. "Relationship?"

I give her a little smirk, knowing that my words have already started a thinking process inside that pretty head. She knows what's coming; she knows that I'm about to call her out on prejudices she never knew she had.

"You seem to have a very limited understanding of the word if you don't think we'd be entering into a relationship if both of us agree to this deal," I say. "Relationships can take many forms, some of which are very different from the romantic kind you may be familiar with."

"Sure. Of course I know that," she retorts, her tone sounding pissed. "I just didn't expect the word to be used for... this."

I know there's a hint of condescension in the way I'm smiling at her now, and it makes her furious. She's about to say something, but we're interrupted by the waiter delivering the first two plates of appetizers I ordered. The way she's eyeing the plate tells me that she's hungrier than she wanted to let on. Typical. While it is to a degree flattering, I will never understand why most women prefer to pretend they don't need food to survive, ever, and avoid eating in my presence.

"Toasted brioche rounds with their house-made crème fraiche and some caviar," I explain, pointing toward the dish.

"Fancy," Ann comments, trying to appear unimpressed.

I expect her to pick at the food like a sparrow because that's what most women do when I take them out for dinner. But it seems Ann worries less about artificial appearances than I thought she would. Instead of picking at the tiny brioches, she picks one up and stuffs it into her mouth in one piece. She chews with gusto and her cheeks balloon like a hamster.

Now I'm the one fighting to hold back a reaction from her. There's an adorable innocence about the way she eats, something that clashes with her otherwise strict and reserved behavior.

"Good, huh?"

She nods eagerly, and remembers just in time that her mouth is still stuffed with food before giving me a reply.

"I've never had caviar before," she says. "Didn't think I'd like it."

"Sometimes it's not about the ingredients itself, but what you do with them," I tell her. "I've noticed that it’s similar with women."

Her face darkens as she looks at me with angry confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

"Do you think you can know all about what or who a person is or can be when you first meet them?" I ask. "See all their facets? Imagine everything they're capable of?"

Her gray-blue eyes lock onto mine for a few moments before she slowly shakes her head no.

"I don't think so," she says. "But it does make me wonder: do you see women as ingredients?"

She narrows her eyes and fixates her attention on me, holding me in a place with a gaze that would be intimidating, if I lacked confidence in my words.

"You focus on the wrong things," I tell her. "You focus on words, not the meaning behind them."

The frown on her face grows bigger. "Would you care to elaborate?"

I nod.

"When you first meet a person, all you see is potential. You don't know all about who they are or who they can be, but you can tell by the way they speak or react, by the way they move, and by the way they articulate their thoughts what they have the potential to become."

Ann shrugs. "That's all very vague."

Vague. That seems to be her favorite word. She's a very straightforward, no bullshit-type of person, and not much of a theorist, it appears.

"You, for example," I say, raising my voice and enjoying the way her head tilts up when she realizes I'm about to talk about her. "You're very concerned about what other people - me, for example - think about you. That strikes me as odd, considering you're obviously a very strong-willed and independent person otherwise."

It's hard to tell whether she's flattered by my words, or not. She looks at me with an apathetic expression, not a single muscle on her face moving.

"But it also tells me one very important thing about you," I continue, noticing that her ears move upward in attention, like a little bunny. Fuck, she needs to stop with that damn cuteness.

"It tells me that you like to please."

The frown is back on her pretty face. I'm sure I'll see a lot of it, if I decide to take her in. I'm also sure that I'll be able to keep that face of hers in check, eventually.

"I like to please?" she repeats. "I hardly think so."

I smile at her as she scoffs. "I wouldn't expect you to agree. I'm just saying there's more to a person than you can see on first impression - that goes for you, and for me, too."

"You like to scatter a lot of intellectual fairy dust on all of this, don't you?"

Her question catches me off guard, something that doesn't happen very often.

"When do we get to the real stuff?" she adds. "The terms of this deal? When do we talk about that? I thought that's what we're here for."

I signal for the waiter to bring us the next course of food. A simple hand gesture suffices for them to know what I want. I've been here many times before, and I usually order the same array of dishes.

Just moments later, two servers appear at our table, one of them clearing the empty plates, while the other exchanges them for a new dish, a selection of antipasti.

Ann sits up straight, tense and impatient with her eyes glued to the table. As soon as we're alone again, her eyes dart up to mine, her eyebrows arching in an expectant expression.

I straighten up, too, gesturing toward the food in front of us.

"We'll eat," I inform her. "And then we'll talk business."