He had no idea. I deserved so much worse. And I was going to get it too if Henri had his way.
That was for later, tomorrow maybe. Right now I had a grungy little apartment with a nice view: mournful emerald eyes and sensual lips. A light sheen of facial hair in golden brown. I’d been scratched, scuffed a thousand times—more. I had felt degraded, humiliated, or blissful nothing those times. But then, I had never wanted those men.
“You’re staring at me,” he muttered, keeping his gaze on the side of my face where he pressed the ice to the bruise.
I faked a wince, just to see him flinch and soften the pressure.
I felt the corner of my mouth turn up. “You’re an easy mark.”
“Hmm.” He slanted me a look. “Does it hurt? Tell the truth.”
Of course it hurt; the side of my face looked like a cantaloupe and… Oh. The wince had been intentional, but it hadn’t technically been a lie.
The side of his lips quirked up. “See? You tell me the truth, even when you fake it.”
“Baby, when I fake it—”
“Don’t.” His smile disappeared. “Don’t fake it with me, and that includes the things you say. Save the smooth lines for someone else.”
My breath caught, but then he’d always been able to see through me—a weakness I couldn’t afford. I had to pull it together; we were here for a reason. “She’s in trouble.” I paused. “She’s not cut out for this line of work.”
Luke finally turned away from me, disappointment and frustration filling the air like smoke. His broad shoulders were tense, his whole body strung out. “You said it was finished.”
I had promised him I’d go straight. No more hooking. But I hadn’t really understood, hadn’t known. No one wanted a pretty girl with no actual skills or work experience. Well, that wasn’t quite true. One guy had offered me a job standing outside his nightclub in a wet T-shirt. Then he had smirked while telling me about the opportunities for bonuses. “It’s complicated.”
“I understand,” Luke said in a low voice.
But he couldn’t really. He could go to the zoo every day and still not know how it felt to be caged. This was the only thing I could do. He would see that; I would show him. I drew him down onto the bed. He sat on the side of the bed, still but not passive—he vibrated like a tuning fork.
“Shh,” I murmured, stroking his back.
“Shelly, goddamn it.”
But his protests fell away as I pressed my breasts to his arm and my tongue to his ear. His harsh inhalation sounded broken, shattered, or maybe that was me.
I tasted salt and man, earth and spring. Slow licks alongside his lobe and upward, more suggestive than sensation, but for a man like this, anticipation would be everything. Or so I had imagined, all the times I had dreamed of it.
A small sound escaped him, somewhere between a grunt and groan. I took it as encouragement and smoothed my hands along the hard planes of his shoulders, his chest. Not anywhere near the bulge in his jeans, because this wasn’t about pleasure—it was about wanting.
Anything to get closer, I let my knees slide apart around his side, the faint heat of his body a shock to my core. His hands clenched and opened on his knees, and again, the muscles rippled beneath his darkly tanned skin. Was he restraining himself from touching me or pushing me off?
“Baby, no,” he groaned, letting his head fall back onto my shoulder.
No, I would never deserve to have him as more than a sex partner. And he had never fucked me, though I knew he wanted to. Every time he saw me, his eyes would darken and my stomach would bottom out, but we’d never touch. But maybe for one brief, inconvenient moment, while the door was open and the young woman beyond it needed help, we could pretend. Maybe it could be enough.
I shut my eyes tightly and pressed a kiss to his temple. Pretend, just pretend. I would give him the sex he had craved, and in return, he’d give me memories. It would be a payment just the same.
“You want this,” I whispered.
He shuddered in my arms; it was like hugging a wild animal, one who could just as easily maul me as cuddle.
“Can I touch you?” he whispered. “Please.”
It unraveled me, that plea. As if he understood that a little bit of my soul slipped away every time someone touched me. As if he would cherish the part I gave him.
I scrambled away from him as if burned, breathing hard. No.
No one understood, which was exactly the way I liked it. I ran a shaking hand over my face to smooth away the panic.
Sure, he knew the score better than most people. He had worked the beat as a patrol cop and then as a detective. Life as a high-priced escort wasn’t glamorous; it was sweat and blood sprinkled with glitter. But he didn’t know the full extent, and I prayed he never would. Henri didn’t sell bodies; he gutted them.