I follow that train of thought while I watch him ignore the champagne and crack open a small bottle, mirroring my earlier movements. Whatever his intentions are shouldn’t matter to me because I’m not sleeping with anyone tonight, I remind myself again. And trust me when I say, my most private area down there needs a bit of reminding. My thighs clenched together on their own accord when the man moved past me, for Christ’s sake. I’m just waiting to get some answers from him, then I’m outta here.
“Tell me why you booked me.” I finally ask the burning question that’s been keeping me awake all week. At this point, I’m more fixated on the answer to this question than the meaning of life itself, especially after seeing what this guy looks like.
He stops pouring from a small bottle of whisky, then raises a brow at me over his shoulder. “Really?”
“Yes, for sex, obviously,” I say on an exasperated sigh. “But why the insane amount of money?”
“Why not?” He replies with a shrug, and it occurs to me that he’s probably never had to explain his actions to a prostitute before. He turns to see the frustration on my face, thenstudies me for a moment longer, before adding, “The woman on the phone said the offer would have to be worth your while.”
Of course she did. Angela knew I wasn’t going to take a booking for anything less than an eye-watering amount of money. The question is, why didn’t he just ask for another?
“Yes, but you could have had someone else for a lot less,” I push, clenching my fists at my sides to reign in my growing annoyance.
He stares me directly in the eyes for a whole second before I look away.
“I didn’t want anyone else.” His words are so bold, so unapologetic, that they startle me. Surprise blooms inside my chest, but instead of getting answers, I’m left more confused. He swirls his glass and takes a slow sip of the liquid, his stare burning a hole in my cheek like he’s trying to tell me something without saying it. I feel like I’m missing something, like I’ve stepped into a meeting an hour late and now I’m mentally floundering around, trying to catch up with what’s happening. The silence grows so loaded between us that I have to shatter it.
“Butwhy?” I ask. I want to tell him I’m not worth fifty thousand dollars. That I’m not experienced. That I’m not going to blow his mind, or anything else, with the kind of expertise that would be expected for that amount of money. Instead, I settle for, “It makes no sense.”
He doesn’t reply immediately. In my periphery, I catch him shifting his attention to the dark window wall and the twinkling lights of Melbourne City beyond.
“Let’s just say I have a type.” His low voice reeks of indifference, like the money is nothing but a drop in the ocean to him, and I realise with a stab of annoyance he probably isn’t going to give me the grand answer that I’m looking for. Andmaybe there isn’t one. Maybe he is just a man with too much money and too little patience to find a no-strings attached dalliance the good old-fashioned way. Irritation spreads across my chest like a rash. Deep down, I thought there was some profound reason I was meant to be in this hotel room.
“You know, you’re awfully good at evading questions,” I huff, placing my hands on my hips as frustration gets the better of me. I swear a ghost of a smile plays on his lips as if my annoyance amuses him, igniting me further.
“I’m answering your questions.”
“You’re answering me without actually answering anything at all. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean!”
I don’t know where my forwardness has come from, but there’s something about this man that makes me feel bold. That, and the fact I’ll never see him again after tonight, is apparently the perfect mix to let go of my inhibitions.
“I’m sure I don’t,” he responds, a flash of something dark in his eyes.
“Well, if your modelling career falls through, you can always fall back into law. The way you dodge your way around a direct question is honestly impressive.”
Amusement flickers across his face.
“I told you, I’m not a model,” he says smoothly. Then, with whiplash intensity, he takes a gulp of his drink and changes the topic. “Tell me why you do this type of…work.”
I lean my hip against the chair and cross my arms, well aware he’s trying to divert the conversation away from himself. Taking a steadying breath, I steal some of his nonchalance, even though it’s fake on my behalf.
“It’s a long story,” I shrug. And one he won’t want to waste sixty nine dollars a minute listening to.In fact, I don’t know what I’m still doing in this hotel room. I feel like I’ve got all the answers I’m going to get from this man, and this isprobably where I should start making my apologies and leave.
Newsflash: I don’t. My feet stay glued to the plush carpet.
“We have all night.” His voice is hard as he downs the rest of his whisky and places the empty glass on to the counter.
“Is that how you want to spend the night?” I ask as my brows shoot to my hairline. “I could think of better ways.”
I don’t know where that came from or why I said that, but the words fall from my lips easily, and as a few slow moments pass between us, I make no move to take them back.
The amusement slips from his face as quickly as it appeared and an unmistakable flash of anger mars his brow. Wow, talk about whiplash.
“I’ll be the one asking questions now,” he says, his tone dry, clipped. He looks irritated as he rolls a shoulder, and granted I don’t know much about it, but I get the feeling this isn’t a typical interaction between a client and an escort. Shouldn’t we be kissing by now, instead of discussing my life choices? Why am I thinking of kissing him? And why does he seem so angry?
Again, this is probably where I should be making my excuses and getting the hell out of here, but still I don’t move. The man is a mystery, and the way he’s piqued my interest, you can call me Sherlock fucking Holmes. It doesn’t help my case that he looks even more beautiful when he’s angry. His sharply angled face looks even more honed, more defined, like it was sculpted using only the sharpest of blades. Truly, he’s the level of beauty that hurts to look away from.
Just as I start to come out of my trance, he does something so mundane yet truly diabolical. He runs a slow handacross his jaw, drawing my attention to his thumb as it brushes over his full lower lip. His lips are glorious, the kind you dream about sinking your teeth into, and I can already imagine how they’d taste. Like bad decisions and smooth whisky. My heart picks up and I physically shake the thought away as he repeats his question.
