Chapter Four

The drive back to George's house was a quiet one.

As Amaya sat in the backseat beside him, her trenchcoat pulled tightly over her bodysuit, she contemplated her life choices and what had led her to this point - to this car, to this man who had paid an obscene amount for her, heading to an unknown face.

She thought of her mother. The poor woman, her body ravaged by cancer, had pleaded with Amaya to listen, to not marry Nick.

But Amaya had ignored her, to caught up in her own rebellion.

This was punishment, wasn't it?

Her life had changed drastically from a downtown florist to a dancer in a brothel and now, she belonged to a monster.

Her eyes flickered to him every few minutes. His expression has remained the same since she stepped out of Belle Époque and climbed into his car.

It was serious, like he was fighting something within him. He did not look like a man who laughed much.

Infact, he looked like exactly like what the media made him out to be - a monster, cold, controlling, manipulative.

Her stomach twisted and her eyes shifted back to the window.

They arrived at his house, a penthouse standing at the most elite corner of Monaco.

The building screamed wealth, an obnoxious degree of it. George came out of his side and rounded the car to open the door on her side, offering his hand.

Reluctantly, she held him and stepped out of the car. His touch was firm but gentle and she let him lead her inside.

The interior of the penthouse was even more majestic. Plush cushions were placed in perfect positions, the art pieces that hungom the wall looked like they could buy her entire life.

George gestured to a couch, “Sit.”

Amaya settled into the chair, gingerly and crossed her legs. Her trenchcoat slipped slightly, revealing her bodysuit.

George watched her, studied her like she was a puzzle and he was trying to fit each piece. He walked to the bar and grabbed a bottle of Madeira and two glasses.

He poured some and handed her a glass, which she took reluctantly. She didn't trust him. He was acting cordial now but she knew it was only a matter of time before his mask slipped.

They were never able to keep it on for so long.

“I need to make a call,” He said, still watching her intently, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.”

As he walked out of the room, Amaya let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding.

Her mind went back to Harlyn's warning as she prepared to leave Belle Époque, “Put in your best tonight, Amaya,” she’d said, her eyes hard. “Make him want to keep you. If he doesn’t, you’d better pray you come back in one piece.”

This was it. She had been bought and now, she was going to give him what men like him expected.

So she was ready when he walked back into the room, mumbling an apology about waiting too long.

She rose and approached him, closing the distance between them.

“Sit.” She said, in the sultriest voice she could muster at that moment.

George looked surprised but he complied. She unbuttoned her coat and took it off, dropping it on the floor.

Then she leaned in. Her hands brushed his chest lightly and her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt.

George held her hands, stopping her. She froze and pulled her hands away from his, as if his hands were scalding and turned to lookanywhere but at him.

“Stop,”

She looked at him briefly, her fear barely hidden.

“I didn't bring you here for this.”

She ignored him, hands returning to his chest.

Fear pounded in her chest - stories of his cruelty, his wife, Harlyn's warning - but she pushed it aside.

She was going to do her job and she was going to get out of here in one week.

She trailed kisses from his lips down to this neck.

He grabbed her hands again, harder this time.

“Didn't you hear me? I said stop.”

Her heart was beating fiercely now. “What did you bring me here for then?”

Was he one of those men who preferred violence to pleasure? Was that what awaited her?

She hoped her voice was sharp enough to mask the fear she felt.

George leaned forward, his intense gaze trained on her, “What’s your name?”

She chuckled, “Does it matter now?”

He didn't reply, only stared at her.

“Amaya.”

“Amaya. I want to talk.”

“Talk?” She repeated, blinking. “I'm not here for you to dump your troubles on. I've got enough of my own.”

His jaw tightened, “I'm not asking you to…”

“I couldn't care less.” She said, cutting him off, “I'm here for one thing. Let me do my job.”

Her audacity silenced him. He sat back, his expression unreadable. Amaya's hands worked purposefully now. She unbuttoned his shirt fully, revealing a chiseled body.

Her fingers moved to his belt, unfastening it slowly. She pulled his zipper down, releasing his hard-on with a gentle touch.

She wrapped her hand around him and very slowly, stroked up to the tip while maintaining eye contact.

She began to pick up the pace, finding a good steady rhythm, her fist bouncing from base to tip, adding a gently twisting motion when she reached the tip. Judging by his breathing and the groans he let slip out, she knew she was on the right path.

His hand rested gently on either side of her head, feeling the texture of her hair.

She slid his erection into her warm, wet mouth, working her tongue along his length with skill, tracing the pulsating veins before swirling it around the head.

He groaned, his hips rocking slightly as she worked him closer to climax. Then she stopped, abruptly.

She stood, her breathing slightly unsteady and her eyes misty, and stepped back.

Her fingers moved to the straps of her trenchcoat and she slid it off her shoulders letting it fall to the floor.

Next, she began taking off the body suit, revealing smooth bronze skin that seemed to glow under the light. Her figure was the kind to make any man pause. Her waist was slim, curving gracefully into her rounded hips.

Her legs were toned, beautiful. She dropped the bodysuit on the discarded trenchcoat and paused, giving him time to take the view in.

In a steady, almost commanding voice, she asked, “Condom?”

George finally tore his eyes away from her body and pointed to a drawer few steps away from the couch where he sat.

Amaya walked towards it, slowly and sensually. George's eyes followed each day of her hips.

She pulled the first drawer and retrieved a condom from the pack. As she approached, her eyes in him, she tore the packet. Kneeling before him, she rolled the condom onto him with a smooth touch.

Then, she lowered herself onto him.