Pure Paradise Page 4

  During promotional interviews, she suppressed the urge to burst into giggles when an interviewer referred to her as “the beautiful Milan Walden.” She definitely didn’t believe the hype, but was proud to have literally pulled the wool over so many pairs of eyes.

  She could imagine her mom shouting at the TV screen, “Milan’s a fake; she’s not pretty. She piles on globs of makeup just to look presentable. But you should see her sister, Sweetie. Sweetie’s the real beauty in our family!”

  Ha! Milan had the last laugh. She gloated briefly, and then her lips turned down. Despite her financial success and achievements, her mother and Sweetie still thought she was missing out on the joys of life because she remained single and without children.

  They’re just jealous! she assured herself.

  Milan had style, a slender, toned body, a phenomenal hairstylist, and a killer wardrobe. From the time she sank her hooks into billionaire Maxwell Torrance, she no longer wasted time trekking to New York during Fashion Week. She now flew to Paris on Maxwell’s private jet and sat in the front row watching models walk the runway in the Chanel haute couture show. She absolutely loved high fashion and enjoyed wearing numerous designers. But no one compared to Chanel. She got goosebumps and clit quivers whenever she slipped on anything by Chanel.

  She was a statuesque, stunning woman. Her wealth and good taste had placed her in the “beautiful” category. And she milked it for all it was worth.

  “Who was that hooded guy? What’s his name?” she asked Sumi.

  “His name is BodySlam.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I kid you not.”

  “Mmm. I’d like him to slam my body.”

  Sumi arched a brow. “You’re not serious. You love being in control.”

  “I don’t mind switching roles. Breaks up the monotony.” Milan smiled devilishly.

  Sumi stopped walking. She put a hand on her hip. “So why do you give me so much grief when I try to take control?”

  “The key word is try. Either you have control or you don’t. BodySlam is a master at his craft. I wanna fuck him. Set it up.”

  Sumi looked worried. “I’m not sure if that’s possible.”

  “Why not? I’ll double his fee.”

  “He works with Veronique. They’re like a team. I think they’re in a relationship—a couple.”

  Milan shrugged, annoyed. “And…?”

  “She loaned him out as a favor. I told her that I was in a bind and needed a dominant man for, like, a one-time occasion.”

  Milan let out an exasperated sigh. “What’s the big deal? I like how he works. I was thinking about adding anonymous spanking to our list of services. You tell that Mistress Veronique that I want BodySlam to work for me, starting immediately. Get her on the phone and tell her if he doesn’t show up for work tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp, I’ll have her measly little dungeon shut down just like that.” Milan snapped her fingers.

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Maxwell Torrance.”

  “He’s out of town,” Sumi reminded her.

  “He doesn’t have to be in town to handle a hostile takeover.”

  “But…Mr. Torrance buys big companies. Mistress Veronique has a private practice. She operates her business from her apartment!”

  “I don’t care where she works from; I’m going to have her shut down if BodySlam doesn’t come to work for me.”

  Sumi shook her head. “I’m confused.” She looked off in thought. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest for an employee to spank the boss?”

  “Spank me! I didn’t say I wanted him to give me a spanking. No, I want to watch him spank our clients and after he finishes, I want to feel his hot-looking body slamming against mine. Mmm!” Milan gave a visible shiver.

  “We don’t have any clients requesting spankings. The paddling room is used by consenting couples. Mrs. Tamburro was an isolated case.”

  “I see you’re incapable of thinking outside the box. Okay, obviously I’ll have to personally take care of this matter.” Milan turned on her heels and started walking in the opposite direction. Sumi raced behind her.

  Inside her office, Milan pointed to the chair on the other side of her desk, indicating that Sumi should sit.

  Sumi positioned herself provocatively, giving Milan a peep show, trying to coax her into a better mood.

  “Close your legs. Stop trying to distract me.”

  Huffily, Sumi pressed her thighs together.

  Milan tented her fingers. “I’ve been doing some thinking. You’re obviously in over your head. I’m expanding and you don’t seem to be able to keep up.”

  Sumi opened her mouth in wide protest.

  Milan held up her hand. “Let me finish.” She took a deep breath. “My mind is made up. I need another assistant.”

  Sumi gasped, pressed her hand against her chest.

  “Relax. You’re not getting canned.”

  “Thank God.” Sumi blew out a calming breath and tried to collect herself.

  “But you’re in over your head, Sumi. You lack vision and I can’t leg you drag the company down.”

  “How can you say—”

  “I want you to hire two additional assistants. Female. Fashion-conscious.”

  “Any particular race…complexion…hair color?” Sumi said sarcastically.

  “No. Just make sure they’re pretty.” Milan clapped her hands. “Get up and get to it!”

  Sumi stormed toward the door. “Sumi!” Milan shouted.

  She’d been pushed too far. Angry and humiliated, Sumi swung around, prepared to go toe to toe with Milan. “What!” she shouted, her face tinged red with fury.

  Milan smiled, disarming Sumi with what appeared to be an unspoken apology. Then, the warmth left her eyes. “Make it abundantly clear to every applicant that the position requires lots of ass kissing and pussy licking.”

  Sumi gawked at Milan, dumbfounded, before walking out and slamming the door behind her.

  Later that day, outside Pure Paradise, Hilton Dorsey opened the back door of the Rolls Royce for Milan. “Good evening, Ms. Walden,” he said, extending professional courtesy.

  Hilton was a big hunk of masculine perfection with a solid frame, defined muscles, a wide back, broad shoulders, V-shaped torso, tight abs, large hands, long limbs, and thick thighs and calves—an athlete’s physique. A strong jaw, chiseled features, and neat, close cropped hair added to the man’s physical magnificence. But his personality sucked. Milan couldn’t stand him. It agitated her to no end, the way he so easily assumed a professional persona, acting aloof as if they hadn’t fucked like dogs in heat since the day she inherited him as her driver.

  Running a business was stressful and she’d had a hell of a rough day. Royce had to be called to the carpet again, this time for arriving to work ten minutes late. Dispensing corporal punishment first thing in the morning had taxed her strength and ruined her day. She needed Hilton to be particularly attentive tonight. Long, tender lovemaking was what she needed to bring her stressful day to a pleasant end.

  “Would it kill you to greet me with a smile and inquire about my day?”

  Now in the driver’s seat, Hilton looked over his shoulder and smirked. “What’s good, baby? You feelin’ all right?” he asked, deliberately slipping into slang, knowing it irked her.

  Milan made a chastising, tsking sound and rolled her eyes. “Never mind. You’re so crude. I should have fired you a year ago.”

  Chuckling to himself, Hilton drove Milan to her luxurious home. Off the main road, he cruised past the opened gate and up the circular driveway of gray paving stones. He eased to a stop when he reached the front door of her chateau. “Do you want me to park the Rolls in the garage?”

  “No, leave it out here.” She made a sweeping gesture, indicating the spacious courtyard. “Aren’t you coming in?” There was a hint of panic in her voice.

  “Not tonight.” His dark sparkly eyes became hard. His playful mood switched to mo
ody and tense.

  “Why not?” Milan monitored her tone, careful to not sound too desperate.

  “I have to get up early. Gotta hit the gym.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why go to a smelly fitness center when I have a private, fully equipped personal gym right here?” She was aware that she was starting to sound pushy, but being slightly aggressive was preferable to sounding desperate, she decided.

  “I like working out in smelly gyms. It’s manly.” He laughed.

  Milan didn’t share the merriment. She glared at him.

  “I can’t stay over tonight, Milan. I have things to do.” He got out of the idling Rolls and opened the back door.

  Defiant, Milan didn’t budge.

  Irritated, Hilton sighed, shifted his feet, and folded his arms. He looked over at his black SUV that was parked in the courtyard. Adamant about going home, he aimed his keypad and pressed down. The headlights of the SUV flicked on and the doors unlocked.

  Wearing a sour expression, Milan reluctantly eased out of the backseat. Hilton stood outside the Rolls, waiting for her to go inside the large and empty home. She took a few steps and then stopped. “Can you be honest with me?”

  “Whaddup?”

  She tsked again. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  Hilton leaned back, scowling. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with how I spend my spare time or who I’m seeing. It’s not your business.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me. I pay your salary and don’t you forget it.”

  Unflinching, he met her gaze and then frowned down at his watch. When he looked up, his eyes were lit with amused arrogance. “I’m off the clock, baby,” he scoffed. “That means I’m no longer attached to your invisible leash.”

  Ah, so he was still afraid of succumbing, of becoming one of her playthings. His fears were ridiculous. He was so willful, so proud, and so damn sexy, she’d given up on the idea of controlling him a long time ago. She enjoyed fucking him. She also enjoyed snuggling up in his arms, but she’d never let the cocky bastard know.

  “So what!” she spat. “Just because you’re off the clock doesn’t mean you can speak to me with disrespect.” She realized she’d been unconsciously cutting her eye at the area that stored his thick manhood. She caught herself and forced her hungry eyes to narrow in disapproval at his entirely too casual attire: cargo pants, T-shirt, and sneakers. “You look so unprofessional,” she pointed out. “Really sloppy!” She turned up her nose. “My driver should look crisp and professional.”

  She flipped her hair off her shoulders for emphasis. “I have an image to uphold. Be sure to wear your formal uniform tomorrow.” She arched a brow, waiting for him to balk at her demand. He didn’t, giving her no choice but to throw in more sarcasm. “Obviously, fucking the boss has gone to your head and caused you to forget who really calls the shots. Well, let me remind you, you work for me.” Milan gave him another long look. Knowing how much he hated wearing the unflattering and demeaning chauffeur’s uniform, she gave him a few moments to change his mind.

  He slouched against the Rolls insolently and stared daggers at Milan. She stood seething and returned his stare.

  But the yearning that knotted her stomach made her eyes blink. Desire had her close to crying in surrender and screaming out loud. She could hardly restrain herself from yanking his belt loose and ripping open his fly. She needed some dick—and not any ordinary dick. She wanted that thick, big-headed penis that he was deliberately withholding for no reason other than being ornery—making her yearn for him.

  Hilton took a toothpick out of his shirt pocket. Milan’s gaze wandered to his hand and watched his thick long fingers travel slowly to his luscious lips. He chewed on the toothpick. He wants me! Milan could tell by the slow and sensual movement of his lips. He wanted her as desperately as she wanted him.

  Then he allowed the toothpick to dangle disrespectfully on his bottom lip, a convincingly rude affirmation that Milan had not broken his steely resolve.

  Giving up, she exhaled harshly.

  “Have a pleasant evening, Ms. Walden.”

  Taunted by his formal farewell, she whirled away from him. Three hurried strides and she was at her front door. She glanced back briefly and then rushed inside.

  CHAPTER 6

  Milan was tired, but troubling thoughts denied her the peace of precious slumber. She picked up the latest copy of Vogue, leafed through a couple pages, and then snapped the magazine closed. She eyed the bedside clock and wondered what time it was in Japan. She shrugged irritably. Did she really give a shit if she disturbed Maxwell at an inappropriate time? Hell, no!

  Billionaire business tycoon Maxwell Torrance, her benefactor and personal possession, was in Japan on business. Enforcing her power, she snatched the phone from its base and speed-dialed his number, confident in the knowledge that even if he was in a coma-like sleep, or in the midst of critical negotiations, or teeing off on the golf course, or dining with an important client, it didn’t matter, Maxwell Torrance was at Milan’s beck and call and when her ring tone chimed, he was required to pick up. Immediately. Or suffer her wrath.

  “Yes,” Maxwell whispered on the other end.

  “Don’t you mean ‘Yes, Mistress’?” Milan snarled.

  Maxwell cleared his throat. “This isn’t a good time. Uh…I’ll…uh, call you back in five minutes,” he stammered, his vocal level barely audible.

  Seething, Milan clicked off the line and slammed the phone back into the base. Nothing was going her way. She thought about calling her sister, Sweetie, to confide her feelings for Hilton. Bad idea. Sweetie would try to lecture her and all Milan wanted was a listening ear and some loving and useful advice. Her mother crossed her mind. Now, that’s a laugh, she thought with a sardonic chuckle. Her mother didn’t know the meaning of the word loving—not when it came to Milan.

  Through the kindness of her heart, she’d taken Sweetie and her family out of the ’hood and put them in a nice home in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. Generously, she’d also bought a charming one-level home for her mother that was right around the corner from Sweetie’s. But her mother wasn’t grateful for anything Milan had done for her. She still found reason to criticize, insisting Milan would never know true happiness until she got herself hitched and saddled with a couple of snot-nosed kids. Ugh!

  She thought of Hilton. Being his wife. She released a blissful sigh, her mouth arched into a pleasant smile. Oh God, I’m whipped! She shuddered. The last time she’d lost her mind over a man, she’d ended up crawling on all fours, kissing his feet, trying to impress him with her willingness to submit. Milan shook her head, recalling her days as a submissive. Gerard, her former trainer and the man who had controlled her, had never fucked her, never sucked her, and had never even allowed her to please him with oral sex. In retrospect, she decided that Gerard was nothing more than a dick-teasing, latent homosexual.

  But Hilton! Mmm. What a man! Her pulse raced and her lashes fluttered dreamily. Snapping out of that sickening romantic state, she reminded herself, Hilton is nothing more than a fuck buddy. An unappreciative one at that. It was time to cut him off and hold him to the same standards she held all her employees. Yes, that was exactly what she intended to do! Feeling vindicated, Milan curled up and drifted off to sleep.

  But the blaring telephone woke her up, yanking her out of the sweetest dream. “Hello,” she muttered, her voice scratchy with annoyance.

  “Mistress, forgive me,” said Maxwell in a trembling voice.

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind, waking me up at this hour, talkin’ that ‘Mistress’ bullshit?” Milan exploded, unconsciously resorting to the way she spoke before she’d polished and redefined herself. “Kiss my ass!”

  “Gladly, Mistress. I’ll gladly kiss your ass.”

  The lust in his voice made her nauseous.

  Milan wasn’t a trained dominatrix. She was an imposter and had tricked Maxwell into believing she could keep him in line. Maxwell was really trying her patience, pushin
g her to her limit, attempting to coax her into disciplining him more severely.

  Apparently, uttering insults and forcing him into sexual submission wasn’t enough. Milan frowned. If she wanted to keep her cash cow satisfied, she’d have to start dressing the part and dispensing harsh corporal punishment before he started looking elsewhere for the severe discipline he craved.

  Oh, the very thought of someone stealing her wealthy property gave her the shivers. Luckily, she’d seen this coming and had prepared herself by practicing on Royce. She was getting quite good at paddling, but she’d have to get serious, buckle down and consult with Mistress Veronique. Take lessons. Really learn the craft. Her financial future depended on it.

  CHAPTER 7

  “I’d like to put BodySlam on my payroll,” Milan informed Mistress Veronique.

  “BodySlam is not for sale. Not now. Not ever.” Veronique’s voice was grating, coarse, and scratchy as if she smoked ten packs of cigarettes a day and constantly guzzled hard liquor. Ugh!

  Obviously the woman didn’t realize whom she was dealing with. “I beg your pardon,” Milan said, giving her a moment to rethink her position.

  Without flinching, Mistress Veronique met Milan’s discontented gaze and stared at her with hard, cold eyes, maintaining her refusal.

  Milan flinched at the nerve of the dominatrix. The woman sitting on the other side of her desk was a hellish sight. She wasn’t at all what Milan had expected. She was dressed entirely in black, but there was nothing glamorous or sexy about her. Disheveled, with pasty white skin, her stringy black hair covered with a black leather cap, Mistress Veronique looked more like a rebellious biker bitch than a sexy dominatrix. With her stick-straight, spaghetti-thin figure, she had some nerve commanding men to grovel at her feet.

  Before the unappealing dominatrix had taken a seat, Milan had noticed that her posture was terrible. She was a hideous disgrace with slouching shoulders, a flat ass, and as skinny as she was, she had the nerve to have a pronounced potbelly that her worn-looking corset couldn’t conceal. Milan really couldn’t imagine why men paid large sums of money to grovel at this hag’s feet. Milan had done her research and knew for a fact that Veronique had a large and loyal clientele. What does she do with her money? Milan wondered. She surely didn’t give a crap about investing in a decent wardrobe.