generous, loving friends and instead came in the middle of the night to a stranger’s house (though calling this place a house was like calling an asteroid a rock). A stranger, I might add, who I met in a dark alley and whose last name I didn’t know.
What would I even tell the police should I need to call them?
“Hi, hi, oh, thank God. I don’t really know who this dude is, but he has conflicted blue eyes and an easy smile that betrays nothing.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“Um, yeah, and a really sexy Irish accent.”
As much as I wanted to convince myself I was here because I was desperate, because I was out of options, because I refused to ask for money from anyone, let alone my friends, I just couldn’t quite do it. Because there was still the little whisper at the back of my mind. You want to be here… You want to see him… You want to find out what lies behind that door…
I pressed my thumbs against my eyes and exhaled, shaking my head. I was getting myself into a mess and I knew it. I knew it and I was going to do it anyway.
“God-fucking-dammit,” I cursed and pushed open the door.
I stepped inside a spacious bedroom with a peaked roof made of glass. In one corner, an iron spiral staircase led up to a small platform with a tufted high-back leather chair and a telescope aimed out an open window. There was a large fireplace of blackened stone, its expansive marble hearth surrounded by antique floor rugs. There was art everywhere but the walls. Instead the canvases were leaning against several bookshelves or the dark green suede couch or the clawfoot brass tub placed haphazardly in the centre of the room beside an antique stained-glass lamp. My art knowledge didn’t expand much further than Bob Ross and Lisa Frank, but even I could tell the paintings were the real fucking deal.
My eyes skimmed over the rich details of gold and copper, velvet and leather, glass and iron to finally land on a luxurious four-poster bed of deep mahogany and the black lace bra hanging from the top of it.
“Well, what do you think?”
My eyes continued to the bed itself where my stranger lay butt-ass naked on the bed, grinning and wiggling his toes, arms folded casually behind his head. I let my gaze trail down his abs to his cock, which lay as lazy as his smile against his thigh.
I shrugged and looked again around his bedroom.
“I don’t know,” I said with a bored sigh. “Thought it might be bigger.”
Ronan
She thought she could hide the poppy-coloured blush of her cheeks at the sight of my cock, still half hard from the woman from The White Room, with a disinterested scowl and an easy line. She was wrong.
I felt a surge of energy at the sight of her standing just inside my bedroom door. It was like the main act was taking stage after enduring the warmup bands.
“What took you so long?” I asked, not moving to grab the silk robe from the floor beside my bed.
The girl laughed, her eyes moving to a bra hanging from one of the posts of my bed. “If I was late, then thank fucking God.”
I smiled across the room at her. The innocent little thing thought that was the property of the woman who just left when the truth was there were three women with tits who matched that cup size just this week alone.
I rolled out of bed and felt her eyes on me as I crossed to the liquor cart, kicking aside bottles of French wine along the way.
“Maybe you would have liked the show,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “Maybe you would have liked to join in.”
The girl huffed irritably and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Maybe I would have liked to gouge my eyes out with a shard of glass and joined a suicide pact with the first person I met on the street instead.”
I hid my grin as I poured a drink for her and me. “Are you looking at my butt?” I asked her as I reached for the Gunpowder gin.
“I’m looking at just about anything else.”
“I’ve been told it’s rather nice,” I said.
“What, by the woman who just left here in tears?” she replied.
I turned around with our drinks and moved toward her. She eyed me warily as I approached, like I was a dog she wasn’t sure bit or not.
“Do