4. Chapter 4
Henrik
H e smells like coconut.
That’s the first thought that runs through my head, however inconsequential it is. It’s not the least bit off-putting, either. Not like I’d expect it to be. Tropical is not in my usual wheelhouse of preferred scents.
I dismiss the boy’s aroma and cant my head toward the white couch in the center of the living room behind me. Time to get down to business.
“Come, have a seat,” I tell him, leading the way.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, kicking off his shoes and, if I’m not mistaken, placing them on the mat near the door.
I keep my appreciation for that bit of cleanliness to myself as I take a seat on the far side of the couch, crossing my ankle over my knee and waiting as the boy approaches.
He sinks down gently beside me, his quick, quiet breaths the only detectable indication that he’s nervous.
I wonder if my reputation has preceded me.
“Your name?” I ask.
He jumps slightly, as if my speaking surprised him. “Genevieve didn’t tell you?”
“Hm. I’d prefer hearing it from you.”
Normally, I would have vetted my potential companion well before meeting them, but this time around, I was in a rush, not wanting to wait days or even weeks for a suitable match to be arranged.
All I got from my brief call with Genevieve a few hours ago was the name Mr. Jones.
Everything else worth knowing, I’ll find out when Genevieve sends over his file, but for now, I want to hear the details from his own lips.
Not only because it’ll give me a chance to learn more about the boy who’ll be living in my home for the foreseeable future, but because paper only reveals so much. Voices give a lot more away.
“Mal,” he answers after a brief pause. I can’t help but wonder why he hesitated.
“Mal,” I acknowledge with a nod. “I’m Henrik.”
“Okay.”
I huff in amusement, not all that surprised by his informal attitude. Most of the boys Genevieve sends are young, the type who’d prefer partying to serious endeavors. “How old are you, Mal?”
“Twenty-seven.”
I nod again. Older than Denny, then, which ought to work in my favor. Hopefully, he’ll be more mature. Although, at twenty-seven, he’s probably too old for me to continue thinking of as a boy.
Honestly, his age doesn’t much matter to me, so long as he can follow the rules. I’m particular about my space, but I have good reason to be.
“Have you done this before?” I ask.
“Escorting?” When I nod, he goes on. “Yeah, but never like this.”
“You mean because you’ll be living here,” I fill in.
“For six months, yeah.”
I hum. We’ll see if he makes it that far. “Does that bother you?”
“I wouldn’t be here if it did,” he answers, although I get the sense there’s something about the arrangement that doesn’t suit him. I’ll have to pry into that at a later time.
“How much did Genevieve tell you?” I ask.
“Not much,” he admits, shifting around a little on his cushion. Yeah, he’s nervous. “She said you’d have rules.”
“That’s true,” I allow before standing up. “But first, would you care for a drink? Water? Coffee? Wine?”
“Actually, yeah,” he replies quietly. “I think I could use a glass of wine right about now.”
Nodding, I round the couch and make my way into the kitchen.
The wine Benjamin delivered, a top-notch Malbec, is decanting on the island countertop, and I pour two glasses from the carafe.
When I get back to the living room, I hold out Mal’s drink.
His fingers brush mine lightly as he clasps the stem, his coconut scent wafting close yet again.
Taking a step back, I reclaim my seat a cushion away. The smell dissipates slightly. “Rule one is exclusivity,” I say, notching my ankle over my knee and getting right into it. “That’s important, and if I find out you’re fucking someone else, you’re gone.”
He coughs a little into his drink. “Right,” he says. “That’s fair.”
“Goes both ways,” I point out. “I won’t be fucking anyone else.”
“Okay,” he replies. “Good to know.”
“Rule two is cleanliness. No rearranging anything in my penthouse. If you use something, put it back where you found it. And no leaving shoes or clothes or any of your things strewn about.”
“Easy enough,” he says.
“Is it? Because that seems to be a difficult fucking rule to follow,” I all but bark, immediately regretting the harshness of my tone. It’s not Mal’s fault that Denny and so many of the others seemed incapable of keeping their shit off the floor.
“Promise. I can be clean.”
I relax my shoulders—knowing I need to give Mal the benefit of the doubt—and take a sip of my wine to regroup, enjoying the full-bodied, dry flavor as it coats my tongue.
It’s more than likely Mal will go the way of the rest of these escorts and be out the door within the next month, but perhaps he’ll surprise me.
I shouldn’t draw any conclusions this early in the game.
Besides, I’m tired of having to adjust to new companions. The endless loop is exhausting, a headache in and of itself. I wish one of these boys would stick, at least for a little while.
Maybe this one will.
“The third rule is no bright lights or loud noises,” I go on, softening my tone. “It fucks with my head.”
There’s an extended pause, and then Mal says, “Sorry, I was nodding. Shit .”
I quirk my brows but don’t call attention to the slip. He seems jumpy enough as is. “Questions so far?”
I wait for the usual inquisition into my blindness following my comment about bright lights and sound. To be frank, I’m surprised it hasn’t come up yet. It’s usually the first question lobbed my way. But much to my surprise, Mal asks something entirely different.
“Is swearing in the rules? I would’ve thought so, but you didn’t seem to care that I said ‘shit,’ and you’re saying ‘fuck’ a lot, so now I’m not so sure.”
I bite my tongue, amused despite my attempt to remain professional. “You can swear,” I answer.
No matter what these boys—or men—seem to think, I am not their daddy, and I have no desire to be. That’s not what this is about.
“I have headphones,” he answers belatedly. “To keep noise down.”
I nod, getting back to business. “Good. Rule four then. You sleep in the guest bedroom, no exceptions.”
“Okay.”
“Rule five—” I stop when Mal makes a gentle noise at the back of his throat. “Question?”
“I, uh…was just wondering if I’ll get a list.”
My eyebrows pop up. Maybe this one is going to take things seriously.
“Benjamin will draw one up with your contract,” I tell him. “But there’s only one more.”
“Benjamin?”
“My personal assistant.” When Mal doesn’t say anything else, I go on. “Rule five—and pay attention because breaking this one will land you on the curb just as quickly as breaking exclusivity.”
“I’m listening,” he says gently.
“No sex if you do not want it.” I pause a second so the words can sink in.
“I mean that. I know I’m paying you to be here, but consent is important to me.
Do not lie to me about wanting sex because you think you need to.
If you lie, I will know, and you’ll be gone.
But I will never kick you out for saying no. ”
There’s a lengthy pause, and I take another sip of my wine, letting Mal work through whatever he’s thinking.
Yes, part of the purpose of these rules is to make boundaries and set clear expectations.
I don’t want any of these boys—men—developing feelings or making my life harder than it needs to be.
They’re here to keep me company, simple as that.
Having rules, a guideline, sets the tone for our arrangement.
Simple. Transactional.
But the other part, rule five in particular, is because I need these escorts to know they don’t have to perform to keep me satisfied. It’s not about sex for me. That’s just a perk, and only if my partner is amenable.
“I don’t understand,” Mal finally says, the confusion clear in his voice. “Genevieve said this is a Gold contract, which I thought means—”
“Fucking, yes.”
“But only if I want to?” he asks.
“Only when and if you want to, yes. So if you don’t find me attractive, we don’t ever need to—”
He barks a laugh, his first unguarded show of emotion since arriving. The sound is light and joyous, and I like it more than I should. “That’s not a problem, believe me.”
I nod, trying to curtail my smile. I’m more than a little pleased to hear he, at the very least, finds me physically appealing. To be honest, that will make this easier. An arrangement on terms he understands.
Because why else would I hire an escort if not for sex? I’m not willing to share the real reason—that it’s simply his presence I require.
Leaning back against the couch, I twirl my wine glass idly between my fingertips. “Then it really is pretty simple. I enjoy sex, but only when my partner is willing. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” he says.
I finish off my wine and set the empty glass on the coffee table before opening my hands. “That’s it.”
“So, my clothes…”
“Yes?” I ask flatly, my chest souring in disappointment. It’s not uncommon for these boys to ask for an extra allowance, but I’d hoped Mal might be different. Better.
Perhaps he’s not.
“I mean,” he says tentatively, “do you have any rules about how I dress or what I eat or, I don’t know…
how you want me to groom? I’m already smooth for my job—” He cuts off, silence falling for half a second.
“Which is more information than you needed to know, even though you’ll see for yourself soon enough.
Not that—” He makes a sort of strangled sound before clearing his throat.
“You know what? I’ll just stop talking now. ”
The tightness in my chest abates, fleeing like shadows from the sun.
How…refreshing.
“No, Mal,” I say lightly. “You can dress, eat, or groom in whatever way suits you.”
There’s another pause. “And I can leave, or like…go out? If I wanted to see my friends or—”
“Mal.” I halt him, a chuckle breaking free. “You wouldn’t be my prisoner. Just my company.”
“Okay.” The word whooshes out like a puff of air.