Page 12 of An Improper Deal (Elliot & Annabelle 1)
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But his guests—”
“They’re up to you.”
Oh my god. What the hell? Caroline totally screwed me over by omitting that important fact! “I’m not a hooker!”
“’Course not,” the man says, his voice bored. “You’re an escort.”
“What?”
“Honey, just make the birthday boy happy, and you can clear two grand.”
I reel. For that much money, the “customer” must be expecting a helluva lay. But I’m just not that into sex. I can’t even fake it like those girls on Elliot’s sex tape.
There’s some muttered discussion outside the cake. Then, “He won’t try anything except vanilla stuff. It’s in the contract.”
Thanks for making me feel better. “Isn’t this illegal?”
A pause. “Who the fuck you gonna tell? You trying to get yourself into trouble?” More muttering. “Now stop fucking around. Count to sixty and then come out.”
I count slowly and steadily. I’m shaking all over, but it’s too late. He’s right about me telling people. Cops tend to pick and choose who they’re going to listen to. Didn’t I experience that firsthand?
There’s no reason to panic. I can just do the happy birthday part, then if he asks for sex, I’ll just have to tell him singing’s what I was told to do for him. He can take it up with Caroline’s “Madame G.” if he wants, but I’m not having sex with some random guy no matter how much money’s at stake.
When I finally reach sixty, I jump up. The tissue papers tear with ease, and I spread my arms wide, baring my teeth in what I hope is a sexy smile, and yell out, “Happy birthday!”
I hide my wince at how shrill my voice sounds. At least my breasts stay put, although they do bounce quite a bit when I jump up, knocking aside the top of the cake. Maybe everyone’s too busy staring at my boobs to notice the way I shrieked the announcement.
As my eyes adjust to the brightness in the room, I quickly look around to see how many people are in there. And I don’t see anyone, or anything, except…a door.
Oh crap. I’m facing the wrong way.
Slowly I turn, bracing myself. A man rich enough to throw so much at a stripper for his birthday party must be planning something crazy wild.
But I only see a beautifully appointed contemporary penthouse—maybe a suite at a hotel?
Then I spot the birthday boy…and my eyes almost bug out.
Elliot Reed.
An inky black button-down shirt and slacks of the same shade mold to his large, muscular frame. Right now he’s sprawled on a snow-white couch and the contrast is breathtaking. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a strong throat and a bit of hard chest. He’s even more stunning than I remember, every chiseled line of his face and body on stark display.
My heart thuds, but I can hardly hear it over the deafening roaring in my head. A prickling sensatio
n spreads over me, my nerve endings vibrating with anticipation.
He tilts his head and studies me. Long dark eyelashes frame his unreadable eyes.
My throat’s so parched, I don’t think I can do much more than croak. But I’m supposed to sing, so I slowly climb out and croon in a low voice.
A dark eyebrow rises for a fraction of a second before returning to its previous position. Nerves and tension leave me quivering, and my breasts shudder as I draw in a shallow shaky breath.
The song fizzles like a wet firecracker.
His eyes glide over me, face to toes, then lazily back up. I feel his gaze like a slow physical stroke. Fire seems to follow everywhere he looks, and he lingers at the apex of my thighs and my belly. He isn’t doing anything except looking, but something hot and slick floods me down there until I’m swollen and aching between my legs.
