Page 70 of A Dark Duet

I adjust my corset with the expensive lace bra, garters, and tights. Marcus opens the door when I give him the signal. Walking in slowly in patent leather six-inch heels, there is a man seated on a blue velvet chaise. His suit is impeccably tailored and as I inch closer, his gaze travels over my body until it reaches my face. His eyes are dark, like pitch-black orbs trying to see inside me. They say your eyes are a window to your soul. Too bad my soul is broken and can’t be seen.

My gaze meets his head-on, and my eyes caress his strong jaw and handsome face. When he sits up, he opens his legs, clearly inviting me to stand between them, he unbuttons his suit jacket and removes it folding it neatly beside him.

“Hi, handsome.”

“I’m glad you accepted my request, Coco.” I give him a smile, but he sees it doesn’t reach my eyes.

I recognize him from dancing on the floor. He has been watching me dance here for the past month. He sits quietly at a table nursing a glass of Macallan 18.

“Of course. May I?” I ask, quirking a brow and making a motion to straddle him.

“By all means. Please.”

My legs straddle him, and the feel of his thighs are strong through his trousers. My hands rest on his strong shoulders to maintain my balance and his hands slowly find my waist.

“So, what would you like to do while I’m here?” His gaze travels down my body to wear the short lace shorts are hovering over his cock that is now hard as a rock.

“I want you to dance for me or rather… dance on me. Next time, I will let you know what I want and what I like. If you agree, of course.” His voice is stern and assertive.

This man likes control. He slowly rubs his thumb on my skin near my rib cage and he thinks it will spark my arousal. How interesting. He wants me to want him. It is too bad I don’t feel a thing for anyone. He is no doubt attractive, and he gives me a feeling that he expects women to be flattered or lucky to be in his presence. I’m just not one of those women.

“Can You Hear Me” by Fleurie plays softly through the speakers and her sultry voice sets the mood in the room. When I rock my hips and arch my back to the tempo of the music, his cock digs into my lace-covered pussy.

His breathing comes out harder with each breath and I know he’s trying to hold back. I’m screaming inside my head that I want to jump off his lap and run out of this room, but I can’t. I need this job and if I plan on not doing this ever again, I have to set my eyes on the prize. Finish my education and get the fuck out of here. When I roll my hips, causing me to rise, I slide my legs down and turn around. I bend over to give him a better view of my pussy trapped in lace and slowly rise.

Turning back around, my fingers run through the strands of his silky black hair. The masculine scent of his exotic cologne hits my senses. He smells of sin and bad judgment. Everything about this man screams danger and should come with a disclaimer. He tilts his head up and guides me down so I can straddle him again. He grinds his erect cock now tenting his pants against my pussy and a drop of sweat appears on his forehead.

Wanting to get this over with, I wrap my hand around his neck and dry hump his cock, hard and fast. He grunts and groans, while I have a strong grip on the back of his neck as I rub myself on his dick.

We don’t break eye contact and the faster I rub myself the more sweat drips from his forehead. Our eyes are locked, and his breathing picks up while I grind faster over his cock like I’m possessed but I’m controlled. This is what men want from me. But here, I’m in control. The faster I get him off, the faster he leaves.

After a few minutes, he can’t take it anymore. He grips my ass, holding me still, losing control as he comes hard in his trousers.

“Fuck,” he cries. We never break eye contact as I watch him come undone.

I lean in close, my eyes hard, my mouth inches from his as I say, “Time’s up.”

His eyes are hard slits as he watches me climb off his lap without a backward glance and exit the room.

Jaden

The sweat drips down my face and I swipe my arm over my eyes to avoid the sweat from stinging my eyes. I strike the punching bag, each punch stronger than the next. The demons in my head from my past mocking me to hit the bag harder and harder. The pain I suffered as a child plays in my dreams, suffocating me in my sleep. My mother and father beating me because I asked for food. The pain of hunger blinding me as a child with each forceful blow.

My mother a crack addict and my father an abusive alcoholic would either hit my mother after downing a bottle of vodka or take his anger out on me because I wanted to go to school or was hungry.

Social services took me at the age of five because the school reported them when the teachers noticed my clothes smelled because they weren’t washed for days. I was scared when they came to the school and took me. They gave me food and a fresh pair of clothes. It was better than being at home and I thought it was a better place.

When I thought I was free of my parents, the flawed system gave me right back when they sobered up for a few weeks because the government checks weren’t coming in and I was an only child. I dreaded when they gave me back. The social worker dropped me off at the small house that was a pit of hell. An endless hell I could never crawl out of.

Every day, I would be starved and some days I would only be given bread and water. There was plenty of crack and alcohol though. There was one night I was so thirsty I had no choice but to drink a beer because the water was shut off for nonpayment. The food the school provided was the only sustenance I received. It was the only meal I sometimes had in a day.

When their addictions got worse, they began selling me to sick people that would watch me take my clothes off for drugs. Most of them were men with little boy fetishes. I blanked out most of the details out of my memory, but the bits and pieces would haunt me in my dreams. All I would remember the next morning was pain, mental and physical pain. Like I was still there, stuck in that time, waking up thrashing and screaming. It is why I don’t invite anyone into my home except Nate. He is the only one I trust with my life. He is the only one that understands.

“You still at it, bro?” Nate asks, coming up behind me.

I stop punching the bag and lower my arms that are burning with exhaustion. When my mind goes back to what awaits me at night alone in my almost empty ten-bedroom house. I train until my body can’t take it, or Nate tells me I have had enough.

“Yeah,” I tell him, taking slow, even breaths. I turn to look in his direction when he comes into view from the shadows of the gym. The only light on is at the back end of the gym where the punching bags are located.

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