Page 3 of Filthy Mouth (Obsessive Age Gap #2)

Poppy

I usually told men to fuck off, but tonight was not that night. Tonight I was in self-destruct mode. The fact that this dickhead thought I was a prostitute was hilarious, especially since I wore a modest work suit.

The way his infatuated eyes worshipped me one second, and the next, his filthy mouth was making an intriguing offer. He was in luck tonight, because I couldn ’ t give a damn about propriety.

I was supposed to be at a party with my father and the two bitches. Everyone could fuck off tonight. Especially that balding prick, Edmund.

I dragged the glass along the table, needing the second drink for courage.

“ Do you often procure services from ladies like myself?” I asked, watching him gulp his drink down.

Judging by the light shining on a few stray grey hairs, he was at least forty—maybe older. I wondered if he had grey pubes. I guess I’d find out.

“ No, the last time I did was at a stag do in Amsterdam in 2010,” he said, staring at my lips again. “ How long have you been—um?”

I didn ’ t help him out, just sucked on my straw for dear life and stared innocently at him over my tall glass.

He cleared his throat.

“ How long have you been working in the evenings?”

“ Six years. I followed my stepmother ’ s footsteps and decided to become a whore. It was the best decision I made,” I said, hiding my smile behind my glass.

“ Damn. What age did you start at?” he asked with a frown.

“ I was nineteen, lured in by the glitz and the glamour of this sordid life,” I said, wondering if I should switch careers from interior design to acting.

He looked relieved. “ So you ’ re twenty-five?”

He didn ’ t even need a calculator.

I managed to stop myself from giving him a slow clap.

“ Yes, sir,” I whispered.

His brown eyes darkened, and he squirmed in his chair.

“ Why don ’ t you call me Daddy for tonight?” he said, tugging at his shirt collar.

Oh, shit. This got better and better.

“ Yes, Big Daddy,” I said, licking the rim of my cocktail glass.

His eyes turned predatory, and a smug smile spread across his handsome face.

I didn ’ t like men with beards, but his was well-trimmed and designer-shaped, much like his latest season ’ s Tom Ford grey woollen herringbone suit.

The white shirt came with a white pocket square. His deep pink tie showed confidence.

“ Do you like what you see?” he asked.

God. This man ’ s ego was fucking astronomical.

“ It ’ s better than what I see most nights,” I said, thinking of my father ’ s third chin. His eyes dipped to my drink, and he pulled out his phone.

I guzzled it down, because apparently tonight I was a Gucci-clad prostitute.

I listened to him call his driver and nearly rolled my eyes.

Let ’ s see if the old man lived up to his filthy promise.

??

??

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At least he was a gentleman to someone he thought was a prostitute. He held the door open for me, and I climbed into the Rolls-Royce Phantom. I should have charged more, but it was too late now.

He peered into the car with a frown.

“ Is that Gucci you ’ re wearing?”

“ Are you kidding? It ’ s a knock-off,” I scoffed.

His face cleared, and he climbed into the car beside me.

Damn, all those years of staying silent, smiling, and lying were finally paying off. Who ’ d have thought it would come in handy to pretend to be a prostitute? I wondered what kind of small talk prostitutes had with their customers.

“ What a lovely car you have, Daddy,” I simpered.

“ One of many,” the oaf bragged.

I glanced down and saw the outline of his dick. My eyes widened. Said dick was leaning to his left, and the bulge was considerable. I considered his dirty words and tried to think if there was honey and lemon in the house.

I ’ d need something if my throat was going to take a bashing tonight.

??

??

??

The apartment was exactly what I expected from the address he gave me—in the Canary Wharf area and right next to the river.

I cringed when I walked into the reception area.

Talk about gaudy decor. From the oversized chandelier to the abstract artwork, it was an eyesore.

Whoever the interior designer was for this building needed their head examined.

“ Oh, good evening, Mr Lan—”

“ Good evening, I ’ m just off to my apartment,” Mr Marcus ‘ Trentham ’ said.

I guess we were both liars.

It was comical when he put his arm around me and practically made me run to the elevator.

“ Why are you in such a rush, Daddy?” I said, chuckling, glad I ’ d finished my second drink before I left.

He was tense in the short car ride, and he couldn ’ t take his eyes off my mouth. I almost touched my lips to make sure there wasn ’ t something other than gloss on them. The mysterious Mr L could have a lip fetish.

Was that even a thing?

“ Do you have any hard limits?” he asked as the elevator doors closed.

I stared at him blankly.

What kind of hard limits were there for oral sex?

I narrowed my eyes at him as I thought about his lip fetish.

“ A hard, fuck no, to shitting in my mouth,” I snapped at him.

His jaw fell open, and he burst into laughter. In fact, he laughed so hard he was holding onto his ribs with tears running down his face.

He was still gasping when he spoke. “ I meant if you had any rules about using a condom for a blow job.”

My cheeks burned.

Geez. I wouldn ’ t make a good prostitute after all.

“ Are you diseased?” I asked, trying to get the upper hand again.

The indignation wiped away any traces of humour.

“ I ’ ll have you know I have regular check-ups and—”

“ Do you have a copy of any documentation?” I said, cutting him off, which pissed him off even more, but the elevator doors pinged open.

He started to bluster.

“ If you don ’ t have the documentation, you ’ ll need to wear a condom,” I said, stepping out of the lift.

Beneath his beard, his cheeks were flushed and his brow tightly furrowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut. The vein in his temple looked as if it were ready to burst.

This was so much more fun than a dullard-filled party.

“ Follow me,” he muttered as he strode past me into the marble-floored hallway.

I grinned and followed my client to his apartment.

This was exactly like my day job—minus the oral sex.