Page 9 of Bait Me
I blow out a puff of air and close my eyes briefly before opening them again to see him watching me.
“Sorry, I know this isn’t very professional of me,” I say, because it isn’t, but at least I’m acknowledging it.
“I don’t want professional.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Just you.”
“But why?”
“Because.”
“Because? Is that it?” I ask, brows furrowed.
“You’ll see, Bonnie, but all in good time.”
All in good time.
I have no idea what that means, but somewhere in the last hour, I have relaxed, eaten some food, drank a little more champagne, and now I sit on the balcony, the ping of my phone five minutes ago making me very fucking happy, because half of the one hundred thousand just hit my bank account, like the contract said it would.
We’ve actually talked, nothing deep, just small talk really, but it’s been nice, and I’m sure it’s helped to put me at ease somewhat—that and the alcohol, which is creating a very pleasant buzz, but not too much.
As I sit here, on the balcony, spread out on one of the luxurious lounge chairs, a blanket draped around my shoulders to keep the chill of the night air setting in at bay, I actually feel like I’m a million miles away from my shitty life and shitty family. And Darius was right earlier on when we were eating and he said, “Learn to enjoy and let go. What’s the point of any of it if it causes unwanted stress, unnecessary worry.”
So, that’s what I’m doing, letting go of the stress, the worry of doing something wrong, the guilt of being here, the hate that has run through me for so long for a family that has never shown me love but expects me to be there to keep up appearances, and I’m just doing me. Being me. A ‘me’ I’ve never really allowed myself to be.
Reflection is not something I’ve done much of, because it irks me that my life seems so fucking sad at such a young age, but here, with not much else to do, I make a promise to myself to do things for me and to forget how my family perceive me when they don’t know the real me anyway. They’ve never taken the time, and there’s only so many years you can give a damn for. Maybe this job is like an epiphany, opening my eyes for the first time, truly. Whatever it is, I’ll take it, and I’d quite happily stay here forever.
“Need a top up?” Darius asks as I turn my head to watch him walk out onto the balcony, his whole persona commanding the space instantly.
“No thanks, I’m good,” I reply with a smile, feeling kind of thankful about this whole proposition now. “It’s stunning here.” The sunset glows across the distance, the feeling of being in a whole other world like something out of a dream. Like I’m on cloud nine and I never want to get off.
Darius takes the seat next to me, and I feel a little twitchy, but in a good way, as my mind casts back to the other night when he had his fingers on me, inside me, his breath by my ear… I bite my lip and shake my head, coming back to the here and now and realising my eyes were looking at his crotch… and he’s staring at me, so he totally knows. Damn.
And now I’m staring at him, the look his eyes doing nothing to kill the heat building inside of me. Seconds tick by, turning into minutes, the tension reaching heights I never knew possible.
And as my mouth goes dry, my tongue darting out to lick my lips, my thighs squeezing together to dull the ache that’s settled there, a deep growl rumbles in his chest before he’s moving off the seat and towering over me, his legs straddling my seat, his hands bracing him as they rest on the arms of my chair, either side of me.
My heart races, my breath caught in my throat as he says, “I’m still hungry.” I furrow my brows in confusion as he pushes off the chair and stands at the end, his fingers hooking around my ankles as he pulls me down the seat, until my legs dangle off the edge as he crouches and then spreads my legs to either side.
O—kay. What the…
I don’t have to wonder what’s going on for long as his hands trails up my thighs, pushing my skirt up around my waist, exposing my white lace knickers. Time seems to stop as his eyes look at my pussy, which is pulsing, desperate for him to do something, anything to relieve the ache.
His head dips down, my arse flush with the end of the seat as his tongue darts out and licks over the lace covering where I want him the most, and I let out a whimper at the contact.
He brings my knees up, my heels digging into the end of the chair as he says, “Your choice, Bonnie,” and just waits for me to give the go ahead, give him the permission he seeks.
Do I?
Don’t I?
Do I cross the line even more than I have already?
Do I throw all girl codes out of the window and just have this for myself?
Can I live with this? With letting my sister’s ex eat me out on a balcony of the plushest penthouse I’m ever likely to step foot in as he pays me one hundred thousand pounds to spend the weekend with me?
