Sin, page 3
She’s not like the other women here. A blind man can see how out of place she is.
That she’s more than likely inexperienced.
Not that it matters much. The journey is of no consequence to me when her destination is this room. With me.
I want her. Will have her. But more importantly, I won’t share her with anyone in this place.
This little girl has no idea that I am the devil she never saw coming.
She will be for me alone. My personal tiny dancer.
That decision has me reaching down and undoing my belt. With a harsh yank, I toss it across the room. There’s a clang—it’s loud inside the quiet space—and she jumps. Finally fucking looks at me.
Bringing the glass to my lips, I take a sip and savor the herbal note of my gin, all the while my eyes roam her small frame. She has no idea what to do with herself, and for some reason, that pleases me.
I want to touch her.
Taste her.
Possess that genuine purity that causes an ache—an uncontrollable yearning to grow within me.
“Closer, sweetness.” Neither of us miss the gruffness in my tone, how each syllable rumbles up my chest until it’s a low and guttural growl.
“Yes, sir,” she whispers low, taking her first step toward me. My eyes traverse her short frame, devour each piece of bare flesh I discover. Take in the rich, dark brown of her hair, and how each loose curl sweeps, then bounces around her bare shoulders.
This tiny morsel of sin is a natural beauty with wide, doe eyes in a rich cerulean tone. So expressive. Beautiful. She reminds me of a fairy tale princess. The kind that every dirty motherfucker covets and wishes to corrupt.
My gaze travels lower then, taking in her delicate upturned nose and the small smattering of freckles. Then to her bee-stung lips with the natural hue of a ripened berry that I want to see stretched around my girth.
Her skin is luminescent under the stage light. Soft, and with the barest hint of a tan. As if the sun kissed her skin. My bite marks will look glorious on her.
Next, I take in what she’s wearing…
White and in soft lace. A short little dress that enhances her larger-than-a-handful-breasts—it’s tight and revealing—displaying the sweet little tips that constrict under my perusal. She isn’t wearing a bra, and my mouth waters while my cock gives a harsh jerk inside my pants.
Below her bust, the material flows out a tiny bit, but not enough to hide the flat of her stomach and wide hips. Her legs are long and toned, and her tiny feet bare.
This girl is petite, yet curvaceous. A tight little body meant to be fucked. Taken roughly.
Tilting my head, I watch her nervous habits take hold. How she leans most of her weight on her right foot. How she keeps biting that juicy bottom lip the closer to me she gets.
“Stop.” At once she does as I ask a few feet away from me, eyes wide and staring into mine. Motherfuck, her shyness is delicious. Heady. “Twirl for me.”
“As you wish, sir,” she says, taking in a deep breath before letting it out slow. Her nipples are hard, pushing against the lace that leaves very little to the imagination. The sinuous curve of her body is tempting, so delicate, and I watch, enthralled, as she closes her eyes and performs a simple pirouette to please me.
“Again,” I demand, voice rough and hands clenching. “Slower this time.”
“Of course.” Once more, she rises onto the balls of her feet and lifts one leg higher in what looks like a flamingo’s stance. Her body holds this position for a few minutes, head held high to elongate her neck, before she slowly begins to spin. This turn is slow, a controlled move that shows off every inch of her flawless form.
The way she moves, every minute shift, shows me that this woman is a dancer. A trained one, at that.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Once more, that question floats through my mind and I know the answer will not please me. Something about her is throwing me off, and it’s not my desire to own her soul. It’s the sudden worry—that gut instinct that I follow blindly.
If anyone’s hurting her, not even God himself will save them.
“I’m going to own you, beautiful. Destroy what you know and become your everything,” I mutter low, rubbing a hand across my jaw. Watching as my little beauty turns three more times before I hold a hand up. “Stop.” Again, she does, eyes shining bright and cheeks looking flush. “Come pour me a drink. Three fingers’ worth will be enough for now.”
A nod is all I get as she walks to me, hips swaying with each move. She tries to step around my parted thighs, but as soon as she’s within my reach, I stop her. Fingers on her hips, I guide her closer—to take her rightful place between my legs—while reaching over for the bottle.
And fuck me if the feel of her pliant flesh beneath my fingertips doesn’t cause me to shiver.
Limbs shaking, too, she follows my command. The bottle clanks against the glass table as it almost tumbles from her grasp while I lean forward. Pressing my nose against her midsection, I inhale deep, pulling her sweet floral scent into my lungs and groan.
Fuck, I throb. Both hate and love how I react to her mere presence.
Her quick intake of air lets me know she isn’t unaffected by me. Not that it matters much. I’ll train her—overthrow her senses—into craving me.
“You smell like sin,” I grunt against the fabric of her dress, nose skimming a tiny bit lower as my hand holds her in place. “But do you taste as decadent?” She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t so much as breathe. “What’s your name, little Twirl?”
“My name?” she croaks, and it’s hard to keep in my amusement. I also don’t miss how she doesn’t question the nickname.
“Yes. Your name…” I nip the fabric but keep myself from marking her “…full name.”
Slightly shaking, she pours my drink and then sets the bottle down. “It’s London—”
“London what?”
“London Foster.”
That last name isn’t very popular around here, but I do know one family with it. One that has been living in my city for eight months. Same one whose head of the family is an egocentric asshole who’s made some bad investments as of late. Stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong, and that idiotic decision will ruin him.
All of them. Her.
However, she might be the one to pay the biggest price. She’s just become even more precious to me. London is collateral, but I’ll take care of her. This doesn’t diminish my hunger; if anything, it multiplies tenfold.
But I don’t say any of this as my mind runs through different scenarios. No, instead, I give her a smile and a tap to the back of her thigh. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Malcolm.” Something I’ve never done before, but I need to hear her say it. Say my name. Not “sir” or “Mr. Asher.” I find myself wanting this to be personal. Comfortable.
That, and lowering her walls makes it easier to take ownership of someone who has no idea that a predator is hunting. Calculating. Taking account of every minute detail in order to win this dangerous game.
“Malcolm,” she whispers a moment later as if tasting my name on her tongue. It’s a sinful delight to hear her pronounce each letter—to take in how a miniature smile forms on her lips after. “Anything else I can do for you, Malcolm?”
“Dance for me.”
“W-what?” It’s a shaky exhale as I kiss the area beneath her belly button.
“Dance for me, London.” I gift her a few more soft kisses. “Get up on that stage, eyes closed, and dance for me. Let me enjoy you just a little.”
My eyes stay on hers as I give the request and then sit back in my seat. I eat her alive as she nods and takes a few steps, all the while facing me. It’s almost as if she can’t find the will to pull her eyes away, and I motherfucking enjoy watching her almost trip while making her way toward the stage backwards.
Once at the edge of the platform, she halts and gives me a soft smile. “Any particular request? Music you want me to—?”
“Slow.” The word is out of my mouth before she finishes the question. “I want it slow, Twirl.”
“Okay.” She mouths the word slow and turns, giving me a small tease of the plump cheeks almost spilling from the dress’s edge. It’s ridden up, and with each move, I get a small taste of what will be mine.
“One more thing…” She pauses and tilts her head, listening to me. “Once the song finishes, you walk out without another word. Without looking at me.” I’m hard. Throbbing. But instead of reacting like the animal she’s making me feel like, I breathe in and take a sip of the drink she poured.
“Understood.”
While London looks through the selection I have pre-approved, I undo the button of my pants and lower the zipper. While she nods to herself and hits play, I take my shirt off and toss it somewhere. While she shakes her head, tousling her hair, I pull my cock out and stroke myself once. While she gets up on the stage, back to me, and rolls her hips as the first strum of a guitar rents the air, I lick my lips.
I can’t control my urges—this hunger that causes a hiss to escape through clenching teeth while she sways to the sensual beat. Can’t stop myself as I swipe my thumb over the head, collecting the beads of pre-come there and spreading it.
This is foreplay. Makes my plans sweeter.
London dips low then, her knees spread wide apart while she arches her back. She bounces a few times, making the dress ride higher until the small string currently residing between two luscious cheeks becomes my focal point.
I fuck my hand with each gyration. With each arch of her back.
But nothing compares to the moment she stands, turns around, and with her eyes closed, skims a hand down the center of her chest. How she follows each beat—every single note in the song with absolute perfection.
She’s glorious in her element. Dancing as if no one else is inside the room with her, she rises onto the very tip of her toes while those hips sway. London’s moves are precise. Like a serpent enticing—hypnotizing while she prepares to strike.
And fuck, do I love it.
My fist pumps in time with her every move. My hips rise, giving into the lust burning through my veins.
With her foot on pointe, she lifts the other leg straight in the air into a vertical split and I growl, the sound loud within the room. She hears it. I know it. Moreover, that second—the minuscule moment in time when she falters causes my stomach to clench.
Move my wrist faster.
Following my instruction, she twirls for me in a slow circle.
My little Twirl. My little ballerina.
London holds her poise with grace. She doesn’t realize as she turns that the white fabric between her thighs stretches tight, giving me a small glimpse of the sweet pink I want to devour.
Her labia is visible. So is a small patch of wetness.
My orgasm is almost violent as I focus on the proof of her arousal. Even the innocent fall.
“Motherfuck,” I grunt, grinding my teeth as the first rope of come shoots from the tip and onto my stomach. Pulsing—I’m fucking throbbing as the second and third follow, coating my hand and then abdomen. Every single nerve ending in my body is a live wire and breathing comes second to watching her move, oblivious to my actions.
London doesn’t stop, and I don’t ask her to. Instead, I continue to stroke myself softly as the song comes to an end and she leaves.
She doesn’t look back, but my eyes follow her out.
She doesn’t speak, but I whisper an I’ll see you soon.
Her life will never be the same after today.
4
“SHE DANCES FOR NO one but me.”
“Christ, Asher!” Liam yelps, jumping in his seat. He’s been hiding inside this office all night, and as I walk in an hour later, I can see the why. He has a girl on his lap: late twenties, a redhead, and practically naked. The man is imbibing. Sampling what he perceives as his own merchandise. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Not my problem.” Not waiting for an invitation, I take a seat across from them and lean back. Watch him squirm while the girl begins to play with a loose curl around her bare shoulders. “Now, about London.”
“Figures.” His companion mutters low, something he ignores. Knows better than to acknowledge, but I don’t miss her grimace when he tightens his hold on her midsection. “But it’s true.”
“Shut it, Stacy.”
“No, Liam. Let her talk…” I narrow my eyes at her “…finish. Say what you need to say.”
“She’s too innocent for a place like this. Too inexperienced, and I worry certain clients will eat her alive.”
I almost smile at her perceptiveness. She’s right on both accounts, and I won’t be the only one to take notice of Twirl’s naivete. However, I’ll do more than that. I’m going to consume her and make her dependent on me.
Show her brother and father before they take their last breath that I own them. Destroy without a single repercussion. Alton chose their lives’ path, and I’m now fate here to collect.
At my silence, Liam becomes nervous. Curious, while his body language shows discomfort. “I apologize if London ruined your night. Did she upset you?” His worry is almost comical—full of apprehension that I will lash out. Pussy. “She’ll get better. It was her first day and dance.”
His words please me. I was her first.
It’s an egotistical response. Feeds my need as an alpha to dominate and conquer.
To own. Be everything she will ever need.
“This man is just going to use her,” Stacy mutters under her breath, but I hear and so does Liam. It’s obvious she isn’t quite sure who I am and that she worries about London, so I let it slide this once.
However, how loud she’s now popping her gum in a show of annoyance is downright disrespectful. Motherfucking nasty habit.
“Don’t concern yourself with London. Just make sure she doesn’t dance...” my glare settles on the redhead and she dry-swallows the gum “...much less goes near any of your other clients.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Sweat beads at his brow while he frowns. Thinking. “I scheduled her for one more client tonight. A friend of a friend.”
Sitting back, I take a second to rein in my rage. Breathe in deep while looking around the spacious room. It’s opulent, heavily furnished, and predictable in its display of wealth. The paintings alone in this room would set him back millions—stolen originals come with a hefty price tag.
And then there is him.
Heavier set, hair dyed to hide his greys, and an expensive Cartier on his wrist. A wife and a few teenagers at home while he fucks anything that walks. He doesn’t discriminate. He doesn’t care as long as his dick gets wet.
Be a real pity if he loses it all.
“Find her.”
“I can guarantee her starting tomorrow?”
“She’s getting ready for her next client now.” They speak in unison, but my attention stays on her. That’s when I notice a few things aside from her trashy appearance.
This woman doesn’t look like the rest. She’s fidgety; lipstick smeared a bit and pupils dilated.
There isn’t a single doubt that she is high.
Leaning forward, I wave a hand. “Explain.”
“Ummm...” she looks at Liam and he nods, squeezing her once more “...London’s in the dressing room now; her next private show is coming up. Saw her there right before I came to bring Mr. Kravitz his coffee.”
“How long ago was this?” Coffee my ass. I see the small mirror and blade atop his ostentatious desk. The white residue left behind on it. The small open bag. Idiot. “How fucking long?” I spit out, hand slamming atop the desk when they both go mute. “Answer me.”
“Thirty minutes ago,” she stammers while the color drains from Liam’s face. There’s much he needs to account for, but not tonight. Tonight, he needs to stop London from getting up on another stage.
“If she makes it inside that room, I’ll put a bullet in each of you.” At my threat, she gasps while he nods. Knowing that I won’t hesitate. Haven’t in the past. “Find her. Pay her for the entire shift and then send her home with one of the many drivers here tonight.”
“But, Malcolm—”
My glare cuts him off. “Let’s hope for your sakes she hasn’t stepped a foot inside.”
It takes another twenty minutes for them to find her, and it’s pure luck that they do just in time. With her hand on the doorknob, and in another innocently indecent dress, Liam’s plaything stops London.
Pulls her down the hall while I watch through a monitor in his office. Witness—hear as Liam greets her inside what looks like an employee lounge and asks her to sit. How he tells her that her second dance is cancelled, but that she’ll still be paid in full. See him hand over the envelope I personally approved of, along with a tip.
A little something extra from me.
My little Twirl doesn’t know how to react, her facial expression full of confusion, but she accepts with a nod. She doesn’t argue. Instead, she heads inside the dressing room to change and grab her belongings. And in her normal clothes, London is exquisite.
Motherfucking…cute.
In a velour tracksuit with sneakers and her hair up high in a messy knot, she looks beautiful. Mouthwatering.
She has this girly innocence I crave to devour.
“Soon, Twirl,” I say low, running a finger down the screen as she’s being taken to the parking area set up for employees. “For the rest of our lives, I’m going to be all you know.”
For as much as this girl brings out an animalistic desire in me, there’s also an odd need to take care of her. It makes no sense. This sudden yearning to own her isn’t solely brought on by her relationship to Alton, no.
I want her, and I’m not one to deny my instincts. My very nature demands that I make her mine, and I will.
And after I’ve satiated my lust and taken care of her family, I plan to explore these other feelings.
Later. Much later.
Now, my curiosity lies in a different area.
