I like money.
I like power.
I like adoration.
I like sex.
I’m good at it, or so the guys I have screwed tell me. Maybe looking pretty and being someone’s fuck toy is all I’m good at. But hey, I can’t complain because that’s all me. My fault. My choice. And it’s not like I’m the first gold digger to ever spread her legs for the right amount of money.
I just wish the nausea would go away.
I turn around and head toward my bed, leaving a mirror full of lies behind. I put on the tiniest black thong I own, grab the deep red bandage dress lying on top of my duvet and slip it on. As the dress goes down, I feel the way the silk begins to constrict my body as it covers more areas of me, and I love it.
I walk to my bathroom and finish putting my makeup on. Tonight, I want to steal Lawrence’s breath away, so I take my time with my usual ritual. I want to look my best when I kill what little innocence and beauty I have left inside of me, and what better way to do it than by burning as bright as a star.
I fluff my hair and watch the way it covers most of my back, like a shiny black river. I take a step back and take a look at myself. Smiling into my reflection, I notice the way my smile doesn’t reach my eyes. How empty and cold they look.
My mask is on.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes, miss?” the chauffer responds.
“I was wondering where exactly in Long Island are you taking me?”
I’m riding in the black Rolls Royce that Lawrence sent to pick me up and bring me to him. I know that the air conditioner is on in the car, but I feel like I’m standing next to an open fire I’m so hot.
“I’m driving you to his estate—Rothschild Hall. It’s located in Center Island, miss.”
“He lives in a place that has a name? That big, huh?” I ask, my voice ringing with sarcasm. But I guess I should believe him. Only houses that pretty much have their own zip code forgo a number for a name. I’ve been to a few summer parties in those kinds of places.
The driver chuckles, our eyes connecting in the rearview mirror. “You could say that.”
“I’m Blaire, by the way. What’s your name?”
The man with skin the color of cinnamon smiles. “I’m Tony.”
“Nice meeting you, Tony.”
“Nice meeting you, Miss Blaire.”
“Oh, God, I’m no miss,” I say, winking at him saucily. “Just call me Blaire, please.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Sure, Blaire.”
We’re just getting out of the Midtown Tunnel when I ask, “So how long have you been working for Lawrence?”
“I’ve worked for the Rothschild family for the last thirty years, but the years are beginning to take a toll on me, so I now only drive Laurie—I mean, Mr. Rothschild a couple of days a week.”
“Laurie?” It’s hard to imagine that the virile man I met at the museum could be called Laurie. It makes me want to giggle.
“He hates to be called by that name. Ever since he was a little imp of six,” he says, laughter and love blended in his voice.
We chat about his family, but the conversation comes to a halt when he asks about mine. The question reminds me of why I’m in this car on my way to meet his boss. It reminds me of who I am and of my past. And amusingly enough, the memory that comes to mind is one of my first days in the big city soon after I turned eighteen and left my hometown. I was able to get a job as a waitress at an Italian restaurant on Wall Street. I suspect I only got the position because of my looks, since I had no prior work experience.
He was one of the regulars, like they always are. A little older than Mr. Callahan and with a cosmopolitan air about him, he impressed me. He kept coming back, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. But he always came back. He always matched my tip with the bill. He always made sure I knew how wealthy he was. When I gave him my phone number, I got flowers. When I accepted his first invitation to go to dinner, I got spoiled with gifts. When I finally accepted his overtures …
As my high heels glide across the glossy floor, I spot him sitting by the bar. A man in his mid-forties wearing jeans, a crisp white button down and a navy sports jacket with leather loafers, glances my way and immediately stands up. His smile vacant, his eyes starved.
Time to act the part. Time to play Blaire. Time to play myself.
Slowly, I make eye contact, letting the blue of my eyes hypnotize him while I smile seductively. It’s a smile that will let him imagine how my mouth will look wrapped around his cock. And it’s working. The way his eyes devour me makes my pulse race. There’s nothing more deliciously intoxicating than adulation.
When I’m standing in front of him, I extend my hand toward him. “Hi, Luke,” I say breathlessly.
“Blaire … you look exquisite tonight,” he murmurs.
The smell of his expensive cologne tickles my nose and the back of my throat. Did the man shower in it? It makes me want to throw up.
“Would you like a drink before we go upstairs?”
I want to pat him on the knee and coo, “Calm down, doggie, calm down,” but I can’t, so I smile.
“Sure. A glass of champagne, please.”
Maybe if I get drunk enough, I won’t have to feel his hands and mouth on me. I won’t have to feel him moving inside of me.
Could I be so lucky?
For a fraction of a second, I wonder if he realizes I’m only eighteen, but I guess it doesn’t matter. He probably likes me because I look so young.
After two rounds of drinks, scotch on the rocks for him and champagne for me, he leans closer to me, grabs my ass, and murmurs in my ear, “No more alcohol for you. I’ve waited for a long time to do this, and I want you lucid.”
“Let’s get out of here then,” I say as I fight the part of me that wants to run away from this place, never turning back. But this is what I came for. I have to learn how to play this game. My survival depends on it.
He wraps a muscular arm around my waist and leads the way to the elevator. Once the doors close behind us, Luke pins me against the wall and begins kissing my neck and the top curve of my breasts. His lips are soft and smooth as they leave wet traces along the grooves of my exposed body. Closing my eyes—and mind—numbing myself to feeling and emotion, I tip my head back and allow him to get his money’s worth.
Inside his hotel room, I ask, “Now what?”
“Now I get to do what I’ve wanted to do all night,” he says as he kisses me on the mouth. Lying me on the bed, he pushes my hair to the side and lets his fingers linger on my face, his touch scalding my skin.
“You’re so beautiful … the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, his hands groping me everywhere.
I can see myself reflected in his eyes and my reflection scares me. As he speaks words that Mr. Callahan muttered before, I keep looking at my reflection. How cold and empty do I look … but beautiful, always beautiful.
He doesn’t bother taking my dress off before he lifts the skirt to my waist, unzips his pants, rolls a condom on his already hard cock, and pushes inside me. I’m not wet so it hurts a little, but the more he pushes and plays with my clit, the more my body fights my disgust. The more it wants it.
As he continues to thrust, I picture everything I want: the easy life, the best of everything, security. I tell myself that as long as I let him fuck me and not think about it, I can have it all.