A Virgin Enslaved (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance) (10 page)

The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick

Snow White and the Alien

The ‘Initiation’ series

Open Your Legs for Me

Blindfolded and Spread-eagled

Thighs Wide Apart

Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy

The Final Initiation

The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories

I don’t know what I’m doing here – kneeling before a toilet bowl in the second floor men’s restroom of a swanky hotel.

Oh wait. I do.

I’m trying to get through college, trying to make up the payments because my Mom lost her job. It isn’t her fault. In this economy, her company was retrenching half the staff, and since she was only two years into the job, that qualified her to take less of a package than the oldies. So she’s the one who has to take the fall.

The only problem with having so many retrenched people around? The jobs are scarce. Waitressing is good, but since I came in so late on the game, all the good jobs have been taken up. Morton’s. McCormick’s and Schmick’s. Giordano’s, home of the deep dish pizza.

So the only gig I can find is this one – being a maid in a hotel in downtown Chicago. It pays relatively well for what it’s worth since it’s a five-star hotel on the Magnificent Mile and everything.

As for my Dad? He blew when I was ten.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not wallowing in self-pity. I’m too busy scrubbing the toilet bowl in this stall until I can see my face on the concave surface, besides my reflection in the clean water. That’s how Mr. Mangorean likes them.

“Not one atom of grime must be discerned, Ms. Turner. We host Presidents and Secretaries of State.”

Well, there was only that one time during the Democratic convention, I want to say. But I don’t, of course. And I didn’t know grime was measured in atoms.

“So make sure it gleams, Ms. Turner.
Gleams
.”

There’s a fanatical gleam in his eye when he says this. I figure Mr. Mangorean is one of those people who love their jobs too much.

Still, I’m grateful to have a job. Any job. And so I put my head down, scrub until my right arm aches something awful. My reflection in the porcelain is that of an average-looking, dark-haired college junior. OK, I’m on the fairly attractive spectrum, but I’m nothing to shout home about. It’s not like I’m a cheerleader or something. The hot boys were always interested in my friends and roommates, never me.

It never bothered me. Mom and I were just trying too hard to get me into college, and now that I’m in – to keep me there. Survival just got in the way of boys.

Outside the stall, the door of the restroom whines open.

Drat.

Typical of people. They just ignore the ‘CLEANING IN PROGRESS, PLEASE DO NOT ENTER’ sign at the door and waltz in as if they own the place. I mean, neither do I (own the place), but at least I know how to avoid wet hotel bathroom floors. There was this one time that I almost slipped on one, the klutz that I am, and I’ve been avoiding them ever since.

Footsteps. The clippity-clap of men’s shoes on the wet linoleum. If he should slip and sue the hotel, I’m so not going to be responsible for this.

I wonder if I should give a shout-out like “Excuse me, sir, but did you notice the yellow sign outside the door? I’d really appreciate it if you’d go to the restroom downstairs.”

The one that doesn’t have an atom of grime in it last time I checked, since I’ve just cleaned it thirty minutes ago.

I don’t have to be anal about this. Maybe he’s desperate to take a leak. Maybe it’s an emergency.

The footsteps stop. After a while of not hearing anything else, I cautiously peek out of the stall.

A man is standing before the large mirror that stretches all the way across the wall with the multiple black marble sinks. And not just any man.

He’s the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.

I’m not just saying that. He really is, according to his reflection in the mirror. He has smoky eyes that look . . . well, I’m not sure what color they are from this distance . . . but they are half-closed and framed by the longest and most beautiful lashes, as if he’s contemplating something important. His brow is slightly furrowed, and he’s got the cutest little depression in his forehead just in between his frowning eyebrows.

His dark brown hair is longish and just kisses his shoulders. His lips are full and lush. And oh, his body beneath his charcoal grey suit. He’s wearing the suit – but his body is extremely tight. I can tell about these things. I’ve never had personal experience in touching a body like that, but I just can tell from my fantasies, you know what I mean?

A man who looks like that should be off-the-charts illegal. So what’s he doing here in this forbidden-for-thirty minutes-of-cleaning restroom?
My
restroom?

(Oh yeah, now I’m getting possessive about public restrooms. I’m just one step to becoming Mr. Mangorean.)

He’s so fixated with his own reflection (I know I would be too if I were him) that he doesn’t notice me.

He’s muttering to himself: “Damn, damn, damn, Fuck. Damn the bastard . . . to hell.” He grimaces and turns on one of the taps. Then he leans over the sink to splash water onto his gorgeous face.

He’s even hotter when he’s wet.

Amid the sound of the running water, he still doesn’t notice me as he raises his face – water-streaked and glistening like a river god’s.

He says, with heat, to his own reflection, “You’re not going to do what he tells you. This is the fucking last time.”

His accent is a little off. He speaks perfect English, of course, but he doesn’t talk like everyone around here. He’s not British. He’s not Canadian. I can’t really put my finger on his accent, but he’s only said very little, so far.

I should really give him his privacy.

Hell, he should give me
my
privacy.

I clear my throat and creep out of the stall, still holding my brush in one hand. The one that has been scrubbing away the atoms of grime.

He still doesn’t turn.

“Excuse me,” I say loudly. My own voice echoes weirdly in my ears. “Excuse me!”

The man swivels his head. His eyes widen in surprise as they see me.

I wave my brush. “I’m cleaning up in here, so if you’d like to use the first floor restroom, it will be a lot more private.” If there’s no one else in it, of course.

I think his eyes are a marvelous blue-green. Oh my God, they are dreamy. This is the last time I will ever see them, so I’d better soak them in while I can.

I’m staring at him and he’s staring back at me. I don’t know. We must have stared at each other for the longest time, or what I believe is the longest time – because time seems to have frozen for me. And even the trickle of sweat that runs in between my butt cleft seems to travel ever so slowly . . . as the atoms of electrified air between us
freeze
.

Of course, I’m sure it’s only stopped still for
me
. With him, the clock is ticking on as normal. My clock is ticking somewhere inside me too – I can feel it in my pulse.

Ba dup. Ba dup. Ba dup.

My breath catches in my throat.

The edges of his mouth crinkle and actually turn upward.

“Hi,” he says softly.

Hi?

I almost turn around to see who he’s saying ‘hi’ to. Because men who look like that don’t say ‘hi’ to me. Least of all a maid on her knees who is half in and half out of the open door of a toilet stall.

“Hi,” I squeak back.

His wonderfully-shaped lips part ever so slightly and his nostrils flare as he takes me in.

“Hi,” he says again. He splays his hand. “I’m just, um, cleaning up here.”

I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I can only mutely stare up at his face. You know that feeling when all your senses flee you and there’s this all-powerful electromagnetic attraction that consumes you and makes your guts go upside down and inside out and all squelchy? Well, my roommates tell me that all the time but I’ve never personally experienced it.

Until now.

I feel like the floor has suddenly dropped from under my feet.

It can’t be just his looks. It can’t be.

“Are you all right?” he says, concerned.

I realize I’m still on the floor. I hastily put down the brush, and oh – I do feel a little woozy. Blood has definitely drained out of my head and into my goodness-knows-where, but I experience a tightening in my most intimate of places.

I recognize it as primordial lust.

Oh my God. I’ve just met this man whom I will never see again . . . and I’m
lusting
after him?

“It’s not lust,” I can hear the voice of my roommate, Deanna, telling me. “It’s love at first sight. I’m telling you. You’ll
know
when it happens.”

“There’s no such thing,” I scoffed at her then.

No one can fall in
love
at first sight. It’s always lust. Some animal attraction that implodes you. But here it is. And I don’t want to think it’s just lust. I can’t seem to get up. My knees have turned to shaky pudding. My insides have melted.

No, not lust
. It’s kismet.

Like I’ve just met my karmic soul-mate.

With a couple of steps, he’s at my side.

“Hey, you all right?”

His warm hands are touching my arm, my shoulders, buoying me up. His touch on my skin is electric. I feel flushed all of a sudden, and I definitely feel faint.

I rise shakily to my feet, his arms holding mine. Up close, his face is breathtaking. His skin is incredibly clear and soft, and my lungs are completely depleted of air. The air between us is as thick as molasses.

We are facing one another – very close. His beautiful face swims in my vision, and his warmth seeps into me. Those wonderful lips curl in a knowing smile, and before I can tell what is happening – they close in onto mine.

Oh my God.

I think I’ve just spontaneously combusted.

Air is stoppered in my throat as his lips meld against mine. His lips are pliant and oh-so-nuanced. I can’t even believe this kiss is happening (
and why oh why would he be kissing me
?) and for a stretched moment, I’m too terrified to kiss back. Not that I remember how to kiss in this petrified moment. My brain is so hollow and numb that I can only be but a receptacle.

The pressure of his lips intensifies, and I can feel his hands going round to my back, and he’s oh-so-warm, and he’s groping for something on my back.

(it’s my uniform’s zipper.)

(Oh my G – )

Without missing a beat, he unzips my maid’s uniform – a plain black dress with white trimmings. And all this while, he doesn’t stop kissing me. And he’s parting his lips and his tongue is darting out, and they are parting mine, and I’m letting him roam inside my mouth – that lovely warm wet sweetness of his mouth – and he smells like mints and aftershave and expensive everything. And oh, oh, he’s removing his mouth from my lips and placing little wet kisses on my chin, and neck, and down my neck . . . and throat . . . and his hands are parting the two halves of my dress at the back –

And he’s pushing me into the stall I just cleaned

(
why is he doing this? What can he possibly want with me?
)

But now I’m fully engaged. My hormones are running berserk and I’m really into this now. I’m lusting as I’ve never lusted before, and by all accounts, so is he. He’s rougher now with my clothes, and he tears my dress off, and it catches on my hips, but he rips it down anyway.

Before I can step out of it, he’s on my brassiere – the cheap one I got from Target – and he rips that off easily too. He’s shrugging out of his jacket, dropping that expensive woolen thing on the floor (
clean, thank God
!), and I’m reaching for his shirt buttons, and undoing them one by one while he kisses my mouth, throat, everything –

And he’s clawing at my underwear – from JC Penney’s, and I’m clawing at his shirt and ripping it off his shoulders and arms. Oh – his naked skin – how glorious that tight body is under his clothes. (
I was right.
) His skin is a rich golden cream under the yellow light, and it’s so silky, and his muscles are so smooth and sculptured under that silken skin that I can roam upon forever.

I’m suddenly naked, and so he’s unbuckling his belt and kissing me and shrugging off his pants. I can’t even tell if he’s dropped his underwear (which is sure not to be from Target’s, I’ll bet), but he’s so heated up now that he presses me against the wall – that cold tiled wall with the cerise borders – and he grips both my thighs so that my feet are off the floor. My shoes have come off without me knowing it. His flesh is all around me – hard and soft and sweet and smooth – and he’s leveraging me against the wall, and I can feel his hardness poking me down there . . .

And finding me . . .

“I’ve never done this before,” I want to say, but I don’t because I’m too caught up with his sweet, swollen kisses.

And oh!

A sharp pain expands me, and pricks me, and there’s the rush of his warm cock into my pulsing and very ready sex, and his lips have not left my mouth.

We lock mouths and tongues – twisting and entwining – as he moves inside me. His cock gushes in and out of my soft and very wet virgin passage. Because that’s what I wanted to warn him about. Through high school and half of college, I’ve remained a virgin. (
No time to have a boyfriend and have sex
.) And I’ve never caught on to what the hoopla is about, and so I have always been a little afraid of this –