Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
It’s a hyper-sexual song. Throbbing with heavy beats and a wanton pulse that weaves its way through my body.
I let go of Bianca and become who the mysterious stranger paid to see.
Miss Hellfire.
I’m wearing thigh-highs and a PVC bikini, with a tuxedo jacket with tails over the top, and I feel sexy and powerful and in control.
I’m dancing completely unrehearsed, but it works because the music is writing the choreography with my body.
Eve told me to forget whoever is on the other side of the glass. But I can’t, because I can feel a pair of eyes on me, and their gaze is warm and tortured and very familiar. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true.
Its him. Massimo.
I could be wrong—or maybe its wishful thinking. All I know is it feels exciting to think it’s him sitting in the dark watching me.
When I rip the jacket off and throw it at the glass, I fling my head around and drop to my knees. I crawl. I arch my back and shake my ass. I lose myself in the music. All the while those eyes are on me. Watching. Needing. Wanting.
And it fans the flames in me.
I want it to be him.
To be sitting there in a heightened state of arousal.
The tension builds. Their physical need grows. Their entire being lights up with hormonal chemistry.
Is that what is happening on the other side of the glass?
Everything gets just a little bit harder and a little bit hotter.
Is my dancing doing that to him?
And when they finally come and the serotonin and the oxytocin surge through their grey matter, it will literally blow their minds.
Oh God.
The more I think of him watching me, the more turned on I get. My skin feels like it’s on fire. Sweat drips between my cleavage. My body hums and my need takes over.
“Freeek!” changes to Madonna’s “Justify My Love” which has a slower, dreamer beat, but it’s equally as sexual. I spend most of it on my knees letting the music and lyrics consume me. Miss Hellfire reigns and Bianca Bamcorda is gone, and it’s the most free I’ve felt in a long time.
Madonna finishes, and the peep room falls into darkness.
Nine minutes and twenty-six seconds, and I’m done.
And five hundred dollars richer.
But this wasn’t just about the money.
This is about me breaking free and knowing I can be whoever the hell I want to be.
30
BIANCA
Massimo doesn’t come back to the apartment all week, and I don’t see him at work at all, although he does call in the evenings to check on me. But the conversations are stilted and strange, like we’re strangers.
Like he’s distancing himself from me.
Even when I dance for the mysterious client for a second time during the week, I can’t feel the warmth of his gaze on me, and I start to think I have it all wrong.
That maybe it is wishful thinking after all, and he isn’t the stranger behind the glass.
By the time Friday arrives, I’m convinced I’ve gotten it so wrong and this attraction to him is completely one-sided. Which makes me feel lousy and stupid.
But I’m still going to the ball, and I plan to look fabulous.
Now it’s four o’clock on Friday afternoon, and I’m nervously pacing the kitchen. I have less than three hours to get myself glammed up, which probably seems like a lot of time for someone to get ready. But I’m out of practice.
I stare at my pitiful supply of makeup scattered on the kitchen counter.
Okay, I can work with this.
I’m not worried about the makeup. I can do a full face in the dark with my eyes shut. And I can certainly make a two-dollar pencil look like a thirty-dollar pencil.
What I can’t do, is hair.
Never have.
Never will.
Because I have so much of it, and I get overwhelmed. I’m all fingers and too clumsy, not to mention too impatient to master hairstyling.
In the past few months, I’ve made do with a quick brush and a ponytail, and it suits me just fine.
But a quick brush and a ponytail isn’t going to work tonight.
I need to bring the magic.
A ten-thousand-dollar Bianchon gown and a pair of five-thousand-dollar heels tell me I have to.
Rummaging through my toiletry bag, I hit pay dirt.
“Yes!” I say, holding up the packet of bobby pins.
Coupled with a YouTube video on how to create an up style, I am going to create magic.
Except an hour later, I have to concede that I won’t.
I stare at my reflection in Massimo’s gleaming bathroom.
Admitting defeat, I pull up a number on my phone.
“I know you have plans this afternoon but this is an emergency.”
An hour later, the door buzzer goes. By now, I’m showered and moisturized, and my hair is hanging in damp strands over my naked shoulders.
I answer the door wearing a tank top and yoga pants.