Page 47 of The Broker
Oh God. I’m flushed, hot, and turned on, and he hasn’t even touched me yet. I set my laptop on the bed and take off the robe. His sharp intake of breath sets me ablaze. “Whatever my imagination offers,” he says, his appreciative gaze roaming my body, “the reality is a million times better.”
“You’re flattering me.” I sit down next to him, leaning against the headboard I tied him to just a few days ago. “What’s the rope for?”
“If you want to tie me up—”
“I don’t.” I want him to touch me today. Everywhere. I want to feel his hands roam over me, pinch my nipples, squeeze my breasts. I want them to trail down my body and dip into the cleft between my legs.
“Are you sure? I want you to feel safe.”
“I do feel safe,” I insist. I scoot closer so our shoulders down to our thighs touch. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” I open up my laptop. “I did my homework assignment. I found a clip that turned me on. Do you want to watch it with me?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
I press Play.
On my screen, a dark-haired man walks into what seems to be a very expensive hotel suite. His suit fits him perfectly; he looks rich and powerful. The concierge accompanies him. “We’ve arranged for your every need, sir,” he says as he opens the door.
The large living room windows show a city skyline outside. Either New York or Toronto, I can’t tell which one, but in either case, this is a high-budget shoot. The room is decorated in shades of cream and gold, with tall flower vases on every table surface. The concierge shows the man the room service menu and offers to make him a reservation at any restaurant in the city. Then he stops in front of a closed door. “And through here is the bedroom.”
It’s another beautiful room, but the camera doesn’t linger on the furnishings. No, it zooms directly to the king-size bed. A woman is kneeling in the middle, wearing a pair of black lace panties and nothing else. Her hair cascades down her shoulders in lustrous waves. “The special item you ordered,” the concierge says. “I hope she is satisfactory.”
I sneak a glance at Dante. “She’s hot, right?”
Dante shrugs. “She’s pretty enough, in a pornstar kind of way.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “But she’s not you.”
“You’re flattering me again.”
The man circles the bed. His eyes take in the woman, lingering on her mouth and full, pouty lips. Her pert nipples stand to attention, ready to be enjoyed. He flicks one with his thumb, an inscrutable smile on his face, and she bites her lip to stifle her moan. “I believe she’ll do,” he says to the concierge. He slips the man a hundred-dollar bill. “Leave us alone.”
Dante’s fingers trail over the neckline of my chemise. A light touch, barely there, and then he waits. I suck in a breath and nod. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please. More.”
He runs his fingers over me again, just inside the lace, raising goosebumps on my skin. His touch is leisurely, maddeningly so. Meditative. I shiver. My skin feels too sensitive to touch, but wild horses couldn’t pull me away. I can’t get enough.
“Eyes on the screen,” Dante reminds me.
“I’ve seen it before. You’re the one who hasn’t.”
He pinches my nipple in reply through the silk, and a moan tears out of my mouth. “Watch it again,” he says, his tongue tracing the edge of my earlobe. His hand slides up my thigh in a slow, teasing motion.
On the screen, the man takes off his jacket and tosses it on the plush armchair. He stalks closer to the woman and puts a thumb against her mouth. “Open,” he orders. The woman obediently opens her mouth, and he rests his thumb on her tongue, his gaze assessing.
Dante’s fingers trace light circles on my thighs, nudging the hem of my chemise higher. “What turns you on about this scene?”
I flush. It’s one thing to be half-naked in front of Dante. But telling him my fantasies involves a level of trust that—
But you do trust him.
“She’s a gift for him to use,” I mumble, my cheeks flaming. “She’s there to please him. It’s not a scenario I’m going to endorse in real life, obviously, but since it’s a fantasy, it’s hot.”
“Are you my gift for the evening, Valentina?” He pushes the strap of the chemise down my shoulder. The fabric falls away, exposing my breast to his hot gaze. “Very nice,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble. He glides his thumb over my nub and watches it swell. “Very nice indeed.”
We’re barely paying attention to the porn on the screen. The man walks to a sideboard and pours himself a drink. He takes a sip, fishes the ice cube out of his cut-glass tumbler, and runs it over her nipple.
I suck in a breath.
Dante smiles at me, feral, hot, and hungry. “I think that’s a yes.” He gets up, and unfortunately, he’s not naked under the sheet. He’s wearing a pair of pajamas, the flannel faded, the waistband hanging low on his hips, the trail of—
“You’re staring, Valentina.” He grins a satisfied male smile. “And I’m flattered. Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”