Free Cream of the Crop by Dawné Dominique Page B

silhouette of a man leaning against the doorframe came into focus.
    She gulped. Shrouded in shadow, there was no mistaking those gun- metal blue eyes, muscled frame, and stock of dark hair. Her heart jumped. Why did a guy like that need an escort service? From where she stood, he was the hottest man she'd ever seen. Something about him was familiar, though. His hair was longer than most, with wisps that look as soft as down. His unbuttoned silk shirt revealed a hairless chest and washboard abs. Before she could stop herself her gaze roved down to his black silk lounging pants and muscular hips.
    Wait a minute. He 's not dressed for dinner. Shit!
    With her thoughts a muddled mess, she stood in the foyer praying she didn't faint dead away.
    “ I see I’m not what you expected,” he murmured with a shrug. His voice carried a gravelly, lilting English accent that made goosebumps rush up and down her spine.
    It was then she realized her mouth hung open. Okay, you twit. Look professional. She stared at the floor. “I have to confess. I’m kinda new to this.”
    “ Then that makes two of us.”
    She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. The fire in his stare nailed her to the spot.
    “ As you can see, I’m not dressed for dinner. The hotel is full of people I’d rather not have to deal with. Would you mind if we ordered in instead?”
    Is terror written all over my face? God, I hope not. However, eating dinner in his suite seemed a far better idea than trying to act like a pro in front of a roomful of strangers. At least in his hotel room, she only had him to contend with. Actually, the more she thought about it the more this version scared her, too.
    He smiled and the brilliance of his white, even teeth seemed to glow in the gloom. The small gesture eased a littl e of her discomfort, but just a miniscule amount. The guy was a poster boy for GQ magazine. She’d always assumed the men who used escort services were pudgy, married, and rich, preferring to have discreet affairs with beautiful women who kept their secrets safe. Why does someone like him have to pay for a woman’s attention?
    “ Would you like a glass of wine?”
    She shook her head, refusing to trust her voice, let alone the contents of her stomach. She sensed an air of authority about him. Obviously a man of wealth and power. He certainly wasn’t pudgy—or ugly. Why did Patrice recommend him to me?
    Then cold water rushed through her veins. He wants to order dinner in? The realization of what her services were actually going to include made the room spin. Panic set in. Will I be able to do this?
    “ Are you okay?”
    All she could do was nod.
    “Are you hungry?”
    She shook her head. Please don't throw up. Please don't throw up...
    “ Shall we begin then?”
    “ Really? Now?” She drew a shuddering breath and began again. “What would you like me to do?” You blubbering idiot! Just shut up. Say nothing and nod.
    A coy grin played across his lips. Lips she definitely wanted to taste. “The bedroom would be a good start.”
    Trying to slow the wild beating of her heart, she walked toward him as demurely as she could, but her knees wouldn't stop shaking. I probably look like a bow-legged donkey. When she caught the scent of his sweet cologne, a wave of lightheadedness hit. Then she stumbled on her heel just as she went to move past him at the doorway. Shit! Everything about him set her on edge. Worse, desire moved through her like molten lava.
    “ Stop.”
    She halted inches from him.
    “ Go back to the door.”
    S he opened her mouth to ask why only to meet his finger pointing to where she'd stood moments before. On a sigh, she returned to door and waited.
    “ Get on your knees.”
    “ Excuse me?”
    Saying nothing, h e titled his head and crossed those muscled arms across his chest.
    She cleared her throat, but could think of no witty retort to throw his way. Anything the client wants, right? She placed her purse on the table beside the door