14. Chapter 14
Henrik
A s George drones on about the new construction company he’s hired to complete the build of our most recent workspace, I tap my fingers idly against the outside of my thigh. I can’t get Mal off my mind, which is completely unprofessional of me. It’s been a problem for four days now.
Well, maybe that’s not true. If I’m honest with myself, it started before then. Quite possibly the moment he first walked into my penthouse.
But despite knowing I should be focused on what my head of property development is saying via conference call, my mind is stuck mentally cycling through the noises Mal made earlier this week when I brought him off in the dining room.
The way he sank into it in total abandon.
How his flesh felt under my fingertips. How velvety and warm he was inside.
How tight. The way he grabbed my head when he came, fingers digging against my scalp as if he couldn’t help himself. As if he was coming alive .
I shiver again, reliving the memory that’s been stuck on repeat in my head for days.
We haven’t had sex again. I’ve been keeping my distance.
I’d like to say that’s because I’ve been busy with work. And while that’s a partial truth, it’s an incomplete one. The real reason is one I’ve been doing my best to avoid acknowledging.
“Hold up,” I say, having caught a snippet of George’s conversation about the estimated project completion. “Six weeks? It was supposed to be finished in two.”
“Right,” George says slowly, his voice slightly tinny over the phone. “But the new company is smaller. They don’t have the same manpower available, so it’s going to take longer to finish construction.”
My mind turns over this unfortunate development. Part of me wants to demand George find a different construction company, a bigger one, but any further delay would end in the same result. And we have people, new entrepreneurs, waiting on this location. “Marissa?”
“I’ll handle it,” she pipes up over the line, sharp as ever and on the ball. “We’ll delay the ribbon-cutting, and we can spread the new folks out across our other locations for a month until the new business incubator is ready.”
I nod, satisfied with that solution.
“Carry on,” I tell George.
He finishes updating us on the new timeline, and as the meeting comes to a close, I keep my head in the game and off thoughts of my newest houseguest. As soon as the call disconnects, Gloria appears with a cup of tea, her clacking heels announcing her presence.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I tell my administrative assistant.
She pats my arm in a motherly way. “Benjamin dropped off your transcripts,” she says, setting said documents onto the corner of my desk. I reach over and find a small stack of embossed paper there.
Although I frequently use my braille display or speech software for work, Benjamin prints certain documents for me, such as budgets or other materials I need to comb through several times.
It’s easier to have the complete picture at my fingertips, versus having to scroll back and forth to find the information I need.
And after working for me for so many years, Benjamin knows exactly which documents to prepare specially. He’s always one step ahead.
He doesn’t work out of the office or attend every meeting here at headquarters—only high-stakes ones for which I require more detailed notes—but he has full access to my files and zips in and out as needed, like a squirrel on speed. Always moving. Always making my life easier.
Gloria has been a trusted employee for the past decade, and she makes sure the office runs well like a well-oiled machine. But Benjamin…well, Benji ensures I can run like a well-oiled machine.
“And where is my personal assistant?” I ask Gloria, reclining in my seat.
“Off saving the world, I presume,” she says lightly, straightening something on my desk before taking a step back. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you, Gloria. The tea will suffice.” It’s just in time, too. I can feel the beginnings of a headache brewing.
Gloria makes a noise of affirmation before heading from my office. I sip my tea, check my schedule for the remainder of the day, and settle in to work, determined to outpace certain intrusive thoughts running circles in my head.
Specifically, thoughts of an enticing young man who’s managed to beguile me without even trying.
Despite my best efforts to focus on work, I find myself home before eight o’clock for the first time all week.
In fact, I’m home by five, thanks to the pressure in my head that did not abate, and in fact, only worsened as the day went on.
I’m banking on grabbing my migraine meds and making a swift retreat to bed, but when I step through the elevator doors, that plan gets waylaid.
Hearing a soft pant and the swish of clothes, I come to a standstill just inside the foyer to listen.
“Behind the couch,” Mal says with a soft chuckle.
“Yoga again?” I ask, removing my shoes and setting my cane aside. I strip off my suit jacket as I step into the living room and place it over the back of a chair. Mal shifts again, grunting slightly.
“Yeah.”
“Everything all right?” I ask in concern, toeing his mat and lowering myself beside him. My fingers ache to reach forward, to confirm he’s safe and sound. To feel for myself after days of denying the urge. But I resist, keeping my hands to myself.
“Sure,” he says, the word sounding like a shrug.
“Except you’re feeling anxious?” I guess. He did say yoga helped.
Mal blows out a breath, not answering at first, and then a waft of air hits me, like he plopped to the ground. “Yeah, guess so.”
I can’t hold back any longer. I reach forward, finding a knee, and trace my fingers over the material of his skintight pants. Fuck , he probably looks delectable, all lean lines, muscles on display. “Did I disrupt you?”
“I don’t mind your disruptions,” he says, laughing lightly. He shifts, bringing himself closer, and I trail my fingers up until I find bare skin above his waistband. I could touch him for hours without getting bored. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you again this week.”
I nearly wince. His tone wasn’t accusatory, but tendrils of shame snake up my chest nevertheless, constricting tightly.
I’d been trying—successfully—to insert some distance between us.
To give myself time to snap out of whatever bewitchment Mal has me under where all I want to do is touch him again.
To taste him and hear him fall apart. To make him feel good and appreciated.
But that isn’t what this is. I would never treat Mal—or any of my escorts—with less respect than any person deserves.
But my interactions with the men living in my house have always been a little perfunctory.
Scratching an itch. Enjoying a moment of passion.
And then, when they inevitably can’t stick to the simple rules I set out in order to keep my sanctuary intact, I let them go.
I have never so feverishly wanted to crawl inside another person and set up camp before.
The way Mal responded to even a little bit of attention showered his way was both intoxicating and disheartening. To hear Mal say he doesn’t have sex for his pleasure… It made me determined to give him something he deserved. To make him the focal point.
What I didn’t expect was for that brief interaction to make my blood sing in a way it’s never done before. To make me feel powerful. Important. At least to one person for a momentary snapshot in time.
And that’s what scared me.
So how did I react? I purposefully ignored the man for four days. I avoided him at all costs.
I thought the time away would lessen my desire, help me see my tinted goggles for what they were. Four days did nothing. Touching Mal again now, my fingers ache to roam. To never part from his smooth, soft skin.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” I say.
Mal makes a curious sound in the back of his throat. “I understand.”
He doesn’t. Not truly. He thinks I was busy at work: an excuse. The guilt threatens to eat me alive. I shake my head, regretting it as the tattoo inside my head swells.
“What do you do all day?” Mal asks, his hand coming to rest near my leg, fingers plucking idly at the fabric of my suit pants.
“Mm? Oh, investments,” I answer, swallowing as spots dance across the hazy gray of my vision.
“Like a banker?” he asks.
I huff a laugh. “Not quite. My company invests in startups. Entrepreneurs, small businesses, sometimes well-established businesses looking to branch out into new lanes.”
“And they pay you back and then some?”
I shrug. “Essentially.”
“Like a banker.”
My lip twitches into a smile. “Smartass.”
Mal prods my thigh. “You must do well.”
No denying that. “Yes.”
I wait for Mal to ask about my finances. To find out exactly how well off I am, assuming he hasn’t looked it up already. Chances are he has.
But he doesn’t. “Are you all right?” he asks instead, smoothing his palm over my leg and squeezing. “You look a little green.”
I grimace as my head throbs. “Actually, no. Migraine. Excuse me.”
Mal hums in sympathy as I push myself carefully off the ground. I make my way slowly to the kitchen and open the cabinet with my meds. Running my fingers over the braille labels, I find the correct bottle and pluck it from the shelf.
Mal comes up beside me, his touch ghosting over my sleeve. “Anything I can do?”
I shake my head, wincing again, as I drop two pills into my palm. “No. I just need to go lie down.”
“Okay,” he says softly, rubbing my back as I fill up a glass of water and chase down my medication.
Mal doesn’t protest as I head down the hall to my bedroom, my fingers tracing the wall for balance, and for a brief moment, I’m hit with a pang of disappointment. Did I want him to follow me?
I shake off the notion. I’m in no condition to fool around, and with sex off the table, what reason would there possibly be for Mal to join me? Certainly I don’t need him to…what, comfort me? Definitely not.
I never wanted Denny or any of the others around when my migraines flared. I don’t need Mal, either.
I don’t bother to strip out of the rest of my clothes before I fall into bed, my face hitting the blessedly cool pillow with a soft whoosh .
The lights are off and the shades drawn, so it’s as dark as it gets, my vision black as the night sky.
And with the door shut, no sound filters in to disturb me.
Not that Mal makes much sound anyways. He’s generally as quiet as a mouse.
So it should be easy to fall asleep. Conditions are just right. And yet, I can’t find any respite from the pressure inside my skull. I groan in discomfort when, suddenly, a damp cloth covers my forehead. Startled, I draw back.
“Sorry,” Mal says ever so quietly.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I reply. Probably due to the throbbing inside my head.
“I assumed you heard me. My bad.”
Mal nudges my head lightly until I lay it back on the pillow, and then he settles the damp cloth over my forehead once more. I sigh, my muscles relaxing marginally. It does feel rather nice.
Mal lies down beside me, and the next moment, an unfamiliar scent tickles my nose. Something herbal.
“What’s that?” I ask as Mal’s thumbs press against my temples over the cloth.
“Chamomile,” he replies, his voice whisper-soft. “I put some essential oil on my wrists. It’s supposed to help with relaxation and sleep.”
I hum, my eyes drifting shut of their own accord as Mal massages my temples lightly. He’s close, his damp hair tickling my chin. He must’ve taken a quick shower, but with the chamomile so near my face, his coconut scent is masked. Shame.
It is pleasant, though. Reminds me vaguely of my tea breaks, although the smell doesn’t quite match my preferred Earl Gray.
“Aren’t you going out tonight?” I ask, not exactly wanting him to leave, but realizing it is, after all, Friday. Club night.
“Not tonight,” Mal says softly.
I hum.
“Do you want to get out of these clothes?” Mal asks.
I quirk a smile. “How forward of you.”
Mal snorts lightly, his fingers leaving my head and reappearing against the top of my shirt. He carefully maneuvers the buttons free, each movement slow and precise, as if not to disturb me. It’s…sweet, really.
When he gets to the bottom, he tugs the material free from my pants, and then he keeps going, unzipping my slacks efficiently and without a hint of tease.
Despite my rather horrible migraine—admittedly a little better now—and Mal’s professional bedside manner, my cock takes interest, swelling slightly.
Mal doesn’t comment, although he does make a little sound in the back of his throat like he’s pleased.
Without my clothes, my body cools. That is, until Mal presses himself gently against my side, one leg thrown over my own and his hands raised to once again massage my temples.
I sigh in relief, the sensation wholly welcome and, quite honestly, helping greatly.
All of it. Mal’s soothing touch, the cool cloth, the smell of the oil, the feel of him tucked up against me so innocently and yet intimately.
It’s scary how much I could get used to this. Having someone care for me of their own volition. Allowing someone to care. Someone like Mal, who slotted seamlessly into my world from day one. Who makes me smile, and who, thus far, has yet to disappoint me.
With Mal at my side, doctoring me with gentle hands and his comforting presence, it’s all too easy to forget the truth of why he’s here. It’s easy to forget about the money and the contract. The fact that I’m his client. And that’s not something I can allow myself.
Even so, I can’t stop my brain from wandering down a rabbit hole, wondering what could have been if Mal and I had met under different circumstances. Would he have wanted me? Would he have given me a second glance? Would I have heard the warm cadence of his voice and been drawn to him all the same?
Why am I even asking these questions? It’s pointless. I’m not looking for a relationship. And it’s a moot point, anyhow. This reality is the only one we know.
Mal is here because I’m paying him to be. I can’t get attached , I remind myself. Although the notion is fleeting, unable to grasp hold as Mal soothes me into sleep.
When I wake, my side is cold, and Mal is gone. And, for the first time in a long time, I wish my bed weren’t so empty.