Calling Card Read online

  Ashley Suzanne

  Calling Card

  © 2014, Ashley Suzanne

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.

  ISBN – 9781311332301

  Cover Designer – LM Creations

  Editor – Tiffany Tillman, Redhead Book Services

  For Carrie, my soul sister. Thank you for loving me unconditionally. You’re one of the greatest friends I’ve made during this journey. For that reason, I’d never take any of this back.

  Norman, because every book needs a muse. Thank you for being my Dex. You might not be everyone else’s, but you were my vision from the start.

  Babe, because you let me obsess about whatever I want. You make the world’s greatest partner in crime. Keep the ideas coming. I never want to know what it’s like to write a book without you.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in a stranger’s bed, lying next to a woman I don’t recognize, in a city I can’t remember. Ibiza? Paris? London? The only thing I know for sure is that I’m in Europe somewhere.

  Quietly exiting the bed, I search around on the floor for my pants and shirt. Looking over my shoulder, the same scene that’s played before me so many times is no different—gorgeous woman, half covered by a sheet, hair perfectly mussed and her arm draped where I was just warming her sheets. I could probably wake her and judge by her accent where I am, but then I’d actually have to engage in conversation with her and I’d rather slip out into the early morning light.

  Being only a mediocre partner, I’ll never know who she is, nor will she know me. It kind of works out good this way, though. No need for awkward goodbyes, uncomfortable calls and broken promises of meeting up again sometime.

  I crack the bedroom door, fully clothed, ready to make my escape into the night when the woman starts moving. Slowly taking my hand off the handle and holding my breath, I wait for her to roll away, facing the opposite wall and giving me a glimpse of her tight, pert ass and reminding me what made me want to fuck her to begin with.

  When I’m safely on the other side of the door, I pause at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Pulling out my cell, I text my driver with the GPS coordinates and request him to pick me up as soon as possible. His reply is almost immediate. Spotting my jacket and shoes next to the sofa, I throw them on and pull a business card from the breast pocket.

  Just because I don’t want to have the awkward conversation about where our ‘relationship’ is heading, that doesn’t mean someone won’t speak with her. My system—the one I’ve developed over the years—works flawlessly. I’m a callous prick, but they know that going in; they just think they’ll be the one to save me from my foolish ways.

  Writing a number four on the back of the card, I leave it on the counter and slip out the front door without a second thought.

  See, this is how it will go. The unknown brunette will wake up in a few hours from her orgasm-induced coma and notice me missing. The first thing she’ll do is check the bathroom. When she realizes I’m not in there, she’ll make her way to the kitchen, undoubtedly thinking she’s cured whatever she assumes is wrong with me and I’m cooking her breakfast. Her shoulders will slump and the smile will fade as she comes to the conclusion that I’m already gone. Then she’ll see the business card and all hope will be restored.

  She’ll call the number while practicing her sexy, husky, bedroom voice. As my answering service comes across the line, she’ll ask to speak with me. She’ll be told that I’m on location for a job and am unavailable to speak with at the current time, and then be asked to give the number on the back of the card. She’ll flip over the card, see the four and tell the person on the other end of the line, who in turn recites a very specific script.

  “Ma’am, I’d first like to thank you for calling. Dex will be quite busy for the next few months to come, traveling for business.” That part isn’t a lie. Being one of the most sought after photographers in the world, I’m in high demand and spend a great deal of my time shooting across the globe. “We’d like to thank you on his behalf for the enjoyable evening, and if Dex is ever in this part of (enter country, state or province here) he’ll attempt to contact you.” However, for any woman ranking under a seven, the service doesn’t actually collect any of their information for me to contact them again. It’s more to keep me safe from the crazies—the women that think because they spread their legs, they’re entitled to a next meeting. For these women, the six and unders, it’s a way of pacifying them so I don’t get stalked down and harassed.

  These women usually get pretty irritated when they can’t speak directly to me. I’ve instructed the calling service to have no problems terminating the call and blocking the number from ever being able to call again.

  Of course, with the array of women I entertain, nearly all of them feel used by this emotionless encounter and end up going through the typical stages of grief. There will be loads of anger, frustration, denial and then finally acceptance that she was a one night stand and will certainly move on with her life. Sure, I’ve burned a bridge with this woman, but if all I wanted to begin with was a night of casual sex and she wasn’t even that great at it, why would I need to contact her in the future?

  And just like that I’m onto the next country, girl and potential blow off. Now, this isn’t saying that if the woman is absolutely phenomenal I won’t see her again. There’s a whole other script if I give the woman a seven or higher. Those girls, the seven to ten range, get a more special treatment. The answering service will take all of their information, catalogue them for me by area and store them in my version of a little black book. If and when I’m around again, I’ll call them up for another round or three in the bedroom.

  I guess there could be better ways to enjoy a one night stand, but this works. With my career and status, it pays to be discrete about these kinds of encounters. The less they know about me, the better, which is why I usually keep them to one night, unless I need a good lay if I’m ever in the area again. It’s callous, yes, but it could be worse—I could demean them by making these women sign some sort of non-disclosure agreement in lieu of a night with me. I choose to let them live out whatever fantasy they’re having before I burst their bubble. See? I am a gentleman.

  As I push my way through the lobby doors—and by the concierge’s accent, I’ve determined I’m somewhere in Italy—my car pulls up to the curb. I slink into the backseat as he heads off to my hotel.

  “Have a good night, Sir?” Nicholas asks as he weaves through traffic.

  “Four,” I simply reply, rubbing my temples as I wish away the headache and sore muscles that always come after a night of excessive drinking and bedroom acrobatics.

  “Another one bite your dick?” he chuckles, eyeing me th
rough the rearview mirror.

  “No,” I laugh. “This one insisted on calling me daddy in her annoying baby voice. If she would’ve just kept my cock in her mouth, she could’ve been a seven, no doubt. I don’t understand what it is with women these days—nobody wants to hear a woman speak like a five-year-old, especially when I’m trying to put my dick in her ass.”

  Nicholas wipes away his tears of laughter and raises the partition. Shaking my head, I grab the bottle of aspirin he keeps supplied for me and swallow a couple dry.

  “How long are we here?” I lower the glass just a crack, not even enough for our eyes to connect in the mirror.

  “Based on your schedule, we’re in Milan until the end of the week, a few days in Paris and then home.”

  “Alright, wake me when we arrive at the hotel.” Resting my head on the plush leather headrest behind me, I drift off in a peaceful slumber. God knows I didn’t get any last night.

  Paris—the city of love, pastries and the Eifel Tower, I love this place. France might be one of my all time favorite countries to visit. There’s a little something for everyone here, and the women, well, they’re fucking gorgeous.

  It’s my last day in this magnificent city, and I plan to make it a memorable one. The last time I was here, it didn’t go over so well. Let’s just say, this was the first place I realized that even the lesser quality lays needed to get a card, too.

  Her name was Marie. She had the most perfect body I had ever seen, and the way she danced gave me every impression that she would be wild in bed. I was wrong. Scratch that…I was dead wrong.

  She took me back to her place, like I had done with other women many times before, but it was the sight of her house when I first walked in … and the fucking smell. The woman was obsessed with cats. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that there had to be at least a dozen kittens living in her small home. Then there was her décor—cat figurines, cat blankets on the back of the sofa, cat coffee mugs, stuffed animal cats … I know it sounds really repetitive, but seriously, it was feline heaven.

  I should’ve known to run then. I would have been better off bowing out and never seeing her again, but I couldn’t take my mind off the way she was grinding on my dick on the dance floor. Hindsight … it’s a son of a bitch.

  Well, to make a long story short, I ignored all of the kitty paraphernalia and continued on with our evening. Marie could suck a dick like it was nobody’s business and I thought I had made the right decision by staying. That was until I got her in the bedroom, naked, and hell was her body glorious. She would have been the perfect object to photograph and not a damn thing would have to be photoshopped. She was the epitome of perfection.

  Back then, I had this crazy obsession with always wanting to be on top. I’m still not sure why, probably something to do with control and masculinity, but we can save that for my future therapist to figure out. Okay, back to it. I had her on her back, legs spread, pussy on display and my dick hard as fucking stone. I put on a condom, stroked myself a few more times and aligned myself at her entrance.

  A moment or two went by and I was sure that I didn’t actually get it in, so I double checked and yeah, I was in. I had never experienced anything like that. I’d had a loose pussy a time or two, but nothing so blown out I couldn’t feel a damn thing. Then, to make matters worse, she didn’t move a damn muscle—she just laid there, moaning on cue.

  I knew women occasionally faked orgasms, never with me, but I sometimes read the magazines I shoot for, if only to pass the time while waiting on a plane or at the doctor’s office. This time, though, it was me that had to pretend to come just to get the hell out of there.

  The moment she excused herself to use the bathroom, I slipped back into my clothes and out the door without a second thought. I know what you’re thinking, “You escaped a close call, man. Congrats.” Well. No. You’re wrong.

  It was a few days later and I was finishing a job for the French equivalent of Cosmo when Marie came strutting through the door on a mission. Before I could address her presence, she started screaming at me in French. I couldn’t understand a lick of what she was going on about, but I got the message when all of the models started staring at me with disgusted faces. Needless to say, I was banned from ever shooting at that location again and Marie walked out of there as smug as smug could be.

  I guess she had tracked down who I was, where I was working and made it her prerogative to cause as much damage as she could. The one woman tornado almost tanked my career. I had a talk with my best friend who told me that most girls would prefer to be blown off than flat out ignored. Thank God I had someone to tell me that, and now, everyone gets a damn card, whether or not I’m ever going to see them again.

  So here I am, ready to embark on this amazing city. Nicholas flew back a day early to prep for an interview I have in a few days, so I’m without a driver this evening. I could easily call for a taxi or another car, but I figure I’ll play it safe and see what kind of talent’s in the hotel bar.

  Dressed in a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans and a navy blue button-down shirt, I take the elevator to the main floor and meander into the bar. Scouting the room, I definitely observe some sexy women in here tonight. The one that catches my eye, however, is unconventionally beautiful. With extremely short blonde hair and tattoos inked across much of her exposed skin, she’s stunning and intriguing.

  As I approach her table, I hear her speaking in English but with a very thick French accent. Tapping her on the shoulder, she turns and stares back at me with the most mesmerizing gray eyes.

  “May I buy you a drink?” I ask, taking her hand in mine, running my thumb across her knuckles.

  “Oui. Merci,” she replies. Two simple words from her are enough to have me wanting to forego the entire drinking thing and go straight back to her room. It’s going to be a great change from the usual ‘yes, yes, oh God yes’ that I usually hear.

  Nodding toward the bartender, I signal for him to pour another of what she’s drinking and order a beer for myself. Sitting at the table next to where she and her friends are sitting, I motion her to take a seat on the opposite side, which she does.

  “I should have introduced myself before offering you a drink. My apologies for being so rude. My name’s Dex, it’s very nice to meet you.” I take her hand again, repeating my earlier gesture, only adding a kiss to her knuckles.

  “Veronique,” she says seductively, adding a little bit of French to her introduction, “Enchanté.”

  The waitress brings over her cocktail and a beer for me while Veronique and I enjoy some light conversation. I’ve learned enough about her to know that I most certainly wouldn’t mind getting more intimate. Veronique is a fashion student in London, but home from school on holiday. She was a world class gymnast, but had torn a ligament just before competing for the French Olympic Team four years ago. I’ll be honest, after I heard the word gymnast, everything else went in one ear and out the other.

  I’m game.

  “Well, Veronique, it was a pleasure meeting you this evening. I do have to retire to my room for the evening; I have an early flight back to the States.” I’m barely able to finish my statement when she slides across the table a key to what I presume to be her room.

  Glancing at her, a mischievous smile tells me all I need to know. I’ve made an impression on the young fashionista and she’s inviting me back to her room for a nightcap. Do they call them nightcaps anymore? Okay, let’s call a spade a spade; she wants me to go to her room and fuck her stupid. That I can do.

  Standing from my seat, I tell the waitress to charge our drinks to my room, take Veronique’s hand and lead her to the bank of elevators across the lobby. Once inside, she presses the button for the twenty-second floor and our climb begins.

  When we reach her room, I slide the key in the lock and usher her through the entrance. The door doesn’t have a chance to latch when Veronique’s on her knees, pawing at the zipper of my pants. Giving her a little assistance, I fre
e myself.

  With gusto, she opens her mouth wide enough to accommodate my size and takes me in until my balls hit her chin. Wrapping one hand around my shaft as she rears back, the other grabs on to my ass, pulling me closer to her as she goes to town. And go to town she does. This sexy little spinner doesn’t have a gag reflex to speak of, and it’s proven each time she sucks my dick to the back of her throat and then some.

  “Fuck,” I groan, pumping my hips in time with her motions. She’d better watch out. I could come just like this.

  Mumbling something in French, Veronique continues to give me the best head I’ve ever had. Just before I’m about to come, I push her back, needing to be inside of her. If the woman can suck a dick like a pro, I’m sure she can fuck even better.

  Pulling her to her feet and picking her up, she wraps her legs around my waist and starts unbuttoning my shirt as I take us to the bed. I toss her in the middle and finishing taking off my clothing, everything except my underwear. Veronique gets to her knees, shimmies her dress down her body, falls back to her ass and kicks the garment off to the side.

  Fuck. Me.

  This woman is going to be the death of me. She wasn’t wearing any panties or a bra, for that matter. Thank God for plastic surgery, because her tits are fucking amazing. Climbing on top of her, they’re the first things I tackle. Sucking a nipple into my mouth, my hand works the opposite breast, loving the way she squirms beneath me. Kissing my way down her body, stopping briefly at her navel, I’m about to continue my descent when she reaches for the nightstand and places a condom in my hand.

  A woman that knows exactly what she wants? I like this shit. Not that I mind going down on her, but if it’s not a requirement, I sure as hell won’t complain. I mean, if I can get her wet by playing with her tits, why would I volunteer to eat her pussy? It’s perfectly acceptable to nod your head in agreement, I’m not judging.

  Wanting to try something a little different, I lie on my back after my dick’s covered in latex and motion for her to get on top. She all too quickly obliges, straddling my waist and slowly grinding down onto my cock. This is nothing like the first woman I fucked in Paris; Veronique is so fucking tight, I can feel each and every ripple of her satisfaction.