“Why do you do this type of work?”
“Why do you want to know?” I finally answer, shifting on my feet. “Does it make a difference to you?”
His eyes darken, narrowing on me as I burn under his gaze. “It makes all the difference.”
“Why?”
“I told you that I would be the one asking questions, Gianna.”
My name spills from his lips like molten honey, way too intimate for someone I’ve just met, and it shocks me. I stay rooted to the spot as he continues, “For fifty thousand dollars I expect you to answer them.”
I should probably be offended by his arrogance, or irritated at Angela’s clear disregard for my privacy by disclosing my name to a client, but I realise I’m too turned on to be either of those things.
Having the undivided attention of this beautiful man who spent a small fortune to spend the night with me, and hearing my name spoken from his lips like a caress, is like taking a hit of highly potent lust straight to my veins. It goes to my head quickly and takes over all my senses. My earlier conviction of leaving this room with my panties intact goes flying out the window as my mind catches on to what my body’s been telling me since he walked in the room: I want this man. Which is a revelation, because I haven’t felt even a single iota of attraction toward anyone in a very, very long time. His presence alone makes me feel more alive than Ihave in years, and it feelsgood. I suddenly remember the reasons I signed up to be an escort in the first place, and they somehow make sense again.
He watches me carefully when I take a step toward him.
“What are you doing?”
I don’t answer that question, or the one before, as I step closer, and closer, ditching any logical thought that tries to pop into my mind until I’m tilting my head back to look into his eyes. The lights are low, but up close I can see the angles of his face are even sharper than I thought they were. His face is pure perfection, something that only ever exists on the cover of a magazine. I swallow down a mouthful of nerves.
“I’m doing what you paid me to do.”
He scowls down at me and I realise that was the wrong thing to say. Does he not like to be reminded that he’s paying for sex? Oh well, too late for propriety. Heispaying me to fuck him. Best to call a spade a spade.
I lift a shaky hand and rest it on his chest, the black wool of his jacket soft beneath my fingers as electricity travels like lightning up my arm. He must feel it too because he flinches at my touch. I go to jerk back, but I don’t get far because his hand snaps up and grabs my wrist, holding me in place.
His dark eyes lock onto mine, something indecipherable swimming behind his irises that makes my breath catch in my throat.
This is the type of man that any woman who knows what’s good for her should run from. Like a beautiful spider luring a fly into his web, you don’t know you’re in danger until it’s too late.
Too bad I never did know what was good for me.
3
Anger dances behind his eyes, there’s no question now. It should make me panic, should make me want to snatch my hand back and run, but honestly, it only makes me slicker between my thighs. Does that make me a little fucked up? Probably, for more reasons than I am willing to acknowledge.
His grip on my wrist is firm, but somehow also gentle. He’s so tall, so muscular he could over power me with no effort on his part at all, but for some inexplicable reason I know I could pull away and he would let me.
I don’t test the theory.
“Gianna,” he says my name again, but the way it sounds from the back of his throat makes it sound more like a plea as he frowns down at me. Heat pools in my core. What is going on here? Does he not want me? Am I not supposed to touch him? I got so caught up in my own desire I forgot that I’m technically here on a job, but that’s not what this feels like to me. I’m not doing this for him, or for the money. I’m doing this for me.
“Tell me why you do it,” he asks again, firmer this time as his eyes bore into mine.
He smells deliciously masculine, like a heady mix of vanilla and sandalwood. It’s mouthwatering.
“I do it because I like it,” I say, pushing the lie past the lump in my throat. He’s a client, one who clearly has commitment issues. I can’t tell him the truth - that I’m notreallya prostitute, and my ad was the result of my fucked up marriage breaking down.
He searches my face with narrowed eyes and I drop my gaze to his throat.
“You’re lying,” he says without an ounce of doubt. “Tell me why you do it.”
I want to ask him how he knows, but instead I say, “Tell me why you want to know.”
His jaw ticks. “I just do.”
“Fine. I need the money.” It’s only half a lie. I do need money, but not badly enough that I would sleep with just anyone to get it.
