Page 6 of Dirty Rich Cinderella Story

The wind lifts around us, and her perfume is something almost smoky and floral, addictive and unique, like everything about this woman. And she is unique, despite the fact that I’ve known ambitious, intelligent women in the legal field. I’ve fucked women that should feel just like her, but that simply isn’t the case. She’s layers of secrets I want revealed. I’ll analyze why later, after we fuck. Or maybe I won’t. Fucking tends to put things in perspective. As my father said when he gave me that first condom, “What you want when you have a hard on for a girl, is rarely what you want when you pull out.” Crass, and ultimately as pathetic as he was, but he was right. Sex has a way of distorting reality and then punching it right back in your face.

We cross the street, bringing the hotel into view, and without a conscious decision to do so, when I never do anything unconsciously, I tighten my grip on her hand. She’s already bolted once. I’m not letting her bolt again. We approach the front door, and thankfully the doorman is attending someone else, considering Lori appears to want privacy, anonymity. I don’t waste any time guiding her toward the elevators, and once we’re inside, I stick my card into the slot to set us in motion. I snag her hand and walk her to me. Her hands settle on my chest. We stand there, the floors dinging by, the air charged between us, but we don’t speak. She doesn’t ask me a question. Not about the hotel. Not about when I’m coming back. Not about who I am.

Somehow, I know she knows that quid pro quo I’ve started. Every question she asks allows me to ask one of my own. I don’t push her now. Not with cameras in the elevator. That’s not what people like me do. We save our dirty business for private places. And this is going to get dirty, in all the right ways. I’ll ask my questions, and I’ll get my answers. When we’re inside my suite. When we’re naked.

The elevator dings, and then I lean in and kiss her, a gentle, barely-there brush of lips on lips, our breaths a warm puff between us that turns to fire and heat. “Come on,” I say, taking her hand, guiding her down the hallway until we stop at the penthouse suite I’ve been calling home for nearly a month. The place where I plan to strip her naked in every possible way.

I lead Lori to the door, and pull her in front of me, my body framing hers as I slide the key into the security panel. It buzzes and I shove open the door, inviting her to enter, and in doing so, I know that I have a choice to make: Take the edge off, and do her hard and fast right when we go inside, or let it simmer, let the attraction between us burn us alive until we’re both about to combust from the heat.

She pulls away from me, a sweet swoosh of her perfume teasing my nostrils as she enters the suite. My fingers curl into my fists as I resist reaching for her. I inhale for control and let out a breath before I follow her into the luxury suite, seeing what she sees. Gray hardwood floors. An oriental rug beneath gray leather couches that frame a stone fireplace with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side. A stone and glass table to our left. Winding stairs to our right.

She stops just outside the line of the living area and I could step behind her, pull her skirt up and lean her over the couch. My cock presses against my zipper, thick and hard with the thought of it. I’d be inside her in about thirty seconds, which includes rolling on the condom, and she’d be wet and hot and tight, and holy fuck, I’ve had this woman on my mind all day; this isn’t ending that fast.

I step to her side, close enough to inhale another addictive whiff of her scent, but not quite close enough to touch her. “This is the hotel’s version of the penthouse suite, isn’t it?” she asks, glancing over at me.

“It is,” I say. “I’ve been here off and on for a few months, and it just made sense to be comfortable.”

She glances over at me. “The mid-size firm isn’t a mid-size firm, is it?”

“Not that mid-size,” I confirm.

She rotates to face me. “You’re rich.”

I turn to face her as well. “Rich is a term that can be defined in many ways, but setting that aside, do I have money? Yes. I have a comfortable amount of money.”

She stares at me, her expression unreadable, but there is this sharp bite of energy before she turns away from me and leans against the couch, her fingers grabbing onto the cushion. Tense, shutting me out, or rather, trying to. I have a typical guy moment, where I consider the answer to her mood by way of how much I want to fuck her. If I repeat the hallway fantasy against the couch, we could be fucking, and fucking every thought she has away. Puzzle solved. We are fucking great at fucking together, only that’s not the puzzle. She is.

I move to stand in front of her, close, but I still don’t touch her. “Why does me having money bother you?” I ask.

Her chin lifts, eyes glinting almost defiantly. “Who says it bothers me?”

“Me,” I say, “I do. I felt it in your reaction. I feel it now. I see it in your eyes.”

“You see nothing in my eyes,” she counters. “Your courtroom read might be good, but my courtroom mask is just as good.”

“We aren’t in a courtroom,” I point out. “We’re in a hotel room. My money bothers you.”

“You having money is a non-factor. This is one night. We’re fucking or we’re supposed to be. We’re not proposing marriage.”

“Most women start plotting the wedding when they find out I have money.”

“I can make my own money.”

My hands come down on her waist while hers immediately come down on mine. A sign that she is out of her element, seeking control that I’m going to demand she give up. “Is that the issue?” I demand softly, my head low, a lean in from kissing her. “You feel competitive?”

“No,” she says immediately, pulling back to look at me, her hand flattening on my chest. “Not at all. I don’t feel competitive. We aren’t competing.”

“No?” I challenge.

“No,” she repeats.

“Any second thoughts about coming here?”

“No,” she says again.

“Then you still want me to fuck you,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I want to fuck you.”

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