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“I let her give me a lap dance, and you know how it is.” I give him an expectant look, but his expression doesn’t change. “Anyway. She landed in my lap. Hard. But I had wood, you know? There was a popping sound, and just all this pain like you wouldn’t believe. The worst pain of my life. The doctor said no sex for four to six weeks. So, look, we can do this another time. I will be disappointed, but I will understand.”

I’m practically bouncing on the balls of my feet, ready to head for the door. My heart sinks when the old man gives me a smile and steps forward, placing a disturbingly paternal kiss on my forehead.

“Poor Michael. Don’t you worry about a thing. You know I always enjoy your company. Let’s order in. We’ll have some wine. Relax in the hot tub. Dinner on the balcony. It’s a lovely night.” His fingers spider walk down my chest and stomach, stopping to untuck my dress shirt. “I assume that mouth of yours still works?”

There’s something in his tone that puts me on edge. More likely I’m just pissed that my plan didn’t work.

“Please. Has this mouth ever let you down?” Holding back a sigh, I paste on a smile and drop my bag to the floor. Guess I’m staying.

“Good. How does Mama Elisabetta’s sound?”

“Do they deliver?” My jaw clenches. I’ve got no patience for this tonight.

“For me, they do.”

Right.

He ambles down the hall to his office, returning with a menu. Not a takeout menu. Mama Elisabetta’s is one of the fanciest places in town. He’s got an actual restaurant menu, one that looks like an entire short story bound in leather.

“Why don’t you call them?” He phrases it as a question, but it clearly isn’t one. “Order the Frutti di Mare. Extra garlic bread. And whatever you’d like for yourself.”

“Of course. Thank you, darling.” Ugh. The playacting never bothered me much before. Whatever gets the job done, right? Tonight there’s a scoff stuck in my throat, and I’m trying like hell to keep it there.

As I dial the order, the senator disappears again, heading out toward the oceanfront balcony. There’s a loud rumble from beyond the French doors as he starts up the hot tub. I hope I don’t have to blow him in there.

By the time I’m done ordering, I find him relaxing in the spa with a glass of wine. Naked, of course. The way he’s got his head back and his eyes closed, I hope he’s as relaxed as he looks. The man comes across as genial enough, but I’ve gotten the feeling there’s a different side to him when he’s displeased.

“Any trouble with the order?” Even with his eyes closed, he seems to sense me. Maybe I’m not walking as quietly as I thought.

Yes, there was trouble. The person I spoke to on the phone tried to suggest they didn’t deliver for anybody, and then when I explained who I was ordering for, they switched to believing I wasn’t him because I wasn’t calling from the number they have on file.

Took putting me on hold twice and transferring me to a manager, and finally the head chef, before I got them to agree.

“No trouble at all.”

“Good.” He seems to smile with only half his face.

“Uh, I didn’t bring my suit.”

“No need. You can see I’m not wearing one either. Climb on in.” And he’s hard. Great.

“Of course.” As I strip off my clothes, I keep my body angled away as much as I can, draping everything over a nearby chair as an excuse not to face him. Doesn’t stop him from saying something as I’m climbing in.

Latchley sits up and slides a second wineglass my way. “I don’t see any bruises.”

“I’m sorry?” For a second I freeze, before I catch myself and sit as quickly as possible to get myself under the water. Fast enough that I almost add an actual broken tailbone to the fake injury in my dick.

“The injury you mentioned. I’ve heard there’s a good deal of swelling and bruising.” His gaze drops in a meaningful way. “I’m quite familiar with your…anatomy. Everything looks as usual.”

Shit. “It was days ago. The swelling went down. Anyway, my skin is dark enough that I don’t really show bruises.” A more awkward chuckle has never left my mouth. For good measure, I add, “Just don’t do anything to get me hard and we should be fine.”

Expectation and chlorine smells threaten to drive me out of here as I hold myself steady. Waiting. Praying he buys my story.

He should, right? I’m a fetish to this man. He doesn’t know my body as well as he thinks he does.

Maybe my bruises don’t appear as clearly as the pasty old man’s across from me, but when I tripped chasing Ella in the park and smashed my knee on the asphalt, the bruise stayed mottled and ugly for weeks.

The injury I’m pretending to have? It would show at least a little.