Chapter 4

“Perhaps I was . . . hasty,” he said. “Stay for a drink.”

Had my ass worked for me? Was I happy about this?

When I turned and traipsed back, he headed to the bar area. This was actually happening. I was going to have sex for money.

Over his shoulder, he said, “I’m Roman Petrov .”

I turned it over on my tongue, finding his name a mouthful. In my mind, I styled him Rome.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ana Sol.” I glanced around for my donation. Nothing. Which made me uneasy, but I gamely bellied up to the bar.

“Is that your working name?”

That's what they call me. I replied

As we entered the room I then saw,

A ball gag. A crop. Leather restraints.

Not in your life.

No, no, This man had to be interested in more than BDSM. “Explain what you’d do to me.”

He coolly said, “Once you’ve stripped, you’ll go to your knees at the edge of the mattress, buckling the gag on yourself. I’ll bind your arms behind your back, and you’ll lean forward resting on your forehead. Then I’ll whip your body wherever it pleases me to. When I’m satisfied with that, I’ll fuck you from behind.”

This sounded like a movie script. Like he did this with every escort.

He’d said nothing about kissing my nipples, nothing about touching me.

In his scenario, we’d share the fewest points of contact possible while still technically having sex.

He wouldn’t see my face or hear my voice. He wouldn’t even touch me to gag me!

I would be just a sex doll. Which he’d pretty much warned me about. A faceless, voiceless sex doll.

I’m not there yet. So my options were to walk out or try to change his mind. Nothing to lose by the latter.

Why not make this into a fantasy? I could be anyone tonight. A dominant woman, a man-eater.

I told him, “While your movie script sounds . . . interesting, I don’t think that’s what you really want.”

His brows shot up. “You don’t.”

I turned toward the suite’s sitting area. All the windows and doors were open in the softly lit room.

Thrilling moonlit curtains fluttered. I cat walked behind the couch. When I patted the back cushions, inviting him over, his lips thinned.

Long moments passed as we stared at each other. Heartbeat after . . . heartbeat . . . after heartbeat. Then it seemed like curiosity forced him to stride over.

When he took a seat, I smiled, sidling around in front of him. I stepped forward until he had to make room for me, spreading his knees.

I played with the sash on the side of my dress. “Would you like me to take this off, Russian?”

Slow nod.

I slowly untied the sash. Letting my dress hang open like a robe, I gave him a curtained glimpse of my provocative black half cut bra and thong set.

I couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell if he liked the view or not. He looked so cold.

So why was I getting hot stripping for him?

I glanced at his big, masculine hands. What would they feel like squeezing my breasts or cupping my bare pussy?

My nipples were taut, my panties growing moist. I never wore lingerie like this, and I felt so sensitive after my waxing session a couple of days ago.

I pulled the little dress from my body , tossing it to a neighboring seat. When I faced him in my underwear, he casually draped his arms along the back of the sofa.

“Turn in place for me.” He was so calm, detached even. This was like foreplay with a computer. A DDG computer.

“Slowly.”

I reminded myself that I was playing the dominant woman. My two glasses of wine I had before leaving Danielle told me I was doing fine.

As I turned, I could feel his eyes on my cheeks, exposed in my tiny thong. Which only made me wetter. lubing would not be a problem.

In fact, maybe I should leave my panties on for a little longer? It’d been a while since I’d had the time or energy to masturbate.

What if I lost control?

Like everyone else on earth, when my body got turned on, my brain turned off.

But mine was a total factory shutdown, a labor strike. I needed my brain to handle this guy.

I faced him again. Had his breaths slowed down to a touch? “Show me your breasts. Let’s see if I like your size as much as you do.”

I removed my bra, tossing it in the direction of my dress. I was secretly proud of my pert breasts.

They fit my body but were plump, with jutting nipples that were not quite pink and not quite tan. My small areolas were raised, giving the peaks a slightly puffy look.

When I squared my shoulders, the Russian’s nostrils flared—finally a hint of passion from him!

“Very nice. I hadn’t thought the view from the front could compete with the back.”

Wow. An actual compliment. My attention was drawn downward.

A very large erection pressed against the material of his suit pants. Maybe too big? For all my fooling around, I’d only had intercourse once when I lost my virginity, and he was nowhere near as well endowed.

“Continue.”

Strip totally? Deciding against that, I stepped forward, straddling him. I rested my knees beside his hips, my hands on his shoulders.

A breeze from the ocean drifted in, mingling with his intoxicating scent—a blend of sandalwood and man.

His scent made me tremble—it was like an unfair advantage, used to drug new escorts.

When I lowered myself atop the thick ridge of his cock, I could feel his heat even through our clothes. My eyes went wide; his narrowed.

I’d be taking his length inside me directly. The idea no longer filled me with hesitation.

I shivered with desire. My nipples puckered even tighter, right before his eyes.

I wanted this man, this stranger.

Most times had been accidental when I’d been fumbling in the backseat with a boy or grinding one at a high school party.

Not that i’d care. But this Russian—

“I did not invite you to straddle me,” he snapped. His body went tense—angry tense.

I froze with confusion. Most guys liked it when topless girls straddled them.

“You just assume I wanted you atop me?” He couldn’t sound more cutting.

He grabbed me, lifting me to the side—as if to fling my body off him.

Yet then he stilled. His hands were so big on me, his fingers covered a good bit of my ass.

After a hesitation—when we seemed suspended in the moment—he began to knead me. When he lowered his hands to grip my curves, a low groan escaped him. But he still held me upright.

Again, something was happening that I didn’t understand, as if some inner battle were being played out.

In my lust-dimmed mind, I wondered if he tied women up and fucked them from behind because he didn’t like to touch too much of them.

Just when I’d decided that was the case, I found myself settled back over him, the raised bulge of his cock directly between my legs. Had I won this round?

His anger seemed to have been put on hold, but he wasn’t ready to concede defeat. “You still refuse to give me what I want?”

And he was going along with my refusal? Emboldened, I leaned in next to his ear. “I’m going to give you what you need, Russian.” The wine and my arousal were making my own accent thicken even more.

My stiffened nipples brushed the fine cashmere of his sweater, which felt incredible, so I skimmed them again.

What would it take to get this man’s mouth on my breasts? When I imagined him sucking me . . . a soft moan escaped my lips, my back subtly arching.