“I WANT YOU TO WEAR THE PEARLS THIS TIME.”
It was a cloudy day, causing me to have to turn on the lamp beside the bed. I stood transfixed at the bedside, studying the long strand of pale pink pearls that lay across the satin coverlet. I picked them up and let them dangle from my fingertips. They were quite beautiful, really, glimmering in the soft glow of the lamplight.
“Any particular reason?” I asked, speaking into the phone’s receiver. A gentle knock on the door pulled my attention for a moment.
“You’ll think of something, dear. You always do. For me, Charlie—wear them for me.”
My dear husband’s health was beginning to deteriorate, and with it, I feared, his mental state. It wasn’t enough that he paid other men to have sex with me, or that I succumbed to every one of his odd demands. Now he was giving me props. Before, he’d let me handle things on my own. But this—this made me feel cheap for some reason.
“Fine,” I replied, not wishing to deliberate the new concept. I slipped them over my head, and they hung past my hips.
I swallowed the remaining champagne and poured two glasses, carrying them to the smooth gray stone foyer. I opened the door and there, dressed in an impeccable Armani suit, was the human equivalent of a fine Italian race car. Polished, perfect and very sleek. The Italian prize offered an equally perfect smile.
“Charlie?” His accent breathed my name softly, making the Ch sound like Sh.
His dark, hungry gaze took me in from head to foot. He leaned against the door frame with the casual flair of a man who did this every day.
“That’s me, and you must be…?” I handed him the flute and waited, wondering if my question would trip him up. I couldn’t help teasing; sometimes it broke the ice.
He grinned, his teeth white and even, bright against his beautiful olive skin, but he did not answer. Instead, he plucked the glass from my hand and sauntered past me, his head on a swivel as he scoured the suite.
“See anything you like?” I eased the door shut and leaned against it. A wicked desire rose up my spine as I imagined the tight ass hidden by that jacket. I had to give my husband credit for finding men who looked exceptionally good in quality clothes.
He grinned over his shoulder and took a sip of the champagne.
“Would you perhaps like to take a few moments to get to know each other?” He looked past me to the original Monet hanging on the wall in the entry. Chances were he had no desire to know anything about me any more than I wanted to know more about him.
“Let’s not waste any time, shall we?”
He tipped his glass toward me. “Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets.” His smooth baritone accent slid over my flesh as he sauntered toward me. He removed his jacket and folded it carefully, laying it over the stark-white leather couch.
I tipped my head and offered a pleasant smile.
“Here, my lovely lady? Or would you prefer to escort me to your bedroom?”
It wouldn’t matter, of course, to my husband. His surveillance included every room on hidden camera. The poor men were the only ones who didn’t know that their performances were being closely watched and rated by the man who’d solicited their services.
For me.
“What do you prefer?” I swallowed my drink and placed the flute on the front hall table. I met him halfway, brushing close by him so I could inhale his cologne, let it begin to intoxicate my senses, mingle with the heady champagne. It was easier if I could imagine what type of man he might be like under different circumstances.
He drew me against his chest, reaching around my waist, where he began slowly drawing my blouse from my sensible gray pinstripe pencil skirt. Today I’d worn the fourinch stiletto heels. I kept my focus on the rain as it smacked against the picture windows. The view was exceptional, of course, careening high above the other rooftops of the city, an unobstructed view of the horizon. Only the best for my husband.
His hand slid beneath my blouse, his smooth fingers tentative as he unfastened the clasp at the front of my bra. The pearls caught beneath his hand, gliding over my flesh in an admittedly erotic and delightful way.
I glanced beneath hooded lids to the gold, gilded antique mirror above the fireplace and smiled. It was genuine.
My Italian storm gathered quickly, removing my clothes first, and then his, with methodical precision, until we both stood naked in the dusky light of the pelting thunderstorm, with the exception of my heels and pearls, of course.
“Turn around,” he urged, holding the pearls as I faced away from him. The pearls tapped against my spine, cool and smooth to the touch. My body curved instinctively into his as he pressed against my back, providing a preview of his magnificent size against my bottom. He was a maestro with his hands, commanding my breasts to attention, strumming my clit until I ached.
“Duro e veloce,” he whispered as he leaned me forward to grasp the back of the couch. The fireplace across the room loomed dark and empty, and the thought occurred to me that a warm fire would have been a nice touch on such a rainy day.
A gasp rose from my mouth as I sensed the small pearls, wrapped around his fingers, sliding between my legs. He glided them over my swollen lips, seducing, coaxing, driving me crazy with need. I glanced up in my euphoric haze to see his reflection behind me in the mirror. He was a fine-looking man, finely tuned, and his powerful biceps sported a series of artistic tattoos that curled over one shoulder. His chest was without hair, just as Paul knew I liked, and his rock-hard abs made me fantasize gripping them later as I rode him to exhaustion.
What he did with those pearls was beyond phenomenal. The dominating expression on his face created a greater arousal as he continued his ministrations, dipping the slick, round beads deeper between my folds. My fingers curled into the leather, my knuckles turning white as I swayed my hips slightly to enjoy the sensation. Lost in the ecstasy and the delightful champagne haze, I hardly thought of Paul at all. Forgetting everything, I just wanted this moment to go on forever
My Italian stallion, without warning, grabbed my hips and drove into me with such force that I had to cling to the couch to keep from toppling over. I watched in the mirror, seeing my body jerk with each ferocious thrust. The muscles of his neck bulged with his clenched teeth, and his fingers dug into the soft flesh of my hips.
The pearls slid over my rib cage, dangling in my peripheral vision; they, too, jerked as he rocked my body to his.
I came in a shattering climax, hot and fast, not at all like my last lover. The man with the slow hands and gentle, espresso eyes.
My current lover’s climax finished with a crescendo and a primal howl, as though he’d mated with a she-wolf in the wild.
“Magnifico!” he cried out in jubilation, and proceeded to swat my butt in triumph. Had it not been for his cleverness with the pearls, I would have thrown him out after that alone, regardless of Paul’s agreement. As it was, I discovered when I held the dominant role, he was quite an enjoyable lover. After he left, I poured another glass of champagne and curled up in my robe on the couch, reminiscing on the afternoon. I had a sense that perhaps I’d taught him a thing or two about pleasuring a woman.
I sipped my drink and waited for the phone to ring. After a few minutes, I stepped to the mirror over the fireplace and straightened my hair. I realized with a quiet surprise that I still wore the pearls.
There was no way to reach him. That was part of the agreement. He would always call me, and if he didn’t, I was to return home, where he would meet me later.
Apparently this was one of those times.
I dropped my robe and the pearls onto the bed and turned toward the bathroom door.
The phone rang.
Startled at first, I started to put on my robe, but the phone rang insistently again and I simply reached to the nightstand and answered.
“How was Italian cuisine, my love?”
I folded my arm under my breasts and turned to the dresser. “The pearls worked nicely, thank you.”
“I thought they made a nice touch.”
“I’m going to take a quick shower, then—”
“Leave the door open.”
“The door?”
“The bathroom door, Charlie. You know I love to watch you in the shower.”
I thought he’d gone home. I couldn’t let him see my dissatisfaction at the idea. I was beginning to feel as though I could not take a breath without him watching me.
“Sure, Paul, if you like.”
“Yes…yes, I really do like to watch the water run down your body, Charlie. I imagine the showers we used to take together. Do you remember those, Charlie?” He sighed, but the sound was tired.
God help me, pity rose in my heart for him. My poor husband—his mind alert, but his body lifeless. “I do. They were the best.” Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes. Those memories seemed like a hundred years ago.
“I’ll leave the door open, Paul.”
There was a click and I snapped off the receiver and walked into the bathroom, easing open the door as I glanced at the dresser mirror reflected in the vanity mirror.
Was my life going to be like this forever?