“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
The number feels like a punch to my gut. “That’s awful,” I say, resting my head against his chest where his heart suddenly beats at double speed. “Didn’t your dad screen them for paedophilia?”
He pulls at one of my curls, unravelling it in his fingers. “It didn’t feel awful.”
After a long moment, Zach pushes me upright and I pick up the suit pants again, finding my place. “How old was she?”
He shrugs and stares into the middle distance. “Thirty, give or take a few years.” I find the thought horrendous, but Zach’s expression is soft as he dwells on the memory.
“Did you tell your dad?”
“That I fucked his girlfriend?”
“That a woman he brought into your home molested his teenage son.”
“It wasn’t—”
“Could you imagine if I sat here saying a fully grown adult man had sex with me when I was a fourteen-year-old child, but it was somehow all right because it was consensual? They’d throw him in jail.”
“You vastly overrate the abilities of our justice system,” he growled. “And besides, it’s different for boys.”
“I don’t think so. No wonder you’re so fucked up,” I say primly. “A childhood trauma like that. Have you considered it’s why you’re so aggressively sexual?”
“I’m not aggressive,” he says, pulling me against him before tumbling us both onto our backs on the bed. “This is the perfect amount of sexuality. You’re the weird one for holding onto your virginity like it was a vintage gown that’d be ruined when it got torn.”
“Right. Name one thing that gets better with excessive use.”
His lips are against my neck as he rumbles, “Lilac Tanner’s vagina.”
“I have a needle,” I remind him, holding it aloft. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Spoil sport.” He sits up, dragging me back into position but keeping an arm firmly around my waist. “How long till you’re done?”
“Without interruptions, five minutes.”
“Fine, I’ll keep my hands off you for five minutes. Don’t want to be late.”
Nervousness coils in my belly and my jaw locks. “What’s the job?”
“Don’t know yet. I told my boss about you, and he’ll find something. The syndicate is a big place.”
I bite my bottom lip as my voice downgrades to a whisper. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
He butts his head between my shoulder blades, one thumb stroking my exposed skin while the other hand clutches my hip. “You’ll probably be serving behind a bar or something innocuous like that.”
The soft caress of his breath against my skin is a distraction and the last stitches I tack in the pants’ hem are ragged and farther apart than they should be.
When I slip the suit back on, I reach for my bra, but Zach holds it out of reach. “This is mine now. Call it a headhunter tax.” As he stares at me, my nipples harden under the ivory vest, and I pull on the jacket and leather coat to hide my reaction.
It’s just the cold. Just the cold.
Except I’m warm. No, not warm. Hot. Close to overheating. My face flushes. Even my usually freezing hands have straggled into room temperature territory.
He rolls up the cashmere dress and puts it in a burgundy leather tote from the closet. I’m nervous enough about the expense of what he’s given me so far—I can’t handle more—so I deliberately avert my eyes from any labels.
“Perfect.” His eyes wander down to my toes and back up to my eyes. “You look perfect.”
