I’ve had women compliment my length before, but usually they’re referring to a different body part. Nothing about this night is usual; maybe that’s why I like it so much. “Happy to be of service.”
“She’s very nervous. She might scratch you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” I give her a small smile, and this time I’m rewarded by a pinkening of her cheeks. “Now if you would move aside. I require room to work.”
She scoots herself around me, careful not to touch, sucking in her breath as she passes by me. Is she afraid of me? I don’t think so. At least not the ordinary fear a woman might have of a man. Instead she seems wary, much like the cat that watches me from behind the dresser, nervous of the world and its unknowns, terrified of everything and nothing at all.
With both hands braced on the side of the dresser, I use all my strength to lift it. As I suspected it’s an ancient piece, made back when they used solid wood for every beam and joint. It probably weighs a thousand pounds, which is why the woman didn’t move it first. I manage to move it two inches farther from the wall, which isn’t enough for a person to walk behind, but is enough for a cat. This one would probably wander out eventually, when she wants to eat, but I don’t think my client will relax until she does.
So I return to the far end of the dresser, near the corner, and bend to look at the cat. She stares at me, her eyes almost glowing, unfathomable. “You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” I murmur.
No response. She doesn’t even blink.
“I could talk to you for hours,” I say, reaching down to stroke the top of her head.
She’s soft and unexpectedly fragile beneath all that fur. It’s almost like armor, the thickness of it. It makes her seem larger than she is. “I could talk for hours, and you still wouldn’t trust me, would you? You won’t believe a thing I say, so I’ll just have to show you.”
I don’t change the cadence of my voice, not even as I reach below the cat and scoop her up, not even as I clasp her securely against my chest and pet her head. She curls against me with a faint purr of relief, her thick tail swishing back and forth in gratitude.
“Oh my God, thank you,” the woman says, looking torn between snatching her cat away and coming near me. Quite a dilemma, she has. “I realized I couldn’t find her thirty minutes ago, and then spent all this time looking, and then when I did find her she wouldn’t come out.” She stops herself, flushing. “Sorry, I babble when I’m nervous.”
And it’s adorable, but I know better than to tell her that.
“My assistance does come with a price,” I say instead.
Her eyes widen. “Oh?”
“Your name. It’s only fair now that I’m holding your pussy.”
Oh, the color of her cheeks. They remind me of sunsets with wind from the west, the kind that herald good weather for sailors the following day. “Bee,” she says.
“The kind that make honey?”
“No, Bea like Beatrix.” She makes a face. “It was my grandmother’s name.”
I would love to say a name as unique as Beatrix while I pound into her, but it’s clear she’d rather I called her by the nickname. Anyway, it suits her. Simple on the surface, a thousand meanings beneath. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bea. And your cat,” I prompt.
“Minette,” she answers, her expression softening.
Upon hearing her name, the cat seems to realize she’s been far too content in a stranger’s arms. She pulls herself away, a little haughty, and leaps onto the floor. Only then, from the relative safety of two feet away, does she turn back to give me a warning hiss.
Then she swishes away with a walk I can only admire.
“I suppose I haven’t made a friend,” I say ruefully.
Bea grins. “Are you kidding? She didn’t take a swipe at you. I’m pretty sure that means she loves you in Minette language. She doesn’t like new people.”
Why do you travel with a cat who dislikes new people? I suppose she could keep her locked up in penthouse suites around the country, wealthy enough to insist that her cat sit with her in first class instead of locked in steerage, but it still seems like a strange pet to travel with.
Come to think of it, the pet isn’t the only thing strange. The old furniture. The young woman who’s looking at me with a mixture of trepidation and hope.
“Is it possible…” I say, almost reluctant to ask, but needing to know. “That she doesn’t meet a lot of people because she lives on the top floor of an exclusive boutique hotel?”
Green eyes blink at me, as wide as the ones that looked at me from behind the dresser. As if I’ve trapped her there. As if I’m the only one who can get her out. “Ah. Yes.” She laughs a little. “What gave it away?”
A million things, but mostly the fact that Bea looks so skittish I think I could spook her if I move too fast. I nod toward a painting on the wall, which features a smaller version of Minette in pointillism. “I assume it’s not standard concierge service to paint a masterpiece of the guest’s pet. Though if it is you really have to mention that in the Expedia review.”
She laughs, the sound light as air, making my chest feel full. “I’m guessing Olivier would rather paint her than clean her litterbox.”
So she’s on a first-name basis with the concierge. It means she’s been living here for a while, most likely, which is interesting because she can’t be older than twenty. The high-necked dress is strange for someone that young, but it’s surprisingly sexy. It conforms to her figure, emphasizing her curves and making my blood run hot.
Her smile fades. “It’s not a problem, is it? Me living here?”
As quickly as that, my profession fills the air like smoke. Like a bomb went off.
“It’s no problem,” I assure her. The agency will send me to a hotel room as easily as a client’s high-rise condo. There’s no difference as long as the credit card charge goes through.
She bites her lip, looking anywhere except the large antique bed. “Do you… I mean, did you want to just start or…”
“Perhaps let’s go into the living room,” I tell her, already leading the way, my hand light on her lower back. This is the way I picked up the cat, moving her before she really had to think about it, saving her from herself. “I would love to talk to you first.”
And find out why this beautiful and nervous young woman hired an escort.
Chapter Two
There are ass men and there are breast men. I can appreciate a beautiful ass or a nice rack. The blood in my veins is red, after all. But what I really am, what drives me absolutely crazy, what seems obscene even though women walk around with them in full view, are freckles. There’s something about them, the way they scatter over skin, the knowledge of the other places they must cover, that makes me hard as a rock. I have this primal instinct to map the constellations on Bea’s body.
Her black dress covers more than it shows. The fabric reveals an hourglass figure that I would love to run my hands along, but we aren’t close to that. And above the high neckline, that’s where the freckles begin. Only a shade darker than her natural skin color, which is pale.