Dirty Sexy Daddy by S.E. Law
4
Simona
I wake up about three hours later after the most luxuriously comfortable nap I’ve ever taken. James has his arms wrapped around me, and his hard chest is warm against my back. It’s hardly the first time a client has wanted me to stay after a night of debauchery, but rarely do I wake up with our limbs entangled. Even more, James Montlake is such a handsome man too, with his thick, spiky black lashes and patrician features. Raven hair falls loosely over his forehead in a comma, and I’m tempted to brush it away, but then merely sigh with satisfaction. It’s so nice like this.
For several minutes, I merely lay in his embrace, stroking lazy circles onto a strong forearm as he sleeps. A huge yawn cracks my mouth open, and I stretch languidly. It would be nice to stay here and while away the day, but dawn is coming, along with the harsh reality of being a working girl. After all, I know how it works: men want to go to bed with Simona the fantasy, but they certainly don’t want to wake up to Simona the regular person.
With that, I slip out of his arms and then tiptoe around the room, finding my crumpled dress before pulling it back on. In the darkness, I try to inspect my makeup in the mirror, but it’s difficult. Oh well, if I have panda eyes and smeared lipstick, then so be it. I don’t want to look like a hooker making her escape, but sometimes it can’t be helped.
Stealthily, I slip into my stilettos, and then turn to leave the bedroom before taking one last opportunity to look back at my gorgeous customer. With those dark lashes and gently tousled hair, James looks like a sleeping angel. I would love nothing more than to snuggle into his arms again, but who am I kidding? If this life has taught me nothing else, it’s that men are rarely as sweet and kind the morning after they’ve taken their fill.
As a result, I tiptoe into the living room and then quickly make my way out of the suite and back into the deserted hallway. Goodness, there are no other doors here, which means that the suite likely takes up an entire floor of the Roosevelt. It must be so nice to have money, but that’s not my concern. My work has been done, and now it’s time to move on.
I make my way back out to the streets of New York, and fortunately, it’s still early so Midtown is gray and deserted. I swing into a coffee shop for a special treat: a decaf caramel latte, extra hot. The barista pulls my shot in record time, and as I swallow gratefully, the coffee burns my tongue.
“You okay?” the barista asks as I sputter.
“Yes, totally fine,” I smile while fanning myself a bit. “Extra hot is really extra hot!”
We both laugh and then I saunter outside once more, my soul light. Idly, I begin walking to the bus stop, daydreaming as the sun begins peeking out from behind the cityscape. James was fantastic and my only wish is that I could have gotten his number.
But then, I screech to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. Sweet lord, listen to me pining over a client, of all people! James may be gorgeous, rich, and filthy in bed too, but that’s no excuse. I’m a working girl, and I know my place in the world. I can’t forget who and what I am because it’ll only lead to disappointment and heartache.
After all, mixing business with pleasure is a huge, and I mean huge, no-no for women in my line of work. Getting attached to a client spells doom because my income depends on whether the client is happy. If he falls in love with you, you’ve found yourself a repeat customer. But if you fall in love with him, you risk losing your cash cow. I’ve seen it happen to other girls. They get hooked on a man, and then wither away from heartache and sorrow even as their bank accounts dry up.
So I pinch my arm right there in the middle of the street. Get it together, Simona, I admonish myself. You know better than to go down that road.
Yet, my heart crumples a bit as I get on the bus. I had an absolutely phenomenal time with James last night, and there’s no denying that fact. Yes, I’m a bit sore, but it’s a good sore, and images of the handsome man naked keep flashing in my mind. But I bury the memories deep in the furthest reaches of my mind. I’ll probably never see him again, which is a tough pill to swallow, but again, this is the life I’ve chosen, and I’ll just have to get over it.
When I reach my apartment, the sun’s finally out, which makes me depressed for some reason. I head inside and close the door firmly with a long sigh before immediately entering the bathroom and peeling off my clothes. Then I step under the hot water with a grateful exhale. The scalding liquid feels divine against my skin, and I take a long time shampooing my hair and sudsing up. When I’m finished, I fall into my bed and curl up under the covers, my mind still occupied by the gorgeous, devilish James Montlake.
When I finally wake up, it’s mid-morning and the sun’s rays are strong against my white curtains. I stretch and wince almost immediately.
“Girl, that man did a number on you,” I remark ruefully. “Maybe it’s time for an Epsom salt bath to soothe your lady parts.”
But I decide against it because I’m utterly starved. Quickly, I throw on a robe and step into the kitchen to prepare a steaming mug of chamomile tea. A huge dollop of honey does the trick, and as the tea cools on the counter, I reach into my freezer for an egg and cheese burrito. Perfect. This is going to be the best late breakfast ever. I place my meal on a plate, heat it up in the microwave, and head to the living room to relax.
By no stretch of the imagination is this the nicest apartment ever, but it’s homey and comfortable at least. My little shoebox has hardwood floors, a half kitchen, and most of all, an in-unit washer/dryer. In New York, it’s significant because I means I don’t have to trudge back and forth from the laundromat with loads of dirty laundry. Instead, I can do wash any time I like, even every day if needed.
Further, I’ve worked my ass off to afford this studio, and I’m proud of it. The walls are a warm, off-white and my furniture is muted shades of tan and beige. My bed is cleverly hidden behind a Japanese tatami screen, and the only pops of color I have are from a few of my own art prints and the green of my houseplants.
With a sigh, I settle onto my couch, the steaming breakfast burrito in hand. There are a few unboxing videos on YouTube that I want to watch, and I search for them before locating a jewelry one. Sweet! The girl on screen pulls out a pair of silver cufflinks that she bought for her boyfriend, and just like that, James is back on my mind.
Girl, your client doesn’t need you to buy him cufflinks, the voice in my head scolds. He probably has a hundred pairs already! I grimace. It’s probably true because my date was dressed expensively, and his attire was subtle and refined. I wonder just how wealthy James is, and what he does for a living. Then, I think back to the raven black of his hair, the mischievous gleam in his eye, and the hardness of his body pressed against mine. If we’d met normally, like at a bar or a party, would he have talked to me?
I shake my head and pick up my tea, which is finally cool enough to drink. I shouldn’t even bother wondering about things like that because it’s not going to do any good. The fact of the matter is that we didn’t meet each other organically, like a normal couple would. It was set up by City Girls, and facilitated by the money in James’s bank account. It was a transaction, and for my own mental health, I need to let it go.
Suddenly, a shrill ring disturbs me and I jump up. Oh shit, that’s my phone. Tea sloshes over the side of the cup and splatters into my lap, making me hiss at the sting. I quickly put down my tea and jog over to my bedstand before snatching up the phone and getting tangled in the charger. Goddamit. I practically rip the wire out of the wall before hitting “Accept.”
“Hey Margaux,” I greet before sinking onto my bed. “Good morning.”
“Hey hon,” the middle-aged woman replies, smiling her blood-red smile. “You’ve got a little…” she points to her cheek.
I wipe away a stray crumb with the back of my hand. “Thanks. Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” she shrugs with a smile. “How are you?”
I sigh. I know what I look like: a witch. There’s not a bit of make-up on my face, and my hair’s a wreck. Meanwhile, Margaux looks perfect as usual, with her bob sharp and her make-up applied with almost geometric precision. Even her eyebrows are drawn on perfectly in thin black arches. Sourly, I wonder if they’re actually tattoos since they’re a bit too symmetrical.
But Margaux’s in a good mood.
“Did you have a good time last night?” she hums. I purse my lips, frowning, but my manager doesn’t stop to listen. “It must have gone well because the client called not ten minutes ago. He wants to see you again, and on top of that, he also wants to book your time for the next three months at triple the regular rate.”
I gasp out loud, which catches in my throat and sends me into a coughing fit. “What—?” I pause, hacking away again. “Are you serious? Triple? Really?”
My manager nods with satisfaction, her red lipstick gleaming in the video.
“That’s right. Whatever happened last night, well, let’s just say Mr. Montlake was extremely impressed and has requested your services exclusively for the next three months.”
My face heats up all over again. It sounds too farfetched to be true. I can’t believe that James actually wants me, and is willing to shell out a fortune to make it happen. Meanwhile, Margaux continues to speak.
“Simona, of course you’re going to take it. Requests like this don’t come around every day.”
I frown and pause.
“Well, you know I’ve been thinking about getting out of the business. I mean, I’m twenty-five now, which isn’t exactly young in this industry.”
Margaux pshaws, waving an elegantly manicured hand in the air.
“First of all, you’re not an old lady. Penelope, who’s thirty-two? Now that’s old. But I understand where you’re coming from, Simona. Not all of your dates have been stellar lately, but you have to think about that as a sunk cost. Those are already over and done with, and you can never get that time back. But now, you have the opportunity of a lifetime, and it’d be silly to turn it down!”
I think for a moment, still frowning.
“Yes, but—”
Margaux cuts me off.
“You’ve been trying to find funding for your latest children’s book, haven’t you?”
I nod. I’ve made it no secret that my true passion is as an author, and that I adore writing and drawing. Margaux knows I don’t want to be with City Girls much longer, but she also knows that it takes capital to put out a book because they need to be printed, marketed, and advertised with a launch party, blogger call outs, and a huge advertising budget. Therein lies the rub, and my manager uses it to her advantage.
“I know you really want to move on, and there’s nothing wrong with that,” she says persuasively. “No girl should stay in this lifestyle forever. But think about how much you’d make in the next three months, and how that could push you to the next level with your new business. Mr. Montlake is offering three times your regular pay for three months, Simona. That means you’re going to net six figures, even after City Girls takes its cut. Just look at it as seed money for your next venture!”
I bite my lip because her words have the ring of truth. The extra money from this job would help a ton, and hell, the amount is so enormous that maybe I could fully publish a book using this cash alone.
But in the back of my mind, my brain whirls. This job is dangerous, but not in the way Margaux thinks. James is more than some middle-aged rich dude with a receding hairline and a soft paunch. He’s a charismatic, magnetic, and demanding man who pushes my buttons and touches me exactly where I need. He’s got a devilish sense of humor, and enough charm to knock out a rattlesnake. Thus, the real hazard lies with my heart because what happens after three months? If I’m already this obsessed with James Montlake, then things could easily go from bad to worse. Oh god, what do I do?
But calm, cold logic takes over, and I know that I shouldn’t let this opportunity slip past. Not when the money is so significant. I’ll just have to restrain my emotions, even as James plays games with my heart and body.
“Simona?” Margaux’s voice is tinny as I jerk back to the present. “So what do you say? Any thoughts?”
I take a deep breath, and then nod. “I’ll do it.”
My manager nods with a satisfied smile, revealing teeth that seem too white.
“Excellent. I’ll work out the details with Mr. Montlake’s assistant, and then we’ll circle back to you. Does that sound like a plan?”
I nod again, still filled with hesitation, but then quash my doubts. This is the opportunity of a lifetime and I need to make the most of it.
“Okay, sure,” comes my reply.
“You’ll have a good time,” Margaux assures me. “Just think of it as a working vacation. After all, Mr. Montlake has indicated that he expects you to live in his penthouse with him, which I understand has its own dunk pool and its own personal gym,” she says. Then, she leans forward and whispers into the camera, her eyes dancing with excitement. “Also, Mr. Montlake lives on Fifth Avenue,” she adds conspiratorially. “In one of the fanciest buildings in New York, Simona. You’re in for a fabulous time.”
I merely throw her a weak smile.
“Oh okay,” is my faint reply. “Thanks for telling me.”
We hang up, and immediately, I bury my face in my hands. Oh god, what have I done? I’m beyond excited to see the billionaire again, but at the same time, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into some kind of elaborate trap. Yes, there are happy endings in this line of work, but more often, there are terrible crash and burns. Am I going to be the former or the latter?
I shake my head. Strong heart, strong head, my internal voice chides. And my conscience is right. I have to keep my wits about me. I have to go in with my eyes wide open, aware of my own weaknesses and the danger that this man brings. No matter what happens, I have to keep my head screwed on straight and my priorities in order. After all, no paycheck is worth falling in love with the wrong man … except when that person is James Montlake, ruthless billionaire and charming devil rolled into one.
