Page 11 of Burn With Me

Grateful that he seems not to be a jerk, I settle on the edge of my loveseat. It vaguely reminds me of the night I auditioned to be a Confessional Angel. Mr. Tailor had been the one on the other side of the curtain that night, though the curtain had been pulled back, and he’d told me to put a robe on immediately.

He hadn’t been interested in what my body looked like. Instead, he was more interested in having someone to talk to. He’d made me feel comfortable, and we’ve had standing weekly “appointments” ever since.

This man, though…this man clearly enjoys the view of my body. Slowly, I arch my back and straighten my shoulders to draw his eyes to my chest. Crossing my ankles, I plaster a smile on as I ask again, “So, what brings you here tonight?”

“You,” he states simply. He’s still smiling, and where a few minutes ago it was charming, it’s now starting to become unnerving. It’s making me feel like a rabbit being hunted by a fox.

“Me? If this is my first night, then how could it possibly beme you came here for?” My tone is playful. More curious than nervous now.

“Have you ever done something but you don’t know why you’re doing it? Then, all of a sudden, something happens, and it all falls into place. Everything starts to make sense, and you know, at that moment, you were always meant to be doing it?”

My throat is dry, and I have to force myself to swallow. Nodding slightly, I whisper, “Yes.”

“I was invited here tonight. It’s alsomyfirst time. And I had no idea why the fuck I needed to be here…until I saw you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were a firestorm waiting to happen. And I desperately wish to be burned by you, Little Ember.”

His wordsdocreate a storm within me. But I can’t let every man who books me make me swoon with pretty prose. Shaking my head, I stand and take a step toward the curtain. “This isn’t the wing for that, Mr…what can I call you?”

He stands and takes a step toward me as well. I can see well enough through the lace to decipher he’s tall, and his body is toned without being overly muscular. He puts his hands in his pockets like he’s going to stroll forward casually, but doesn’t take another step. “You can call me whatever you’d like. And I’m well aware that this isn’t the wing for such carnal desires. I’m happy to just talk to you…for now.”

“And exactly what type of carnal desires are you into?” My hands lift to my body again, sliding up my chest and into my hair.

One of his hands slides from his pocket to the front of his pants like he’s going to touch himself before it stills, as if he remembers he’s not allowed without my express permission.

“Go ahead if you want,” I tell him softly. Eager to see what’s under his dark slacks.

Too eager.

As if all my self-control has stolen my golden wings and flown away.

Instead of touching himself, though, he only adjusts his cock through his pants before taking a step back. “My tastes are very…particular.”

I’m hungry for more, desperate to know what is so particular about them. Part of the allure of this job was potentially finding someone who could give me what I crave. Or at least what IthinkI crave.

As soon as I open my mouth to ask him to explain further, he asks, “Why are you here?”

“Here, with you?”

“Here, in general. Why are you working here? What is the appeal?” He turns his back to me and grabs his jacket, reaching into the pocket of it for something.

My body freezes, and my nerves alight with panic for a moment. None of the members are supposed to bring anything in. Phones and other things are supposed to be checked at the door when they enter. My stranger must have bypassed all that, though, because a phone appears, and he checks the screen before shoving it back into the jacket.

Annoyance courses through my veins. At him for asking me a question and then promptly ignoring me, and then at the fact that he managed to sneak a phone past security. We’re supposed to be safe. It could have been a gun, a knife, or any other weapon.

“Clearly, you have more important things to worry about, so why don’t I excuse you?”

Turning, I head for the door but halt when he bites out, “Stop.”

“Turn around and look at me,” he commands. His tone is sharp and smooth. A few seconds pass while I decide if I want to do as he says, but eventually, I acquiesce.

“Good girl.” His words send a fire straight between my legs, and if my body could turn to liquid and spill into his side of the room–it would. A flush ignites my face, creeping lower down my neck as I bite the inside of my lower lip–mindful of the merlot-colored lipstick I’m wearing.

His lips tilt up in a smirk before he asks, “You like to be praised, don’t you?”

Opening my mouth to reply, I close it again, realizing I don’t really know.

The way my body lights up at his words, the way I’m eager to hear him tell me how good I am again, I must.

Maybe I’m not ready for this job. I feel woefully underprepared for how badly I want to pull the curtain to the side and pounce on this man.

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