Plum

“You’re coming home with me,” I say.

Plum stiffens and puts her cute little nose in the air. “You askin’ me or you tellin’ me?”

“Did you like the champagne?”

She blinks. I’ve thrown her off, and I love it. “Sure.” She hiccups, and her fingers fly to her lips. Good timing. “Yes.”

“I have an 1864 Louis Dupuis Cristal Brut at home.”

She lifts a slender shoulder and sniffs. “That should mean something to me?”

“It’s an $18,000 bottle of champagne.”

She snorts. “You bribing me to go home with you? I told you before. Motel only. And I gotta text Wall to meet us.”

“Wall?”

“Big guy? Bike?”

Fuck no. She’s not bringing anyone with her. She’s mine.  

“Come home with me, Plum. No Wall. You can drink champagne while I eat your pussy until you scream.”

“How about you eat my pussy while I put up an old-ass bottle of wine for sale on the internet?”

“What will it take for you to come home with me, baby?” I don’t want her in a hotel. I want her in my bed. My sheets.

She seems to think a minute, and then she stands.

“Come over here,” she says. She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I go to her. She holds up her phone. “Bend.” I do. “Now smile.”

She takes a selfie, and then she dashes off a text.

“Am I your wallpaper now?”

She rolls her eyes. “I just sent that pic to my lawyer. I don’t turn up tomorrow in the exact same condition I’m in now, she’s gonna take your ass to the cleaners, and I’m gonna fuckin’ retire.”

“You have a lawyer?”

“Club lawyer. Harper Ruth. She’s the president’s sister.”

I know Harper Ruth. Socially, not personally. She’s dating my cousin Des. I knew she worked with Steel Bones Construction, but I didn’t realize she was that connected to the club. Or that a motorcycle club provided representation for the strippers on its payroll. That’s all beside the point, though. 

What’s sitting uneasy with me is the idea that Plum’s scared to be alone with me. I’m sure she’s just exercising common sense, and I can’t read any fear on her face, but if she were genuinely frightened, I bet I wouldn’t know. That bothers me, too. Not knowing how she really feels. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I haven’t moved from her side. We’re both standing next to her chair, not touching, but close. 

“Good.”

That’s not enough for me. I cup her cheek, raise her face so she’s looking up at me. “I know you’re tough as nails. I know you can take me.”

She snorts. “Damn straight.”

“But I’m never going to do anything you don’t want me to.”

She moves her gaze over my shoulder. Now she’s taking in the view of the skyline. She doesn’t believe me.

“I’m never going to hurt you or take anything from you.” I don’t know why I need her to believe me. Or at least fucking acknowledge what I’m saying. My temper flares. I move my hands to her shoulders. “Will you just say something?”

She’s silent for a long minute. “I don’t believe you,” she finally says. 

She’s meeting my eyes now. Fiercely stubborn, all her fight showing.

“I know.” It’s enough for now. It’s going to have to be. “Got your purse?”

She hauls it up to her shoulder, and I gesture for her to precede me. As we leave, I’m flooded with feelings, impulses I’ve never had before. I want to beat in the faces of the men who notice her, and I want to cover her with my jacket, tuck her into my side.

I want to erase everything she’s done, but somehow, leave her exactly like she is. 

She walks proud, chin up, and her curves and dips drive me crazy, stoking the ache in my cock, but damn, she’s also so little. She takes two steps to every one of mine. I have to force myself to slow down so I don’t overtake her. I want to do things to her, dirty, filthy things, and I need her to want it. Want me.

For the first time in my life, I want something that money can’t buy, and it’s costing me five hundred dollars up front, and one hundred dollars an hour.

The irony isn’t lost on me.