Page 2 of Taking The Virgin

“Juliet Hope…but you probably know that. You’re expecting me.” I laugh nervously. “At least I hopeyouare.”

Even I want to wince at my attempt at an icebreaker.

He remains impassively silent, and then it occurs to me—what if I have the wrong door? What if this isn’t Dr. Owen Gregory’s mansion?

Ohno.

Now his gaze on my hair, and I self-consciously touch the ginger strands. Then he finally speaks.

“You’re required to provide identification, as well as documentation on your bloodwork, the medical workup.”

His voice is deep enough to shake me in places that have never been shaken by the boys who never got very far with me. Low enough to caress my skin and leave the fine hairs on my arms standing in anticipation of what he might ask me to do for him tonight.

Then I realize that he’s waiting for me to snap to it, and I clear my throat, digging into my duffel bag for my ID and the paperwork that proves I’m on the pill and clean of all STDs. I know he was supposed to provide his own records to the website, but I won’t ever seethem.

I thrust the materials at him. “Here yougo.”

He takes the documents and looks themover.

The silence is killing me, and as the seconds tick by, my anxiety rises. Both of us need to relax. Surely I can give that icebreaker anothertry.

“Checking ID is a good idea,” I say. “It wouldn’t do to have some random virgin showing up on your doorstep, right?”

Even though I start to laugh again, he doesn’t. Instead, he sends me a lowered gaze from those dark eyes, and as he takes an even slower, more deliberate look over me, my sex starts to ache. Does he like what hesees?

But the more seconds that drag by, the more I start to think he has buyer’s remorse.

“Your hair,” he finally says. “It’s a slightly different color than the picture on your license or the photos you posted online.”

What? Talk about being picky.

“I used pictures from a month or two ago when I had highlights,” I say in a wobbly voice. “They’ve grown out, but…” I shrug and risk a smile. “I liked those pictures best, and I’m pretty sure I look almost exactly the samenow.”

“Yes, almost.”

That last word cuts, and he scrutinizes me one more time before handing the ID and paperwork back to me. Dread fills me. Is he about to turn me away because of this little change to the color of myhair?

Then he steps back from the doorway without anotherword.

I’m going to take that as an invitation to enter.

My body is leading me over the threshold, drawn in by this hot yet detached man who makes my blood beat wildly, overwhelmingly. I feel as if I’ve been shot through with adrenaline, and it’s leading me to someplace I shouldn’t be going.

But I need the money so badly. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve started to want this like I’ve never wanted anything before.

I want him, even though I don’t understandwhy.

He’s walking away from me as if I’m an afterthought, and as I watch him disappear into another room, I hold back a sigh at the way he moves—like a finely tuned athlete. I can imagine his muscles rippling under that carefully pressed, perfect suit, and my body cries out for him to just touch me, dammit. Get this night started. Give me something besides this strange cold shoulder I’m getting.

He disappears, leaving me standing there once again.

Not that I’m very experienced with guys—I’ve always been shy and cautious, even if I touch myself at night, getting myself started but never finding pleasure—but I know enough not to chase after him. Besides, I’m too busy looking at everything surroundingme.

The wonderland I’ve stumbledinto.

The high ceiling boasts a chrome chandelier that looks like a piece of avant-garde art—and I should know because I recently graduated with a degree in art history. The paintings near the soaring staircase and the sculptures in the foyer remind me of something Braque would have created, geometric, even sterile. The interior of this mansion is the opposite of the exterior, a white-and-silver palace versus the warm colors of a brownstone.

This place is like nothing I’ve seen before—dazzling, modern, and clearly worth millions. Yet it’s also cold, almost to the point of being unwelcoming. It’s bewildering and intimidating, just like Owen Gregory himself.

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