"Kellan," we hear him snap as he walks toward the elevator. "I don’t have all day."
"I'm coming," she mutters, rushing after him to make the elevator.
I bite my lip to hide my smile.
I hate to admit it, but I do love that he's being a prick to her as well.
He steps into the elevator and turns to face the doors. His eyes meet mine and he remains emotionless as we stare at each other.
The doors close.
"What the hell got under his skin today?" Evan says from behind us.
I smirk as I go back to my work.
That would be me.
It's late—around 10:00 p.m. We didn’t get back to the hotel until two hours ago, and then we had dinner in the restaurant. Everyone is now having drinks in the bar and trying to relax before retiring to bed for another full-on day tomorrow.
Sebastian is sitting in the armchair by the fire with a scotch and a cigar. His legs are wide, and his demeanor is all male. From my place at the bar, I watch him lift the cigar to his lips, inhale, and then blow out a thin stream of smoke. He's deep in conversation with four men, and in the ultimate act of fucked-up-ness, I want him.
Him raging around today, snapping and snarling at everything that moved has awoken my libido, taking it to fever pitch.
I want him to release all that anger on my body.
I want him to punish me for upsetting him.
I take out my phone and text him.
Will you be paying cash or card tonight, Sir?
I see him dig his phone out of his pocket and read the text. His eyebrow rises and he slowly sips his scotch.
Cash.
I reply.
Your date will be waiting in the suite for you in thirty minutes.
His tongue darts out and in slow motion it sweeps over his bottom lip. His eyes rise to meet mine, and he gives me the best ‘come fuck me’ look I've ever seen.
It’s dark, dangerous, and hot as fucking hell.
I'm going to get it.
Nerves dance in my stomach. Another text arrives from Sebastian.
I'll have a full service. And make that ten minutes.
I drain my glass, and without looking up, I stand and leave. I need a two-minute shower, six minutes to prepare myself, and then another two minutes spare to freak out. I really should be more clued up on hooker talk before I make a booking.
Full service. What the hell does that mean?
I’m sitting on the end of the bed, freshly showered, wearing the hotels oversized, white bath robe.
I drag my hand down my face, wondering what the hell I’m doing?
Every fiber inside of me is screaming that this is wrong, and yet, like a sacrificial lamb, I sit here waiting for him to come and pay me for sex.
Sebastian Garcia is all kinds of fucked up. He doesn’t want sex unless it’s with a prostitute.
And what does it say about me that I’ll take his money.
I’d take his last damn cent if it means I get to hold him for the night.
I’ve never been so disgusted with myself in my life. Why does it have to be him?
Why can’t I feel like this way about Duke?
I drop my head into my hands, pre-empting the regret.
I already know how this story ends, and it isn’t good. This isn’t going to be one of those happy love stories where everything gets tied up in a little red bow at the end.
I imagine myself crying on the floor, broken.
Again.
My mind takes me back to the last time we were together and how hard and fast I fell. How badly it ended.
I should know better. I do know better.
I hear the door in Sebastian’s door shut, and I close my eyes.
He’s home.
My heart begins to beat faster. Just knowing he’s near sends my adrenaline into overdrive.
This is messed up.
I’m as bad as he is.
Maybe worse.
I stand and put my ear to the adjoining door. I can hear the shower turn on in his bathroom. He’s showering.
For me.
I push my fingers into my eye sockets as I try to calm myself down.
Shit.
I rush and take out the bottle of champagne from the fridge and pour myself a glass. I down it in one go. I pour another glass so fast that it sloshes over the sides, and I lift it to my mouth with a shaky hand.
Calm down.
What is it about Sebastian Garcia that affects me so much?
I tip my head back and drain the glass again.
Fuck.
I refill my glass and sit down on the bed. Act cool.
There’s a knock on the door, and I close my eyes. Here we go.
“Come in,” I call.
The adjoining room door opens, and there he stands. Dark hair, olive skin, big red lips, and in the same hotel robe that I’m wearing.
His eyes find mine. “Hello.” His voice is cool, detached.
Nerves flutter in my stomach, “Hi.”
He lifts his chin in approval. I know he can tell that I’m nervous and he likes it.
“Can I come in?”
I gesture to the room with my hand. “Please.”
He walks in and closes the door behind him. He stands at the end of the bed. His hands are in the pockets of his robe. “What are we drinking?”
I frown, because suddenly there are no words in my brain. “Champagne.”
His dark eyes hold mine, waiting.
“Would you like some?”
“Yes.” He stays still on the spot.
I pour him a glass and pass it to him.
“Thank you.” He takes it from me, and with his dark eyes holding mine. he lifts it to his lips and slowly sips. Then he licks his lips.
“So, Cartier…” Fuck. “What do you have in store for me tonight?”
I frown, confused.
Huh?
“I want to know what I’m getting for my money.” His voice his deep and husky. I glance down to see his large erection tenting his gown.
Dirty bastard.
“This is my first job, Sir,” I whisper, playing along. “You are my first client.”
Arousal dances like fire in his eyes, and he dusts my bottom lip with his thumb.
“Take it off.”
I frown.
“I said, take it off,” he demands.
I slowly untie my robe and open it. His eyes drop down body.
“Drop it.”
I pull it back over my shoulders and let if fall. It pools around my feet.
His eyes drop to drink me in, and he gives a slow, satisfied smile. “Better.”
He reaches out and cups my breast. His thumb dusts back and forth over my erect nipple, and his eyes meet mine.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
I nod.
“Don’t be.” He cups my face in his hand and leans in to slowly kiss me. His tongue sweeps through my parted lips as my feet float from the floor. “I’ll look after you,” he whispers.
Will you?
He kisses me again, this time deeper, and my eyes close in reverence.
My body covered in goosebumps. If this is our last night together, I’m going to make it count.
“How can I please you?” I whisper up at him.
“By breathing.”
My eyes search his.
Why say romantic things if you don’t mean them?
It’s easier when he’s hard and fast. At least then it’s only about sex and orgasms—an equal exchange of power. That, I can handle.