Her throat moves as she swallows, and then she turns her attention to taking my cock out of my pants. The phone is unsteady in my hand as she wets her lips and takes me between her lips, wrapping her tongue around me.
Clenching my eyes with the first roll of pleasure, I enjoy the hot suction of her mouth for a few minutes before I focus the camera again. She pulls back, the tip of my cock on her tongue, the shaft glistening as she looks up at me. I take the picture, then another. And another. Until she’s working fast and hard, with long, wet pulls that have my balls tightening faster than ever and I forget all about taking pictures.
“Fuck yeah,” I groan, gripping her hair in my free hand and pumping my hips, thrusting back and forth in her mouth. The light scrape of her teeth against my shaft is a fine line between pleasure and pain. She sucks hard, bobbing her head as I push in deeper and hit the back of her throat. I glance down and see she’s taken me all the way to the balls, moaning softly. Fuck.
“That’s good,” I encourage her. “So good.”
When she looks up at me again, my cock still fucking her mouth, I snap a pic at the same time I lose all control, shooting my release down her throat. She closes her eyes and works to swallow every drop, prolonging my pleasure with each contraction.
I can barely breathe, my head spinning from the force of the orgasm. Brooklyn palms my body as she gets to her feet and slides a look over me. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then wordlessly picks up her dress and tosses it over one shoulder, her perfect ass swaying as she walks away to her room.
I run a hand through my hair as a thought suddenly goes through my mind.
Who owns whom?
Brooklyn
Chapter 19
I’ve always loved the moviePretty Woman.
Who wouldn’t want to be Julia Roberts in that role? All the luxury and wealth and the company of a handsome Richard Gere in exchange for pleasure. Seems like a no-brainer. Yet she was never quite comfortable, too afraid that the higher-class social circle would sense that she didn’t belong, would see her for what she really was.
That’s how I feel sitting in the back of the private car taking me downtown. Like this isn’t my world at all, and everyone can tell just by looking at me. I didn’t even realize I had access to my own car and driver until it showed up this morning to take me to my lunch reservation with my future sisters-in-law, Tori and Emzee. The driver introduced himself and gave me his cell number so I can call him when I need a ride, any time of the day or night.
No more cabs or Ubers for me now.
When I showed him the address that Tori had texted me, he’d looked impressed, seeming to know exactly what the place was. I didn’t have a clue, nor did I ask. I’m still a bit shell-shocked by my new life and all the privileges that come with it. The penthouse is starting to become more comfortable, but I still don’t really think of it as mine. It’s just a place where I keep my things and go to bed at night. Although I’ve been venturing out to the other rooms a bit more, watching TV on the sofa, making small meals in the kitchen instead of ordering out.
I even learned the housekeeper’s name—Denise, a different woman than the one who’d kicked me out the morning after my disastrous one-night stand with Luka all those years ago, thank God—and left her a thank-you card and a small plate of chocolate chip cookies that I made. Acclimating to my new life is taking effort, but I’m trying.
Taking a compact out of my bag, I do a last quick check of my hair, which I’ve left down in loose waves, the light touch of makeup I put on, and my teeth. Check, check, double check. But I still can’t shake my nerves no matter how much I try to tell myself I’m not an imposter.
My outfit is a sleek jumpsuit in dark navy and a few pieces of gold jewelry. I hope it’s appropriate. Luka gave me a heavy black credit card with no limit and set up several store accounts for places he thought I’d enjoy shopping, but I haven’t taken advantage. I don’t want to feel like I’m in his debt any more than I already am, and on top of that, I don’t love the idea of running around town blowing money on shopping sprees just because I can. That’s not me.
I grew up in a modest home on the outskirts of Chicago, born to a middle-class family. Peanut butter and jelly was my school lunch standby, my recreation was school-sponsored activities, and I took the bus. No fancy dinners. No drivers. No private schools. I look at the back of my driver’s gray head now, feeling a twinge of guilt and hoping he gets paid well enough that taking care of his own family isn’t a struggle.
Rationally, I know that paying people to take care of your needs is part of the package deal. This is what it’s like when you move up in the world, and I should lean into it. But I’d always imagined I’d get myself here, one step at a time, by way of hard work and modeling gigs.
Not by signing a marriage contract.
The car slows in traffic and my stomach twists in knots. I don’t know Tori and Emzee very well. Tori has reached out a couple of times, wanting to get to know me better since we’re going to be family. We’ve had a few short conversations that were nice, but nothing too personal—Tori’s always studying or working on a school project or rushing off to one of her linguistics classes at UChicago. Emzee, on the other hand, made it clear she wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship with me at Luka’s and my engagement photo shoot, and I haven’t spoken to her since. I understand. She’s probably worried about my intentions with her brother.
Maybe they see me as a gold digger, or some kind of modeling mercenary. Which I guess I am. I mean, furthering my career is the whole reason I agreed to this marriage, isn’t it?
My throat goes tight as my mind begins to race. Tori’s husband Stefan pushed for Luka to get married, of course, but I’m not sure my soon-to-be sisters know the details of our contract, or if they even care. As long as our union helps Danica Rose’s reputation, they’re probably happy to stay out of it. They have no idea how hard Luka had to push to get me to agree.
The car pulls up to a nondescript modern building with one side all gray brick and the other side all windows. A bifold sign on the sidewalk is the only indicator of where we are, but I know the name as soon as I see it. Alinea is an exclusive restaurant, accessible by (impossible-to-get) reservation only. I’ve heard about this place, of course, but I’ve never been here. It’s always being mentioned in the papers and Chicago society and culture magazines, but I never imagined I’d dine here. By the looks of it, it’s not even open for business this time of day.
“Are you sure this is it?” I ask as the driver opens my door.
“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow me.”
I glance down at my jumpsuit and nude sandals and wonder if I should have dressed up more. But the driver opens the front door of the place and gestures for me to go up the staircase to the right. I step inside and hear the door close behind me, leaving me alone to climb the stairs.
Hearing laughter, I follow the sound up and find the intimate dining area basically empty, with the exception of Emzee and a gorgeous blonde who must be Tori. They’re nestled side by side in a plush velvet booth, laughing about something, and a pang hits me. I’m an outsider about to intrude on their fun. Tori’s eyes light up when she spots me, and I feel a little relieved.
“There you are! Come, sit!”
