His statement set off a peculiar quiver at the center of her being.
“But I don’t want to be peddled the usual drivel. I want your genuine responses—not what you think I want.”
In the years Xenia had been doing this work, no one had asked her to beherselfbefore. The proposal astounded her…and sparked a secret longing, which she snuffed. Her recent entanglement with a follower had demonstrated the futility of wanting to be desired for who she was. However, she was a professional. She could act the part of the genuine lover, and the toff across from her would never suspect she was playing a role.
“Of course, sir,” she said in a flirty tone. “Now that you have me, I wonder what you desire of me?”
“I want you on my lap, your lips ready for mine.”
At his demand, the tremor in her belly turned disconcertingly authentic. She didn’t know why he affected her like no other patron had. Already, their encounter felt more titillating than her last conversation, which had involved six—or was it seven?—bodies and a great deal of thrusting. The passionate intensity she sensed beneath this fellow’s restraint intrigued her. Her mind’s eye filled in the details obscured by shadow and mask.
She pictured him as a handsome and charming faerie tale prince with golden hair and emerald eyes. He lived in a castle and had dozens of servants at his beck and call. Yet despite his life of privilege and command, something was missing…and he didn’t know what. That was why he had come here, she concluded. He was searching for something—something real and intimate.
Although many would scorn her line of work, she took pride in the services she provided. She considered herself an artist, and her medium was sexual desire. In her confessional, guided by her creativity and imagination, clients were free to explore their deepest longings.
“I’m here,” she said with soft invitation. “Waiting for you.”
“I cup your cheek, and your skin is soft against my palm. When I press my mouth to yours, you tremble.”
“Do I taste sweet?”
“Er, yes. You do, I suppose.”
She imagined him frowning. She’d distracted him from his agenda, and maybe this was a good thing. Maybe challenging his self-control would allow him to discharge his primal impulses.
“I ate strawberries while I was waiting for you.” She made her voice as sweet as the fruit. “Ripe, plump berries that stained my lips red to match my hair.”
He cleared his throat. “You have red hair?”
She usually revealed as little of her true self as possible. Yet the image of scarlet berries, lips, and hair had flashed in her head, too delicious not to share. The way her patron was leaning subtly toward the screen, hooked on her every word, suggested that he had a preference for redheads. Since he’d started the fantasy with kissing, she suspected that he had a romantic streak as well—that he wasn’t a poke-the-stick-in-the-hole sort of fellow—and she tailored her tale accordingly.
“Red as a flame,” she said candidly. “I’ve left it loose because you like it this way. It flows over my sheer white peignoir edged with the finest lace. Sitting on your lap, I surrender to the masterful sweep of your tongue. I feel the thick ridge of your cock beneath my bottom, and it leaves me wanting more.”
“I give you more.” He took charge with thrilling dominance. “You’re a naughty thing, wriggling your derriere against my erection, but I won’t be rushed. I take my time enjoying your mouth before turning to your ear. I lick and suckle the plump lobe.”
She felt the moist suction of his lips. Warmth rushed under her skin. Like any good artist, she let the fantasy sweep her up like a leaf in a flowing stream.
“It feels so good that I moan and arch my neck,” she said huskily. “When you lick my ear, I feel that slick, hot sensation everywhere. Goose pimples prickle my skin. My nipples tighten?—”
“I see them.” The hypnotic cadence of his words penetrated the barrier between them. “Tight, rosy buds jutting against your robe. Your tits are round and full, tempting me to touch them.”
Oh, he’s good.
“I want you to touch me,” she breathed.
“I tear off your peignoir and fill my palms with your soft flesh, using my thumbs to circle the tips. Do you like the way I’m rubbing your nipples between my finger and thumb?”
Her nipples throbbed. “Oh, yes. Do it harder.”
“You want me to pinch them?”
“Yes, please.”
“How do you react when I lick your nipples, suck them into my mouth?”
The ghostly tug of his lips drew a warm gush between her thighs.
“I slide my fingers into your hair.” Her unsteadiness wasn’t feigned. “I hold you close as you lick me. My breasts are glistening, heaving in the candlelight. When you draw on my nipple, I feel a delicious tug in my pussy.”
