Page 29 of The Client
She turns to the closet and begins hanging things up. Her paltry wardrobe won’t touch an eighth of the space inside. I’m suddenly irritated and I’m not sure why. If she’s a model, shouldn’t she have more? More clothes, more makeup, more shoes and all the things models lean towards? Izabela is likely the most simplistic woman I’ve ever met.
“Do you have more at your apartment?” I gesture to the boxes.
She shakes her head. “No. I brought everything with me.”
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who was such a minimalist.”
Izabela gives me that icy stare that I’m becoming all too familiar with.
“When I moved here from Poland, I brought two suitcases with me. I don’t have much. It’s not like I take myself shopping with my earnings.”
Working my jaw to the side, I watch for a few more minutes, knowing I should leave her to unpack. But she’s mine. She can unpack later. Her high-waist jeans are sculpted to her long legs and that perfectly round derrière, making my mouth water. Her hair is in a thick braid down her back, begging to be tugged. Right now, I’m tense and on edge and she’s going to help take it away.
“So, you’re a professional model.”
She looks over at me and a smile works its way across her face. “I’m still on my way up in the industry, but yes. It’s mostly been print jobs, photos for catalogs or department store websites, but I’ve been getting bigger gigs recently. My agent says I’m gaining recognition.”
“You good at what you do?”
There’s no hesitation as she answers, simply, “Yes.”
The confidence is unexpected. This woman is such a contradiction. At times she seems so young, so unworldly, so inexperienced. At others she’s stubborn, fierce, self-assured. It’s…interesting. Not that I’m interested in her. What I’m interested in is her capacity to please. She’s a means to an end.
But there’s no reason I can’t be entertained by her in the process.
“Prove it,” I say. “Give me a show and I’ll decide if you have what it takes.”
The look in her eyes says challenge accepted, even before the words are out of her mouth.
“What do you want me to do?”
Moving to the chair by the window, I sink into it. “Take off your jacket.”
Izabela steps back and looks directly at me, lifting her chin and straightening her spine. Then she presses her lips together and stalks toward me. She’s treating this exactly like one of her shoots, I realize. Pretending she’s on an actual runway. This isn’t a game to her.
Jutting one hip to the side, she shrugs out of the jacket and lets it slide down her arms. Transferring it to one hand, she slings it over her shoulder, turns, and walks away. When she reaches the closet door, she turns back around and tosses the jacket on the bed.
“What now?” she asks, still wearing that haughty model face.
I assess her blue blouse and those tight jeans, the tall boots that look scuffed enough to suggest she’s had them for a while. If she’s good, very good, I’ll take her to buy new ones.
But first, we’ll see how well she performs.
“Striptease for me, Izabela. Take it all off. Slowly.”
The mask slips, and I see her emotions play out on her face. Consternation. Reluctance. A little hatred toward me. All fine, as long as she follows through.
Her hands drop to the front of her shirt and she works the first button of her blouse. Her fingers tremble slightly as she fumbles with it. The second comes apart easier. My cock starts to harden as I anticipate the blouse falling open, revealing the milky rise of her breasts, the curve of her waist, and all that silken skin. Mine. All mine.
Slowly, her hips begin to move. Just a sway, side to side. She releases the rest of the buttons, one by one. Shifting in the chair, I nearly groan as her shirt finally opens and gives me the view I was waiting for. A pink demi bra cups her breasts, round and firm, and I have to fight back the urge to go over there and dip my tongue into the narrow channel between them. I can’t wait to find out if her panties match.
“Runway walk while you take off the shirt,” I command.
My voice is pure gravel. My blood, so heated.
I catch another angry flash in her eyes before she saunters toward me again, strutting down the length of the room. She passes me, reaches the far wall, spins, and walks back to me. The shirt slips effortlessly down her arms. Leaning back, she grabs the shirt in her hand and sends it flying onto the bed.
“I like the attitude,” I tell her. “Ditch the braid. I want that hair long and loose.”
