Page 43 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

I stop some ways away from him, feeling nervous.

He’s in another of his perfectly tailored black suits, shirt brilliant white against the dark fabric—all power and deadly elegance. His heavy gaze slides from my pale dress with the sweet bodice detail to my bare legs and my white kitten heels and back up.

It seems like forever that I stand there. Is this some kind of inspection? Like I’m a piece of meat? I’m overtaken with the instinct to narrow my eyes in disgust, but then I remember.

I’m bland tonight. Nice. I put on a vacant expression. Very Stepford wife.

He says, “Your dress. It’s...”

Hah!He doesn’t like the dress!

But I don’t smile. Instead, I tilt my head like a pleasant little robot. “You don’t like it? You said nice.”

He swallows with seeming difficulty, still staring.

I try to think of something else boring to do, some other way to be the opposite of what he wants. And then it comes to me—I told him my smile was my own the last time we were together.

Be careful what you wish for, mister,I think as I form my lips into a big, wide smile, like I’m pleased to be on display in my nice dress. Like I admire him. Adore him.

His gaze darkens.

I brighten my smile.

Thoughts seem to flow behind his eyes, and then he sits down and crooks his finger.Come. That’s what the finger means.

He doesn’t even say it. Just the finger.Come.

The booth is large and filled with maybe seven guys. And they’re all looking at us.

I force myself to put one foot in front of the other. I stop in front of him, keeping my big, fake smile.

His cruel, beautiful lips twist into something that’s definitely not a smile. “Closer,” he commands.

I step in closer, right between his legs, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck and the power and darkness that roll off him.

His whisper, when it comes, is unbearably intimate. “Look at me.”

I look down and meet his dark gaze with my big, fake smile, hoping I’m managing to keep the emotion from my face.

“I like the dress.”

My pulse thunders so loudly in my ears that I’m barely conscious of the gentle press of his knuckle against my belly.

Slowly, he draws it upward, my entire being swirling along with it. I’m a melted confection, slowly stirred by his traveling knuckle as it continues up my rib cage, between my breasts, up my neck, and finally to my chin.

He stands again, keeping his knuckle right there.

I clench my sex as he lifts my chin so that I’m gazing up at him.

My pulse is on overdrive. My panties are wet with arousal. I swallow, thinking of all the good guys I’ve dated. The sweet picnics and silly jokes and long talks about classes.

Those are the guys for me—not this awful brutish one.

And he wasn’t supposed to like the dress, dammit!

His knuckle nudges my chin higher. My chest rises and falls under his gaze.

“God, baby, you’re right there for me. I love how you’re right there.” With that, he releases me and pulls out a chair. “Sit.”

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