Get your FREE copy of Still a Bad Boy by Ada Scott here!
With a sigh, I lined up the pads with my eyes and tied the blindfold behind my head. Although it was silky smooth to the touch, it had more elasticity than I would have thought and it resulted in a tight fit. With the pads, I couldn’t see even a tiny sliver of light out of the top or bottom of the blindfold, yet they were thin enough that when I touched the material at the front, it didn’t bulge out.
“OK,” said Todd.
I heard a knock on the door, then Todd said goodbye and walked away. There was no sound from the other side of the door until the elevator had begun its decent, taking the driver with it.
Then there was a soft click in front of me and I felt a waft of air from inside what must have been the penthouse. It carried with it the scent of flowers and a faint wisp of cigar smoke, and a cologne I knew well.
It was the kind Andrew used to wear, Clive Christian 1872. I inhaled deeply, despite myself. If the entire atmosphere of Earth could have been replaced with this intoxicating mixture, that would have been fine by me.
Whether it was the heat of his body, or some sixth sense, I could feel that my buyer was standing close in front of me. I licked my lips nervously.
“Hello?” I squeaked.
Warm breath puffed against my ear and neck and I gasped as he whispered to me. “Do as I say. Follow my lead.”
IFS customers were the kind of men, women, and couples who had risen to the top of their fields, used to getting their way. Ada had told me that they were almost always relentless alpha males, but the power of Mr. Smith’s voice, even at a whisper, rammed the point home more than any lesson from the high-end madam. That was a voice that demanded obedience.
He grabbed my hand, his grip as sure as his voice. This was no wheelchair-bound old oil tycoon getting his last thrill before keeling over. This was a man at the height of his power.