Chapter Text
“You come highly recommended.”
Hands resting neatly on your lap, you smooth out the next white linen napkin that covers your thighs, fingers toying with the edges of the pristine fabric.. You don’t want to give away your nerves so early in the game. Ideally, you don’t want to give them away at all.
Sharp blue eyes watch you closely. There’s something about him that just feels a little… off. It’s as if he’s choosing his words carefully, his posture that bit too straight, too carefully controlled to be natural. If Dmitri hadn’t recommended him personally, you would be making your excuses to freshen up right now and slipping out the side door of The Den. As it is, you sit at the private booth – one of the nicer ones, with a great view of the raised dais in the midst of the room, grand piano unoccupied and your friend nowhere in sight – and do your best to listen to listen to Tan without allowing yourself to make any snap judgements about him.
Yet. There’s still time, you think, reaching for your glass of water and taking a sip. It’s one of the quieter times he could have chosen for a date at The Den. Officially, it’s not even open yet. They don’t have a lunch service other than feeding staff who are there early for stock takes and paperwork and evening prep and any other number of tasks that seem to accumulate as they are wont to do.
It could be taken as a sign that he’s being cheap, arranging to meet with you like this and unable to so much as impress you with The Den’s extensive range of cocktails and even more extravagant winelist. It could also be a sign of his caution, of being careful not to be seen with you in public until he is sure that this little arrangement – potential little arrangement, you remind yourself– could suit his needs. Or it could be a power play; a simple way of showing you how he can provide what money can’t buy.
“Does that happen often in your line of work?” Tan asks smoothly, a small smile on his lips. Going by his tone, were this any other situation, you would think he was being flirtatious. As it is, you can see the way that his smile reaches nowhere near his eyes. He sips his old-fashioned, and – there, you can see the slight tightening at the corners of his lips. It’s not a drink he would usually order, then. Something to impress, perhaps? Or something he didn’t choose himself. He already had the drink when you arrived – something that shouldn’t be possible, outside of opening hours. And there has been no offer to order something for you.
He’s really not winning any points so far, you think, hiding behind your glass of water as you contemplate his question.
“Wouldn’t think it's the kind ‘a thing someone recommends.”
There it is; almost imperceivable, but a little slip in the perfect image he has been trying to project since you arrived. An accent. Londoner for sure. Working class; New money? Not that it would be a surprise; you have known Dmitri for years. His tastes have always blatantly been new money – if you know where to look.
It doesn’t really matter either way, you tell yourself. As long as Tan has the budget and is willing to follow the rules, compromises can be made.
“You would be surprised,” you say, pausing as a figure across the room catches your attention. A small smile flickers over your face as Michelle, the bartender restocking for what would undoubtedly be a busy evening ahead, gives you a little wave. Beside her, one of the new batch of servers – Parker? – almost drops a tray of champagne flutes. Looking back towards Tan, you realise he’s following your gaze, and he doesn’t look impressed. You wonder if it’s the momentary loss of your attention or that you are giving the staff the time of day that bothers him the most.
“A friend of yours?” he asks, a sharpness to his tone that sets your teeth on edge. Your back straightens, your own smile turning brittle. If he turns out to be a cunt, you aren’t going to stay. You’d rather pick up shifts at the local chippy around your current work schedule than put up with someone who thinks they own you, just because you trade a little of your time for what is, to them at least, only a little of their money.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I know most of the staff here. That tends to happen when you spend years working with people.” Surprise flashes across his face. You don’t give him the chance to speak as you press on. “That’s Michelle. She works weekends so she can study physics over at UCL. You know, if that is going to be a problem for you? Me looking at other people? We might as well stop wasting both of our time. I’m sure Dmitri will have someone else he can recommend.”
You neatly place your napkin on top of the table, ignoring the questioning look you can see from your server, May, who has been trying to hover surreptitiously for the entirety of your conversation. You push down the acrid taste of humiliation at the back of your tongue, unable to meet her gaze. You refuse to be embarrassed by this – any of this. Tan can judge you all that he likes – you can hardly stop rich arseholes like him from doing anything – but not to your face. Not before you even have an arrangement in place.
You make it as far as standing before a hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist. It’s warm, and broad, and calloused. Silver rings – at least half a dozen of them – twinkle on his fingers in a mishmash of silver and steel and platinum.
Definitely new money, you realise, eyeing his hand as he holds you in place. This isn’t the hand of some trust fund baby. You try not to think what this means; Dmitri has a habit of introducing you to two kinds of ‘new friends’: connections he has made himself – young, from money, looking for a good time, not a long time. At least, not with the likes of you. And those he has met through his family connections. You think back to the handful of times you have had the displeasure of meeting Mister Kravinoff senior – Call me Nikolai. There is a reason why Dima tells you to stay out back if Nikolai is due to visit. Or at least, there was. It’s been a while since the last time that happened, now you come to think of it.
Your mouth feels dry as you look down at the hand holding your wrist; it dwarfs yours. You can feel the strength behind it. Would it take much for him to snap your wrist like this?
“I don’t give a fuck who you’re friends with. That’s your time. I don’t like ta share. It’s not up for negotiation. If we do this, I want ta know I’m the only one you’re fuckin’,” he says, voice brokering no room for argument. It’s blunt, bordering on rude, but it’s the most real you have heard him be since you sat down.
I can work with this. You turn back towards him, firmly tugging on your wrist. He holds you for a moment before, finally, letting you go. You rub the sore skin pointedly; there isn’t so much as a flicker of apology or regret in his eyes. You’re starting to think this might be a family friend of Dmitri’s after all.
“If we do this at all, there’s no guarantee we’ll be fucking given that attitude.” Your eyes flick to his hand pointedly, eyebrow raised. Silence stretches between you for a beat, then another. He murmurs something that sounds close enough to an apology that you decide to let it go for now. You don’t retake your seat – not yet – but you offer him a little tidbit in return for his, well, not good behaviour, but better at least. “The kid next to Michelle is new. I think his name is Parker. And I am pretty sure the only one he has been checking out the entire time that we’ve been chatting is you.”
“Right. Well. Fuck.” Embarrassment stains his cheeks. It’s that, more than anything, that prompts you to retake your seat. Leaning back against your side of the booth, you can’t help but think that, new money or not, Tan does look handsome in his suit. Navy with lighter pinstripes and a pale blue shirt, there is something about a man in a waistcoat that just does it for you.
I wonder if Dmitri gave him tips on what to wear? It’s a ridiculous thought. You aren’t the one who needs to be impressed here. Men like this are the ones who need to be convinced to give you a shot – no matter how good your connections may be.
“Right,” Tan says, eyes sliding back to probably-Parker almost thoughtfully. You laugh. His eyes slide back to you, eyebrow raised in silent question. Of course he doesn’t see the irony in demanding exclusivity, only to look like he is considering taking up the bartender on his offer for a quickie in the back room.
It’s to be expected. This is what men like this are paying for.
“I think we’ve got off to a bad start. How about we try this again?” you offer, trying to bring the conversation firmly back into your court. The corner of his lips twitches. For a moment, you think you have blown it. He slips out of the booth to stand, waiting expectantly. Dread creeps throughout your stomach. You slide after him, joining him beside the table.
Before you can say a word, he offers you his hand. You accept it without hesitation, dread fading away as quickly as it had begun. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing the back of your knuckles.
“Thank you for agreeing ta—to see me. It’s a pleasure. What can I get you to drink?” He waits until you are seated before sliding in opposite you. You can’t help the small, soft smile that curls on your painted lips. He’s willing to try. And he didn’t even try and deny that things have gone wrong. And now he’s open to you guiding the situation?
Damn. Okay, maybe Dmitri really does know how to pick them.
“Water is fine for now, thanks. And there’s no need for that.”
He looks at you blankly. Letting your hands fall to your lap again, you smooth out the fabric of your dress across your thighs, the silky fabric of your stockings soothing beneath your touch. Simple, yet elegant. You wonder if he can tell that none of it is designer; judging by the rather garish logos on his tie and the perfect fit of his suit, Tan seems to be at least somewhat into fashion, or at least into maintaining the image that he is. It’s not the kind of thing that fits in your budget, and it hardly seems to be in good taste to wear something that was gifted to you by a former benefactor.
“I honestly have no clue what you’re talkin’ about, luv. Love.” There it is again – that almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw. He’s trying to hide his accent, and failing.
You send him a small smile. “You can relax, you know. I’m the one being interviewed here. Just be yourself.”
Something shifts behind Tan’s eyes and you can see the tension easing from his shoulders. He reaches for his drink again, not bothering to hide the wince at the bitter flavour. “Way Dmitri explained it is that this is all a two-way negotiation. Thought your lot would prefer fancy over–”
“New money can still be ‘fancy’. I prefer you to just be yourself. And as for ‘my lot’,” you don’t try and hide the roll of your eyes, or the hint of disdain dripping from your words. “Sure, some sugar babies prefer the whole classic established gentleman bit. I think you’ll find I have much simpler tastes.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Tan says dryly. Your smile only widens.
“Let’s get to it, then. There’s no point in dancing around things, is there? Needs and wants.” You pause, waiting to see if he will jump in. When he doesn’t, you decide to make the first step yourself. “I need an allowance. Not something you might withdraw if you’re too busy one week to see me, or if you decide I didn’t live up to your expectations at an event. I need a baseline I can rely on, then anything else – gifts, bonuses, dinners, you name it – can be reward-based.”
“Seems like a pretty basic thing ta ask,” he says slowly, as if trying to find the trick to your request. “If I were hired for a contract, I’d still expect ta get paid base rate whether or not shit out of my control fucked things over.” He winces, words stumbling to a halt as if he has only just realised the slip in how he is speaking. Beneath the table, you press your foot against his. Tan jumps, eyes narrowing.
“I’m glad to hear we’re on the same page with that. You’d be surprised,” you laugh, but it sounds forced. His eyes narrow; you can see the unspoken question on his lips, but you don’t give him the time to ask. “I prefer to have at least a month’s notice if you want to end things, but two weeks is the bare minimum I’ll accept. If there’s an event that has a dress code and you want me to go, you need to provide either the outfit, or give me a budget to work with and send the money in advance, and I’ll get everything arranged. It’s nice if I can keep the dress or shoes, but I can return any of it; just let me know. Lingerie I won’t return, that’s just…” You wrinkle your nose.
Tan takes another sip of his drink, eyeing you thoughtfully. You may as well keep going; he seems to be in no rush to share his own requirements.
“I expect basic manners. If I say no, I mean no. I prefer using the traffic light system, but I can remember something else if you’d really rather–”
A spray of whisky reaches you as Tan chokes on his drink, thumping at his chest to try and clear the undoubtedly unpleasant burn in his lungs. Delicately, you try to continue, acting as if nothing is going on. You find that it generally goes best if you just get this out of the way. Less time for them to change their minds or try to pull a fast one.
“—as far as limits go? We can exchange kink lists and hard limits if you decide I might be of interest to you. I’m open to trying most things, but no permanent marks, nothing on my face or hands where someone might see. If it’s going in me, you are wearing a condom. No scat–”
Tan’s tumbler thumbs down against the table. Wide eyes stare back at you, incredulous. “Jesus fuckin’ christ, this is a nice place–”
Eyebrow arched, you continue. “–no needles. No body modifications–”
Shifting in his seat, Tan leans forward, voice barely above a hissed whisper, as though worried about who might overhear you. “Dmitri did tell you I was lookin’ for a fuckin’ sugar baby, right? Not–”
“–and no recording what we do. If you want to share me, it is a request, not an expectation. It isn’t given or guaranteed.” As you fall silent, he remains leaning forward on the table, eyebrow quirked, watching. Waiting.
“That’s it,” he says flatly. You nod, wondering which of your requirements it is that is a dealbreaker. Wondering which you might be willing to change for him. “That’s the grand total of your demands? Regular cash, work clothes, and a basic grasp of soddin’ yes an’ no? Fuck me, he wasn’t kiddin’ when he said you were easy. I thought– fuck wait, that came out wrong.”
He flushes, embarrassment clear on his face. It startles a bark of laughter from you. It’s louder than expected, louder than you mean to let yourself be. It’s closer to your real laugh – an ugly thing, more snort than light and feminine as men like Tan usually prefer. To your delight, he seems pleased by it.
“I can demand diamonds and dates to the ballet and that you pay my rent if you would prefer,” you say teasingly. You rather like the smile that settles on Tan’s face. “Though, I suppose there’s one thing I would like more than that. I have to ask: Was Dmitri serious? Do you really prefer to go by Tangerine?”
He doesn’t laugh. Any hints of playfulness drop away from him, leaving you thrown for a loop. “I do. ‘S that a problem?”
Is it? Well, it’s not as if you plan to bring him home to meet the family. “Of course not. I just wanted to make sure. Sometimes, Dima has a strange sense of humour. Plenty of people prefer not to use their real names in these kinds of arrangements.” You make no reference to your own clear lack of transparency around your name, thankful that Tangerine hasn’t pushed. You try to neatly change the subject, bringing things back around smoothly. “What about you? Come on, hit me with it. Is it feet?”
“Yes, it’s feet. I’m willin’ ta drop a few grand a month rather than admit I like feet.” For a moment, Tangerine’s deadpan tone has you convinced that you have hit the nail on the head. Then the figure clicks. A few grand a month? Oh. Oh, you are going to owe Dmitri a very nice bottle of something when this is all over and done with. “Look, I’m gonna be honest with you. I’m a busy man, yeah? I don’t have time for the whole relationship bullshit. I travel a lot for work. But–”
“Coming home to an empty apartment sucks?” you hazard a guess. It’s a common enough complaint; pedestrian, really. Predictable. You shouldn’t be, but you can’t help but feel disappointed.
Tangerine’s brow furrows. “Nah, tot empty. Lem’s there. He’s my brother.”
“Lem… Lemon. Really?” Another ugly snort slips past. It takes a moment for you to regain your composure, but, by some miracle, you manage it. “Please, continue.”
“Ta very much. As I was sayin’, I travel a lot for work. Sometimes days. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes, I come back, and I just want a good time. No hassle of finding a date, buyin’ drinks, all the song an’ dance, y’know?”
“It’s nice to know that someone is waiting for you,” you say softly. He tenses before letting out a long, steadying breath.
“I want someone loyal. No fuckin’ other people – that means no datin’, no other sugar daddies or mommies or whatever the fuck else there is out there. When I call, I expect you ta pick up, and ta prioritise droppin’ what you’re doin’. It might not be somethin’ fun like dinner. Sometimes, I want…”
He looks lost in thought, as if he’s wrestling with his thoughts and needs and wants and trying to put them into words. You give him the space that he needs. Meeting May’s eyes over Tangeine’s shoulder, you give a little shake of your head, pleased as she gets the message and seamlessly melts into the background.
“...I want ta know you aren’t fuckin’ around. I want you on my schedule. Sometimes that’ll be soft shit like wantin’ a homecooked meal and telly. Sometimes I’ll wanna fuck. If that’s somethin’ you can do.” His words are blunt, designed to elicit a reaction from you. You do no more than nod, humming, waiting for him to expand. He almost seems to deflate when no argument breaks forth. “I’m not promisin’ I don’t fuck other people. I’m not lookin’ ta be your boyfriend, or to upgrade you with a ring. This is a business transaction. You do all of that, an’ I’m willin’ ta pay in cash or gifts or reservations to whatever fancy fuckin’ places you wanna go. Dmitri says–”
“Dima says a lot of things,” you interrupt, voice gentle but firm. That’s already more than enough to get started. “We can agree on the details later. That all sounds agreeable. Though, I can’t promise I’m going to be able to do more than make you a PotNoodle if you’re hoping for homemade Michelin-star meals,” you warn him teasingly.
“We can get you cookin’ classes,” Tangerine says. Your eyebrows creep up.
“This isn’t pretty woman, Tan. You don’t have to pay for classes or try to fix me. I need to know that you know what this is. It’s an arrangement that’s as much for me as it is for you. You don’t expect a girlfriend; I don’t expect a knight in shining armour. You’re just a guy looking for a good time without all the strings attached, and I’m just a girl looking for a good time and a little stability. Monetarily,” you add when you see the tightness returning to the edges of Tangerine’s gaze. “I’m not going to come crying to you after a bad shift at work.”
“You work?” he asks. You look at him blankly. Has he paid attention to anything you have said? Your eyes slide pointedly to the bar again, eyebrows rising. He doesn’t seem to get the implication. Sighing, you reach for your near-empty water, wishing it was something much, much stronger.
“Of course I do. How else do you think I pay for everything? Most things,” you amend, eyes rolling. If you could pay for everything, you wouldn’t be sitting here, interviewing your third potential new sugar daddy of the year.
Tangerine’s lips purse. Fingertips drum against the table, his thoughts clearly racing. Eventually, he shakes his head. “That’s not gonna work. What if I need–”
“What if you don’t call for three weeks and decide to only give me two weeks' notice?” Your words are sharp, but not harsh. You can’t risk this train of thought. He’s seemed promising enough until this point. You don’t want to lose him at the last hurdle. “I need to be able to make money and see other people. Not romantically or sexually. Just human contact. You said it yourself; you can be gone for weeks at a time, right?”
He leans back, eyes scanning over every inch of you, taking you in from head to toe. You wonder what it is that he’s looking for. Dmitri hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with too many details. Sure, you know the basics, but there has to be a catch. There’s always a catch. A good-looking guy like him, with money to throw around?
He’s totally one of Nikolai’s creepy friends, isn’t he. That’s got to be it. Mentally, you are already running through what you can try next. It’s only been six weeks since your last arrangement ended, but you have found yourself burning through your savings at a much faster rate than anticipated. Maybe Dmitri has someone else he can recommend? He’s got a brother, right?
“Fine,” Tangerine says at last, snapping you out of your reverie. “I can have some flexibility. But if it’s an emergency…”
“Then we can make exceptions in exceptional circumstances.” You aren’t quite sure what an emergency date with a sugar daddy would look like, but you suppose you might just find out, judging from the way that Tangeine is talking.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see another familiar face making his way through the club. He doesn’t pause as May tries to catch his attention, nor does he detour as Michelle tries waving him over. Instead, he makes a beeline for your table. Even Parker tries to intervene on your behalf; you watch as they exchange words, but Dmitri seems intent on reaching your table.
“Incoming,” you warn softly. Tangerine tenses, one hand falling beneath the table, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, no doubt. You push down the edge of disappointment that lingers. You were hoping that now that the bulk of the conversation is out of the way, the two of you could start getting to know each other a little better. Apparently not.
“I see that things are going well.” Dmitri smiles as he looks between the two of you, hand resting on Tangerine’s shoulder. Although his question is aimed at the table, it’s clear he is waiting for your answer first. He meets your gaze, waiting a beat until you give a little nod before he squeezes, taking a step back. His smile softens to something more genuine.
There is a reason why you trust Dmitri when it comes to setting up little arrangements like this. He hasn’t steered you wrong yet. It’s like he has a natural gift for these things. A right little matchmaker, you think.
“Kravinoff,” Tangerine says in lieu of greeting. “She’s nice.
“You think I would introduce you to someone who isn’t nice?” Dmitri says teasingly. His eyes slide back to you. “And how does our Tangerine stack up, darling? Is he nice?”
“He’ll do.”
A startled bark of laughter leaves Tangerine’s mouth. Before you can say anything more, May arrives with drinks; a bottle of Newcastle Brown – still sealed, not something you have ever seen The Den stock before – is placed in front of Tangerine, while a virgin mojito is slid in front of you. Tangerine reaches into his pocket, casually pulling out a switchblade. Your eyes widen. The top pops off from his drink with a flick of his wrist, clattering onto the white tablecloth. Dmitri tuts with disapproval, hand out, waiting expectantly.
“You know the rules, Tangerine. No weapons in my club.”
Busying yourself with your drink, you can feel Tangerine’s eyes on you, tracing across the lines of your face, the delicate column of your neck, dropping lower still. You try to hide your unease. It isn’t every day that a date pulls out a knife over drinks.
This is fine. I’m sure it’s just a one-off. And if it isn’t… It’s not as if these arrangements are set in stone. Either of us can break it off at any time. It’ll be fine.
“Course not.” Tangerine raises the bottle in thanks, taking a long sip from the dark glass. This he seems to like an awful lot more than the old fashioned he has been trying to choke his way through. The switchblade disappears between quick fingers, slipping out of sight before you have the chance to get a closer look at it. Wherever it is, Dmitri seems happy enough, as he doesn’t bring it up again.
Dmitri stays a while longer, though he is careful not to linger. You have always liked this about Dmitri; how well he can read people. How well he can read the room.
“Drop by my office on your way out? A little after four, if you can. I’m doing a reshuffle with the rota. We may as well rearrange things while you are here,” Dmitri says with a smile, lightly squeezing your shoulder before he steps back, hands automatically running to smooth down his suit.
You pull your phone out of your pocket, glancing down to check the time. It’s only a little after two. You hesitate, before shaking your head. “Can it wait until tomorrow?” Your eyes flick towards Tangerine, and Dmitri nods, smile not slipping.
“Sure, sure. I’ll see you then. And I expect you to come back during actual business hours, Tan. When was the last time you saw me perform? I’ll do any song that you like. And bring Lemon. It’s been too long.”
It’s not until the click-click-click of Dmitri’s heeled dress shoes fades that Tangerine turns his attention back towards you, eyebrow neatly raised. “And here I was thinkin’ I’d picked somewhere impressive for drinks. Were you gonna tell me you’re on first names with the owner?”
“Probably not,” you admit, toying with the straw in your glass. “And I’m pretty sure Dmitri just manages the place. Does it really matter?”
“I… suppose not.” His words sound almost reluctant, though he doesn’t push for any more details, which is something you can be grateful for.
“Great.” You down the last of your drink, ignoring the way that Tangerine’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Standing, you snag your bag, waiting until Tangerine stands. He’s still holding his drink, watching with uncertainty in his eyes. “Drink up. I think it’s customary in these situations to have a little test drive, don’t you think?”
It isn’t. It really, really isn’t. Especially when your potential sugar daddy hasn’t even bought you so much as a drink, let alone dinner. But you know your tab will be on the house; Dmitri won’t hear anything less
“What, you want a quickie in the bathroom? Luv, this ain’t exactly the kind of place that you just do that,” Tangerine says slowly, as though he can’t quite believe you would suggest such a thing.
“No, but Dima isn’t going to be using his office for the next… hour and a half. And I have it on good authority that his secretary isn’t working today. Come on.” You send him a cheeky grin, tugging on his hand.
Tangerine follows reluctantly in your path. He comes to a halt as your words seem to finally sink in. “You can’t be serious. We ain’t fucking in fuckin’ in Kravinoff’s office.”
“Of course we aren’t,” you say, shaking your head. Tangerine seems at least a little molified by that. “I don’t fuck on a first date.”
“Then what…?”
“You’ll see.”
Tangerine follows behind you on silent feet. If you weren’t certain that his curiosity would be enough to have him keep pace with you, you could easily forget that he is still here. It doesn’t take long to reach Dmitri’s office. There’s no passcode to get in, and Dmitri hates having any kind of cameras near his office. Once you are past the little waiting room come secretaries' nook, unmanned as you had said, it’s simple enough to slip into Dmitri’s office proper.
You send the camera above the secretary’s desk one last, fleeting look. If this was what Dmitri was hinting at, he’ll know not to come in. If it wasn’t, well… hopefully someone in the security room thinks to warn him before he barges back in.
From the way that Tangerine stops just inside, scanning the room carefully, you can tell that he hasn’t been in here before. Or at least if he has, it has been long enough that he wants to refamiliarise himself with the space.
A dark wood desk takes up the majority of the back wall, sitting centrally and dominating the room. Two elegant chairs sit opposite, a chaise pushed to one side, a drinks cabinet in the far corner. It’s more vodka and mixers than anything else. You make your way to the chaise, neatly draping yourself over it. Tangerine remains hovering in the doorway, tense, as though he is unwilling to take that final step into the room properly.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” you suggest, patting the empty spot beside you. Tangerine sends you an unimpressed look.
“I thought you said we aren’t gonna have sex.”
“Oh, we aren’t. Think of this more as a little… demonstration before you decide if you want to make a final purchase after all.”
Tangerine slowly walks towards the desk, his eyes not leaving you. For a moment, you expect him to sit behind Dmitri’s desk; to play at being the big man in charge. But he moves one of the other chairs around, turning it so he can face you. He sits with his legs spread, watching you with an air of expectation. When Dmitri had told you that he had a newbie to all of this, that he thought Tangerine just might fit with what you were looking for, you hadn’t quite believed him. When seeing Tangerine for the first time, you absolutely didn’t believe that he was new to this kind of arrangement. But here, now, seeing him waiting so patiently, the thought of making a few demands of his own clearly not crossing his mind?
Oh boy. He really is new to all of this. Has he even had one of these arrangements before?
Making yourself more comfortable, you lean against the back of the chaise, mirroring Tangerine’s position. His eyes dip, your dress shifting over your thighs, a tantalising glimpse of the top of your stocking peeking out before disappearing again beneath the layers of fabric. Hands drift down, slowly skimming over the dark fabric. It’s a simple enough dress; a knockoff of a Vivienne Westwood piece, with a rouched skirt and off-the-shoulder straps that give a tantalising view of your decolletage, or so Dmitri has assured you in the past.
There’s little point in slipping your dress off. Instead, you shift the fabric up, past the lacy tops of your stockings, up until Tangerine can clearly see a hint of black silk panties. Thighs part, fingers trailing over the dark lace with slow, sure movements. Blue eyes lock onto you as you begin with slow, sure strokes.
“Dangerous game ta play, luv,” he warns, eyes flicking between you, and the cameras clearly placed in the corners of the room.
You bite your lip, hand never stopping. “Dima and I go way back. He won’t mind me borrowing his space as long as we clean up after ourselves.”
“It wasn’t Dmitri I was talkin’ about.”
He holds his hands casually across spread thighs, thick fingers curled into loose fists. Silver and steel rings cover his fingers in an array of designs and patterns, more fingers than not sporting decoration. Beneath his sleeves, you can see a dark flash of ink. A bird of some kind, maybe? Your gaze lingers on his hands as your own fingers dance along the fabric of your panties, tracing the shape of your lips below. You can already feel the fabric beginning to dampen. Despite the somewhat rocky start, now that you are taking your time to look at him, now that you know that he is safe (or as safe as men of his kind can be), you can admit the frisson of attraction running through you, starting low in your stomach and radiating out.
“D’you prefer to watch, Tan? Or would you like to make some… requests?”
Tangerine laughs. There’s no brightness to it this time; it’s low, and deep, and filled with promise. “Oh, luv. If we’re goin’ ta do this, there won’t be any requestin’ about it. D’you think you can be a good girl for me an’ show me what you like? Put on a pretty little show, an’ maybe, just maybe, you’ll earn a nice little reward.”
Your breath hitches, thighs flexing instinctively as the heel of your palm presses against your mound. You hadn’t thought… given his reaction – or lack thereof – to your talk of safewords and hard limits, you had begun to suspect that either Tangerine isn’t that kinky at all, or that he preferred things from the more submissive side of the equation.
Being wrong has never been so appealing.
“I can do that.”
A smirk settles onto Tangerine’s lips, sharp and condescending. He leans back, hands clasping together. He doesn’t miss the way that your eyes linger on his hands, as if you can’t look away. Each time he moves them, even the slightest flex, it’s as if you can’t help but press more firmly, your touch moving from teasing to pleasing.
With a single fingertip, you run across the length of your slit again, the fabric doing little to mute the sensations. Embarrassment curls alongside excitement, intertwining together into a heady mix. That you are already so affected by nothing more than a handful of words and his gaze on you feels like it should be shameful, and yet you would do anything to keep him looking at you.
He holds your gaze as your fingers finally dip beneath black lace. Lips part, tongue darting out to wet them, as two fingers dip between soaked folds before trailing up, and up, and up, rubbing slow, teasing circles around your clit without touching directly.
You have never been so reluctant to go this slowly before. You have always liked to tease, to draw things out. There’s nothing quite like making a man with Tangerine’s kind of money and influence whimper. It’s not always something you can find – not all men with money and power are in need of a stern talking to and a firm, guiding hand – but it has always been your preference. Or so you had thought until now.
“Not bad. I think you can do better.”
Hips arch without thought, fingers sliding lower, gathering the slickness that already makes your skin glisten invitingly. Your dress stops you from being able to part your legs any further, but in this position, Tangerine can already see everything that there is to see. He holds your gaze as you press one finger in slowly, sinking past the first, then second knuckle until your palm bumps against you. A second soon joins it, your impatience higher than expected.
Cheeks burn. You let your gaze fall back down to those hands as you imagine what it would feel like to have Tangerine spreading you open, stretching you wide. Not even preparing you, just teasing you open for his own amusement. Your fingers speed up, breath coming in heavy little pants.
“An’ here I thought we were gonna take things slow.”
“Sometimes the fun is in the anticipation. Sometimes, it’s in the satisfaction of a job well done,” you manage to say through panting breaths.
His bark of laughter seems to surprise him. He shakes his head; you can feel his eyes still boring into you. “That’s one way of lookin’ at it. Eyes me me, luv. If you’re feelin’ good an’ I haven’t explicitly told you otherwise, I expect you ta look at me when we’re like this. No hidin’.”
Slowly, you force your gaze upwards, trailing across the narrow waist, following the line of his pinstripes up, and up, and up until you are looking him in the eyes again. A rush of warmth floods you as his smile softens, the low, murmured words feeling better than any touch. “There’s a good girl.”
A third finger presses against your entrance; you can’t help yourself any longer. The stretch feels as good as it feels illicit. Fingers curling, you hone in on that one spot guaranteed to make you see stars.
Your other hand lifts without thought, back pressing heavily against the rest behind you. Fingers of one hand spearing yourself wide, your other reaches for your clit, brushing against the slick bundle of nerves teasingly at first, before soon enough moving onto a more steady, deliberate rhythm.
You can’t help yourself.
Your eyes dart down.
It feels like the bottom of your stomach drops out.
He isn’t touching himself.
Why isn’t he touching himself?
From this angle, you think he’s hard, but it’s impossible to say for sure. Your touch falters, doubt beginning to circle your mind. Are you doing something wrong? You aren’t used to this; to this momentary lack of confidence in the midst of what should be your most confident time. Men literally pay to see you like this. One little change from the expected order of things shouldn’t be throwing you off so much, and yet it unmistakably is.
“Am I doing something wrong?” you ask, voice wobbling as you force the words out. Your hands slow to a stop, still spreading you open, still holding yourself wide.
Tangerine remains unmoving, studying you intensely. “Now, why’d you say that?”
Your eyes dip down meaningfully. He lets out a little huff. “Thought you were putin’ on a little show, luv. Wouldn’t presume audience participation is welcome or wanted.”
“Well, it is,” you say, your words almost sounding petulant.
He laughs again. “You really know what you want, dont’cha, luv?”
Frustration bubbles up in your chest for the first time since this all began. “It’s not about me. This is about you, and what I can give you.”
“Well, maybe that ain’t what I want.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
You sit up, hand falling still against your soaked flesh. “What do you want?”
“Ta not get caught fuckin’ in he heart of Kravinoff territory. A decent steak after this, I’m thinkin’. Fuck, tell me you’re not a vegeration.”
“I’m not a vegetarian?”
“Thank fuck for that, or this would never work. I’ll get us a table at Goodman. But first, I think I want to hear what pretty little noises you make while you cum.”
You groan. Slick sounds fill the air as your hands resume movement, working yourself towards your peak with an edge of speed and precision that you usually reserve for nights alone after al ong, tedious shift, not for trying to impress someone of Tangerine’s importance.
Eyes fluttering, it’s a struggle to keep your gaze locked on him as you feel the tightness in your stomach growing more and more tense, pleasure creeping closer and closer to your peak. Thighs flex as you clench around your fingers. It would feel so much better if it was Tangerine, you just know it. Hands never slowing, you let just a hint of your desperation seep into your words as you manage to force out a breathy little, “Please?”
Blue eyes darken, pleasure curling at the corner of Tangerine’s lips. “There’s a good girl. You can cum.”
Your breath catches, muscles seizing, as Tangerine’s command sinks in. You find yourself tipping over the edge, the corners of your vision turning white as you don’t hesitate to obey.
The sound of your own ragged breathing fills the air. By the time the haziness leaves your vision, the ceiling of Dmitri’s office coming into focus, you can feel the first tinges of embarrassment settling about your skin. You risk peeking at Tangerine; he’s still in the same suit, not an article of clothing out of place, no sign that he has touched himself at all.
There’s no look of derision, no little snear or backpeddling as he watches you try and straighten your dress, pulling it down and around your thighs. You wonder if this is where he asks – tells? – you to drop to your knees for him.
The demand never comes.
“I think this is gonna work out just great. Let’s see about those reservations.”