A Taste of Utopia (6 page)

That’s what it’s like to dream while awake.

That’s the place in the universe attainable through potions, where notions are created and destroyed.

Volcanic.

Explosive.

Fuck.

I pull away. A moan of protest escapes her lips. My eyes narrow at her. She is soft and pliant under the web of spells my hands so skillfully knit. She’s ripe for the taking.

She inhales deeply, and her lustful eyes flutter open to find me. An undone, uncontrolled, and shaking man. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. I’m always in control.

Am I that drunk? Yes, I’m hammered.

Usually, I restrain myself to two or three drinks. Excessive alcohol is awful to the body, my tool of work. Getting a buzz makes things interesting for my clients, but a drunken me won’t be up to the top-notch performance I’m paid to deliver.

Tonight, between cocktails, songs, the sweat of her skin beneath my fingers, her intoxicating body, I let loose and drank more than I usually do. Way more. So yeah, it’s safe to say I’m drunk.

I never act so recklessly. I’ve excelled my workmanship. I’ve mastered each tool of my craft. Reigned over them. I’m a professional. One of the best in the country.

A kiss from this seemly naïve girl tears through me like a lightning bolt pierces through the bark of a tree.

I mentally debate if I should just run the hell away from her. The argument is brief. I won’t walk away. Her scent alone makes my blood simmer. I have to have her. Fuck her. And if I’m getting paid for it, all the better. Not to mention it will be a sober reminder that this is just another business transaction.

So I lick my lips—still tasting of her, and ask, “Let’s go?”

She nods shyly. I wonder if it is a plot to be coy. If she wants to pretend this is a real date, fine by me. To each their own. At least I don’t have to pretend to be a priest, like I had to once. Now that was beyond my comfort level. I don’t like to mess with the divine and shit.

I can easily handle this scenario. According to my directions, I’m to pretend this is just a hookup. Another one of those occasional one-night stands that have become so culturally common.

I gulp down the remainder of my drink. Since I’m breaking so many rules as it is, might as well be thorough.

I grab her small hand, guide her back through the club and out into the hotel. We step into the elevator. I glance at her and ask, “Where are you?”

She fidgets and furrows her brows. A multitude of what appear to be conflicted thoughts crosses her face. Is she having second thoughts?

After the brief hesitation, she lifts her chin, squares her shoulders, and says, “Ninety-seven.” Her voice falters slightly, but her eyes remain locked with mine.

A small smile tugs the corners of my lips. I get it. It happens often. Some women have difficulty reconciling with escort services. It’s my job to put them at ease.

I take a slow step toward her. She retreats until her back is pressed against the wall.

“You know why I debated kissing you earlier tonight?” I run my nose along her left shoulder, inhaling the smell of jasmine and spring mornings.

I pull back and cock my head, studying her face.

She bites her lip again. She must want to play this role of innocence to the tee. Fine by me, I can be the Big Bad Wolf.

I prop one hand against the wall and lean in close enough to feel her irregular breath brush the skin on my neck. I raise my free hand and in a feather-like touch, I slide my index finger up her jaw and along her earlobe. Slowly. Tantalizing. Her body trembles under my touch. “Because every time I looked at your lips, I imagined my dick stained with your red lipstick.” My hand slides back to her mouth, and my thumb roughly grazes the lips that I have wiped clean with my own.

Her breathing hitches, making her chest rise and fall rapidly. Her pupils dilate, and her nipples visibly tighten through the satin of her dress.

You can’t blame me for enjoying my motherfucking job so damn much.

A chime announces our arrival. We step out.

I retrieve the plastic key from her trembling hand and slide in. A soft buzz tells me the door is unlocked. “Presidential suite, huh?”

Lottie nods. “Umm-hmm. Part of my birthday gift from Chloe. It’s her family’s hotel.”

“Happy birthday!” I say, appearing surprised at her announcement. I push the door open. The lights automatically flick on. The spacious room is filled with velvety drapes, puffy couches, mahogany floors, lavish artwork, and flowers. Bouquets upon bouquets of multi-colored wildflowers. Her friend spared no expense.

I release her hand and approach a chilled bottle of champagne waiting on a wood console table. I retrieve my iPhone and scroll down, finding a pre-prepared playlist, and latch it to a dock that waits on the table.

The gentle chords of a U2 song drift from overhead speakers. I pour champagne in the glasses and stroll back to Lottie.

She remained where I had left her. Petrified. Her lips twitch slightly, forming a nervous smile.

Seducing Miss Naivety will be a pleasure, but certainly not an easy task. She appears to be genuinely nervous. Tonight is most definitely her first time with an escort. I have to pop her escort cherry and make it unforgettable.

Our fingers touch when she takes the glass I offer. It thrills me to think I’m her first hired fuck. At the same time, a surreal and illogical rage surges through me at the thought of her hiring someone else in the future.

I run my hand through my disheveled hair and allow the momentary irritation to vanish.

“To your health,” I say, and her smile broadens. The glasses clink, sounding like a bell. “And to the multiple orgasms you’re bound to have tonight.”

Her eyes widen, and she empties the glass with one gulp.

I shrug and follow suit in an attempt to encourage her. I don’t need liquid courage for a fuck. After I refill the glasses, I place them on the console.

“Dance with me?”

I press her body against mine. She gasps. In perfect synchrony, we sway to the soft notes floating in the room. Our movements are erotic, unhurried.

Between songs and glasses of champagne, we continue the slow, sensual movement of our bodies. My hands brush over her soft, warm skin. With our faces inches apart, our lips so close, I can inhale her breath. I gather all my self-control to restrain from kissing her. Anticipation is a potent aphrodisiac.

I forgo the second bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket and raid the minibar for other drinks. Though I’m crossing the line of professionalism by overdrinking, I don’t give a fucking iota. To appease my guilty conscience, I reassure myself I’m doing this for her benefit. But in truth, I’m enjoying this unguarded moment. Maybe a little too much. But fuck me if I can’t break protocol once in a long and successful career.

I hand her a small bottle. We both swig it down, resuming our dancing.

Her giggles snatch me from my reverie. “What?”

“You stepped on my foot,” she says with an adorable slur.

Impossible, I’m an excellent dancer. “Impossible. I’ve. . . .” I shake my head. “Sorry.”

Loud laughter roars above the soft music.

“I pride myself in being a good dancer. For fucks sake, I even included it in my resume,” I say apologetically.

“Thank goodness this isn’t a job interview then,” she replies, making me join in on the laughter.

“Well, well, if it was, would I get the job?” Fuck me for feeling insecure as I wait for her response.

She tilts her head and smiles. “With a wage deduction. Yeah. Definitely.”

And her eyes are so full of rare, genuine purity that I want to cradle her to my chest and never allow anyone to take that away from her.

I stop in my tracks, but the room continues to spin. Both my hands cup her face.

Her eyes rise to meet mine. They are full of wonder, full of naïve expectations, full of innocent desire. It makes me wonder why a fabulous girl like her needs to hire an escort. Are the fucking guys around her that inept with their dicks?

Her hands tentatively pat over my chest, slowly climbing to the back of my neck and running through my hair, silencing all the fucking thoughts that have been tumbling through my mind.

My lips touch hers. And I feel it again. The taste of utopia, slowly unfurling into my mouth, permeating my senses. Then, like rampant fire, it sears through my bloodstream. First, it burns. Then it cools, soothing my blood flow, dulling the initial singe.

A relentless desire to possess her engulfs me. I have to make her mine. It’s not optional.

I tilt my head to intensify the kiss. The inside of her mouth is warm, soft. A guttural groan erupts from the back of my throat. She tastes of champagne and fine sugar, a heady combination.

Hot damn. It’s official. Her cherry lips are my new favorite flavor. If her mouth feels like this, I can’t wait to taste her pussy.

I reach under her dress and run my hand over her thigh until I palm her ass and knead it. Holy motherfucker! It’s firm but soft. Round and just right.

Jackpot. I really love my job.

MY HANDS FUMBLE
along her curves, trying to touch her all at once. I burn with need. Our kisses are a clash of teeth and tongues. My hands fly over her body. Caressing. Seeking. Demanding.

My fingers fidget clumsily with the side zipper of her dress. Fuck. I pull away. Wow. Pause. It can’t be like this. Ensuring a client’s needs prevails over my own. That’s what I get paid to do.

Oh, fuck it all to hell. I clasp her head with both hands and pull her back to me. “What’s happening to me?” I mumble against her lips, before delving into another kiss.

She moans. The sound erupts a drive within me. I’m a possessed man. The primal need to ravish her delicious body dictates my every move. My arms possessively wrap around her voluptuous body. Blinded by the need to complete our sexual connection, we stumble as I guide her to the bedroom’s door.

All I can think of is to plunge inside her with a complete abandonment that leads to nirvana.

Abruptly she pulls back. “Wait,” she says with both hands pushing on my chest. “Wait.” She steps away from my embrace.

The room spins again. I question if it’s the absence of her or the liquor running through me.

“Sorry, I can’t.” She finally says stumbling further back. Her eyes are gleaming. Shit, is she . . . ? Is she going to cry?

I squint my eyes. Yes, those are goddamn tears.

With a long stride, I close the distance she imposed between us.

My teenage impulses and lack of finesse just ruined this for her. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Sorry. Fuck. I got carried away. Too fast, huh?” I run my hands over my hair. “Fuck. I’m not usually like this. I’ll, um, I’ll slow down.”

I hold my fucking breath. She can’t back down. Not because of the money. My fee is ensured if a client has a change of heart. It’s paid in advance. It’s just that I haven’t wanted to complete a job for my own satisfaction in a long time, as in
never.
Hell, I don’t think this is even a job anymore. My body yearns for hers. I crave being inside her now, as I have never desired another client.

“It’s not you, Seth. I mean you’re . . .” She waves a hand toward my body. “You are
you.
” Her eyes scan my body appreciatively. “It’s just that . . .” Her voice trails off. Her face is bright red.

“You don’t want to do it. This is too awkward for you. I get it.” Shit.

“I do,” she says hastily. “I mean I really want to. I, uh, I just can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t.” She shakes her head to emphasize her words.

Fucking an escort isn’t for everybody. Many of my colleagues have tales of women breaking down on the brink of having sex. However, this is the first time a woman declined my services.

It’s time to be professional and make this easy for her.

“Sorry, my fault. I rushed you. I, uh, I’m sorry. I’m not usually this impulsive and . . . Fuck . . . Sorry . . . I mean if you want a re—” Before I complete the offer for a refund her hands flash to my lips.

“No . . . no . . .” She shakes her head apologetically. “It’s not you. It’s me. You were perfect. Really.”

I smile. Poor thing is trying not to bruise my ego. That’s such a refreshing concept. Most clients treat me like what they pay for. A fuck.

But here she is, filled with worry and genuine concern for me and my shitty excuse for a performance.

“The truth is, I um . . .” she says, but stops before the words fall from her lips.

“What?” My brows furrow and I lean in.

“Never mind.”

“Do tell, Cherry Lips.”

“What did you call me?”

“Your painted lips, they remind me of a bowl of cherries on a lazy summer afternoon.” I let my fingers run over her lips. “But what is it? If you don’t want to, fine. I totally respect that. But if there’s something I’m doing wrong, tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

First, because fucking her is my goddamn job and fuck me if I don’t do what it takes to perfect a job with complete customer satisfaction. Secondly and perhaps more importantly: my balls are blue.

“Promise you won’t laugh,” she begs. Her eyes are uncertain.