Page 48 of The Producer: Aaron

I notice his hands moving in his pockets, his knuckles pressingagainst his pants. He’s clenching his fists, and the knowledge that I’m causing him to lose control is such an intoxicating feeling it makes me overcome my initial hesitation. I slip one hand over my breast, easing the already hardened nipple, while with the other, I slip between my legs, caressing the most sensitive part of me, already wet with pleasure, ready to welcome the man who is here in front of me scrutinizing every single movement as if his life depends on it.

I play, moving my fingers in small slow circles, sinking into the center of my pleasure. I am so aroused, my orgasm mounts at the speed of light, making me pant, blood pumping into my veins, and groan. I close my eyes and arch my back when it explodes inside me, making my legs tremble. I feel his burning gaze on my naked skin, as if his hands were on me. He’s not touching me, but I feel his arousal on me almost physically.

Blood rings in my ears and I open my mouth, panting, trying to regain control over my body. I open my eyes and meet his lust filled eyes, his mouth arched to one side in a smug smile, the erection pulling his pants, trying to free itself. The craving that has taken possession of his gaze is so evident that it almost frightens me. I feel vulnerable and exposed, but at the same time, I want him on me. His mouth, his hands over my body, and his cock buried deep inside.

Aaron moves a few steps and lowers himself next to my ear. I can’t even move when his scent fills my nostrils and senses. I wait for his hands to get lost on my skin, but it doesn’t happen.

“Are you still angry with me, Dakota?” he whispers before he gets up and nails me with a look and the smile of someone who reads through my bullshit.

He turns around and, with the same slow pace, goes back inside, leaving me lying, exhausted after the most intenseorgasm I have ever experienced. And he didn’t even touch me. He didn’t lift a finger over my body.

Aaron has just succeeded in a feat no guy has managed to achieve. No one will ever be able to compete with what he has just done. I don’t think I’ll ever have the strength to leave this house, not after tonight. And my heart sinks when I realize that this accommodation has an expiration date that, until now, had never seemed so close.

“Jesus Christ, it’s too early even for someone like you to be drinking.” Raphael sits next to me, still wearing the sports outfit he used for the gym.

“It’s sparkling water. I’m not drinking alcohol at nine on Sunday morning.” I nail him with my gaze, even though the temptation to get drunk in order to forget the line I crossed last night is strong.

I watched her pleasure herself, then locked myself in my bedroom and masturbated, thinking about her. It was so out of place that I have no justification for my behavior. She is not one of the usual women I have sex with to whom I can ask even the most perverse things. She is a young woman whose only orgasms she has experienced were with a vibrator. In addition, she is the daughter of Isabella and Robert. She is untouchable from so many points of view that what I have done is unforgivable!

“What are you doing here at the Club so soon?” he asks.

“What are you doing here?” I counter, avoiding his question.

“I’m avoiding my publicist who is on a warpath because a woman I had sex with, and I didn’t call back, wants explanations. Who are you avoiding?” His sincerity is so disarming that I’m sure there’s more behind the story. He has always been very good at telling the rough details in order to shift the focus from more serious aspects. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a paternity test involved.

“None.”

“Not a blond with two-mile-long legs?” He sips the energizing drink he ordered.

“Is it so obvious?” At this point, there’s no need to deny the problem.

As absurd as it may seem, given that the maximum of his relationships with women is with the prostitutes he pays, Raphael may be the only one who can give me a piece of disinterested advice. He’s not like Tracy. He doesn’t care about my well-being. He’s cynical and rational and can analyze a situation I can’t wrap my head around.

“You’re sitting here with your face beaten. If you had fucked her last night, you would be between the sheets, receiving a blowjob to wake you up.” He raises an eyebrow challenging me to contradict him.

A half-smile escapes my lips. “You are always so sensible when you speak. You always choose your word carefully. Are you sure you want to get into politics?” I make fun of him. “I swear I don’t know how you convince them to not vote for you.”

“It’s all about what you project to the public. But I already have your vote. I don’t need to convince you that I am the perfect man. And I bet it wouldn’t work with you. You don’t seem to be one of the perfect husbands attending church.”

“You can’t say that you lack self-esteem.”

He smiles and sips again from his drink. He takes a look at the bartender, who is at a safe distance, considering we pay them enough to stay away from private conversations.

“Bullshit aside, can you explain why you haven’t slept with her yet?”

I tell him the story. Everything from Isabella and Robert tohow I watched her masturbate last night and enjoyed one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever experienced. I don’t leave out anything, not a single detail, and the more the words rush out of my lips, the more a weight lifts from my chest. I didn’t realize how important it was for me to tell out loud my fears. As my explanation progresses, the problems and insecurities that lurk in my head scale back until they seem almost normal.

“Please tell me you left out the part where you actually fucked her,” he asks after I showed him all my vulnerability.

I freeze with my glass in mid-air and cast a reproachful look at him.

“Out of everything I told you, the lack of sex is the only part you got?” I ask incredulously.

He shrugs and frowns.

“What else is there to say? You feel guilty for her father’s death. Sixteen years have passed, and I would say the story is old, right? She never accused you of messing up her life. By the way, you tried to save her father. Not everyone would have climbed that scaffolding to try to help him. The point is, are you scared about what happened in the past or because you realized you really care about her?”

I don’t answer because giving voice to my thoughts makes me uncomfortable. The problem is that I like Dakota. Not only physically, but also the emotional relationship I established with her. I’m afraid that if I take this relationship to a physical level, it will be harder to let her go when she leaves my house because I don’t know if she will want to stay after our agreement ends.

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