I’m due on stage in half an hour.”
“What?” So why the hell had she insisted on seeing me if she was working?
She raised her eyebrows and pouted. “I thought you might enjoy my show, Victor.”
A knot wound tight in my stomach. It was bad enough that she’d made me watch Juliette, or Julie or whatever her name was, at that place last night. Did she really think that I wanted to watch her beat the living crap out of herself until she orgasmed?
She rested her hand on my forearm.
A tickle in my cheek told me that a nerve was flicking there.
“Hey,” she said. “I promise it’s nothing like last night’s show. That’s not my thing at all. You saw my back when you did the zipper of my dress. Not a single mark or scar.”
I clamped my jaw tight. It was good to know I wasn’t going to be watching Zara getting hurt, but still, I knew enough about her by now to know it would surprise the hell out of me.
“I promise you’ll like it.” She leaned closer, sliding her hand up my arm, over my shoulder, then resting it on the base of my neck, pressing the collar on my leather jacket. “Victor, I promise it will turn you on. Not only that, it will tell you something about yourself that you never suspected lay in the deepest, darkest part of your soul.”
How the hell did she know what lay in my soul? And I didn’t have a dark part to it.
Did I?
I turned to her, tried not to breathe in the spiced perfume she was wearing. It made me think of a trip I’d taken to Morocco with Helen—sultry nights, rich food, a beautiful woman in my bed each night.
Zara was beautiful, too, I couldn’t deny that. Her cheekbones held a hint of an apple shape but were high and defined. Her nose was small and perfectly straight, her nostrils tiny, the flare of them hardly visible. She had a cute mole beneath them. Her lips were plump, and I would forever be able to picture them with a blob of my warm cum at the centre of the bottom one. But it was her eyes. You could call them hazel, kind of brown, with flecks, but they were more than that. The flecks glinted gold, the irises rimmed with black, and her pupils, they dilated when she was excited, when she teased me, shocked me, made me step out of my comfort zone.
She thought I wasn’t perceptive, that I was just a ‘virgin’, but she’d thought wrong. I’d learned about her eyes.
“So drive,” she said, sitting back and delving into a plus-sized red handbag. “You do know the way to Soho, don’t you?” She tugged out her mobile phone.
“Yes, but—”
“Carlos, darling, it’s me. Listen, I need a favour.”
I glanced across at her as I pulled onto the road. Who the hell was Carlos?
“I’m wonderful, thank you.” She giggled and tipped her head back. “Yes, of course, oh, definitely I’d be up for that. Anytime. Just say the word.”
The deep rumble of a man’s voice echoed towards me, but not loud enough that I could discern any words. What the hell was Carlos offering her that she’d be up for anytime?
“Yes, he’s coming tonight.” Pause. “He’ll be absolutely fine.” She reached across and squeezed my knee. “I have every faith in his potential.”
Once again I let my attention leave the road, stared at her.
She caught my gaze and winked.
I pursed my lips, gripped the wheel and briefly watched my knuckles pale. I slowed then stopped at a red light and wished my cock wasn’t stirring just at her light touch on my leg.
Witch.
She removed her hand, and I missed the heat of her flesh seeping through my jeans and onto my skin.
“But I really need him to relax,” Zara was saying, “so do you think you’d pop his car in Samson’s garage. I know he’ll be on edge if it’s on the street. Blokes his age are like that about their wheels.”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. Bloody cheek. Blokes my age? What was I? About eight, nine years older than her? Certainly no more than that.
But what could I say? I’d just been about to
“What?” So why the hell had she insisted on seeing me if she was working?
She raised her eyebrows and pouted. “I thought you might enjoy my show, Victor.”
A knot wound tight in my stomach. It was bad enough that she’d made me watch Juliette, or Julie or whatever her name was, at that place last night. Did she really think that I wanted to watch her beat the living crap out of herself until she orgasmed?
She rested her hand on my forearm.
A tickle in my cheek told me that a nerve was flicking there.
“Hey,” she said. “I promise it’s nothing like last night’s show. That’s not my thing at all. You saw my back when you did the zipper of my dress. Not a single mark or scar.”
I clamped my jaw tight. It was good to know I wasn’t going to be watching Zara getting hurt, but still, I knew enough about her by now to know it would surprise the hell out of me.
“I promise you’ll like it.” She leaned closer, sliding her hand up my arm, over my shoulder, then resting it on the base of my neck, pressing the collar on my leather jacket. “Victor, I promise it will turn you on. Not only that, it will tell you something about yourself that you never suspected lay in the deepest, darkest part of your soul.”
How the hell did she know what lay in my soul? And I didn’t have a dark part to it.
Did I?
I turned to her, tried not to breathe in the spiced perfume she was wearing. It made me think of a trip I’d taken to Morocco with Helen—sultry nights, rich food, a beautiful woman in my bed each night.
Zara was beautiful, too, I couldn’t deny that. Her cheekbones held a hint of an apple shape but were high and defined. Her nose was small and perfectly straight, her nostrils tiny, the flare of them hardly visible. She had a cute mole beneath them. Her lips were plump, and I would forever be able to picture them with a blob of my warm cum at the centre of the bottom one. But it was her eyes. You could call them hazel, kind of brown, with flecks, but they were more than that. The flecks glinted gold, the irises rimmed with black, and her pupils, they dilated when she was excited, when she teased me, shocked me, made me step out of my comfort zone.
She thought I wasn’t perceptive, that I was just a ‘virgin’, but she’d thought wrong. I’d learned about her eyes.
“So drive,” she said, sitting back and delving into a plus-sized red handbag. “You do know the way to Soho, don’t you?” She tugged out her mobile phone.
“Yes, but—”
“Carlos, darling, it’s me. Listen, I need a favour.”
I glanced across at her as I pulled onto the road. Who the hell was Carlos?
“I’m wonderful, thank you.” She giggled and tipped her head back. “Yes, of course, oh, definitely I’d be up for that. Anytime. Just say the word.”
The deep rumble of a man’s voice echoed towards me, but not loud enough that I could discern any words. What the hell was Carlos offering her that she’d be up for anytime?
“Yes, he’s coming tonight.” Pause. “He’ll be absolutely fine.” She reached across and squeezed my knee. “I have every faith in his potential.”
Once again I let my attention leave the road, stared at her.
She caught my gaze and winked.
I pursed my lips, gripped the wheel and briefly watched my knuckles pale. I slowed then stopped at a red light and wished my cock wasn’t stirring just at her light touch on my leg.
Witch.
She removed her hand, and I missed the heat of her flesh seeping through my jeans and onto my skin.
“But I really need him to relax,” Zara was saying, “so do you think you’d pop his car in Samson’s garage. I know he’ll be on edge if it’s on the street. Blokes his age are like that about their wheels.”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. Bloody cheek. Blokes my age? What was I? About eight, nine years older than her? Certainly no more than that.
But what could I say? I’d just been about to
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