Unfurl: Chapter 32

This room screams sex club far more than the one in which I pretended to be a postulant. Its deep midnight blue walls remind me of Rafe’s apartment. Matching deco-style crystal sconces adorn the wall, their bulbs dimmed. There’s a lacquered cabinet probably chock-full of dodgy toys, some equally dodgy-looking hooks on the ceiling, and a humongous bed with dark grey sheets, a ridiculous amount of scatter pillows, and no duvet cover.

If the room screams sex club, the bed definitely screams orgy.

But none of that really matters, because Rafe is behind me, hovering, the heat from his body pumping against my bare back and bare thighs. I managed to tug my hair over my boobs for the short walk to the room, producing what’s likely a mermaid-meets-hooker kind of look that vaguely protected my modesty.

He slides a hand over each shoulder and turns me to face him. He’s so, so gorgeous, with a dusting of dark stubble, the friction from which I’ve already sampled, and lash-rimmed black eyes that seem to hold the secret to every type of sin I haven’t yet committed.

He bends his head and crushes his mouth against mine, one hand fisting my hair in a rough grip at the back of my neck, holding me tight against him as the other pushes beneath the bunched-up fabric at my lower back and squeezes my bottom, hard. His erection is insane, pure steel between us. I’m glad I’m not the only one totally overwrought by the idea that he has me in a locked room to do with me as he likes.

His kiss is all taut, probing tongue and hungrily sliding lips and gnashing teeth. It’s hot and wet and desperate. His fingers release my bottom, nails scraping up my back before he releases me, panting hard.

‘I hope you’re ready,’ he says in a low, threatening voice. His hand in my hair means I can’t move my head, and his lips are still so close to mine. ‘I’m gonna work you hard.’

Oh my God, yes. ‘I’m yours, sir. Do what you like with me.’ I lick my lips in anticipation. My thong may have been insubstantial, but without it I’m all too conscious of how wet I am. The moisture is working its way down the top of my thighs, and if he keeps talking to me and treating me like this, I’ll be a puddle of desire. No need to lube up this virgin.

He releases my hair. ‘Take that dress off. Heels and necklace stay on. Then I want you on your knees.’ He reaches into his pocket and throws a folded wad of notes held in place by a money clip onto the cabinet. ‘You get that later once you’ve satisfied me.’

I am a highly educated woman. I have a post-graduate level education and I am truly grateful for the privilege of the choices afforded to me. It sickens me to consider the daily indignities and dangers that sex workers face in the real world.

But this is not the real world.

And standing in front of me is the most beautiful, confident, dominant, sexually experienced man I have ever met.

Treating me like his hooker.

Ordering me to get naked as he stays fully dressed.

To get to my knees and take him in my mouth.

And to say this scenario arouses me is like calling Rafe Charlton a decent-looking guy.

I’m beside myself.

I twist my dress around my waist so I can find the side zip, and I pull. I’m so turned on my movements are jerky. Frantic. I can think of little else aside from how badly I need Rafe’s tongue back on my clit and his strong fingers inside me. I get the zip undone and shimmy so the dress falls over my hips, landing in an expensive pool on the floor.

Daintily, I step out of it, looking up at him for approval.

His face is a picture of barely restrained lust; his beautiful wool trousers are sporting an enormous tent. I toss my hair a little with one hand, resettling it so my breasts are better exposed. I’m in a silver choker and a pair of heels, and if ever I felt empowered, and devastatingly sexual, and ready for what lies ahead, this is the moment.

I step right up close to him, and he steps backwards, hitting the door with a thud. I close the gap, look up at him through my lashes for a second to ensure he’s paying attention, and sink to my knees.

God, I’m good at this. If it all goes wrong at Liebermann’s, maybe I could be a stripper.

His fingers rake through my hair. ‘Fuck, you’re sexy,’ he groans. ‘Such a good little whore, doing what I tell you to do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ I bat my eyelashes.

He groans again, his head falling back to hit the door.

My mouth is level with his flies. I unbuckle his belt, marvelling at the power I feel at this moment. Though Christ knows, he could haul me up and put me over his shoulder and have me in pieces within seconds. He’s ordered me to my knees, he’s commanding me to service him, and yet, at this second, the power is all mine.

Belt handled, I reach for the closure and then unzip him, and his dick flies out.

God, he’s massive. Massive and angry and weeping, his crown dark, the skin along his length pulled so taut it shines. He’s like the dildo Maddy keeps beside her bed and insisted on showing me once.

I love the scent of him.

I love how he smells faintly of laundry liquid but much more of sex and pheromones and man.

I love that I’m on my knees for him, legs slightly apart, my clit singing and my nipples tight and furled.

I grip his shaft, and he sucks in a gratifyingly anguished breath.

And then I go to work.

He wants a hooker blowjob?

He’ll get a hooker blowjob.

I lick through the delicious moisture at his crown. I wrap my lips around him before pulling away. I cup his balls, and tug his dick upwards, and lick a long, slow line up the underside of his shaft. When I get nearly to the top, I pause and run my tongue around and around that tender pad before I hit the crown itself.

I revel in the tortured sounds he makes in the back of his throat, in the whispered curses and threats that are starting to fall from those beautiful lips.

You little fucking beauty.

God, you’re going to get fucked so hard tonight. You’re asking for it, teasing me like this.

Take it. Take me all in, sweetheart. I need you milking my cock.

Like a good little professional, I do as he says, licking my lips and wrapping them around him before I feed him into my mouth as far as I can. I get him close to the back of my throat, feel a gag coming on, freeze, blink, and edge him further in.

He rewards me with a hiss. Fucking yes.

As I get to work, sliding him in and out of my mouth, my tongue doing as much as it can to overload him with sensation, my fingers teasing his balls and his fist pulling at my hair, I find myself more and more turned on.

I love him using me.

I love him needing me.

I love seeing him like this, like he barely knows his own name. I’m not sure if he can hold it together enough to stay in character, but I suspect he’d treat me exactly the same right now if we were just Belle and Rafe.

I can’t help it. I moan around his cock as I imagine him pulling out and rubbing that wet tip over my straining nipples, my needy clit.

‘You are such a little whore,’ he says. ‘Do you need my fingers on you, baby?’

I make an affirmative noise as I suck. It sounds like mmph.

‘Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘You need to look after me, and then I’ll get off on making you scream the fucking club down. Are you wet?’

I nod.

‘Show me.’

Obligingly, I release his balls and swipe a finger through my sex. God, it feels slick. It feels great. I hold my hand up, and he bends over and grabs my wrist, pulling my arm higher. His lips close around my finger and he sucks hard, his tongue twirling around my fingertip in a way that’s extremely graphic and just plain rude. I practically weep from the unfairness of it not being where I need it.

‘I’m close,’ he grunts out. ‘Finish me off.’

And I do. I work him with my hand and my mouth and my tongue, taking him deep. His hands land over my ears to grip my head. To move it just the way he wants. And as I increase the pace, the depth, of my thrusts, he pushes my head so he’s bottoming out in me more and more deeply.

It’s the oddest thing, because there is nothing pleasant about activating one’s gag reflex, and yet the way he’s using my body for his own primal, selfish needs has that mixture of shame and desire pumping through my veins like the headiest drug.

‘Oh my God,’ he groans. ‘Jesus fuck, that’s good.’

And then he’s going rigid and holding my head against him, and I’m blinking and tearing up and struggling, and he’s coming in my mouth with hot, violent, angry spurts as he thrusts so hard the door bangs continuously against its frame. ‘Fuuuuuuuck!’ he roars. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.

I take it all, and then I swallow in a single mouthful as I pull him out of me slowly. His dick is still mostly hard, still beautiful, and I suck and lick him clean before releasing him and sitting back on my heels. My hand is flat against his thigh, and he takes it and squeezes it in a way that lets me know it’s for me, not for the random hooker I’m impersonating.

He lifts his head heavily off the door and looks down at me on my knees, my nipples so tight they may snap off, my body exposed and ready for him. From the look in his eyes, he likes what he sees.

‘Stand up,’ he orders me, ‘and open your legs as wide as you can. I’m going to fucking devour you.’