Page 27 of At His Beck & Call

Not helping.

Cleaning everything and placing it back the way it was takes about ten minutes, and by the end, I return to my desk, glancing at my inbox.

As usual, I have several work emails that I haven’t looked at yet, and there’s a request from Thomas Burton, the managing partner, to meet in a few days. I’m hoping that means they’re considering me for EP. Finally. I’ve waited long enough.

I go back to my work, my erection deflating fast as I read the angry exchanges between my clients demanding things from one another. A whole life together distilled down into what they can get at the end of it. Like marriage is only about the money and possessions, not love.

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Relationships are things that happen to other people.

Glancing at the door, I let my eyes drift back to the sculpture, now safely back in place so that no one would ever know what it was used for.

I enjoy things like that—having objects around that have a dual purpose. A partner could sit in my office and never know that dozens of items inside it were intended for pleasure.

I stare at the door, thinking about Lissa. She’ll do for the time being. She’s responsive and follows orders, and that is all that matters. She’s also nothing like Melony, the last escort I had, who drove me nuts within three minutes of meeting her. Lissa is almost too far in the other direction. Too quiet. Too nervous.

But I plan to work that out of her as soon as possible.

It’s important to me that she gets off as often, if not more than I do. Seeing a woman come apart for me is the best part about these arrangements.

Plus, it means she won’t have to see me naked any time soon, which suits me just fine.

After a few more minutes, I rise, deciding that I’ve had enough work for the day, and cross the room, collecting my jacket from where I hastily threw it over a chair.

Before I leave, I double check I haven’t left anything incriminating in plain sight. I don’t want to scare Adelaide when she comes in tomorrow morning to drop off files.

I leave the office, take the elevator down to the ground floor, and step out into the reception area.

Walking into the parking deck, I unlock my Bugatti Chiron with a flick of my wrist. It’s all black, sleek, and beautiful, and immediately makes me feel good as I slide into the seat.

The roar of the engine in the confined parking deck isn’t half bad either, and I enjoy speeding around the corners on each floor until I reach the exit and move into the New York traffic, heading toward my mother’s house.

My hands skim over the wheel as I weave through the traffic, not even caring that every road is snarled to a halt today.

I’m in no rush.

My mom lives in a beautiful neighborhood opposite Central Park. When she first moved in, it was just a two-bedroom apartment. But since then, I’ve bought the apartments on either side of hers, and we’ve completely rebuilt the space. She lives alone except for the Ragdoll cats she keeps accumulating. At last count, there were seven of the little fluffballs.

I pull to a stop beside the steps up to her place and get out, enjoying the feel of the sun on my face and listening to the squeal of children running through the park behind me.

Trotting up the steps, I let myself in as I hear meowing from all sides. The cats know the click of the door generally means food, and they swarm around my legs as I pick one up. I’m going to get hair all over my suit, but I don’t care.

The cat—I’m pretty sure her name is Belinda—starts purring, her bright blue eyes closing as I rub her head. She has a pink diamante collar and looks completely ridiculous.

I walk along the cream carpet through the hallway, glancing into the living room for any sign of my mom as I admire the bright flowers on almost every surface. She has always loved springtime.

“Ollie? Is that you?” she calls from somewhere.

“Hey Mom, where are you?”

“My art room.”

I drop the cat onto a chair and make my way to her, all of the little beasts running past me eagerly trying to trip me up.

“You should really feed these animals,” I say with a small smile as I lean against the doorframe to my mother’s art studio. She loves painting, but her charcoal sketches are my favorites.

She’s working on one of me, my back to her, just my chin and nose in view. It makes me look a lot more attractive than I am.

“I haven’t fed them in almost six hours; the poor things are obviously just wasting away,” she says sarcastically.