“We’ve been dating for two months,” I murmur, my mouth an inch from her ear. “We met at a coffee shop. You bumped into me and spilled your herbal tea. I bought you an espresso to replace it, and you scrunched your nose when you drank it.”
She’s not the only paid escort at this party, but she’s the only one who won’t know how to be coy about it. She gives a decisive nod. “I bought you an herbal tea. You made a face when you took a sip, so we swapped drinks. And phone numbers.”
It sounds silly. And sweet. I almost wish that is how we met.
Except that my coffee arrives hand-delivered by one of my several assistants. I don’t have time to lounge at a coffee shop. There’s money to be made.
Oh yes, there’s always more money to be made.
“Our first date,” she asks, her brown eyes twinkling. “Where did you take me?”
Where would I take this girl? She’s smart and inquisitive. “The Met. You blushed when we got to the sculptures of naked men, and I took pity on you and took you to the next room.”
“The Renaissance paintings. You blushed when we saw the paintings of naked women. But I didn’t take pity on you, I just let you squirm.”
I let out a bark of laughter that makes the people around us turn their heads. I’m actually enjoying her company, which is more than I expected. What had I thought? That she’d be dutiful and quiet, and I’d be horny. Pretty much. Instead, she’s interesting and fun.
Goddamn her for that.
I don’t want to like her, not when our time together has a ticking clock.
“Our second date,” I prompt, unable to stop myself. “Your choice. Where did we go?”
She considers that. Her dark gaze studies me, and I have the unnerving sense that she can see right through me—past the tux. Past the money. “Coney Island,” she finally says. “I make you ride on a roller coaster because you need to relax.”
I shudder. “I don’t find roller coasters relaxing.”
“All the more reason to go on one.”
My head shakes at her logic, but there’s a smile on my face. “Afterward, I pay you back by having a hot dog eating contest, just the two of us. I beat you by a mile.”
She laughs. “That sounds fun.”
It does sound fun. And completely impossible.
Then we’re next in the receiving line, and I put on a bland smile to greet our hosts. Of course, our elaborate dating backstory is completely unnecessary. But Anita looks more relaxed as she smiles and shakes hands. She even gives a precocious little curtsy to Caroline Constantine, which earns her an eyebrow raise from the matriarch of the family.
I shake hands with Winston, the eldest son, and Elaine, who looks worried about something. The birthday girl gives us a brittle smile, and I’m struck by how close in age she looks to Anita.
But Anita is eighteen. Legal. Too young for you, Midas.
Yes, she’s too young for me, but that’s the way the world works. Tinsley is only sixteen, but she’ll remain cossetted her entire life. I don’t know Anita’s family situation, but it’s clear that she’s had to make her own way, without protection.
Without money.
Then we enter the ballroom with its marble tile, gilt molding, and elaborate carvings. An oversized chandelier looms over the hordes of people. I keep my hand light on Anita’s lower back, my thumb brushing her bare skin. The people here may be rich, but they’re still animals. Predators. They would eat her if I didn’t protect her. Devour her the way I want to.
The orchestra in the center starts a waltz, and I lean down. “Shall we dance?”
She glances back at me, and my cock hardens at the look of shy acceptance in her eyes. “I would love to, but I’m afraid I don’t know how.”
“You only have to follow my lead.”
I place her hands on me, though I have to grit my teeth at the feel of her touch. As she learned in the limo, I like to touch her. Anyone else’s hands on me feel like sandpaper.
Only with her it seems worth bearing.
When we’re on the second stanza, she asks, “What about the third date?”
The third date. Isn’t that when things get more serious? When the woman decides whether she’ll sleep with the man? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on a date. A real one, where I didn’t pay for a woman’s time. “Something simple. Dinner at a nice restaurant. Hours for us to talk about everything and nothing. A long walk back to your place.”
Her blush covers her neck and her chest. Her breasts. “And then?”
Because this is a fantasy, because it will never happen, I say, “I would let you touch me, Anita. I’d hold onto the headboard, and let you do anything to me.”
An audible catch in her breath. “We could still do that, you know.”
I shake my head, my gaze never leaving hers. “I couldn’t.”
It’s hard to admit there’s something outside my ability, especially to this woman. But I don’t want to disappoint her. The way it was in the limo—that’s the way it will be.
She’ll keep her hands at her sides while I touch her.
The entire exchange will be cold. Emotionless. Empty. And at the end, she’ll get a nice fat paycheck, which means no feelings will get hurt.
3
Anita
After we dance, we explore the other rooms.
In one there’s an elaborate acrobatic display, with people hanging from the ceiling and eating fire. In another, there’s a feast with cranberry-orange roast ducklings and oysters Rockefeller. Another room has exotic animals lounging—a zebra, a sloth, a baboon, and an ocelot in a cage.
We continue down the great hallway, which opens onto wide doors. Five of my bedrooms could fit in this balcony. I’m lucky that my scholarship paid for tuition and room and board. It doesn’t cover the thousands of dollars in books. Or the laptop that I’ll need if I don’t want to lurk in the computer labs at 2 am and walk home in the dark after the campus buses have stopped running.
Swaths of sheer white fabric hang down across the balcony, giving the appearance of private alcoves. Couples lounge in them, doing very private acts even though they’re visible to anyone walking by. Kissing. Touching. Having sex.
When Raoul leads me to an empty alcove, I know exactly what’s coming next.
Nerves beat a hurried pace in my veins.
I gasp at the view. A garden maze is lit from thousands of fairy lights, massive white plumes half covering the aisles. Not enough to obscure the many couples—and groups—moving within them in a sensuous display. I wonder if the masks make them feel anonymous.
It’s hard to believe that all this is happening at a sixteenth birthday party, but as the night wraps its spell around me, as I become part of the excess and erotic display, it feels inevitable.
Whatever is going to happen on this balcony, I want this. As I look over my shoulder at Raoul Midas, I want him. His dark eyes glitter with promise. His golden skin and dark hair raise something wild inside me. Call it madness. Call it desire.
It doesn’t stop trepidation from thundering through me as he approaches.
He envelops me from behind, and I shiver in the cool night air. His scent has already become familiar to me. It already foretells the pleasure I’ll feel under his touch.