The picture catches her running her fingers through her hair, her shoulders are naked, and the towel is the tiniest breath from parting. The cloth ends just past her hips, the slightest hint of the nakedness between her thighs threatens to peek from underneath. Fuck. The picture is turning me on so much I hold my breath to contain the rush of feelings rippling through me. There is no way I can go to the diner where she works tomorrow in a state like this. I need to release some energy, or I will explode when I see her.
I consider calling my guest from a week ago, but the memory of her insisting that visit was the last makes me hesitate. If I call her and insist, I believe she will come to me tonight no matter what she said before. I have that kind of power, but perhaps letting her go is for the best. It is time for me to start thinking more exclusively. If I give my word to Zena and the others in the club, I will stick to it. One woman. Under the radar. At least until everyone relaxes, which means no escorts, no matter how fantastic they are in bed.
Luckily, I have alternative ways to help take the edge off. My sex drive is too high not to need to satisfy myself occasionally. Among my toys is a palm-size vibrator, perfect for both partner and self-stimulation. I don’t even bother to undress or lie on the bed, but instead, unbuckle my belt and pull down the zipper on my jeans before bracing myself against the dresser where I have unpacked my possessions. Turning it on with my thumb, I slide the hand holding the toy into my briefs until I feel the soft latex ridges come in contact with my already throbbing clit. Sucking a breath in through my clenched teeth, I allow the picture of Claire in the towel into my mind. Forcing myself to keep from focusing on how it will feel to have her beneath me, I let my imagination linger on the image of her slowly, teasingly opening the terrycloth to reveal one inch of her naked flesh at a time. So subtle in her movements, until I see the shadow of hair between her legs. It’s blonde like the rest of her and although I usually prefer a shaved pussy, the thought of burying my face in that velvety softness makes me growl with want.
I move my hand pressed against my clit in slow circles, and I know my climax is close already. A throbbing builds from within me, and I feel my slippery wetness against my fingers with each stroke of the toy. Fuck. This fantasy is already a new favorite as I continue to watch her move the towel over her breasts until her nipples are exposed. They are rigid and tight, inviting my mouth, and I lick my lips. Imagining the taste of them almost does it, almost pushes me over, but I wait. My mind can do better, and I am not disappointed as the towel falls to the floor. Her body is delicious, and I'm so ready to come I close my eyes tilting my head back. Behind my eyelids, Claire trails a hand slowly through her wet hair, only to let it continue across her collarbone, pausing at the cleft between her breasts. “More?” she whispers, and this time I let it be my turn to beg.
“Yes, more,” I murmur and with a sexy smile, she does not disappoint. Trailing her fingertips down her breast, they graze her nipple.
“Pinch it?” she asks knowing I want that more than anything.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Hard.”
She does, and the gasp from her throat is too much. I feel the roar of an orgasm build up inside me. As she continues to tease herself for my entertainment, I come hard enough to nearly buckle my knees. A moan escapes me, and I pull the vibrator out of my jeans as the sensation is now too much, but the throbbing from the climax remains—as does the image of Claire’s naked body and knowing smile. She is going to be perfect.
5
It feels odd to drive the rented, white SUV. Much bigger than my various sportscars and definitely clunkier, but I want to keep a low profile. I needed a nondescript vehicle to make my approach. A large part of the plan is to keep Claire Hathaway in the dark as to who I really am and thus not influence her decisions. I need her to want me, the person. Not me, the billionaire. At least not yet. In the not too distant future, she will be told, but today I am just another customer at her diner. Albeit one which is about to change her life forever, but that’s beside the point.
As I obediently use my signal to turn into the small parking lot behind the diner where I have been advised she is working today, my phone chirps. The sound lets me know this is no ordinary call but is coming over a special app. The app allows me to make encrypted, completely anonymous calls which any government security or malicious agency cannot discern anything other than nonsense. I answer it knowing from this particular ringtone, it can only be someone from the club. Probably Zena if I have to guess. “Yes,” is all I say after I press the connect call prompt.
“I’m checking on your assigned project,” responds the caller. It is Zena, just as I suspected, and for the very reason, I guessed as well. “I assume you’ve decided to comply with our request.”
“I’m on it,” I answer. “In fact, going to secure my target right now.”
“Really?” Zena responds, surprise decipherable in her voice, even from thousands of miles away.
I smirk, liking that I am catching her off guard. After all, it has been a week, but she most likely knows nothing about my accident as I put every possible protection of my privacy in place after it happened. Thankfully everything happened so fast, no one snapped a photo or, even worse, took video. My extensive team of snoopers assured me nothing existed of that nature, not that I wouldn't have deployed resources to remove anything from social media. Luckily, it went unnoticed, which is perfect as I am about to meet the woman I plan to make the centerpiece of my future happiness. “Really,” I respond. “Update you soon.” I disconnect the call pleased with myself.
Finding a space in the almost empty parking lot, I shut off the SUV and check myself in the mirror. I am actually nervous, which makes me chuckle. I never get nervous, and yet the idea of meeting Claire again has my heart racing. With only pictures to look at last night, my appetite for her is simply wetted. Now I am about to be face-to-face with the woman in the flesh. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly to compose myself before I go into the establishment. The diner is exactly like I imagined. Old, cheaply decorated in red, white, and chrome in what was apparently intended to make the place look hip back in the day. The air smells of old fryer grease, and nothing on the planet could make me eat something cooked here. A quick scan of the room and I don't see Claire. Fuck. I worry she is not here today after all. If that turns out to be the case, I intend to make heads roll on my team. Then, I see her.
She comes from the kitchen, I assume, and carries three plates of food. I pause near the front doors and wait for her to notice me. After all, the sign says wait to be seated. As she passes, she throws me a smile, one she no doubt uses a hundred times a day for customers. “Sit anywhere,” she advises and then is past me walking to the table awaiting the food. A knot of disappointment tightens in my stomach. This was not how I imagined our first meeting post minimart accident to go. Instead, I expected her to stop in place after recognizing me as the victim of her car and the chemistry I felt, even with a concussion, to leap between us once again. This casual encounter could not be further from my expectations. With nothing else to do, I find a seat at a booth not far from the table she is handing the plates to. I'm a little rusty on diner etiquette, but I do know different waitresses have different areas they serve. I must make sure I am at one of her assigned tables. Thankfully, the place is nearly empty, so I have my choice of places to sit.