Cat Haus - The Complete Story (17 page)

This, this sex that felt like love, would hurt me in the end. I didn't like being hurt. I reached up and grabbed his hair in one fist, dragging his head down to me. I crushed my mouth against his. He pushed his tongue between my lips as his cock thrust inside me.

I ended the kiss by latching on to his bottom lip with my teeth in a not so gentle bite. I released his mouth and said, "Fuck me."

 
His eyes narrowed and he did just that, increasing the speed of his body pounding into mine. With him over me, his every stroke rubbed my clit. I bore down around him and he groaned in response. Holding there, close, pressed tight against me, he circled his hips and I felt my muscles tighten, building toward release.

I gripped his perfect ass in both hands and held him there, right where I needed him to be, and the climax rose within me. My breath grew faster until soon I was crying out with each exhale.

John hissed in a breath between his teeth. "Yes, Cate. Come for me."

The sound of my name on his lips sent me over the edge. My muscles spasmed, milking him inside me. John felt it—his muttered cuss and the frenzied increase in his stroke told me that. Then he was coming too, plunging inside me and holding deep as he groaned loud and long.

After what seemed like slow motion yet didn't last for nearly long enough, it was over. He collapsed over me, panting. Sex with John was a work out. His chest stuck to mine as perspiration rose on his bare skin in spite of the air conditioning. I'd have to remember to turn that sucker on full blast before the next time we were together—if there was a next time.

I pushed that doubt aside and absorbed the feel of his weight on top of me. I ran both of my hands down his back, committing his body to memory so I could relive this moment later when I was alone in my own bed. When would that be? How long was John here for this time?

I opened my mouth to ask that very thing, when he spoke first. "Cate, can I ask you a personal question?"

Since John and I were in his bed, both naked and still sweaty from a round of some pretty kick ass sex, I was a little surprised at the formality. Then again, John always did speak to me as if we were in a boardroom rather than a bedroom, except when we were in the middle of actually doing it. When he'd finally let himself go. When his eyes got all unfocused and he talked dirty to me.

I loved those all too brief moments. I cherished them, because from the handful of times we've been together I already knew his standard operating procedure. I knew that even before my heart rate had slowed he'd be back in control again. Analytical. Polite. All business. But I was his business now, wasn't I? John owned this brothel now. This sexual haven in the Nevada desert. Just because I was off the clock and in his bed in his brand new, on-site owner's apartment that still smelled of fresh paint didn't change that.

"Sure. Go for it. Ask away."

His spent cock having already slipped out, he rolled off me and lay at my side. I missed the feel of him over me immediately. Braced on one elbow, he trailed one fingertip down the bare skin in the valley between my breasts. His gaze followed the motion, all the way down to my belly button.

Just when I thought he'd gotten distracted and had forgotten the question, he brought his eyes up to mine and asked, "Why do you work here?"

Ah,
the
question. The one everyone wants to know the answer to. I was wondering if and when it would rear its ugly head with John. Until now, he'd seemed content to take things at face value and not dig any deeper. Not anymore.

Putting on my sexy look, I shrugged and let my gaze run down his hard and naked body. The man looked too damn good to sit behind a desk all day. He must work out at a gym or something. "Because of the sexy as hell owner."

One dark brow cocked up and I knew I was being indulged. "Cute, and thank you, but you worked here before I took over . . . unless, of course, you're talking about the former owner."

A joke. From John. We were making progress. I laughed at what was obviously a jest, delivered in the usual deadpan manner of any good straight man in a comedy.

"Yup. You caught me. My type totally is old, fat, bald men with bad breath. I have to tell you, it's been quite the chore having to put up with you now that Gus is gone. Hey, do you have Gus's number? Maybe I could call him."

Those blue eyes that had me enthralled the moment I first saw them just a few months ago captured and held mine for a moment before John let out a breath. "Always the little joker."

Here's the thing—I'm not addicted to drugs. I've never been abused. I'm not a high school dropout or a runaway. I'm just a hooker, plain and simple.

Why? Because the freaking money is amazing, the work isn't all that hard and, honestly, I like having sex. But people don’t want to hear that. They want the sob story. The excuses. The reason why a college educated, moderately good girl from a stable family in Middle America would turn to prostitution, even if it is legal and state regulated here in Nevada.

I could tell that John wanted that sob story, or at least some reason or excuse from me for why I chose this life. He'd never spoken it out loud until now, but the question had always been there, hanging almost visibly over us in his bed like some ghostly apparition.

He trailed a finger over my thigh and paused, a frown creasing his forehead above his dark brows. "Where did you get this?"

"Get what?" It was an effort to focus. I was feeling so boneless and relaxed from our prior bout of sex.

"This bruise." He circled a spot on my leg with his fingertip so lightly I hardly felt his touch.

Now I was frowning too as I made the effort to lift my head and glance down at my own thigh. "Oh, that. I walked into the corner of the dresser in my room a couple of days ago."

John leveled his gaze on mine. "Cate . . ."

"John . . ." I imitated his doubt-filled, judgmental tone pretty damn well, if I did say so myself.

His scowl told me he wasn't amused. "Tell me how it happened. Did a client do this to you?"

"No, a client did not do that to me." I rolled my eyes, knowing he still didn't believe me. What the hell? Why would he think I'd lie about a little bruise on my leg? "I told you. I did it to myself. I'm basically a klutz."

"I've never seen you be anything other than graceful, even in heels so high I have no idea how you can walk."

Quite the compliment indeed. My high heel-loving, hooker heart swelled with pride. Too bad it wasn't quite the truth. Most days I was about as graceful as a chimp on roller skates. "You've never seen me in my room when the front bell rings and I'm still trying to finish getting dressed and out to the parlor for the lineup."

He tipped his head and watched my face. Ah, the old silent treatment trick, guaranteed to get the accused to talk. I knew it well. My dad used to employ the same tactics on us kids back in the day. Wasn't gonna work this time. I was no longer a child, John was far from my daddy, and I had absolutely nothing to confess.

"John, do you really think I'd let any man get away with hurting me?"

Yeah, there'd been a few who'd hurt my pride—a very few—but not my body, and never on purpose. This bitch had skills, and a panic button in my room. If any guy got out of line, I was confident I could handle it, and if I couldn't Tito or Henry in the office would. Sure, bruises happened sometimes during the more energetic rounds of sex, but that wasn't the case this time.

That John was so concerned for my welfare he didn't believe I was being truthful was both infuriating and endearing at the same time. But he always had confused me, from the very beginning. No reason today should be any different.

He drew in a breath and finally let it out. "No, I don't think you would. I'm sorry I questioned you."

"Not a problem. Thank you for worrying about me."

I'd give him a pass this time. It was his job as the owner of the Cat Haus to worry about the girls in his employ. I tried to not let myself assume it was more than that. But dammit, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was more. He wasn't downstairs inspecting all the other girls for bruises. The lines between my personal life and my work, and the boundaries between John and I, were so blurred it was no wonder I was walking into things.

Me being in his bed in this newly built apartment above the brothel wasn't going to help the situation any. We'd only had one tumble on the crisp, new sheets and yet I already had expectations for the future. I felt as if I had a place here, at least for the couple of days a month John made his appearance.

Which brought me to my next issue, besides what John and I were to each other. What was he, who was he, when he wasn't here? Was he married and I was the other woman? For those three plus weeks a month he was gone, was he a doting father? A loyal brother? An entitled son? What was his life outside of the Cat Haus and the bubble in which we existed here together?

I shouldn't care, but I did. So I guess my unasked questions about him hung in the air right alongside his about me, the specters of our doubts and secrets. With so much hanging over our heads, it was amazing we managed to fuck at all, but we did. Sex was second nature. Like riding a bike, I guess.

I trailed my finger down his chest, through the fine hair growing low on his stomach, all the way to my main goal.

His brows rose as my hand closed over his cock, spent from round one of our christening the apartment just moments before. "I'm going to need a little more than five minutes."

"That's fine. I'll wait." I leaned low and pulled all of him into my mouth.

John drew in a breath between his teeth. "This is you waiting?"

"Mm, hm." I couldn't really say much more with my mouth full and about to get fuller.

He scraped his fingers through my hair as he began to harden between my lips. I had to ease back a bit to accommodate the growing length. His hand, firm against the back of my head, made sure I didn't go too far. Apparently he didn't need or want that recovery time he'd talked about. Fighting the smile of satisfaction, I wrapped my fist around him as I swirled my tongue over his tip. He groaned and the sound twisted the need inside me.

Once was never enough for me with this man. A lifetime of sex might not be enough with him. I moved over him, driving him into my throat in hopes of driving that dangerous thought out of my head.

The brief lapses when I got crazy ideas about the future made me grateful he was gone for weeks between visits so I could regain my balance. My sanity. So I could fuck other men and let reality obliterate the fantasy of these few days with John, because that's all this was—a fantasy. A dream world. And we all know dreams don't last forever, though sometimes it felt as if nightmares could.

Good hard sex was enough to yank me out of my dream world. And I could usually count on John to give his all. As I felt the sting in my scalp when his fingers tugged at my hair, tomorrow didn't matter. His groan rumbled through him and into me and I didn't give a shit about next week when he'd be gone again, living that other life I knew nothing about.

There was always a mind-blowing intensity to our encounters. Technically, we'd only had vanilla sex together, but it never felt like it. Missionary position mostly, with one or two instances of him behind me seemed to be John's MO. He fucked with everything in him and I walked away feeling like I'd been turned inside out, emotionally and physically, but still I realized that we were having girlfriend sex. When most men were presented with a girl equipped with my vast and varied experience, their eyes lit up as thoughts of anal and threesomes danced through their heads. But John seemed perfectly satisfied with run of the mill foreplay and sex.

Don't get me wrong. There was nothing boring or rote about it, but it wasn't what I was used to or what I expected from customers. The fact John didn't act like a customer, and indeed wasn't one since money had never exchanged hands and he didn't follow the house rules or the state law as far as condoms, might be one reason I was so damn confused about us.

The thought made me feel moderately better about the lines between us being so blurred. Maybe that was the solution to my confusion—I needed to kink things up with John so I didn't feel like the little woman waiting in heels and pearls by the front door for my man to return home from his business trip. Maybe a bout with some of my more extreme toys would knock out of me the warm and fuzzies I felt after being with him. I figured the chances of me strapping on a dildo and John becoming my bend over boyfriend were slim to none, but he might agree to using a few of the things in my toy box during our time together.

Something to think about . . . later.

He yanked out of my mouth and flipped me onto my back, crawling over me to pierce me with his eyes and his cock at the same time. I didn't care who'd been before me or who would come after me. The only thing that mattered was the intensity of John's narrowed stare focused solely on me as he thrust inside, throwing all of himself into every stroke, as if it might be his last.

That question of if this would be the last time poked at the back of my consciousness every time he got that look of a wild man in his eyes. Even as my muscles clenched, gripping him. He bumped my G-spot and rubbed my clit with every stroke of his body into mine. I was wound so tightly I felt I could shatter at any time.