“Oh Angel, I’m sure. You take care of other’s needs by giving them fantasies their palms can rub out later. Who takes care of you?”

Is he for real? Who takes care of me? I do. Well that’s not true. If that were, I wouldn’t be edging on eight months without sex, but then I remember I lost my man and that it is normal for me to go on a dry spell. I’m about to get sad again until his growl catches me off guard.

“I asked who takes care of you Angel, and when I ask a question I expect answers.”

Okay… he’s a badass; I get it.

“No one, “I whisper.

Another cherry enters my mouth. I bite down on it, and as I chew, I wonder what he is expecting from me.

“How long has it been baby?”

“Almost nine months,” I say truthfully.

“Why nine months?” Braxxon asks as the bed dips beside me.

What’s with all the personal questions? My hand goes to tear the blindfold off because I’m getting a little angry, but his hand stops mine.

“Don’t,” he growls. “Now answer my damn question!”

“My man was shot in the head right in front of my f**king eyes! Are you happy now?”

As I guess, it doesn’t shock him. I hear no gasp of breath. Why? Because this is his damn world. He’s used to hearing shit like this. His large hand goes to my chest and he pushes me back on the bed, laying me flat on my back. Seriously, what is with this dude?

“Don’t move,” he says sternly.

I go to cross my arms, and he repeats himself more angrily than the first time. So I lay them back beside my body and remain motionless. I feel something falling along the top of my left breast. What the hell? I feel his body hover over me as he snorts.

“Did you just snort coke off of my tit?”

“It’s my birthday.” He chuckles as if it makes it better.

Unbelievable!

“Your turn,” he says as something cold hits my nose.

“No!”

“C’mon baby, just one,” he growls huskily.

Dammit. Why am I here again? Oh yes, my best friend wants a piece of this action. This lifestyle.

“One Braxxon and I mean it,” I scold.

“Snort.” He smacks at my boob playfully.

I want to yell just touch me. Again, I don’t know what he looks like. I’m here for a job and yet I’m naked in the president’s damn bed. So I do as ordered. The coke flies up my nose, and I jump up. That wasn’t one line; that was more like three. That was no small bump.

“You ass**le! I don’t do this shit all the time. Just great,” I scream, turning around and flinging off the blindfold.

Before I can turn back around and face him, the lights go off.

“Seriously, are you so damn ugly that no female can see you?”

“You wanna see me baby?” He teases. His voice. Oh, I want to see the person that belongs to that voice.

“Yes, I don’t really like prancing around naked in a bedroom for someone I can’t see.”

“Answer a few questions for me and I’ll strip for you.”

Now I’m intrigued. Someone strip for a stripper. Oh, this is priceless. I can play this game.

“Okay,” I say almost too happily.

“I want your real name. Not your damn stripper name. Your real one, Angel.”

“Winter, but you ain’t getting my last name, so there’s no need to try.”

I can feel him before I can smell him. He smells delicious. Cologne mixed with man. A real man. I want to see him so badly that I can taste it. I lick my lips, and he groans. His breath is on my forehead as his cut slides up my arms. His cut feels heavy. I can smell the leather too.

“Isn’t this like a rule or something? No one wears your cut, but you,” I mumble. I’m surprised my voice doesn’t squeak; he’s starting to put me off just a tad.

“I want to see an Angel in leather. I’m improvising. Close your eyes.”

I feel the blindfold wrap around my head again. Seriously? Now I’m starting to freak out. He must be something ugly or worse.

“Oh yeah,” I tease. “How does it look?” I know my voice comes out shaky because my nerves are shot to hell. I hear the light switch, and I know the room is bright again.

“Like heaven mixed with hell.”

I gulp. This guy is trouble that I don’t need.

“How old are you?”

I want to reply back with the same question, only I know it’s his birthday, and he just turned thirty, so instead of giving him my age I just smart off.

“Too young for you.”

He growls, and I take that as my cue that I need to give him an answer.

“Eight years younger than you.”

“Twenty-two.” He chuckles.

Something hits the floor, and I’m assuming it’s his shirt.

“You know, when you’re stripping, you’re supposed to let the other person see,” I huff.

He doesn’t answer; he just asks me my next question. “Are your eyes really gold?”

I get this one a lot; it’s not a personal question, so it doesn’t bother me to answer it truthfully.

“Yes, they’re really gold. Technically, they’re just a bright brown but whatever.”

I hear a belt buckle, then a zipper followed by the sound of him shuffling out of his pants. Oh, I wish I could see him, but this is his game. His birthday. I’m almost too distracted by my new high from the powder that is running through my body.