13. Chapter 13
Mal
H enrik went silent after my admission. I can’t blame him. I spewed my feelings at him like something a boyfriend would do. Presumably. Again, no experience.
But that’s not the type of company Henrik is paying for. He’s probably trying to figure out how to politely move us on to a new topic or tell me off.
I’m about two seconds away from apologizing when he finally speaks up.
“What makes it better?”
“Huh?” I ask in surprise.
Henrik repeats himself without an ounce of frustration in his tone. In fact, there’s a little furrow in his brow—now that I’m looking at him, instead of staring at my own plate out of embarrassment—that looks a lot like concern. “What lessens your anxiety?”
“Oh.” I clear my throat and take a small sip of wine. It does taste quite nice. “Tea, I guess. Yoga. Meds, when I had them. Cats,” I admit, a little bit unable to believe I’m even telling him any of this. But he did ask.
And what’s the harm? If anything, it feels safe confiding in him. Henrik is only going to be in my life for a short while, and he’s distanced from every thing and person I know. This arrangement—this man—is temporary. Safe.
Henrik nods, taking a couple more bites of his food. His foot is still anchored around my ankle, a comforting weight. A life raft amidst the chaos.
I shake off my thoughts. He’s just being nice. I shouldn’t look for meaning where there is none.
Although, now that I think about it, I’m a little baffled as to why all of his escorts before now didn’t last long.
Henrik hasn’t been the least bit difficult to live with.
He’s been more caring than I expected, he hasn’t made any unreasonable demands, and he’s beyond nice to look at.
He’s been a little aloof at times, sure, but I can’t blame him.
I am a stranger in his space. And the sex, my God.
Even though I’ve only had the privilege once thus far, it was memorable, to say the least.
So what’s the catch?
I look over at him, watching as he eats.
The way his strong brow is creased slightly, as if he’s mulling something over.
How his lips curve against the edge of his wine glass, and the way his throat works as he swallows.
How he licks his finger occasionally after using it as a guide, his tongue red and broad, yet gentle against the digit.
I remember how it felt on me. Over my skin. Pressed insistently against my asshole.
My throat catches, and Henrik stills, raising a brow.
“Wrong pipe,” I mutter.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t comment.
Instead, he shifts the weight of his foot against my ankle, as if reminding me he’s still there.
A soothing gesture, at most. Except I’m already keyed up, and the stroke of his body against mine, even a touch so innocent, is enough to have me swelling in the confines of my jeans.
Henrik stills again, as if he can tell something is wrong.
I don’t know how he’s so damn perceptive.
“Mal.”
I whoosh out a breath, not realizing I’d been holding it. “Hm?”
“Are you all right? You seem tense.”
“Fine,” I croak out, clearing my throat and taking a sip of water.
Henrik purses his lips. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he says, as if it’s that simple. As if he’s here to carry my burden, if only I wish it.
I blink heavily, shaking my head. “I’m fine, really. It’s not what you think. I’m just, uh…”
Horny .
I should be able to say that, for Pete’s sake. I’m a goddamn porn star who escorts and cams on the side. I’m perfectly comfortable with nudity, and I can flirt with the best of them. I don’t get shy when it comes to sex.
And yet, something about this man has shifted my equilibrium.
In his presence, I’ve blurted things I don’t tell anyone. I let him witness my panic attack and even begged him to stay , to help me through it. And I haven’t even attempted to hold up my typical mask of happy-go-lucky calm.
He leaves me flustered , longing for something I don’t even have a name for and blushing as he reaches forward, clasping his deft fingers around my wrist.
“Your heart is racing,” he notes, stroking his thumb over my pulse point. “Am I making you nervous?”
“Yes,” I admit.
Henrik draws his hand back as if I’d slapped him, and I internally curse, reaching forward before he’s too far gone. I grab on, and he stalls, perched halfway forward in his seat.
“Why?” he asks.
Why does he make me nervous? “I don’t know.”
His brows draw in, green eyes dark, as he seems to ponder that, searching for clues.
“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Mal.
If I’ve overstepped, tell me. Or, if you need to make other arrangements,” he says, the words grating slightly on the way out, “I can call to have your things delivered.”
It takes me a moment to parse through his meaning, but once I do, an incredulous laugh escapes. Like I’d want to leave. “You don’t make me uncomfortable in that way, Hen. You make me want . And I don’t know what to do with that. I’m not used to…” To what? “Shacking up with someone I have sex with.”
His grip tightens against mine. “You’ve never lived with a boyfriend?”
“Never had a boyfriend.”
Henrik looks startled at that, but only for a fleeting moment. He politely schools his features, and in the back of my mind, I register the fact that not once has Henrik’s foot detangled from my own. It lends me strength.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I say, “I have plenty of sex. Lots of sex.” Henrik’s grip tightens in mine again. “But it’s always the job, you know? It’s not for me.” I cringe when I realize how that sounds to a current client. It shouldn’t be about me. I’m here to provide a service, and I’m happy to do so.
I open my mouth to backtrack, but Henrik’s dark gaze has me clamping my lips shut.
“When you say it’s not for you…” he says slowly. Crap . “Are you telling me you’ve never had sex for personal pleasure?”
It’s silent as Henrik waits for me to answer, and I don’t know what to say. “I get pleasure from it,” I finally settle on.
Henrik’s jaw tics, and for a brief moment, I’m convinced I’ve officially put my foot in my mouth. That he’s about to give me the boot. Rule five. Sex only when I’m willing. Did I just make it sound like I didn’t enjoy our time together? That I didn’t want it enough?
But no, now that the dust of my words has settled, Henrik’s gaze is less murderous and more…heated. Or, maybe, a mixture of the two. He looks the same as he did that night I came home smelling like the club. Like sweat and other men.
“But you want ?” he asks, tone carefully flat as he repeats the words I realize I let slip.
I swallow roughly, nodding, belatedly remembering I need to use my words. Ungluing my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I say, “Yes.”
“Right now?”
I nod again. “Yes.”
Henrik slides his foot up my leg, and I jolt. He doesn’t stop until his arch is cupping my groin, and I let out a low, appreciative moan as he applies pressure to my rapidly swelling dick. I spread my thighs to give him better access.
He sits forward, leg bent under the table. “And what is it you want?”
“Anything,” I breathe out, a tremor racing through me as Henrik’s foot rubs slowly over my erection. Anything that involves your body touching mine .
In an instant, Henrik’s foot disappears, and I practically whine.
But then the man himself is rounding the corner of the table, stopping in front of me and scraping my chair across the floor until I’m facing him.
I expect him to haul me up, maybe drag me to his room, but he doesn’t.
He stoops over me, bending his face to the side of my head and then reaching down to palm my swollen erection.
My hips hitch up into his grasp, seeking more.
More pressure, more friction, more Henrik.
He squeezes me as he runs his nose above my ear, his other hand holding steady on the arm of the chair. I imagine it creaking under the pressure of his grip. “You’re allowed to tell me when you want to be taken care of, Mal,” he says, squeezing me again for emphasis.
“Am I?” I ask.
Henrik rubs over the denim trapping my cock. Teasing me. Torturing me.
It’s a beautiful torment.
“Yes,” he answers near my ear, his autumn scent all-encompassing. “I want to be the one to take care of you.”
“ God ,” I moan a little breathily, enjoying the sound of that way too much. “Everything about you turns me on.”
He hums at my admission. “I like that.”
I huff a laugh. “Well, sure. What gay man wouldn’t want to know he’s making another man hard?”
“I’m bi,” he says simply, sinking to his knees as I struggle to find breath. Henrik lowers my zipper slowly, pulling my shirt out of the way with his other hand and letting his fingers skim the skin of my abdomen. My stomach clenches under the soft touch.
“Oh,” I manage.
He chuckles, gaze lifting a moment, green eyes piercing. A hunter on the prowl. A lock of hair has fallen over his forehead, and the slight dishevelment makes him seem wild.
When his broad hand slips inside my briefs, skin against skin, I inhale sharply. He pulls me free, stroking my shaft slowly until I’m sure I’ll combust, convinced I’ll burst apart into a thousand tiny embers and sear his gorgeous hardwood floors in a radiant burst of pleasure.
But all too soon, his touch disappears.
“No,” I practically whimper.
Henrik arches an eyebrow, a slow, lethal grin taking over his face. “Up,” he says, tugging the sides of my pants.
My breath leaves me in a relieved rush as I realize he’s only trying to remove my pants.
I lift my hips eagerly, and Henrik tugs down my clothing in quick, jerky movements, tossing the articles aside once they’ve cleared my feet.
He shifts forward, unapologetically spreading my legs to accommodate his bulk, and I slide to the edge of the chair cushion, fleetingly hoping we don’t make a mess of the black upholstery.