Pain And Pleasure 18+✓

Three

A sleek black Mercedes is waiting outside, hauled right in front of the building. A crispy mid-autumn breeze blows my hair dramatically, and it's slowly getting dark. Smiling, pulling a lungful of air, I use my hand to keep my hair still. My heart is racing out of control as I approach the car, too many nerves wrecking me up.

Chill out, Ara. You can do this.

The driver, a tall guy in a neat black suit,   gets out of the car to regard me. He's a man of a few words, medium but fit, slightly bald on top of his head, with a prominent military disposition of discipline and order.

He reminds me of Jason Stathan.

"Hi," I greet casually, for he's been driving me for a week now.

"Hello." His reverent smile doesn't help the fireflies in my belly when he opens the back door for me. I want to go in, and I also want to run away. "Ma'am?" he calls to demand my decision.

Get moving, bicht! No backing out!

I smile curtly at him and dive into the car. It takes a minute or two until we're on the road to the Imperial Palace Hotel. Inside, I remove the ankle boots and put on the new elegant heels I'm required to wear. I think I'm ready now—ready for the unknown.

I shut my eyes fleetingly, trying my best to keep calm. Am I scared? I guess I am. I don't know what's waiting for me tonight, and I have no idea what the person I'm meeting looks like. Foolish, I know. Risky even.

What if Mr. Castle is an old man I wouldn't even wish to kiss? A jutting belly full of beer and burgers comes to mind, and then an oversized suit on a man with a very boring smile.

No, Ara, stop! I blink the thoughts away and drop my head to my left, leaning onto the windshield exhausted. But I keep thinking of him, envisaging him.

He sounds young on the phone, with a voice rife with life and intelligence, deep and decorous, sexy even, so he can't be that old. No, he has to be a young man in his thirties or something.

Right?

I sigh heavily. Las Vegas strip shines brighter than Christmas night, with every building and billboard emanating colorful lights that can take one's mind miles away with their charming effect. But I'm far from being charmed right now.

I'm dreading it.

"We're here," Mr. Black suit announces, and I think he's repeated that once or twice given the fact that he's already at the door.

"Oh, sorry." I gather my bag, and he smoothly holds the door open for me a few seconds later. "Thanks." I smile tightly and fix my coat once I'm out.

Okay, with these diamond-encrusted heels befitting a royal, I feel very fancy. No, I do look fancy and it's a catalyst for the burst of nerves in my belly.

"Have a good evening, ma'am," the driver whispers and I nod in response.

A tall, gigantic neo-classic building is right before me. Imperial Palace Hotel and Casino are boldly shimmering high above. I walk through the swirling glass doors and into the lobby. My head is on the clouds and faster is the pace of my heartbeat. I have the key card to the suite so I head straight for the see-through glass elevator.

In a short moment, I'm at my final destination—the presidential suite. I swipe the card and open the door cautiously. Is he inside? It's the question I've been having throughout the way, but to my utter disappointment, the room is bathed with quiet and darkness until I turn the lights on.

I doubt he's here. Everything is as I left it a few hours ago, except for the strong scent of red roses lying on the table, a bottle of Cristal in the ice bucket, and two glasses. Does this mean he was here? I slowly drop my bag on the sofa, somehow intrigued.

Restless, I grab the beautiful bouquet of roses and sniff them gently, recalling almost nothing about ever receiving flowers from a man. Did I get one during high school prom? Maybe I did. But the boyfriend I had, Richard, was a jerk who didn't even bother with little things.

I somehow used to envy girls who received flowers and chocolates on Valentine's and their birthdays no matter how cliche it sounds in this modern world. So I smile, trying for once to imagine the mundane feeling of faux romance read in books, and it sends a tingle over the back of my neck.

But heck, I'm not some character in Mills and Boons Romance.

My phone rings and I nearly jump. "Damn it!" I curse out loud, putting the roses down.

It's him.

I frown, annoyed already by the fact that he's calling again instead of being here. Is he kidding me?

"I thought you'd be here. It's what we agreed!" My voice turns harsh and I'm not intending to mask my anger.

"And I shall keep my word," he answers calmly, very calmly.

As always, I roll my eyes. "When? You certainly said you love punctuality if my memory serves me well!"

"And you're five minutes late, Miss Lincoln," he retorts.

"Oh, for crying out loud! We're in Vegas, dude! Do you think it's Mongolia or—" I start but shut my mouth immediately. Fuck! He's silent, waiting for me to proceed. "I mean, I'm sorry that I'm late," I breathe.

Yeah, right. Fake it till you make it.

"Go to the bedroom, Miss Lincoln," he orders, his voice as arctic as the northern pole. I stand still, stupefied. "Now," he snaps coolly.

I comply, breathing unevenly. What is he going to do to me? My head starts spinning as soon as I reach the bedroom. It's also as I left it—too clean, too neat, utterly untouched.

"Can you see what's on the bed, Miss Lincoln?" he asks in baritone.

"Um..." I get closer, and finally, I grasp something. "Yes, I see it." I grab a red piece of fabric.

"What do you see?" he asks.

"A silky or satin scarf, I guess?" I inspect it closely.

"It's a blindfold, Miss Lincoln. Put it on," he instructs.