Dirty Diana by January James
Chapter Six
Itook one more glance at the invitation sent to my new personal email address. It looked unmistakably official with the word DECADENCE emblazoned in large glossy letters across the top.
I slipped my phone into my handbag and stared at the discreet silver number five on the door in front of me. Then I tugged the drape down over my face and pressed the buzzer. A second later, the door opened and a man also wearing a drape let me in. House Five was indistinguishable from House One. The walls were painted black and long ebony velvet curtains hung over every doorway, concealing sights and sounds, apart from the familiar ambient beats through more hidden speakers. And the carpets were smooth and quiet, absorbing the sound of every footstep.
I was greeted by a host who took down my membership number and confirmed the appointment, then I was led through one of several heavy curtains and down another dimly lit corridor. We passed several doors before reaching one named ‘Silk’. The host handed me a large key, exactly like the one I’d been given to the room in which my beautiful gold lace bra had been violated.
I turned the key and nodded my thanks to the host, then I pushed the handle and stepped inside. Like everywhere else in the place, the room was dark. I hung the key on a large hook by the side of the door and noticed another key was already hanging there. He was here.
I had entertained the thought it might not be the man from the board who’d asked for this encounter. What if it was another person? Would I stay? If it wasn’t for the intense chemistry I’d felt with the man, I wouldn’t have come back here at all. So, if someone else walked into the room, I was certain I would leave.
Before I could consider it further, I heard them—someone else’s footsteps in the room. I took a deep breath then turned around to see who might be waiting for me; to see who it was who’d specifically requested my company tonight. My eyes scanned the room as my head turned, gliding across the enormous bed with its freshly-washed sheets, the bedside tables no doubt filled to the brim with condoms, battery-operated devices and lubricant, and the heavy drapes hanging to the side of the floor to ceiling window that stretched the length of the room. They were stopped in their tracks as they landed on a silhouette against the glass. It was him. Even at this moderate distance, I could tell it was him immediately.
His thick shoulders moved gently as he breathed and his suit jacket bunched at one hip where his hand settled in the pocket of his pants. His thighs were curvaceous beneath the cotton of his suit, and his whole form sucked in half the room’s oxygen. That had to be the only explanation for the fact I could hardly breathe. Overtaken by nerves, I stood rigid to the carpet, clutching the bag he’d told me to pack with a change of clothes. We stood still, taking each other in. It was so dark, I couldn’t tell if he could see me clearly, and I certainly couldn’t see the details of him—only his outline and his presence, which was almost blinding.
He stepped away from the window and walked towards me, slowly, and my heart leaped into my throat. It was just the two of us now, in a room together, with full permission and full consent to have sex—all night if we wanted to. I should have felt cheap. It was a one night stand after all. But I didn’t; I felt stomach-churningly incapacitated. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t believe I was even standing there. I was Diana Delaney—the barely afloat music label VP whose acts ran rings around her. I was the too-young great-hope-gone-wrong in the eyes of the parent company and the rest of the industry. I was the naïve little Brit girl trying to tread water in the ocean of Manhattan. I should have been slaving over my computer, working into the early hours doing everything I could to save my company; not indulging myself in a seedy sex club with a man I was never going to see again.
He continued towards me slowly, his expensive suit stroking the muscles around his thighs and calves. He eventually stopped, the tips of his shoes touching the tips of mine. Both our drapes clung to the contours of our faces, stroking the top of our lips, reminding me of the strongly worded advice against kissing. The drape aside, even in the darkness I was barely afforded a glimpse of the man in front of me, but I could feel his breath, hot and sweet against my forehead. I had to crane my neck to look into his eyes. They looked down at me like they belonged to a hawk, but all I could see was black.
He reached down and uncurled my fingers from around the handle of my bag. They ached as they released the leather, alerting me to the fact they’d been gripping it for all they were worth. I heard the bag drop to the floor.
A thick hand reached around my back and felt for the knot at the nape of my neck. Gently, the fingers pulled at the band holding my hair in place, tickling the skin across my shoulder blades, until I felt long pieces of hair tumble around my shoulders. His breath shallowed; it was barely perceptible but I felt it as though I was wired up to him, able to sense the smallest change in his physiology. That’s what this club did so well; it created an atmosphere with its darkness, its disguises, its rules and its assurances, creating a false sense of security and sensuality. None of this was real, I told myself. If we were two normal people on the street, in broad daylight, in plain clothes, no drapes, it would be a whole different story.
He brought a second hand up my shoulders and stroked his palms down the top of my arms. His fingers lingered there, stroking the sensitive skin inside my elbows, before running down my forearms to my wrists. He hesitated then, as though he was bracing himself for an electric shock. I didn’t know about him but I was already feeling it. My arms were fizzing with the contact and I had to remind myself to suck air into my chest then push it out again. His fingers slid down across the palms of my hands and curled around the backs of my fingers, running up and down from my knuckles to the tips. It was foreplay of a kind I’d never experienced before in my life. My mouth had dried up, all moisture heading south to my thighs, and my knees had locked to prevent them from buckling.
He released one of my hands, causing it to jerk from the withdrawal, then he led me by the other to what looked like a lounge. There, he stopped and motioned for me to sit down on the dark, velvet sofa. I sat, suddenly unsure of what to do with my limbs. I crossed one leg over the other, turning my body to face his as he sat a couple of feet away—within arm’s reach. Then he reached behind him to flick the switch on a lamp which bathed us both in a golden light. It was the most I’d seen of him. I lifted my chin and finally saw his eyes. They weren’t black; they were dark blue, almost indigo, and shaded by dark lashes that protruded from beneath his drape. He still wore a short layer of stubble around his jaw, and his hair was a dark and dirty blonde color, just visible below his ears.
He was staring at me with the same level of intensity I remembered from my first meeting and I felt uncomfortable with the silence. I had to say something to break it.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked him, my voice breaking with nerves.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached a hand up to my face and stroked it around my cheek, pushing his fingers back towards my hair. Then he stopped suddenly, as though he’d just realized what he was doing.
“Nothing,” he replied, his voice dry. “Nothing yet. I want to know a little bit about you first.”
I coughed to clear my throat. “I thought we weren’t supposed to share personal information.” I shouldn’t be the one telling him the rules; he was probably one of the few people who’d made them. His lips twitched into a slight smile.
“We don’t have to take that rule so literally. I can tell you what I like—sexual or otherwise; you can tell me what your fantasies are, your dreams—inside and outside the bedroom. The kind of information we don’t share is that which might identify us, out there.” He jerked his head back towards the window.
“What do you want to know?” I tapped my fingers together—a nervous habit I’d always had—then watched as he turned to the table beside us and handed me a flute of champagne. In the darkness, I hadn’t noticed it was there, but now I could see there were two flutes and an ice bucket with a bottle of Cristal poking out of the top. Beside that was a small platter of fruits. My mouth began to salivate; I had hardly eaten since I’d received the invitation, and still wasn’t sure I could stomach anything now. I brought the bubbles to my lips—champagne was different; I could always stomach champagne. Besides, the alcohol might help my nerves unwind from the tight spring they’d coiled up into.
He watched me intently, each slow blink of his eyes stripping away another layer.
“Are you hungry?” He asked, finally. I felt as though he could see right through me.
“I don’t think so,” I shook my head.
He reached out and took a piece of mango between his fingers and brought it up to my mouth anyway.
“The best mango you’ll ever taste,” he said, softly, stroking it across my bottom lip. My lips parted, curiously, and I took a bite. He then returned his hand, popping the other half of the mango slice into his own mouth. My stomach rolled inwards. It had been such a small, innocent gesture, but I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut. He watched me closely as I chewed the fruit as delicately as I could. I’d never felt so utterly self-conscious and on display before; I was almost hyperventilating.
“So, you like fruit,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.
I smiled and nodded. “So do you.”
We continued to watch each other take sips of the champagne, and gradually, my nerves began to settle.
“Whereabouts in England are you from?” I ventured.
He shook his head. “Too personal,” he replied, and my nerves stood to attention once more. I didn’t know how to play this game. I already felt as though every step I was going to make this evening would be the wrong one. “But I can tell you why I left.”
I nodded, keeping my mouth closed.
“I was bored,” he said, simply. “It was too small a country for me. And the kind of work I do… well, there are only so many places I can do it. New York is the perfect place for me to be right now.”
I was entranced. He might have thought he was giving impersonal answers but I felt I was getting to know him, regardless. His voice was mesmerizing, so even if he hadn’t really told me much, I felt sated simply from the sound.
“What about you? Why did you leave?” He asked.
A deep chill ran through my bones and I shuddered. I would never be able to control the way I responded to questions about my past, and specifically why I’d left England. His eyes narrowed, intrigued.
“Same as you,” I lied. “I just felt like New York could offer me a lot more. I’d always wanted to travel, and live somewhere a bit more glamorous, I suppose. I picked the right place,” I smiled wryly, glancing around the luxurious suite to illustrate my point.
He took a long pause before replying. “Do you like it here?”
“Here, meaning New York, or this club?”
“Both,” he answered.
I sighed before I could stop myself. “I love New York,” I said, truthfully. “I love the hustle and bustle, the bars, the nightlife, the shops, the culture, the people… But I’ve got myself into a bit of a rut, I guess. This is probably the most exciting place I’ve been in a long while.”
I had his full attention and he nodded for me to continue. I put down my glass and folded my arms protectively.
“Truthfully, being here, in this club, it makes me feel nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before, and I feel a bit embarrassed to be honest.”
“Embarrassed?” He cocked his head to one side.
“Well, yes. I don’t usually sleep with strangers. In fact, the last time we met, that—that was the first time. I really don’t know why Sienna chose me; I don’t bring anything special to this club—only my naivety and lack of experience.”
“Don’t underestimate how sexy that is,” he replied, softly.
“Sexy? I don’t think I’ve ever felt sexy in my life.”
I flicked my eyes up to his, almost apologetically, and was surprised when his hands reached out to me again. He cupped my elbows and pulled me towards him. His face was just inches from mine and I could taste the champagne on his breath. His eyes burrowed into me at close range and I felt his hands move up my arms to my shoulders. I hardly dared breathe. He stroked his fingers down my back and I shuddered again, but his expression of deep concentration didn’t waver.
His hands traced my spine right to where it met the seat then ran gently, tentatively, across my hips where they settled for a moment. His breathing deepened, making his chest rise and fall with a heaviness that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, he moved both hands around my hips, to the crease of my thighs, which he gently prized apart, pulling my left knee up to rest on the seat. I’d chosen a different kind of dress for the occasion—shapely but loose. I didn’t want a repeat of anything from my first night at the club. Even the Lejaby bra had been banished to the back of my closet.
He didn’t take his eyes off mine as he moved one hand to settle against the curve of my buttocks, while his other hand stroked the top of my exposed thighs.
My breath quickened but his touch remained under his complete control.
“I thought you wanted to get to know me first,” I said, the words coming out in short, rasping bursts.
“This is getting to know you,” he replied, calmly, as his thumbs softly kneaded the delicate skin at the crease between my thighs and my pelvis. I became acutely aware of a throbbing sensation about an inch away from his fingers and felt sure he could feel it too.
“You have beautiful, soft skin,” he said.
I couldn’t think of a response, and even if I had, I wasn’t entirely sure I could have voiced it. Instead, I rested my hands on his legs in an attempt to stabilize myself against his firm body. His fingers brushed lightly against my panties, and I folded forward with a gasp. His breath quickened as my forehead rested on the crisp cotton of his shirt, and I breathed in his warmth and his scent. I wanted to sneak my hands beneath his jacket and around his back to pull him towards me, but not only did that seem too intimate for what this was meant to be—a mere sexual experience; a one-night stand—but I was completely incapacitated by the intensity of it all.
His fingers curled around the lace and stroked the skin beneath, lightly at first, as I closed my eyes against the torment. His fingers were thick and experienced, knowing exactly where to glide lightly and where to sink deep, as though he was playing a delicate instrument. I stunned myself when the word “Jesus” came out of my mouth, breathy and foreign. His touch didn’t waver; instead, it found a rhythm, stroking me back and forth, with long, probing sweeps and gentle circling. I could feel myself panting with need but it was as though I was standing outside of myself looking in. Who was this person?
My forehead sank deeper into his chest, moving slightly as his chest rocked in time with the tempo of his fingers. They were tantalizingly slow and my breath was begging for me.
“We’ve got all night,” he said, as though I was the one who needed to slow down. I trembled at his words and he withdrew his hand, leaving me bereft with longing. The hand that had cupped my behind moved up to my shoulder blades and coaxed me into laying back against the sofa. With the hand now free from massaging me senseless, he pulled a cushion beneath my hips, raising my pelvis, opening me to him. My legs fell to the side like jelly and I laid there, rendered helpless with the need for his fingers—or anything belonging to him—to return. He shifted himself backwards and ran his hands beneath the cotton of my dress, finding the lace of my panties. Oh God, was he going to do what I hoped he might do? The throbbing between my thighs had sped up to the point of pain; I desperately needed a release and the waiting was agony.
The lace tickled my skin as it was pulled slowly down over my hips, my thighs, my knees. He reached my ankles and paused to remove each of my shoes. I watched the sheer concentration on his face as he eased each one of the heels off my feet, slipping them over my toes and placing them gently on the floor. Then he teased off the lace and bunched it in his hand, holding it there. The golden light from the lamp swirled in his eyes; there was no doubt in my mind he was savoring this. But then again, he must have had plenty of experience, seeing as he was a board member of a sex club. He must have had his pick of all the women who stepped foot in this place. He was a professional one-nighter. I couldn’t tell if the thought aroused me or repulsed me, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it as he hooked his hands—one of them still curled around the lace—beneath my knees, bent forward and placed them on the ridge of his shoulders. My breath had halted. If he brought his lips to me, I was going to last all of one second. I’d never felt so turned on in my life.
“I…” I whispered, as his eyes came closer to mine. “I can’t take it. This is killing me.”
He leaned forward and brushed his lips against my cheek, breathing hot, intoxicating air into my ear.
“Then let me be the death of you.”
I turned my head to catch his lips in mine but he moved backwards, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. I closed my eyes and felt his breath between my thighs. I writhed a little, needing to find some release, but it didn’t speed him up. He took his fucking goddamn time.
“Please…” I groaned. I had nothing to lose now; he knew what I needed; he knew it was killing me; there was no point feeling shame in begging.
“Have you been thinking about this?” He whispered into me, his voice deep and thick.
“Yes,” I panted, without even a beat.
“With me?”
“Yes.” What did he want from me?
“Good. I want you to want me like this.”
“I do,” I gasped. “Please… don’t make me beg.”
“Oh,” he chuckled softly, the vibrations reaching into my core like tendrils. “You already are. And you…” he uncurled his tongue into my flesh, causing my back to arch in shock, and a short, untethered cry to leave my throat, “… are fucking sexy.”
He pushed himself forward from the hips and sank his face into me. I cried out, feeling the tremors begin, and I gripped the edge of the sofa as though I might levitate off it. His tongue reached inside me, exploring my walls, curling and uncurling. He moaned into me as his lips sucked against my folds, the combination sending me high. Then he pulled back and replaced his tongue with his fingers, probing me deeply, rocking me over the cushion. His lips found me again and sucked me between his teeth. A sharp sting was eased by the lap of his tongue and he repeated the motion relentlessly.
I groaned loudly, gripping the sofa tighter. I wanted to hold his head but I feared the touch of his drape might shock me out of this perfect fantasy-come-true.
“Seriously…” he gasped, pulling back for air, “you have no idea how sexy you are.” His breath blew against my clitoris, which was pulsing from the assault, and his tongue lapped against me again, over and over, harder and harder, circling me, grazing me, dipping into me alongside his languid fingers. I leaped beneath him, feeling the heat grow with rapid intensity. He held me down with one free hand and plunged his mouth onto me, sucking out my climax with concentrated efficiency. I let myself go as I had never done before. I was never going to see this man again; I had nothing to lose. I arched myself into him and gripped his head, forgetting his drape, pulling him deeper. He groaned with pleasure and I vibrated against him, loud cries leaving my body like demons. His firm grip held me in place as I fell about uncontrollably and he continued the torment of his tongue. Even as I melted into the sofa, relieved of the biggest orgasm I’d ever experienced, he continued to lick me softly, acclimatizing me to a new state of being.