Tommy is a good-looking man. He draws the eye with his face alone. Nothing detracts, not even the scar on his neck. His clothes are of high fabric, showing off both money and style. And from the cut, you can tell he’s lean and fit.
But like this? In gray joggers and a small towel he’s using to dry off his hair and nothing more? I understand now why so many nude sculptures have been created. His body is a work of art and should be bronzed immediately to share his beauty with the world.
I’ve seen men with little on before—you can’t doSwan Lakewithout a male dancer. But those were dancers, bodies shaped by it. Built for it.
Tommy’s muscles are more defined. The narrowed hips to the deep cuts of his abs are from a different kind of strength building other than lifting one’s partner. Something he’s proven to have done over and over with me already.
And the art that graces his body? I can’t look away. He’s not covered, but there’s enough on his forearms, sides, and chest to keep me looking for hours, if not days.
“Going to need you to be ready by five.”
“For what?” I manage, my voice thicker than I want. My mind and body can’t help but react to his. Add in the memory of him, the feel of his body beneath mine as I writhed on him and his fingers fluttered between my legs, and I’m feeling flushed.
“Dinner.” He walks to the coffee that he must have left when he went to shower, and I force myself to take a bite of my food. Anything to keep from drooling over him.
Which is a bad idea. My mouth is dry, and it just sticks to the top of my mouth when I try to swallow it down. I cough a bit, drawing his attention, and not in a way any woman would like. The look on his face says he’s trying to determine whether I’m going to choke and die or spit out my food on his pristine couch.
I try again and get it all down in a forced swallow before going to the trash can and throwing the rest away. I won’t be eating. Not right now, anyway.
“Will it be a private dinner?”
“Private?” He twists his head like a bird hearing a noise in the far distance. Then understanding dawns, and he nods before shaking his head. “Ah, private. Yes and no. Not in the way you’re thinking. No one-on-one client meeting.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t think I’m ready for that. I had one lesson, if you can call last night a lesson. I’m not ready to try my hand at seduction just yet. Or whatever he wants to name what he plans on me doing for him in these “private meetings” he mentioned before.
“This is for thefamiglia.”
That’s worse. So much worse. These won’t be faceless people in the crowd, but people he knows. Works with. Family, even.
My mouth opens, but no words come out. Just sounds of an animal dying mid-squeak. Which he finds amusing, if I go by the soft rise of his lips as he watches me freak out.
“There a problem with that, my pretty little Crown Jewel?”
I close my mouth quickly at his turning my club name into something more adoring and not something I feel unworthy to be called. As if I’m something special. A grand prize, something worthy of all the glory the name implies. Not a homeless, penniless no one without a dream and zero family to fall back on.
And while his words could be taken as a joke for me being in his debt, I don’t feel laughed at.
“I have nothing to wear.”
It’s the truth, and while it might sound petty and silly, it’s all I can say. He comes from money. He’s rumored to be dangerous. His family? Probably the same. And me? I don’t want to embarrass myself, or him, by showing up in what I have on now—leggings and a tank top. It’s all I had left that no thrift store would take when I pawned most of my stuff.And if this isn’t a private affair that a dance costume would be used for, I have nothing that would make me blend in.
I would only stand out. More than I do now.
He hums at my response before nodding. Draining his coffee cup, he then performs the same ritual as yesterday, rinsing it out and putting it in the dishwasher.
“In that case, be ready to go in twenty minutes.”
He turns and goes back to his room, leaving me standing there with nothing to do for twenty minutes. I’ve already gotten dressed for the day. And before I left the bathroom, I covered the bruises on my face the best I could with the small concealer I have here. I’ll need to either go to the club and pick up my stuff there or stop and get more if we’re going out tonight. I doubt Tommy wants to advertise my face. Unless that’s part of it, to show off his new “thing.” Not that he has yet to make me feel beneath him in that way.
With the Kings, I knew what was on the table. Or more exactly, I knew what was expected of me. With Tommy? I’m clueless. Anything and everything seems to be out there, and I have no idea what that means. Do I still get paid? Do I still have to pay the same amount, or is it more? Less?
I should ask, but with everything else, there’s a bit of fear mixed in. And… if I say nothing, then I can pretend just a little while that all of this—the food, clothes, a safe place to sleep—is just a friend looking out for me. A new person in my life who cares. And it has zero to do with a debt I owe.
Too bad I was never good at lying to myself long-term.
The stores he takes me to are ones I don’t even look in the windows of. Ones I always passed on the other side of the street. They were a degree above anything I ever thought I could look at, much less own.
And Tommy walks into each high-class boutique as if the world owes him something. He expects the service, and not a single person seems bothered or put off by him. When he speaks, they listen and do as he says.
