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“What the fuck?” she charged, sitting upright and grabbing her nightgown to hold it over her beard-burned skin. “I said to pretend I was her, not cry out her fucking name in the middle of coming inside me?”
Say what?
My mouth fell open. Oh, shit.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Please, someone, tell me I had not said Reese’s name out loud. I wouldn’t be that stupid. That would be catastrophically disastrous. Like the absolute worst thing I could do with a client.
Arching her eyebrows, my client sniffed in one of those derogatory, I’m-so-superior ways, and cattily said, “So, her name’s Reese, huh?”
I closed my eyes and bowed my head. Dammit.
I was screwed.
Confession #8: Sometimes, I actually stood up for myself…kind of.
I scrambled off the bed so fast I made myself dizzy. Clambering through the black spots that blurred my vision, I discarded the condom in record time and searched the floor for my jockey shorts, horrified when I found them halfway across the room.
I never scattered my shit around like that, was always careful to leave every article of clothing I removed in a neat, quickly accessible pile. But I’d been so overcome…
Jesus, could this moment get any more mortifying?
The woman on the bed was not getting dressed. No way could I look at her, but neither could I ignore what I noticed from my peripheral vision. And she was not moving, ergo she was most likely sitting there, bare-assed naked, watching my fingers fumble as I rushed to snap the waistband of my underwear into place. My skin crawled, knowing she was staring. Could I not even get a speck of privacy in m
y dress of shame?
Khakis jerked up, polo shirt yanked down, feet in shoes, and I was patting my hip pockets, making sure my keys and wallet were there, even as I scanned the floor to ensure I wasn’t leaving anything behind.
“I’m going to go,” I said, still not looking her way. I never did that; I always lingered in case they wanted something else or to set up another round. The client decided when I was done with my services, not me. But I couldn’t do that this time.
I turned toward the door without another word, beyond ready to escape. But behind me, a very amused voice sang, “Oh, Mason.”
Dammit. So close. I slowed to a stop and waited until I was sure I was done grimacing and mouthing a few select curse words before I glanced back. My heart pounded the entire time. For some reason, I feared she was going to psychoanalyze me, get into my head again and tear out parts of me that seemed vital to my survival.
I swear, she’d already made a good start of doing just that, making me actually enjoy what I’d done with her, to fucking feel like I’d wanted to be there, even though it was all a lie. After accomplishing all that, it would be nothing for her to finish the job, and destroy me completely.
I tried to mask my wariness as I met her gaze and lifted a single, bored eyebrow.
When she held out a roll of cash and sent me a mocking smile, I nearly closed my eyes and shook my head over my own stupidity, because what the hell. I’d never totally forgotten to collect my money before. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, either.
Fuck.
“Oops,” I murmured as playfully as I could, moving back toward her. “Looks like someone was so good she made me forget my payment.”
The words tasted like ash in my mouth because of the true parts of my statement, but I said it anyway, using it as a diversion, playing on all that arrogance I could sense in her. And it worked.
Lips smirking into a cocky grin, she chuckled. “Aww. What a sweet, sweet boy you are.”
When I reached for the money, however, she laughed again and pulled it back, just out of my reach. Whatever pleasant expression I’d been able to fake dropped flat. I was not in the mood for this kind of game.
But the client must’ve thought she was so clever. She laughed at her tactics and reached for the belt loop of my khakis. After hooking a finger through, she jerked me closer.
I sniffed out an amused smile, though I’m sure if she really looked into my eyes, she would’ve seen the unease and irritation. But she was too busy tucking the money into my pocket to care how I really felt.
“God, you are so young,” she said in awe, running her hand up my hip bone and then over the firmness of my abs.
I’m not sure why so many loved to comment about that fact. Because my body was so much more fit than what they usually got? Because it made them feel powerful to land a younger man? Or maybe it made them feel old.
