The Proposition

‘Irish Australian?’ I say, prolonging the handshake, deliberately sliding my roughened thumb over the back of her hand to gauge her reaction to my touch, because I’m certain that under normal circumstances, in our everyday lives, she wouldn’t give a man like me the time of day. She’s too polished, too precise and undoubtedly super-high maintenance. There’s not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight, but I have the driving urge to see her all dishevelled and undone. She’d look twice as sexy rumpled and satisfied, those sea-green eyes pleasure-drunk…

‘Yes. I’m from Sydney.’ She looks down to where my thumb swipes across the delicate skin of her inner wrist, her small smile masking a look bordering on aversion while her free hand toys with the diamond stud in her ear.

In spite of my work-roughened skin, there’s excitement drawn all over her ethereal face, but her eyes say she’s all too aware I’m not her usual type. No doubt she’s used to the type of man who belongs in this club. The type who’s certain of everything in his life, especially where he comes from and where he’s going.

‘I grew up in Sydney, too.’ If only she knew that we came from opposite sides of the tracks before I inherited enough money to be thrust into her sphere. I look down at our joined hands, the sick slug of satisfaction at my rough and calloused hand swallowing hers, which is by comparison as delicate as a bird’s wing and impeccably manicured, adding to the thick desire humming through my veins.

Prior to my current fucked-up predicament—the very reason I’m here in this club for the elite and obscenely wealthy, having earlier this evening bought a supercar I’ll likely never drive and gambling as if I’m spending Monopoly money—I worked in construction.

And now?

Now I’m frittering through as much of the unwanted inheritance my no-good asshole of a father left me as I can. Oh, how he’d hate to see me now, wasting the money he sacrificed his family for, travelling the world in a private jet, gambling, bedding beautiful women in the most exclusive club in Monaco.

The familiar nausea I get whenever I think about my father takes hold, a part of me repulsed at becoming his puppet. I focus on the exquisite woman in front of me, a strong urge flaring up to push her out of her buttoned-up comfort zone until I know exactly how far she’ll go for her night with a stranger.

She glides from the stool, her hand still in mine. Instead of pulling away, she sidles up close until I see the golden streaks in her green irises, streaks that perfectly match those in her silky auburn hair, and I’m overwhelmed by how fantastic she smells. Classy and expensive.

She presses a fingertip to my mouth. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Anonymous, remember.’

I nod, dislodging her soft fingertip from my mouth while I wrangle the thick thud of my desire under control. She may as well have kissed me for the effect that simple touch from a solitary fingertip has on my body.

Yes, she’s way too rich, too straitlaced for my blood, but damn is she sexy. I want to haul her slender frame up in my arms, press every inch of her against my body until those eyes glow with the desire I see lurking in the shadows.

But could she let go enough to embrace this fierce chemistry?

‘Give me your phone.’ My voice is low but firm enough to encourage a frown of defiance from her stunning face. She likes being challenged, but wants to be in control. She’s clearly used to giving the orders.

I can handle that.

‘Why?’ She purses perfect lips. Lips I’m dying to taste.

‘Because I’m a stranger you’re about to invite into your hotel room. I’ll take a photo of myself, and you can send it to someone you trust, giving them your suite number and mine, too, if you like—two-seven-six-six.’

She nods, hands me her phone and I snap a quick selfie before handing the device back. I watch as she fires off a text, fascinated with the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating and how, despite the safety-conscious turn of the conversation, her nipples are hard peaks beneath the tight-fitting, backless black dress that hugs her toned frame and caresses the gentle flare of her hips.

‘So, shall we?’ She looks up, her chin tilted and face relaxed, but there’s vulnerability in her eyes, and I wonder what her real story is. Not the sanitised version she probably tells herself every day as she peruses her markers of success. But the version deep inside, hidden vulnerabilities which, if probed, wobble the confidence she wears like a tiara balanced on her regal head and perhaps the reason she’s alone in a bar in Monaco, far from home, toying with a drink she barely touches in the first place.

But then, who am I to judge? I swallow a bitter lump in my throat. Fuck knows what I’m doing here apart from running, hiding, while dispensing of the blood money I can’t stomach even thinking about.

I want to form a fist as the anger that chased me from Sydney swells inside. But I’ve tried and failed to keep things normal for six months, tried to ignore the inheritance sitting in my bank account accruing more interest daily than I formerly made in a year of building houses with my bare hands, but somehow my life, who I am and what’s important to me have still changed beyond recognition.

I swallow down the acidic taste and focus on beautiful Orla and her mesmerising eyes. Perhaps we’re both hiding from something bigger than us, and that’s perfect. Perhaps we’ll succeed in fucking it from our systems, a perfectly timed distraction, and tomorrow go our separate ways, usual service resumed…

Damn, if only it were that simple for me. My stomach rolls at the reminder that normal is a distant memory. I ignore the gnawing pain, the yearning for my old life, and nod. I grab my jacket and follow her towards the bank of lifts. When we’re inside the empty car and she’s selected the correct floor I move closer, my restless body demanding action and the need to touch more of her than her wrist driving me hard.

I expect her to back up as I invade her personal space, but she holds her ground and simply levels bold eyes at me while her chest rises and falls with the excitement I want to see.

I keep my hands by my sides. My reward is waiting for me and I want to string out the anticipation for as long as I can, knowing the moment will be twice as sweet when we both, finally, surrender.

But neither can I stay away.

I look down, loving how small she is in comparison to me and the way it defies her bold and confident manner. Damn, I bet no one ever says no to her. I bet she’s always had things exactly on her terms.

That part of me, the part that wants to test her, rears up.

‘How do you want this to play out, beautiful?’ I suck in an Orla-scented breath, my blood pumping harder. Despite our chalk-and-cheese differences, I wanted her the minute I saw her walk into the casino—a beautiful woman, composed, alluring and sexy as fuck. But the fact she tried to fight her obvious interest…well, that simply added another level of challenge. I’m a scrapper who’s spent every day of his life until six months ago earning his honest, comfortable place in life, earning every cent of what he deserves—beautiful women no exception.

She takes a shuddering breath and licks her lips, the first hint of hesitation. ‘You know, just the usual…’

She clearly doesn’t do this often—sleep with a stranger—and for some reason she’s decided tonight’s the night and I’m the lucky guy. But there’ll be nothing usual about our night together.

I nod, noting the slow ascent of the lift and deciding we have time to start this right here, because I’m done waiting. She knows what she wants and I plan on giving it to her. That and more.

‘Ask me to touch you.’ Her full, kissable mouth draws all my attention. I’ve wanted to taste those lips since she spotted me at the roulette table, her mouth twitching with intrigue. And why shouldn’t I taste? Now, when I can have anything I want in life, is not the time to begin denying myself a damned thing, beautiful Orla included.

She too glances at the digital display and back, and before I can ready myself for the impact she grabs the back of my neck and drags my mouth down to her kiss.

The first taste is rich and decadent, just like Orla, the hint of Scotch lingering on her soft but demanding lips. While she seems too prim and proper for a simple, spit-and-sawdust kind of guy like me, my body clamours for more, because I can already tell there’s another level to this woman, a tightly leashed wanton ready to be coaxed to reveal her uninhibited side. And I’ll take as much wildness as she’s willing to give, in my current mood—anything to stop the endless feeling I’m trying to outrun something while wearing lead shoes.

Her lips part and she slides her tongue to meet mine with a throaty little moan that screams woman. My pulse roars with triumph, centring me with the assurance sex brings. In this moment, I’m me and in control.

I walk us back to the wall, and she drops her clutch and hikes up her dress so she can spread her thighs to accommodate my hips, which pin her in place. She tugs my hair and moans as if she wants to be fucked right here in the elevator, and bloody hell, I’m tempted.

We part for breath and she reaches for my fly, her teeth trapping her bottom lip as she rubs my cock through my trousers. Then her eyes roll closed and her head hits the wall behind her. ‘Oh, I knew you’d be good, exactly what I need.’

I clench my jaw, fighting the rush of pleasure her palming my cock brings. I can be what she needs for one night—easy. Our backgrounds don’t matter for what we have planned.

I lift her thigh and press closer until my dick and her hand are crushed between our bodies. She looks at me then, and I grin.

‘I’m happy to be your man toy for the night, gorgeous.’ I scrape my mouth up the soft, silky column of her neck, sucking in her scent as I reach her earlobe and the massive rock sitting there, a beacon to our stark differences. My hand on her thigh slides north as I tongue the stone, tugging her earlobe, complete with earring, into my mouth. I finger the lace of her underwear, which is stretched across the gorgeous handful of ass cheek I have in my hand, while I press my erection between her legs, where she’s hot and damp and grinding against me.

‘Your hot little clit is hungry for what I can give you.’ I slide my hand forward, finding her underwear drenched. ‘Question is, can you take it?’

‘Yes…oh, yes.’ She doesn’t flinch at my candour or deny my assertions, simply tugs my mouth back to hers with a frustrated yelp.

Her yes thrills me. We might be from different worlds, but tonight our goals are aligned and all about pleasure.

The lift pings and we quickly straighten our clothing to perform the hurried walk to her top-floor suite. Inside, a quick glance confirms it’s a carbon copy of mine—the best money can buy—but then, I’m too focused on the woman in front of me to care about décor or square footage.

While I shrug out of my jacket, she tosses her bag, turns to face me and begins to undo the clasp of her dress at the back of her neck, but before she gets anywhere, I grip her waist and back her up against the wall once more—I have plans for Miss Buttoned-Up and they don’t involve staid missionary position with the lights off.

Let’s see how much she wants to let go.

I kiss her, coaxing more of those greedy little whimpers from her throat as my hand travels under the dress once more to find her drenched and scorching hot.

I break free from the kiss as I slide my fingers past the crotch of her underwear to the silkiness beneath. I rub one fingertip over her clit, watching her eyes grow unfocused.

My other hand grapples with the tiny, frustrating clasp at the back of her neck. It feels like a bra clasp but the hooks may as well be welded together for all the luck I’m having. I reluctantly remove my hand from the delicious, soft slickness between her legs and try with two hands, my frustration to see what the dress conceals building and making my fingers clumsy. On my third attempt, while she’s given up waiting and is clearly intent on driving me insane with the kisses she’s pressing over my neck, jaw and mouth, I say, ‘Are you particularly attached to this outfit?’