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he measured my distance in disappointment. Up on my hands
and knees–like the animal I’d accused him of being–I crawled over,
knelt and pressed his hand between my thighs. He drew a thick
finger across my slit and I tugged it, now soaked and glossy, up to
my mouth to smear. When I was painted, I sucked off the remainder
while he rubbed it over my tongue.
    Then came the
kiss.
    He ate at me
like I was supple melon, fruit to be reshaped to his appetite,
juices enough to stain his skin. His hands spanned my jaw, holding
me tightly in place, and he kissed the same way he fucked: sharp,
thorough and intricate. The rhythm that governed was entirely his
own.
    “There,” I
whispered. “That will have to do.”
    “You’re really
going to make me wait, aren’t you?” He bit my shoulder and paused
to inspect the mark. “Little villain.”
    “I think you
exhausted your quota yesterday as it was,” I teased.
    He hauled
himself up and began to flick through shirts in the wardrobe. “I
didn’t know I had a quota.”
    “Oh yes. You
evidently haven’t used enough whores, Mr Merchant. You get three
shots at anal, six point four blowjobs and if you’re lucky, a
massage.”
    “I might take
you up on the massage later.” He shot an amused look over his
shoulder. “Though I’ve had my share of whores three times over, and
I think you’re talking shite.”
    I perched on
the end of the bed, swinging my pretty heels and watching him
dress. “How many?”
    “What, call
girls?”
    Crunch. Crunch.
The heels crushed the carpet as I walked over and began to do up
his buttons. “Yep.”
    “I must’ve
hired forty or fifty, thinking about it. Maybe more. Though I
didn’t fuck all of them.”
    My eyebrow shot
up, rigid with cynicism, and his snort of derision was comical.
    “You must know
what it’s like, Leila. Some girls turn up looking more interested
in the wallpaper. Or they’re wired. Or they don’t even speak
English, for fuck’s sake–they’ve been shipped in from
God-knows-where and they’re terrified. My own hand was more likely
to get wet…I wasn’t about to fuck them.” He tapped my nose. “So I
handed them the envelope for their troubles, and graciously told
them to sod off.”
    “If you wanted
a girl who wanted you , why not just take one out for
dinner?”
    He shrugged.
“For the same reason as all your clients, I imagine.”
    I brushed a
hair from his shirt–my particular brand of auburn against his white
cotton, coiled as if it belonged there. “Not all my clients looked
like you,” I said, “and very few would have sent a girl home.”
    “Yeah,
well…when I take women out, they’re either not subtly slutty enough
or they end up like Isobel. I seem to attract the
desperate-for-Daddy type.”
    My cheeks
roared with the sudden flush and he stifled a laugh.
    “ You ,
Leila?”
    “Only with one
guy,” I mumbled.
    “Not me?”
    “No.” I toyed
with his belt buckle as he fastened it. “You’re all different.”
    “Good. Because
if you ask me to put a collar on you, I won’t be able to do it with
a straight face.”
    “Saves me
having to check your wardrobe for leather trousers.” I grinned.
    “If I wanted a
girl who wouldn’t shut up and wouldn’t fuck me, I could’ve had any
old succubus from the lounge last night.”
    I giggled.
“Instead, you have suck-you-boss.”
    “Stop being so
bloody clever and put some clothes on.”
    The preceding
spank was sharp and fizzy, and I darted away only to topple off my
heels. The bed caught me and I struggled onto it before reaching
back to undo the shoe straps.
    Joseph watched
me from the mirror as his tie flew in loops. “If you keep bending
over like that, no won’t make a jot of difference.”
    When I emerged
from the shower ten minutes later, he sat sprawled over the bed,
surrounded by newspapers. Even with my back turned, I knew he
watched as I patted myself down, slathered on too-cold lotion,
selected a close-fitting shirt and smart