7. Chapter 7
Mal
I ’ve spent the last hour walking around Henrik’s penthouse like a specter. That’s what I feel like, anyway. Some sort of being haunting his place while he’s at work for the day.
Technically, this is work for me, too, seeing as I’m being paid to simply exist for this man. But it sure doesn’t feel like I’m doing anything worth half a million dollars. Especially since we haven’t even fucked yet.
What’s up with that?
I take in the vibrant modern art in front of me.
It’s all big, slashing purples and blues, cut in with some green and gold that feels almost ethereal in the otherwise-stormy color palette.
The one next to it is similar, but the green and gold take up more space, like the colors leapt from the canvas beside it, growing and expanding.
The picture on the opposite wall is much bigger, about four times the size, sitting above the electric fireplace. It’s…breathtaking. I don’t have any other words to describe it. There are a myriad of colors coming together in a way that manages to look both chaotic and serene.
It makes me wonder if, at some point, Henrik was able to see these.
I could probably look him up on social media or Google his name and find out, but that feels like an invasion of privacy.
And in all honesty, it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to dig into Henrik’s past. I’m here to help him in the present.
For whatever reason, Henrik wants me here.
Or, at least, he wants someone . I just happen to be the current choice.
I don’t need to question that. The men who’ve hired me all have their own reasons, none of which I’ve judged.
And one thing I’ve learned is that if these men want to talk about themselves, they will.
And if they don’t? Well, then that usually means they’re looking for a good time, not deep conversation.
Henrik is an unusual case, I’ll admit to that. Living in his home, we’re bound to run into each other with enough frequency that conversation is a given. That doesn’t mean that Henrik wants to delve into his own issues, though. So far, he hasn’t. I don’t think I’m here for that sort of therapy.
But he’s also not simply treating me like a plaything. So where does that leave us? I suppose time will tell.
A lot of time in which I have nothing else to do.
I mean, seriously, what do I do without three jobs to keep me busy?
I already temporarily shut down my camming profile.
I won’t be working any other jobs for Genevieve while I’m stationed here.
And Jerome agreed to give me an extended leave of absence after asking me a good half dozen times if I was really okay.
I appreciate that he cares, but it only made it harder to lie.
I ended up telling him it was a personal family situation I had to take care of—which, now that I think about it, was only half a lie since I am paying for my mother’s care—but I could tell he was dubious.
I don’t blame him. I was cagey as all get-out.
So now what? I just exist here and stare at the pretty walls all day? I need to find something to occupy my time.
I know it’s only been a couple days, but I thought the fact that I’d be making nearly two grand each dawn to dusk would lessen my anxiety. So far, that’s not the case.
Yoga, that’ll help.
As I’m grabbing my mat from the guest bedroom, my phone pings.
Alex: Hey Curls. How’s your sugga pop?
Alex follows his text with three lollipop emojis, a tongue, and an eggplant.
I shake my head, grinning as I type out my reply.
Me: So far, a gentleman.
Alex: Does that mean you haven’t had a single lick?!
Me: You’re ridiculous, and no.
Alex: Is the man blind? What’s the holdup?
I cringe. Oops, I may have forgotten to mention that part. Not that that’s why he hasn’t cashed in on the benefits of our arrangement. Honestly, I have no clue why that is.
Alex: I have to get on set, but you’re going to tell me all about it later. You are coming to Sublime, right? Or do you have to ask your daddy first?
Me: I’ll be there.
Alex shoots me a thumbs up.
I don’t have to ask, do I? Crap, maybe I should.
Shaking my head, I carry my yoga mat into the living room, rolling it out on an open space between the couch and dining area. I start with a few breathing exercises before I open into child’s pose, following that up with downward-facing dog.
Running through the routine is second nature now, and it often helps me deal with excess stress.
That’s why I got into yoga in the first place: as a way to center myself when my thoughts were running every which way.
I barely have to think about it now. Plank is next, and then four-limbed staff pose.
Cobra. Tree. I focus on my body. On my breathing and the gentle stretch of my muscles.
On keeping my balance. Everything else falls away, at least for a little while.
I’m in triangle pose when the elevator opens across the penthouse, breaking my concentration.
Henrik steps through the door, setting his cane on the table in the entryway before toeing off his shoes and placing them on the mat.
When he stands upright, he pauses, head swiveling my way.
I’m barely making any noise, and yet somehow, he senses me here.
“I’m behind the couch,” I tell him.
He walks toward me slowly, head canted, those brilliant green eyes of his inquisitive. “What are you doing on the floor?”
I sit back down, moving into a twist. “Yoga.”
His head tilts even further as he stands in front of me, his hands propped casually on his hips.
“You’re home early,” I note, realizing it’s not even four o’clock.
“Mm. Do you do this often?” he asks, ignoring my comment about the time.
I shrug. “Few times a week, usually.”
He moves closer as I shift into bridge pose, and I watch in amusement as he toes the edge of the yoga mat and then squats down next to me. He reaches out along the mat like he’s searching for me before halting his movement. “Will it mess you up if I touch you?”
My God, please .
I clear my throat. “No.”
He inches his fingers closer, and when he encounters air, since my ass and back are raised off the mat for bridge, I bite my lip. His brow furrows, and I chuckle.
“Up.”
Henrik looks confused, but he lifts his hand slowly, until finally he hits skin.
Or, well, yoga pants. He stops still, that little furrow in his brow making a reappearance as his fingers brush over my ass cheek.
My body responds instantly, heart rate and other things kicking right up.
But it’s the twin spots of color blooming on Henrik’s cheeks when he realizes exactly where his hand is that hold my attention.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him have a reaction to me, and my flapping heart tries to take flight right out of my chest.
“Is this your ass?” he asks, deadpan.
“Yes,” I say, a grin stretching across my face.
He raises a brow before dragging his fingers around to my hip, his touch no longer tentative.
My breath catches as he traces the angle of my body, trailing those digits up the side of my leg to my raised knees and then back down, all the way to where my shoulder meets the floor.
My hamstrings start quivering as he returns to his point of origin.
I try to breathe evenly, but it’s no use.
“You’re shaking,” he notes.
“Yeah. Uh, I’ve been holding this pose for a while.
” Longer than I usually would, but I didn’t want to move a muscle if it meant Henrik’s fingers might leave my body.
I want him to keep touching me. To explore like he did that first night I was here.
I want to see what else those fingers can do, where they might travel.
I want him to light me up. And, maybe most of all, I want to find out exactly what would make that rigid professionalism of his scatter to pieces.
I simply want .
And based on the bulge I can see straining the front of Henrik’s slacks, it seems he wants me, too.
So when is he going to take me?
He hums, fingers moving gently over my hip bone. “What’s next?”
“Corpse,” I mutter, watching those digits wander.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
With an exhale, I drop down to the floor, extending my legs out in front of me and lying completely flat.
Henrik’s hand never leaves my body; his fingers follow me down, a constant pressure on my hip.
And even though I’m supposed to be relaxing in this final pose, my body tenses under the wake of those wandering digits.
Henrik runs his palm down my leg, from thigh to ankle and then back up again.
He’s so close to the erection straining the front of my yoga pants, and as he passes up over my hip, I can tell he’s noticed it.
He stalls, a little smirk on his face as he brushes up the V of my groin, the fabric stretched taut to accommodate my swelling dick.
I curse lightly as he passes by, skimming up my stomach.
I want him to touch me, really touch me, but this isn’t my show, is it? Can I even ask for that?
Henrik makes a sound low in his throat, a hum but rougher, as the pads of his fingers reach the top of my tank top.
He traces along my exposed collarbones lightly, which are rising and falling with my rapid inhalations.
I can’t seem to slow down my breathing, but this is a sort of breathlessness I welcome.
He trails lower again before, suddenly, his touch is gone.
No, no, no .
I exhale harshly and groan. “I didn’t take you for a tease.”
The words slip out mindlessly, but before I can take them back, Henrik wings up an eyebrow and stands.
“Is that what I am?” he asks, turning to walk away before I can protest. “I have a call to make. I’ll be in my study.”
Shit .
“Henrik.”
He stops, turning back to look toward me.
I can’t believe I’m going to ask this, but I’d rather feel ridiculous than break a rule. “Can I, uh, go out tonight?”
He looks at me incredulously. “Did you finish your homework?”