Audacity: Chapter 8

By the time we’ve finished our main course, my thong is soaked through. It’s partly the topic of our dinner conversation that’s done it, naturally. Recounting all the things that get me off the most in this unique role of mine turns me on every time, and I can only hope he’s been listening as attentively as he seemed to be. Not sure I’ve ever met a guy who’s as good and patient and thorough a listener as Fr Gabriel, although calling him that is not helpful to my current state of arousal.

I was brought up in a firmly atheist household, even if it was one that could fully appreciate the glory of Renaissance-era religious art. So I’ve spent very little time dwelling on priests or priest kinks or anything of that ilk aside from occasional musings on what a waste enforced celibacy is for anyone.

But give me a truly good man at war with his inner demons and I am a puddle on the floor. So watching Gabriel get quietly, steadily, involuntarily turned on by our conversation has been a truly exquisite sight to behold. It’s hot as fuck when a guy is trying to uphold his morals while you bash them down, piece by piece, until they’re useless rubble on the floor.

Right now, Gabriel Sullivan is that guy, surrounded by the pointless debris of his ethics and totally defenceless against my lack of them. And I want him like this. I want him so addled with desire, so tightly wound by the awful, relentless needs I’ve stirred up that he’ll be unleashed when I get him upstairs.

He smiles tightly at me when the server has cleared away our plates. It’s the smile of a man whose blood flow has vacated the top half of his body. ‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’

I’m the only dessert menu this guy is going to need this evening.

‘I’m fine. Why don’t we continue this conversation upstairs?’

Gabriel has fine blue eyes, like the true Irishman he is, but right now they’re practically all pupil. ‘Are you sure? You don’t—wouldn’t you like some time to think about it?’

‘Believe me, I’ve had all the time I need. I’m perfectly sure. I want you to take me for a spin, Gabriel.’

He closes his eyes for a second. Gathering his inner strength? Praying to a God he almost certainly still converses with? I’d feel bad for the guy if I didn’t know for sure that his evening is about to get a whole lot better.

When he opens them, there’s a level of intent in their blue-black depths that he hasn’t allowed himself until now. He’s been the perfect gentleman, but it looks to me like he’s about to turn full predator. I shiver a little.

‘Apparently I should ask you for a safeword,’ he says, his voice strangled.

I smile at him. ‘Minerva.’

‘Minerva.’ He tries it on for size, but the halting way he says its syllables tells me he’s missing the context.

‘Minerva is the Roman equivalent of the goddess Athena,’ I tell him, and his face brightens.

‘Got it. I’m not so strong on my polytheistic gods.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to be.’

‘I can recite the names of Roman Catholic saints and martyrs ad nauseam, though,’ he says. ‘In fact, I’ve been reciting some of them in my head tonight in a vain attempt at staving off my—well. I’m sure you can imagine. Let’s get you upstairs.’

He keeps a chivalrous hand on the small of my back as we walk through the beautifully festive hotel lobby to the lift. Around us, gold- and red-decked Christmas trees stand like sentinels, while fairy lights twinkle softly from wreaths and garlands.

I like the light weight of Gabriel’s touch, and I fucking adore the anticipation that’s coursing through me. I love that we look like a well-heeled couple, retiring to our suite, and that no one but us knows this esteemed gentleman is paying me five figures so he can rampage all over my body.

So far, we’ve talked dirty but played nicely. The gloves are about to come off—alongside every other scrap of clothing—and I’ll get to see what this guy is capable of.

I really, really hope Catholics are as kinky and depraved as they’re supposed to be—especially ones who have years of self-denial and shame and guilt to make up for.

We’re not the only ones in the lift. Gabriel positions himself behind me in the back corner and puts his hands on the dip of my waist before sliding them down to bracket my hips and tugging me back against him. It’s an assured move, a possessive one, even, and it feels so good after having only had handshakes and cheek kisses. He scoops my hair out of the way and dips his head so he can bury his face in the side of my neck.

He inhales hard.

‘Those fucking photographs,’ he growls in my ear, low enough so only I can hear. ‘Have you any idea what they did to me?’

I giggle and push back against what is definitely a semi. ‘I have some idea, yes.’

One of his hands slides around so he can palm my stomach, gluing us together. I’ve never understood why, but having a man’s large hand splayed across my stomach, even through clothing, has always given me enormous pleasure. It feels anchoring and safe and, in this case, ominous in the sexiest possible way. Already, this feels less like an audition and more like a scorching one night stand with a tall, dark and hot-as-hell stranger.

‘They gave me an idea,’ he whispers enigmatically, and then we’re excusing ourselves and easing our way out of the lift.

Gabriel swipes the keycard and holds the door open before following me into the suite. It’s a beautiful space, all plush fabrics in neutral shades. The lamps are lit, and the bed is turned down. Clusters of candles in votives are lit, too, their fragrance heady. Jasmine, maybe.

I turn to him. ‘Did you ask them to do this?’

He hesitates. ‘I popped up here and lit them before dinner. I wanted the right atmosphere.’ There’s a self-consciousness to his tone that stops me from telling him he doesn’t need to bother with details like this for an escort. The only motivations I need are money and this man’s looks, but his having pulled out all the stops speaks volumes as to his character. I hate to admit it, but I’m touched.

So, instead of dismissing his efforts, I give him a smile. ‘Thank you. It’s perfect.’

‘I’m well aware you’re auditioning me far more than I’m auditioning you at this point,’ he says gruffly.

I begin to demur. ‘No, not at all.’ But he shakes his head.

‘It’s true. And if you do agree to take this position, then we’ll be building a relationship. It may be one that’s transactional in nature and a little… unorthodox, from my end, anyway, but it’s a type of relationship, nonetheless. And I want to make sure you understand from the outset how much I’ll respect and value you.’

In my audition with Anton Wolff, he made me roll a condom on him as soon as the door clicked shut behind us before shoving me up against the wall and fucking me so hard and fast we both saw stars, but this works, too. Every word out of this man’s mouth tells me what I already know: his integrity is irrefutable. That box is well and truly checked in my head. I’ll be safe with Gabriel.

Which means I can have all the fun in the world teasing him, tormenting him, until every chivalrous instinct is buried under raw, primal need and he’s driven purely by his dick.

‘I appreciate that,’ I tell him softly. ‘I can tell you’re a good man. But I want to see what you’re like when you’re bad, so tell me about this idea you had.’

‘It can wait a moment,’ he says, tugging me towards him with one arm banded around my waist and the other hand in my hair. Then his mouth is on mine, his lips soft and firm all at once, and I open for him right away. He slides his hand down to my bottom and grips hard, grinding against me as his tongue, taut and insistent, finds mine.

He asked me towards the end of dinner if I allowed my employers to kiss me.

‘This isn’t Pretty Woman,’ I told him. ‘For what they pay me, they can do whatever they like.’

I get the intimacy thing. It’s undoubtedly intimate having someone’s tongue inside your mouth, but like everything else I let these men do to me, I can handle it. Besides, I adore kissing, and Gabriel, it seems, is an excellent kisser. The way he uses that hot, hungry mouth of his on me is ardent and accomplished and sensual, and for the hundredth time since he told me yesterday how much he likes to take it slow, I can’t wait to have it between my legs. If he eats pussy as skilfully, as carnally, as he kisses, I won’t be faking anything.

I yield to the kiss, slipping one hand into his hair (short, soft) and allowing the other to roam up his back and across one shoulder. As I suspected, he has the leanly muscled physique of the naturally athletic. I bet he was captain of every team at prep school. This guy has Golden Boy written all over him. As it is, his delts flex under my touch in the most gratifying way before I squeeze his tricep (hard as fuck, if you must know).

It seems he likes my touch, because he angles his head, deepening our kiss, grinding me against his now fully hard dick in a manner that’s thorough enough to obliterate any concerns I may have had about him packing anything sub-scale down there. The little noise I make in the back of my throat isn’t remotely strategic—it’s a natural reaction to a beautiful man tongue-fucking your mouth and dry-humping your pelvic bone as your needy nipples rub against his chest.

And I need more.

He breaks the kiss, pulling his face away with a jagged exhale while his hand lingers on my bottom. ‘Fuck, you’re beautiful. And you taste just as delicious as you look.’

I place my palms flat on his—excellent—pecs. ‘You going to let me take care of that now?’ I ask with a nod at his erection.

‘Nope. There’s something else I need you to do for me first.’

‘Anything.’

He licks his lips, surveying me. Is there anything more arousing than seeing yourself through the eyes of a man who wants you so badly he can scarcely breathe?

I don’t think so.

‘I need you to take off all your clothes,’ he begins. ‘Every last scrap. Shoes, stockings, the lot.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ I’m enjoying this already.

‘Go get one of those stools’—he nods at the bar area behind me, where I vaguely noticed that a couple of bar stools stand—‘and put it in the centre of the room, facing me. Then I want you to sit in it and arrange yourself exactly as you were in that photo in your portfolio. You understand me?’