Education: Inconsequential. Maybe he just needs the right Ivy Leaguer.
Obsession: Fetish rumors out the wazoo. Literally. And an obsession for the name Taylor.
Not for a first name, as in Swift. But a last name.
A woman with the last name Taylor seemed to get insta-access to the reclusive billionaire. At least for the night. He’d drop almost everything to get to know a woman better if an attractive body was attached to that name.
But Natasha wasn’t into chasing rumors. Theories were meant to be tested. And what she needed was a hooker. Not for herself, obviously. She got plenty. And was straight.
I’m not defined by my freshman year.
Three weeks ago, hiring a prostitute to stumble upon him seemed prudent. With Charity, high-end happy endings could be arranged for a big fat pile of cash up front. But for surveillance and possibly satisfaction, she accepted a compromise. Half of the fee agreed to up front, and the other half would be due when she delivered the intel.
Like most men, Alex Drake had his habits. He regularly ordered a late dinner on Friday nights. Always to his office. The very same boring meal each and every time.
A Big Mac. No side. Apple pie. No drink.
What kind of psycho doesn’t order fries?
Natasha took care of his regular delivery guy. She knew his minions wouldn’t take a bribe. But the delivery man had to call out when his dog went missing, right? And the pup would only be gone for a few hours, so no harm done.
This gave Charity, aka Ms. Taylor, an in to deliver the food, show off her nametag, and report back everything that happened.
And what a report it was.
Direct access to the billionaire’s Manhattan office had been a lot easier than Natasha expected. Charity did as she’d been told, delivering the grub to Alex’s building with the nametag c. taylor on prominent display. Security sent her right up.
And when she’d worn the nametag proudly, hoisted up by her full C cups, Alex noticed.
Natasha got an earful of all the delectably lewd details back at the coffee shop where they’d had their first meeting.
Fetishes were one thing. This guy turned out to be a straight-up freak. Wide-eyed and gawking, she’d eaten up Charity’s account.
Apparently, Charity had easily been cleared to hand-deliver the meal straight to Alex’s executive office. When she did, he tossed several hundred-dollar bills on his desk, paving the way to an offer she couldn’t refuse. But first, he’d asked a few questions to break the ice.
Where was she from? Did she have any siblings? And a final question about fetishes removed any remaining icebergs in his path.
Frowning, Natasha asked, “He’s looking for something. What?”
Charity shrugged. “Rich, powerful men don’t like wasting their time. He was cutting to the chase, wanting to make sure he wasn’t in the presence of a nun. And I’m a pro. I tailor my desires around those of my client. No rarely escapes these DSLs. I’ll try anything once, and said so. He liked it, my willingness to explore. Then he tossed a ton of money on the desk, and we went at it.”
Eager, Natasha lowered her voice and leaned in. “How much money?”
“Initially, a thousand. But trust me, it wasn’t enough. That dude took me down a sexual rabbit hole so bizarre, I’m still not sure what the hell happened. I thought I’d seen it all.” Blowing out a heavy breath, Charity pushed her hair from her eyes, opening them wide. “Apparently not.”
Natasha drummed her fingers, revealing her impatience.
“Oh, right. You wanted details. Well, he started slow, probably because he knew I’d be a little . . . hesitant.”
“Hesitant? You?”
Charity shelled out the torrid details, starting with what she called Drake’s Dirty Sanchez.
Shocked, Natasha slapped her hand over her mouth, her imagination running wild. Oh dear God, my complexion was not made for a poo mustache. “You don’t mean—”
“No,” Charity said, assuring her with an insistent shake of her head.
Whether he was a billionaire or not, Natasha had standards. At least, that’s what she told herself, realizing that a face full of crap set a new benchmark. But what she heard next barely qualified as any better.
Apparently, Alex Drake had a sexual appetite for, of all things, condiments. Natasha’s mouth fell open as Charity continued.
“He opened his desk drawer. It was filled to the brim with those tiny little bottles you get with room service. Ketchup. Mayo. Even hot sauce. You can imagine my relief when relish wasn’t his first pick, but champagne mustard wasn’t much better. He likes his crunchy.”
Perplexed, Natasha said, “Crunchy?”
“You know. It had those tiny little peppercorns in it.”
“Mustard seeds,” Natasha said, and her correction was met with a stern who the fuck cares glance.
“He explained what he wanted, and had me pull my panties off and shove them in his mouth. He wanted me to put my finger in the mustard, then wipe it under his nose, back and forth, while asking him if he liked that. Oh, and scolding him over and over for being a filthy boy. A dirty, filthy boy.” Shifting uncomfortably, Charity clasped her hands. “And that’s when things turned twisted.”
Natasha sucked in a breath. What the fuck? It gets weirder than this?
“Without any warning, he dropped his pants—junk in the wind—and stared me down like a raging bull aiming at a matador, ready for the pounding. Giving me a stern look, he motioned for me to remove the wad of undies stuffed in his mouth, and then he stretched the lace to bind my hands.”
Lifting her hands in front of her face, Charity demonstrated for effect. “Then he sucked my finger clean of all that nasty spicy mustard. I tried not to look too grossed out, but I don’t have the best poker face.”
Natasha heaved. “Ew.”
“Right?” Charity rolled her eyes. “At least he didn’t make me eat it.”
As Charity’s overly descriptive account kept coming, Natasha shivered in disgust, realizing that she might not have it as easy.
“With his custom-tailored, lightly starched shirt still on—tie and all—he demanded I reach underneath and up, pinching his nipples hard while telling him to take it. Oh, and call him Sally. So I kept doing it, even while he started jacking off.”
Bewildered, Natasha finally pushed away the disturbing visual. “Why Sally?”
Charity shrugged with wide, rolling eyes. “Why any of it? But he seemed to like it. A lot.”
Natasha huffed. “What a whack job.”
“I still haven’t told you the really weird shit.”
“Holy fuck. There’s more?”
“Oh yeah. So, he gets me into position. You know, typical bang-from-behind job. Then he pulls the panties off my hands and stuffs them back in his mouth. With my hands on the desk, I waited. I knew he was serious when he slipped on a condom. His grunt was wild and animal-like as he pushed in, but then the sound changed.”
“Changed how?”
“At first, I thought it was just a drawn-out moan. But when he got to pumping, I realized he was humming. There he was, picking up the pace, thrusting in and out as he hummed the tune of ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’ Back and forth. With each beat of his thrusts.”
Despite Natasha’s blaring disbelief, Charity rushed to the finish line.