Whatever. He was a whore. Right?
“I’ll try my best. But just in case I find a fence willing to open his own personal Pottery Barn, leave the keys to the Jag so I can load it up,” he tossed back caustically.
My jaw fell. Was that a joke? I was about to ask him, but the words collapsed in my throat as he pulled his shirt over his head. I caught the rippled muscles and slope of his back before he disappeared down the hall.
My mouth went dry. I started hoping he’d rob me or beat me. At least that would break this…whatever it was. Obsession? I nearly ran upstairs to take a shower.
It wasn’t until I stood under the shower spray that I remembered Angelica. Guilt made me press my forehead against the white tiles. Then the stream of questions and doubts surfaced again. My job. My fiancée. My job. A prostitute. A male prostitute. My fucking job. What, what, what was I doing?
Nothing. I was going to do nothing. Talk. I’d talk to him. Nothing more. This was just a phase.
Walking into the bedroom, towel wrapped around my waist, I pretended not to stare at Peter as he reclined on my bed in nothing but his well-worn jeans. His hair was wet and straggly, with strands plastered against his forehead and cheek. He was exquisite.
Shit.
Without thinking, I grabbed jeans and a pair of boxers from the dresser and pulled them on under my towel. Because naturally people put clothes on after hiring a prostitute. I did a mental facepalm.
“Time’s tickin’” Peter drawled, blank eyes casually checking me out as he propped himself up on his elbows. His body was incredible. I needed something to wipe the drool from my lips.
I couldn’t remember being this attracted to anyone—male or female. And Peter was most definitely male. I couldn’t even claim that he had a single feminine quality. He was leanly muscled and had a faint six-pack—the sort of stomach that I barely managed with daily rigorous workouts. His skin was pale with a healthy pink undertone. And freckles dotted his stomach, more sparsely than they did his arms, nose and cheeks. I wanted to kiss each one. It would take me hours.
“How much time did I buy?” Apparently nonchalance wasn’t an option with a dry throat and trembling voice. My blood grew warm, my pulse sprinting through my veins and my stomach careened down from unfathomable heights.
“An hour,” he replied.
Retrieving my wallet from my discarded khakis, my eyes widened in surprise. The other three hundred dollars were still tucked into the leather pocket. Huh. The pants were completely visible on the floor. He saw me put the money in my wallet earlier. It would have taken seconds to find the wallet, pocket the money and get out of here. What would I have done, report him? What kind of whore didn’t steal money?
“Come here,” I ordered softly. He hesitated and stretched up like a cat. His bare feet made soft sticky sounds on my hardwood floor as he padded over to stand in front of me. He was my height, five feet eleven, or maybe a little taller—it was tough to say. But it made it easier to fall into those blue, blue eyes.
Taking his hand, I placed the last of my money into his palm, catching his fingers as they clenched around the bills. He lifted his chin. “I still don’t fuck.”
I reached out to touch his lips. He jerked his hand from mine. “How much to kiss you?” Oh Jesus God, what the fuck am I doing?
Finally something besides hostility and vacancy in the slight widening of his eyes. Fear? It was gone before I could to analyze it. “You don’t have enough money,” he answered, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.
I stepped closer, cupping his jaw gently in my palm, my thumb pulling lightly at his chin until his mouth parted. His breath warmed my thumb. “A thousand? Two? Four? Ten?” I’d pay more. I’d pay anything. I wanted to know. Needed to know. Did men turn me on? Was I gay?
As hard as his eyes were, his body was responding—skin flushing, breath quickening. His pulse jumped slightly against the skin on his neck. Whether he was reacting to my offer of money or the way I trailed my thumb across his bottom lip, I wasn’t sure.
“There isn’t enough money.” He flashed his hand in front my nose, opening his palm and releasing the cash to feather-drop into a mess at my feet.
I ignored the crumpled paper, concentrating instead on the rough and soft surfaces of his skin as my fingers traced his cheek and neck. “Two hundred to touch you, only fifty to have my dick in your mouth, but no amount can buy one kiss?”
“The extra is for a blow job? Fine.” He reached for my pants, but I stayed his fingers.
“Quit acting like a child,” I sighed. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”