11. Hellena

11

HELLENA

" I s that what you're wearing?" Evan glances around, looking to see if I brought a bag or some other option. The slow, deliberate inhale of his breath through his nose is worse than any comment he could make.

Like I've somehow completely ruined the evening or ticked him off beyond measure.

"Yes, this is what I'm wearing. You told me to dress in black. Business casual."

"Yes, business casual, but that doesn't mean it has to lack all sense of style. You're not a hostess at a chain restaurant."

"This is all I had ." I don't bother checking my tone.

The last few days of working at the office under him have tested the limits of my patience. We've had limited interaction, as I've mostly been filing paperwork and familiarizing myself with their systems, reading reports, and following Genaviv around and listening to her brag about how wonderful Evan is.

I swear that woman would marry him if she were a couple of decades younger.

"Pity. Though I'm not surprised. You must take a little more pride in your appearance, Hellena. From now on, you will send me a photo of what you are wearing before you arrive."

"Like you've got to approve my work uniform?"

"That's a good way to put it. Press your luck and I'll pick out all of your outfits from now on."

"Now that I would love to see. You're on."

"Hmm. We'll see. Reach in the back. There's a bag behind my seat."

I'm flabbergasted as I drag the stiff, purple paper bag out. It's from Rustique, at the boutique mall up in the hills. Silk rope handles tie the top off.

Anything inside a bag like this costs more than I've ever had in my bank account at one time.

"Open it and put it on."

"What? I meant you could pick out things of mine for me to wear."

"Please. I would never select anything from your closet to dress you in."

So. Rude.

Every word out of his mouth is like a tiny little whip crack across my back, making me flinch. I can't let him have the gratification of seeing it.

This man is impossible .

And yet I find myself wanting to meet his expectations. Exceed them. But I draw the line at having him make a fool out of me with some outfit that won't fit me. That's all I can think about as I set the bag in the floorboard.

"I–I thought that I looked nice," I argue. I have to stand my ground. I can't let him see me weak.

He drives on in silence for a moment. "I apologize. It wasn't my intent to make you feel unattractive. I suppose you do look nice. It simply wasn't what I had in mind."

"Well, maybe next time, you tell me what you have in mind instead of expecting me to read your mind."

His eyebrows slowly arch up like he's impressed with my finally pushing back with a reasonable argument. "You make a fair point. I will make my desires clearer in the future," he concedes, although I can tell he wants to argue with me. I was kind of hoping he would. This back and forth between us is infuriating, yet stimulating. As much as I hate to admit it.

"Seriously, though. Put it on. Now."

My cheeks flush immediately. How does he know just how to piss me off?

Fine. He wants this fight, let's do it.

I reach into the bag and jerk the slinking fabric out. "Warning you now, when I tear it, I'm not paying you back for it. I'm… plus sized , Evan. Not that you know what that's like. I won't fit into your designer Ziplock bag."

If boredom were a person, he's sitting right next to me, giving me the deadeye. And I suddenly get the feeling I'm going to be made a fool of in a very different way.

"Look away." I can feel my cheeks flushing hot and bright red.

He focuses ahead, taking the roundabout leading up into one of the swankiest neighborhoods of condos and mansions.

Checking to make sure he's not peeking, I unbutton my black top. If I slip the gown on over my head, I should be able to shimmy out of my skirt without having to completely undress in the passenger seat of his sleek black Range Rover. So humiliating.

Thank God he didn't show up in his sports car.

I don't think I would have been able to move.

The fabric of the gown is soft, incredibly slinky. It has a hint of sparkle to the jet black, only in certain light. Once I work out where the openings are, I slip it over my head and it glides down around me, my arms easily finding the sleeves. The material hugs my skin, snug but comfortable. Probably more comfortable than anything I've ever worn.

It's sleek, sexy.

I'm too shocked to say anything else as I wiggle it over my skirt, removing the clunky garment from underneath.

How the hell did he…

It fits perfectly .

Even if the dress is way skimpier than anything I've ever worn. It shows off my shoulders above quarter sleeves, hanging from the back of my neck and dipping in the front to display my cleavage. The back is open, way lower than anything I've ever worn.

Not to mention the length, stopping just shy of showing my panties.

I love it, though. The way it makes me feel… sensual. Powerful.

Suddenly, I feel like I fit into the immaculate scenario around me. Fit with him .

The pristine leather of the car. The elegant event we're heading to.

His fitted suit, jet black. His hair, styled back, trimmed on the sides, feathering back with just a flip of hair teasing the top of his forehead. Everything in black would normally seem dull, but not on him.

Everything about him is clean. Perfect. Calculated to the decimal.

Except for the two buttons left open on his shirt, allowing for it to flare open just a bit, showing off a hint of his incredibly muscled chest.

His razor sharp clavicles stand out below the column of his neck. My eyes are drawn there, to the crease where they meet, where I can imagine licking…

No, I will not lick my lips and give myself away.

No, I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me drool over him.

"All done? No tantrum?" I can hear the smug grin in his words.

"Shut up. How did you get my measurements?"

"I've been doing this a long time. The ladies at Rustique owed me a favor. All I had to do was get your size from a couple of the brands you wear."

So now he's got me running through every encounter at the office, trying to imagine when he had a chance to check my clothing tags.

He sniffs a little laugh like he can read my mind. "Geneviv has had plenty of chances to figure it out, too."

Stupid. And obvious.

I feel like I spend most of the time around him trying to think of what he's planning and what I'm going to say next. Trying to figure out and anticipate what he expects me to say, what to say instead, and then wondering if he anticipated what I came up with!

It's maddening. And distracting. So much so that I don't realize that we've already parked and he's staring at me expectantly.

"We're… here." It drops out of my mouth like a lead weight. I wish I didn't sound so nervous.

"Yes, we're here. The way you get distracted makes me wonder how you ever got anything done in your old life. Seriously, Hellena." Now I know he's just fucking with me, as I see that ever so slight twitching at the corner of his mouth.

It's a tell I'm starting to recognize.

I've been in such a habit of letting him get a rise out of me that I almost fall for it.

Instead, I take a deep breath.

Closing my eyes for a second, I tease my lower lip with my teeth. "Evan… I was just waiting for you to tell me what to do . All you need to do is give me instructions and I'll obey, sir…" I say it in my most sultry voice.

He swallows and takes a breath, feigning boredom. No way that actually worked on him, but stranger things have happened. Annoying him is enough of a win for me.

I let my eyes veer down to his lap where I see a hint of the shape of him. It must be my imagination that he looks tense, holding very still.

"Shall we?" I ask, smirking. He straightens in his seat slightly as we side-eye each other. Thank goodness the AC is on. That look could make me sweat through my new dress.

"Ahem. We have a few minutes until the rest of the crew arrives. Everything should already be set up upstairs. Do I need to go over your role again?"

"No. I'll play hostess, make sure Mr. and Mrs. "Cormorant" are comfortable, that they have anything they need. You'll be directing the performers backstage most of the time, so it's up to me to make sure the servers keep their drinks full and deliver any other… libations they might want."

"Excellent. Remember, you are the matron of this party, so to speak. Everyone reports to you in the front of the house, so act like it. Don't hesitate. Make them feel wanted. Make them need to be there."

"Yeah, yeah. And stay calm, exude refinement, yada-yada. I know. I'll have class out the ass, I promise." I am starting to love messing with him about this classy stuff. He's a stickler for things appearing fancy, so any chance I get to cut him off at the knees, I go for it.

Only when we're in private, of course.

I don't need to toy with a death wish, now that things seem to be calming down in my life, danger-wise.

My nerves rattle loose again as we head up into the luxury apartments, the private elevator to the penthouse. I've been here twice this week making sure everything is in order, the layout, stocking the bar, and meeting with the light and sound guys. Still, the night of an actual event, my first with Evan…

I know it will be fine.

But this level of production and coordination makes my old stuff look like a kindergartener's birthday party.

At night, the penthouse is positively luminous. Every surface is reflective, marble, granite. It's the kind of place you see in movies and on TV, chic, dark colors, and dim lighting. The furniture matches the motif, subtle deep grays and blacks with just a hint of white for accents. The monochrome works as a base coat for any and every event we might need, allowing for any accent color of curtain, carpet, or simply allowing for the lighting to color the mood.

Tonight, it's a subtle amber that will shift with the progression of the event.

Huge surprise… it belongs to Evan.

Along with countless other properties and businesses around town, as I've learned this week. It started out as a joke, me asking "Is this yours?" at locations we visited for various needs.

They all were.

A tailor shop, a locksmith's, a chain of spas, a property rental management office, and very strangely, a high-end, early childhood daycare center.

Pretty soon, it became a sarcastic quip, more like "Is this yours, too ?"

He didn't think it was as funny as I did.

Evan is still prattling on, oblivious to whether I'm actually paying attention. "Greet our guests at the elevator door and see them into the foyer, like we rehearsed. Make sure and welcome them on behalf of Halo and Wing."

"I remember. Remind me why you use so many different entities?" I ask for the fourth time.

"You know we must be careful who has access to what information. It keeps things compartmentalized. Keeps the people we work for out of it. Keeps our clients in their lane and ignorant of other dealings. The last thing you want is for two members of the same social group realizing that their access to exclusive one of a kind wishes was also granted to their rivals."

"I know. I just wanted to hear you explain it again. You're so sexy when you mansplain things to me."

"You're a brat."

"And you're an overbearing micromanager." I let my chin tip back a bit, taunting him as his eyes meet mine. Whether the heat I find there is anger or lust… hard to say. But fucking with him is my favorite new pastime. "Who do we work for?"

"Quit asking. You work for me . I'm heading back. Most of the staff know the way these go, so it should be smooth sailing. Enjoy the show, and I'll see you back at the car afterward."

"I'll try to survive without you holding my hand, Sir."

"Hellena." He pauses, no change to his tone, but a hesitance to his posture. "I trust you."

There shouldn't be as much weight to the statement as I feel. Not that I wasn't going to do an incredible job, anyway.

But having his trust … well.

I hate to say he may have figured out what makes me tick.

The next few minutes crawl by as I check in on the bartender and the two cocktail waitresses, dressed in full gowns, all wearing glittering masquerade-style masks. Every aspect of the evening is hand-picked, catered to the fantasy purchased by the client.

Who conveniently arrives in the elevator right as I make my way toward the entryway, slipping my own mask over my face.

I catch a fleeting glimpse of myself in the window as I pass, and a thrill shivers up my spine. The gown Evan picked is unreal . Along with my own reasonable skill at wrangling my curly mane of hair into a cascade of gold threaded rivulets down my back, my makeup, and the gold-lined mask… maybe Evan was enjoying looking at me.

The ding to my left brings me back to attention as the doors ease open, revealing the wealthy couple, in their early forties at most, both dressed in their finest evening wear and both stunningly good-looking.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cormorant, welcome, on behalf of Halo and Wing. My name is Hellena, and I'm at your disposal for any and everything you might need. Right this way." I gesture, and my two assistants-slash-cocktail waitresses swoop in to take their coats, vanishing as quietly as they emerged.

"Thank you, Madam." Mr. Cormorant dips a tiny bit at the waist, reaching for my hand to kiss. I let him, maintaining a pleasant expression as he does so. His eyes drag slowly back upward, pausing at my chest.

I almost forget to avoid making eye contact, another one of Evan's rules for the night. Tilting my head to the side, I smile demurely, dipping in a subtle curtsy. I'm supposed to be alluring, but not available.

Sensual, but I am not to engage with the guests myself.

The list of specifics on my behavior tonight was pretty much a novel I had to memorize.

Additionally, I realize offering "everything they might need" may have been a mistake.

Mr. Cormorant looks like he'd like to devour my hand as he releases it and resumes his walk to the bar along the side of the lounge area. "Macallan 30. Neat. Dom Perignon for my wife."

"Charles, ask if they can… spice it up a bit, will you?" Mrs. Cormorant is already making her way to the balcony, exploring the interior of the penthouse with a middling interest that makes me wonder what kind of mansion they live in.

"Yes, darling." And he sounds even more bored. From everything Evan told me, they seem to be a longstanding, relatively happy couple. However, since their son left for France to study abroad, they seem to have fallen into the rut of an empty nest.

Thus, a night of extravagant entertainment and indulgence.

An attempt to rekindle their desires.

Mr. Cormorant tilts his head toward me, a clear gesture to meet his wife's request.

Slipping behind the bar, I smoothly pop the outrageously priced bottle of champagne myself, dropping a tiny tablet into the glass as I pour the bubbling, crystalline liquid.

Evan didn't fill me in on the… specific ingredients they requested, but my best guess says she'll be feeling pretty bubbly herself in a matter of minutes with this concoction.

Mr. Cormorant only lifts his eyebrows behind his mask once as he takes their drinks and joins his wife on the balcony. A breath of relief huffs out of me as he does. I've made it through the greeting without a hiccup.

And I've gotten his attention off me and back to his wife.

The rest should be a simple matter of guiding them to the theater room for the show once they've had their fill of hors d'oeuvres and booze. And getting them comfortably changed into their viewing attire.

Minutes zip by as I make a lap, ensuring the silk robes are folded neatly in the changing rooms. The serving staff has already seen them to the dining area, and I can tell they are both loosening up considerably.

Mrs. has a wispy, lilting laugh, thoroughly enjoying whatever it is her husband is muttering into her ear as she nibbles on a caviar topped something or other. He's got his hand in her lap, and I blink rapidly as I realize one of my servers is leaned over her other side, nibbling at her ear, kissing her neck.

The bartender pours another drink for each of them, then lingers, running his hands over Mr. Cormorant's shoulders, massaging his neck. The client's hungry eyes follow me as I cross the room, smiling and running his hand down the server's back, squeezing her ass through the fabric of her dress.

That's as good a cue as any that it's time to get them into the performance.

Evan already dimmed the lights in the hallway to signal the crew being set whenever the ‘audience' was ready. And I need to put dancers in front of them before Mr. Cormorant gets any ideas about my joining their "meal".

Telling them ‘no' isn't part of the arrangement, so I have to keep them from asking the question.

Drawing up to the opposite side of the table, I lean in just enough to be heard without raising my voice.

"At your leisure, the show will begin momentarily." I'm well aware they know the show will only start when they feel like watching it, but herding them along doesn't hurt anything. Our guests rise, following me toward the changing rooms. The mood is relaxed, but there's a suspense in the air that I can't deny.

Evan really knows how to rekindle a marriage, I guess.

While they change, I wait in the theater room, the full wall screen displaying a swirl of color matching the light show slowly moving around the stage. Two comfortable chairs center the room, facing the screen and stage, curtained in black on both sides.

Apparently, Evan had the room specifically modified for any cinematic scenario. It can be turned into a movie theater room with risers and recliners, it can double as a concert room for small bands, and like tonight, it can become a stage, with doors on either side for performers to make their entrance.

Two figures draped in black emerge from the back as if on cue, dancing and writhing to soft, swelling music. Right about the same time, Mr. and Mrs. Cormorant enter, taking their seats.

It takes my brain a minute to catch up as they do.

To realize that they are completely naked, their robes hanging open.

For some reason, it didn't click before, the reason for the robes. They weren't there to wear between outfits.

This has all the makings of another "testing of my presumptions" by my new boss.

Fine. So the guests are nude.

They were getting fresh with the wait staff.

Makes sense. They're here to add some spice to their life.

Which is only further confirmed when the two dancers on the stage drop their black outfits to the floor, revealing almost naked bodies, only dressed in dark painted silicon lines to accentuate their forms, covering their nipples and genitals.

Both women are uniquely stunning. Straight out of an art installation or fashion ad. And both glitter in gold paint from head to toe.

The initial movements of the deep, electronic and symphonic music catch me up in the moment, and I can tell the couple watching is enthralled, eager to see what comes next. Their eyes sparkle as more performers, men painted the same way, join the two women, spinning, writhing, and bending expertly to the beat.

It's the opening movement, designed to draw everyone in, to heighten the senses and get the blood pumping. The spiked drinks help the effect along.

All leading up to the main attraction.

As the six dancers spin apart from the center of the stage, I feel a gasp tugged through my lips. The parting curtain of bodies reveals a man and a woman, both completely naked, standing in the middle of the spotlight, clutching each other tightly.

Only subtle, pencil thin lines of black ink trace the lines on their bodies, either incredible paint or tattoos.

Masks cover their faces entirely, but no one is watching their faces.

They start the dance with their hands, curling around, grazing each other, barely touching. I see Mr. an Mrs. Cormorant lean forward, both wide-eyed, faint smiles on their faces. I can't blame them. I can barely take my eyes off the couple on the stage.

Their fingers intertwine as they watch, a gesture of caring and anticipation.

I glance back to the stage as the music swells again, gaining momentum. The man and woman's dance becomes more intense, flexing and pulling at each other, bending and twisting in impossible thrusts of passion. It goes on like that for minutes, through leaps and sweeping rolls down onto her back, the godlike muscles of the man taking him over her, dragging past, but never quite touching.

He tosses her, catches her, lifts her over his head, and she always tries to kiss him, bite him, touch him, but never can.

Gripping tension builds, anticipation that they'll join, fulfill the growing need I can sense in the room for release, for completion .

But they never do.

They never quite touch.

His tongue, darting out, misses her nipples by a fraction of an inch.

Her nails, raking up his ass and back, but never digging into his tattooed skin.

They're sweeping back down, falling, and he's arched from his shoulders to his tiptoes on the floor as he holds her at arm's length above him.

His rigid, incredibly thick cock swipes past her soaked, glistening folds as he lowers her, and I unwittingly let out the softest moan, willing him to enter her. It's edging torture, toeing the line of climax but never giving in.

It takes me back to Ora's party, to my fantasy of Tell, of Gavin.

Our two clients are just as incensed, clutching each other's hand between their chairs as they watch, rapt. And thoroughly enjoying the attention they are receiving from the rest of the dancers as hands run all over their bodies.

Right at the peak of the tension, a break in the music, when I feel like I'm about to snap inside and give in to the urge to finger myself right there at the back of the room, I see the silhouettes rise up around the couple.

The performers converge on them in a wave of hands, mouths, and limbs.

My two waitresses drop their gowns to the floor, as well, exposing their bodies to the couple, these well-to-do rich people. Each of them reaches out, sliding their fingers inside the two women, moans joining into the music.

All of that movement and touch takes their attention away from the stage for just long enough, the music dying down from the crescendo but moving into more hypnotic tones, and the tattooed dancers slide offstage behind the curtain.

The effect of the shift is palpable.

Mr. and Mrs. Cormorant are lost in each other, kissing deeply while each of them is caressed and licked by several men and women.

Moans join the music as one of the men goes down on the Mrs., another man sliding the Mr.'s cock deep into his throat. He trades off to one of the women after a moment, shifting to bury his fingers inside her as she straddles Mr. Cormorant and begins to ride him.

Every single person involved is wrapped up completely in the pleasure of the moment, all centered on the couple lying naked on their recliner chairs.

It's unbelievably fucking hot.

So hot that I catch myself taking a step forward before I snap back to my senses.

I can't…

Not just because Evan said I'm not supposed to. His command, if anything, makes me want to defy him, but I feel that sense of embarrassment and stage fright stifle all of my arousal.

Instantly, I need fresh air, or just air that isn't filled with cries of orgasms, sweat, and cum.

Without thinking, I skirt along the side of the room, not wanting to disturb the group by opening the double doors. Behind one of the curtains, the door sits open, dark except for a strip of rim lighting along the walkway.

Back in the hallway, I catch my breath, pressing a hand to my burning forehead and fanning myself. I knew tonight would be… sensual, or thrilling, or I really didn't know what, but that show.

The raw emotion and talent of the dancers.

The sexual aura that they created, demanded of their audience.

It calls to another part of me, the dancer. To join them, to express all of my lust and longing.

Movement to my left startles me, and I push off the wall, heading back into the dressing rooms. It occurs to me that I might catch another glimpse of the tattooed man or the woman. To see them one last time.

Even though I know I shouldn't. Evan might catch me.

But my curiosity overwhelms any risk as I tiptoe further into the dark.

They must have already been here when we arrived, and I haven't had a chance to meet any of our dancers. It can't hurt to introduce myself.

I see him, the male dancer, right as I turn the corner. The lamps faintly illuminate his rippling back muscles as he dries the sweat from his body. Every line in the shadows is perfect. The tattoo lines are exquisite, detailed and subtle, from his shoulders down to his waist and trailing away onto his thighs around the sides of a marble sculpted ass.

He turns slightly as he towels off, exposing the stunning length of his still-erect manhood.

I shouldn't stand here staring.

I shouldn't even be back here, let alone spying on someone.

But just as I start to turn, to rush the other way, he tenses, and I make a snap decision to clear my throat softly, hopefully avoiding startling him or at least excusing my sneaking up on him. He's completely still, flexed and clearly staring at me from behind his gold mask.

I only get a gleam of the light off his eyes and immediately look down, to avoid that gaze, finding something else entirely to fill my line of sight.

Heat floods through my stomach, down between my legs.

A single drop of his desire glistens on the tip, sending my heart pounding in my chest.

I'm seconds away from panicking, unsure of what to do.

Apologize, run, or go to my knees and relieve the deep need I see throbbing the head of his cock, dripping precum onto the floor. I swallow, temptation flooding my entire body with prickling heat.

Suddenly, a towel sweeps in around his waist, stealing the sight of one of the most deliciously distracting things I've ever seen.

Looking up, I fumble for words as he reaches up to remove his mask. Looking up along that chiseled chest. Those sharp collarbones.

Right into the smoke gray eyes of Evan DeSante.