“And here I thought I was the one who had done the choosing.”
“This isn’t a street corner. Last I checked this was the most exclusive club in the world.”
“You are American,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. If anything, it sounded like an accusation.
“You are British,” I replied. “And apparently very wealthy, to be a member here and to offer me any amount of money I choose. Does that mean you come with a title attached?”
His mouth curved. And here in this quiet, hushed space where he would take me as he liked and I would surrender entirely—a notion that made me feel as if I teetered right there on the edge of an orgasm without his even touching me—I couldn’t help but find myself dazzled by all of his male beauty. He was a hard man, because the fact he was beautiful did not make him pretty. And there was something about the cut of his jaw and that simmering heat in his bright blue gaze that made me want to sink down onto my knees. And show him exactly how much I wanted him.
“I’m not that kind of British, nor that kind of wealthy,” he said, though his accent made him sound like the earl of this or the baron of that. “But you can call me ‘sir,’ all the same.”
That made me even wetter, and I had the strangest sensation that he could tell. That he knew.
That he might think I was some kind of hardened prostitute who did this all the time, but still I was soaking my panties for him.
Maybe that was his fantasy.
“Very well,” I said softly.
I moved toward him, the marble soothing beneath my feet, then hard enough to leave bruises when I sank down on my knees before him. But I was a ballet dancer. I wore my bruises like badges of honor, counted them, and sometimes gave them names. I already knew I would love these wholeheartedly.
I swayed forward, resting my hands on his powerful thighs, and then I tipped my head back so I could meet his gaze up above the impressive length of his toned, muscled body.
Above the thick rod of his cock, which pressed out against the front of his trousers and made me feel something like giddy.
“How’s this?” I asked. Then smiled. “Sir.”
I saw his nostrils flare. His blue eyes glittered like an afternoon sea. And he did nothing but incline his head.
It was an order, not an invitation.
My mouth was watering. My hands felt as if they were shaking, though I could see that they were not. I moved to unzip him, easing the metal teeth carefully over the thick heat of him, so big and so hot to the touch that I felt almost giddy.
I finished with the zipper, then ran my hands over the silk he wore beneath his trousers, getting my first feel of him.
His cock was huge. Heavy. The ridge beneath the silk grew as I rubbed it, and whatever notion I might have had about playing with him a while shivered off into a bright, hot lust.
“Take me out,” he ordered me, his voice a low growl. “I want to watch you while I fuck your mouth.”
People did not say things like that to sweet, meek, fragile ballerinas, that was for sure.
Again, it wasn’t a request.
My nipples pulled so tight a sharp little pain stabbed through me every time I breathed. My breasts felt heavy, my pussy was scalding and soft, and I couldn’t seem to keep myself from pressing my thighs together to give myself a little bit of friction.
And I did what I was told.
I pulled that beautiful cock out from the silk of his boxers, reveling in the textures. The soft, warm silk, then the heat of his satiny flesh stretched over the thick iron beneath.
I moved even closer, pressing my knees against the marble floor to make sure I got that bruise. His hands moved to tangle in my hair, holding me right where he wanted me.
This was what I’d wanted, all this time. This was what I’d dreamed about and feverishly imagined, hidden away in the privacy of my own bed, playing out the stories Annabelle told me in my mind with my hands busy between my legs.
I couldn’t seem to help myself. I let him support my head with those big hands tugging at my hair and keeping my head high. I slid my own hands beneath the sparkling bikini bottoms I wore, finding my way through all that molten heat to my greedy clit.
And as I found myself, I opened my mouth and sucked him in.
He tasted like salt and man; he was big, and I took as much of him as I could. Even though he came perilously close to triggering my gag reflex.
But the truth was, I liked that, too.
I could feel tears form in the corners of my eyes. I wanted to cry, but not because I was sad.
But because his hands controlled my head, holding me as he began to thrust.
He didn’t ask if I was ready. He didn’t consult my feelings. He just took what he wanted and, my God, did I nearly come all over myself in my eagerness to give it to him.
He eased his way in, then pulled out, letting me feel every thick inch of him. My mouth was wide, my tongue busy against his satiny length, but he didn’t wait to see what sort of acrobatics I might perform with it. He didn’t wait to see if I was a licker or a sucker. He took charge and control.
And there was nothing I could do but stay where I’d knelt, keep my mouth open and let him fuck my mouth as he chose.
That hard, uncompromising slide, a little deeper each time, like a test.
I was filled with him. His cock in my mouth and my hands between my legs—two fingers, then three—as I pretended he was fucking me there, too.
And then I was coming. Flooding my own fingers as he maintained that same bossy, insistent rhythm. Once. Then again.
As if I really was an object.
And I’d spent my whole life learning how to be a specific kind of movable, flexible object, set here and there in the choreography of every creative director I’d ever danced for. I was a company dancer, trained my whole life to be interchangeable. My job was to blend. To be indistinguishable from the girl beside me.
I fought for that privilege. I fought to disappear every time I went onstage. I beat myself up, suffered the critiques, and staggered into the studio every day with my aches and nagging pains and protesting limbs to do it all over again.
We are nothing but game pieces they move around their little boards, my friend Winston had said before he’d left the ballet two years back. We’d all pretended to be supportive of what he called a lateral move into contemporary dance, but we’d all viewed it as a death. A suicide.
I prefer to be one of the prettiest, most perfect pieces, Annabelle had said afterward. Or why not just go home?
And here, now, on my knees in a hotel suite in Paris with a man whose name I didn’t know, it was that very objectification that made it all so hot.
He wanted me because I was that object. Because we could play this game, where he did with me as he pleased because it pleased me, too. And I didn’t have to know any steps or worry about perfection.
All I had to do was let him fuck me as he liked.
I came and I came, bucking against my hands, and the man who held me so securely in his grasp growled his approval, but didn’t stop.
He didn’t speed up. He didn’t change his rhythm at all.
He was inexorable. Relentless.
And that, too, made me come.
He fucked my face while