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  Maxwell stroked his chin. “Do you want to take over her dungeon?”

  “Yes, shut it down. Have her evicted. And after that, I want you to persuade her and her male counterpart, BodySlam, to work for me. How soon can you make that happen?”

  The powerful deal maker was accustomed to flying around the globe purchasing major corporations. At her request, he’d easily shut down her former nemesis, Mistress Ming’s, establishment—a sex den disguised as a fitness center. To obliterate a home-based dungeon would be as uncomplicated for Maxwell as squashing a bug.

  Now assuming the demeanor of a self-assured billionaire, his eyes glowed with confidence, his slumped shoulders lifted and squared, and his thin lips turned down smugly. “What time would you like the woman and her partner to show up for work?”

  Milan glared at Maxwell. “Wipe that self-satisfied look off your face!”

  Maxwell instantly humbled himself. He dropped his head and stroked the dog tag that dangled from his collar. “I apologize for my arrogance. I am at your service, Mistress. Always.”

  “That’s better.” Milan threw her head back and downed her glass of wine. “Hungry?” she asked sweetly.

  “Starving,” he responded.

  “Then let’s get out of here. You’re going on a liquid diet tonight and your dinner is hot and swirling between my legs.”

  Milan picked up her purse. Maxwell rushed over to pull back her chair. She remained seated and handed him a cloth napkin. “There’s a smudge on my shoe.”

  A look of misery covered his face. Taking the white cloth in hand, Maxwell looked around self-consciously and then lowered himself beneath the table and began wiping Milan’s shoe.

  Conversations ceased and mouths gaped as the astonished diners witnessed the billionaire groveling on the floor. Milan tossed the crowd a baffled look that quickly transformed into beaming pride. I’m as shocked as all of you. I guess he’s pretty smitten, her smile suggested.

  Beneath the tablecloth, his face hidden from view, Maxwell’s tongue darted out and gave Milan’s shoe a swift, surreptitious lick.

  CHAPTER 9

  Maxwell could not eat pussy worth shit. He did a much better job of spit-polishing her footwear, but that was so very boring, Milan could only bear a few minutes of his tongue sliding up and down the soles of her shoes.

  After receiving a lackluster tongue job that garnered her only two tiny orgasms and a great deal of disgust, she called her driver and sent the mogul to a squalid, rented room in the Nicetown section of North Philly. Maxwell needed a timeout to contemplate a more skillful cunnilingus performance. He didn’t deserve to ponder inside the splendor of his vast and extravagant estate in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. And his performance certainly didn’t merit jetting off to his Mediterranean-style mansion in Florida or any of his other magnificent estates located around the world.

  But he did need a few necessary items to properly conduct business on her behalf, so she allowed him his briefcase, BlackBerry, and laptop to get the job done.

  Her phone rang. She eyed the caller ID. It was Hilton. He’d been given explicit orders to let her know when he’d dropped Maxwell off at the dreary abode, which was located on a dangerous corner where thugs and drug dealers loitered.

  Milan wasn’t concerned about Maxwell’s well-being. She’d paid a security firm a hefty price to ensure his safety. No way would she allow her cash cow to fall into harm’s way. But Maxwell had no way of knowing that. She relished the idea of him shivering and shaking with fear and humiliation, looking over his shoulder while he talked tough as he wheeled and dealed with the haggard Veronique.

  “Good evening, Ms. Walden,” Hilton said, using a professional tone that both annoyed and aroused Milan. “Mr. Torrance is settled inside his room. The security team is in position inside and outside the boarding house.”

  “Good. Thank you, Hilton.” Milan used a soft tone. Hilton had been withholding his good dick long enough; it was time for her to make amends.

  “Will that be all, Ms. Walden?” His voice oozed the confidence of a well-endowed man who knew how to use his masculine tool. Hilton was too damn sexy for his own good. Cocky bastard!

  “Actually, I did have something else in mind,” she said, sounding sultry, even though desperation threatened to squeak out between the words.

  “What’s good? Whatchu got on your mind?” Hilton switched to jargon, making Milan’s pussy pulse. Oh hell, anything her driver did or said made her kitty meow, real loud.

  “I was thinking about dinner for two.”

  “Oh yeah? You gon’ cook something? You gon’ gimme a grub?”

  She giggled and then covered her mouth to stifle the ridiculously girlish sound. “Stop teasing me. You know I’m not talking about that kind of food.”

  “Oh! I got it—you miss me?”

  She swallowed. “Yeah, I really do.”

  “Whatchu miss about me?”

  “Everything,” she uttered. Her words were so true.

  “Nah, you’re not getting off that easy. Break it down. Tell me whatchu miss.”

  Squirming, Milan began listing everything she’d missed: “Your lips, your taste, your kiss.”

  “Uh-huh. What else. Whatchu miss the most?”

  “You know,” she said, blushing. “Stop teasing me, Hilton,” she whined, though the lilt in her voice was a clear admission that her heart desired him as much as her pussy did. And that was fucked up. She couldn’t and wouldn’t allow herself to consider Hilton to be anything more than he was—a good fuck. Shit! Sexy-ass motherfucker!

  “Tell me,” he insisted.

  “I miss Big Hammer,” she whispered, using the nickname she’d given the head of his dick, which was a humongous and bulbous part of his thick pleasuring instrument.

  “How’s my lil’ Na-Na?” His voice grew husky with lust when he spoke the pet name for her vagina.

  “She’s in distress. Going through withdrawal.” Her voice cracked.

  “Big Hammer’s leaking right now, baby. Feenin’! My man needs to get between Na-Na’s cute little lips.”

  “Mmm.” That was the only sound Milan could make. Hilton was talking dirty and he had her Na-Na in a terrible uproar, had her squeezing her thighs together, trying not to open the floodgates, holding back a splashing hot eruption.

  Hilton chuckled and the sound had a mocking tone.

  “What’s so funny?” Insecurity wrapped around her like a tattered hand-me-down coat from her childhood. The feeling, a reminder of the old Milan, seemed too close for comfort. She gave a shudder as if shaking off the raggedy old coat.

  “Nothing, baby.” There was lingering amusement in his voice. “You got your game tight, Milan. You can turn the sexy charm on and off like water. But when you’re ready to step into your Miss Boss Lady role…” He paused and laughed again. “You know how to bring it—full force. Lucky for me, I played football.”

  “Yeah, so what?” Anger crept into her tone. Hilton was starting to annoy her. He always managed to bring football into a conversation as if his former profession made him wise…a demigod of sorts.

  “I know how to focus,” he explained. “I studied your moves and I’m all over it.”

  “Meaning…” She didn’t bother to conceal her irritation. She knew exactly what he was talking about. Hilton was saying that she couldn’t play him the way she played the rest of her staff nor could she control him the way she controlled his former boss, Maxwell Torrance.

  But he switched tactics, softened his tone. “If we were on the football field, I’d be knocking players out the way, snapping necks if I had to…keeping mofos from getting too close…protecting my lil’ Na-Na, keeping my baby safe.”

  Feeling briefly flattered, a quick smile appeared and then vanished from her face. Milan reviewed Hilton’s words. He’d guard the pussy but he didn’t mention a word about protecting her. Oh well. What did she expect? Her relationship with Hilton was all about sex.

  “The door is unlocked. I’
ll be upstairs in my bedroom. Don’t make me wait too long,” she said, using an authoritative tone.

  It was best to play along with Hilton’s perception of her as a sexually insatiable, heartless bitch. Revealing that he possessed the key that could unlock the steel cage protecting her sensitive heart could send her on a downward spiral. Unlike a cat, Milan didn’t have nine lives. She couldn’t risk taking another hard fall.

  Sitting in front of her vanity, Milan leaned in and gave her image an approving wink. Her recently waxed brows were arched to perfection. Her unblemished dark brown skin gave off a glow and had the look of smooth velvet. With the help of facials, expensive skin care products, and tons of expensive makeup she had drastically improved her appearance. Personal hairstylists and manicurists employed by Pure Paradise were at her beck and call, keeping her hair and nails flawless. With a killer wardrobe and a body toned and sculpted by painful Pilates, Milan had redefined her ordinary looks into supermodel perfection. None of her sex partners—not Hilton, Sumi, Maxwell, or even Royce, had ever caught a glimpse of her unpainted face.

  And they never would. Milan would prefer walking down Broad Street naked at high noon before granting anyone other than her cosmeticians a glimpse of her natural, unpainted, scrubbed mug.

  It seemed like eons ago that she was a gangly, unattractive kid in grade school, a bookworm considered too corny to get an invitation to a sleepover or to join in on jump rope or other fun games the kids around the neighborhood played. Her older sister, Sweetie, ran with a gang of fast-behind girls. Sweetie and her girls ran the ’hood as well as the elementary school. The tough crowd used profanity without inhibition, carried loose cigarettes in their backpacks, and engaged in malicious girl fights.

  Due to Sweetie’s ruthless rep, Milan was spared numerous beat-downs from the cruel kids who taunted her. Then Sweetie told Milan it was time for her to stand up for herself, and taught her how to defend herself and how to fight dirty if she didn’t think she could whip her opponent’s ass. Milan became a ruthless terror to anyone who fucked with her. She was a weirdo loner who’d throw her book down and jump up swinging at anyone who looked at her the wrong way or murmured an unkind word.

  Returning from her trip down memory lane, Milan reassessed her image, nodded, and finished her look with a shiny coating of lip gloss on her bronze-tinted lips.

  “Hey, beautiful!”

  She winked at her makeup-enhanced reflection and smiled. The smile remained in place as she spritzed her wrist with a new perfume—something Maxwell had brought back from Japan. She sniffed her pulse point. The scent was spicy, exotic…very sensual.

  Suddenly interested, she examined the frosted glass container, caressed the smooth surface. Impressive. From an abstract perspective, the bottle looked phallic and suggested sex. But not everyday, ordinary sex; this bottle implied the wearer would get erotic, exotic, hot, multi-orgasmic sex.

  She spritzed her other wrist and her neck. Oh, she had to have more of this erotic product. She couldn’t make out the name of the fragrance or anything else written on the outside packaging. Every word was written in Japanese. Milan shrugged. It didn’t matter; she’d ask Maxwell to translate. Having conducted business abroad for years, the man was fluent in numerous languages.

  The scent was intoxicating. She sniffed again, filling her lungs with the fragrance. Mmm, divine! Her clients would love the scent and as an entrepreneur she’d be remiss if she didn’t offer her patrons an opportunity to purchase the product. Of course, she’d raise the price four times its actual value. After all, a good businesswoman had to turn a profit.

  First thing in the morning, she’d instruct Maxwell to have the company send her cases of the sexy stuff. For free, of course. Or else! Milan beamed with the knowledge that Maxwell’s pit-bull tactics and unscrupulous reputation preceded him. He’d get her the fragrance and accessories: lotion, bath gel, and any other frills that accompanied the Japanese scent.

  She hadn’t heard him enter or climb the stairs and his sudden appearance in her mirror was startling. Out of uniform, Hilton stood filling the doorway of Milan’s vast bedroom wearing loose-fitting shorts, an unbuttoned shirt that exposed a massive concrete chest, and washboard abs, and a cocky smile.

  “Where’s your uniform?” she kidded him.

  “Oh, you changed the game. Now you expect me to wear that thing on my free time?”

  “The uniform looks good on you. Makes you look stately,” she teased.

  “I’ll have to remember that the next time you invite me over. But can I keep the jacket unbuttoned, so I can show off my abs?” He stroked his washboard tummy. “You know I keep my body tight just for you, boo.”

  Milan’s pussy perked up. Behaving like the slut that it was, her pussy didn’t even pretend to be ladylike or demure. It started spitting and dripping the moment his sexy vocals filled the room and penetrated her ears. Shit! Shit! Shit! Hilton’s instant effect on her pussy was a damned disgrace.

  He swaggered into the bedroom, lips scrunched, brows furrowed. “What’s that smell?”

  “It’s a Japanese fragrance.” Her voice faltered. “What’s wrong with it? Is it too strong?” Milan jerked her head toward him, waiting for his response.

  “It’s sexy. Smells good.” Still frowning as if the Japanese fragrance gave Milan an unfair advantage, Hilton came up behind her, bent over, kissed her neck, and inhaled the distinct and sensual scent.

  Milan closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his strong embrace. There was a time when she wouldn’t have been able to bear such romantic intimacy, but Hilton had changed that and she found herself taking pleasure in his unique touch.

  “You look beautiful, baby. As usual,” he added, nodding. He took her hand, pulling her to her feet. Hungry eyes gazed at her modest cleavage and trailed over the small swell of her hips, draped by a clingy, ice–blue, satin and lace ballet-length slip. His eyes sparkled in admiration. “Damn, Shawty’s a ten,” he complimented, reverting playfully to another street colloquialism. He gave her a smile that was a mixture of appreciation and desire.

  And something else. Love? No, Milan knew better. Their relationship was strictly about sex. Hilton is an employee who gets extra benefits, she reminded herself.

  “You look good, smell good…” He paused, his eyes roving downward. “I already know the poontang tastes good, but it’s been a while, so you might have to let me whet my palate—let me sample it right quick.”

  Milan blushed something awful. Thank God her dark skin hid the blazing red from flaming across her cheeks. Hilton did not play fair. Damn shame the way he could break through her hard exterior with a few well-chosen words and a lingering gaze. She couldn’t prevent her lips from spreading into a big, cheesy smile nor could she slow down her accelerated heart rate.

  He had that effect on her. If she didn’t watch herself, he could have her groveling at his feet, the way her ex-trainer, Gerard, had. Her submissive side was lying dormant, kept at bay and cloaked by her bravado and panache. She’d learned her lesson and vowed to keep that side of her persona heavily guarded and under lock and key.

  Mentally, she gathered her wits and called on her inner strength. Mustering courage, she took a deep and revitalizing breath and then looked Hilton in the eye.

  He turned her around and ran his hand over the mound of her small ass, trailed a thick finger down the satin fabric, creating a valley between her butt cheeks. He stroked the cloth-covered crevice and Milan trembled at his touch. He lifted the slip and rubbed her bare ass with his large palm, circularly rubbing on a buttock and then the other. She released an agonized gasp and turned around and faced him.

  Invited by his open arms, she melted inside his embrace. Hilton’s lips touched hers softly, and then he kissed Milan deeply. His tongue slipped between her lips. Probing. Wandering. Becoming reacquainted with her silky moistness. The sweet invasion of his wandering tongue told her that he’d missed the taste of her mouth and her lips.

  Woozy from the devast
ating kiss, Milan pulled away, her hand pressed against her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. Showing no mercy, Hilton reclaimed her lips, absorbing her intoxicating nectar with hunger and urgency. She felt him harden against the blue satin that covered her sex. His phallus pulsed deeply with surges of need.

  Incited, Milan joined in the conversation, her own tongue twisting and swirling as it danced with his. Soft moans and murmurs made the sensual music their bodies swayed to, grinding and undulating in an agonizing and desperate rhythm.

  Without warning, Hilton’s lips swept down to her neck, her weak spot. Milan squeezed her eyes closed and clenched her teeth. He kissed and then sucked the sensitive flesh, forcing the breath from her lungs.

  Overwhelmed, her knees buckled, her body sagged. Hilton caught her. Instead of holding her upright, he gently eased her down to the floor.

  CHAPTER 10

  Just a few moments before, she’d been the picture of pampered elegance and femininity. Now her slim body was down on the floor, on her back, writhing like a snake, her newly shaven pussy a bare offering. Milan didn’t want to fuck on the floor like a dog, but she was so damned worked up, her cunt, overwrought and in frenzy, was behaving as if in crisis mode.

  Repetitious pussy clenching and pulsing had taken her strength. Realizing she was too weak to even crawl toward her beautiful, comfortable bed on the other side of the enormous room, she’d surrendered herself, hiked up her slip, and spread her legs.

  Scowling, nostrils flaring like he’d already tackled Milan and was now about to finish her off by leaping on top of her ass, Hilton flung off his shirt. Next, he unsnapped his waistband and unzipped his fly, but his movements weren’t fast enough for Milan. She reached for him.

  “Hurry. Please,” she muttered, voice cracking with yearning, as she urged him to join his hard body with hers.