His (4 page)

“Excellent. There’s no dungeon.”

Dawson pulls out a small notebook and writes down the name and address of a hotel. “Tomorrow. Come by at noon. That gives us time to get the blood work done and have you ready for the evening.”

I nod and slide out of my side of the booth. “See you then. Thanks for the food.”

“See you tomorrow, Quinn.”

As I make my way to the door of the densely packed diner, I realize it’s been a while since anyone but Bethy or Bean used my name. To most people, I don’t even have a name. I’m just a statistic.

I never foresaw this being my life. Homelessness wasn’t even on my radar before I took Bethy and ran. And now I’ve sunk a little lower yet, selling my body.

Well, promising to sell it, anyway. But that’s one promise I’m planning to wiggle out of. I’m hoping this mystery guy will settle for a blow job. The last thing I want him finding out is that his paid companion is actually a virgin.

Andrew

A cloud of breath forms in front of my face as I step out of my car in my underground garage. Winter is setting in fast, and in typical New York style, it refuses to be ignored.

I press my thumb to the keypad beside the elevator in my garage and step on, arriving at the main level of my warehouse home and hearing the
thunk
of the automated deadbolt opening. When I step inside, I take in the scent of roasting beef. Damn, that smells good. It’s a little after six thirty, and I’m ready for dinner.

But not because of the food. I’m sure I’ll enjoy whatever delicacy my chef and housekeeper, Turner, has cooking right now, but mostly I’m eager to spend an evening with Dawson’s latest find. For a gay man, he really does have incredible taste in women.

I can’t be seen trying to pick up women I intend to pay for sex. And I don’t have time to screw with it, anyway. That’s why I have Dawson. He earns every penny of the six figures I pay him to be my personal assistant. I trust him implicitly, which is no small thing for me.

Last weekend he brought me Olivia, who nearly swallowed my cock as she worked to prove how deep she could take it. She screamed my name like a porn star when she came, and I knew her performance was an effort to get a return invitation.

But I don’t give return invitations.

I shrug off my suit jacket and lay it over the back of a chair. Everything looks to be in order as I glance around the open rooms of my home. A faint lemon scent and a shine on my hardwood floors tell me Turner was hard at work here today.

After a long day of negotiations to purchase a new technology app, I need to unwind. I made a fair offer, but the snotty college kid I’m trying to buy from is greedy. And as much as I want that app, I refuse to pay more for it, even if it means losing it to someone else.

I pull off my navy blue tie and unfasten the top button of my shirt. I’m heading to my bedroom with the tie when a knock at the front door makes me turn. After tossing the tie on my leather sofa, I walk to the wide, solid wood door and press my thumb to a keypad beside it to open it. The deadbolt slides free, and I open the door.

For a split second, I make out Dawson. But my attention is quickly and entirely focused on the woman beside him.

Fuck yes.
She’s exactly what I need. Average height, with a slim frame and blond, shoulder-length hair. Her creamy complexion is tinged pink from the cold, matching her beautiful, full lips. She studies me back with huge hazel eyes, and I pick up on her discomfort.

“Hi. Come on inside,” I say, stepping back from the door.

“What is this place?” she mumbles as she follows Dawson in. Her hand rests on her thigh beneath a dark coat that looks new.

“It’s a bit off-putting, I know,” I say. “But I love the Meatpacking District.”

“You
live
here?” Her gaze moves around the massive, open two stories of my living room and kitchen.

“I do.”

Dawson steps in. “Andrew, this is Quinn. Quinn, Andrew.”

I extend my hand to Quinn, and she hesitates a second before shaking it briefly. She tilts her face up to look at me, and I wonder what she’s trying to determine. Perhaps she’s taken aback by my size. At six foot two, I’m much taller than her, and my broad shoulders match my height. I’ve got a good fifty pounds on Dawson.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

Her skeptical gaze tells me she’s not sure how nice it is just yet. I’ll change that.

“I’m off, then,” Dawson says, locking eyes with me. “Everything’s in order.”

I give him a curt nod of approval. So Quinn’s blood work came back clean and she’s been paid. Now all that’s left is to shake off this long day in bed with her. After I loosen her up over dinner, of course.

Dawson slips out, and Quinn eyes me warily. She must be nervous.

“Can I take your coat?” I offer.

She shrugs off the coat, revealing a simple black V-neck shirt and dark gray linen pants. I can’t help letting my gaze slide over the lines of her. She’s stunning. My big hands will almost span her entire slender waistline. The definition in her collarbone is begging to be kissed and tasted at length.

“I refused to wear any of those dresses Dawson brought to me,” she explains. “I’m not a hooker.”

I hold back the smile quirking on my lips. I like her, and I’m not about to argue about whether wearing a dress or accepting money for sex makes a woman a hooker.

“You look beautiful,” I say instead. “If you’re hungry, we can have some dinner.”

She nods and turns toward the kitchen. I finally see what her hand is resting on, and I can’t help reacting.

“What the hell . . . ? Is that a
hunting knife
?”

Her gaze snaps back to me. “I told Dawson I’m keeping it. He said it’s okay.”

My heart stirs to life in my chest. Is she scared of me? Doesn’t she realize she doesn’t stand a chance against me with that thing?

“Well . . .” I rub my chin and consider how to put her at ease. “You won’t need that. I’m only into consensual sex.”

“All the same, I prefer to keep it.”

There’s a harshness to her eyes now. I wonder what made this beautiful woman feel the need to strap a knife to her thigh and be ready to draw it at a moment’s notice. Fucking humanity. It’s why I live in this warehouse with multiple layers of security. It’s nondescript on the outside so as not to attract attention. I’m not a flashy penthouse kind of guy. I prefer to wield power in stealthier ways.

“Of course,” I say, leading the way into the kitchen. Quinn follows soundlessly.

“Would you like some wine?” I ask.

“No thanks. I’ll have some water, though.”

I pour her half a glass of red wine and a glass full of Perrier and set both in front of her. I won’t push the wine on her, but clearly she could use a few sips to ease her nerves.

The glass of wine I pour myself smells of apples and peppers. I take a slow sip, lean back against the butcher block kitchen island and let my gaze roam the gorgeous, guarded woman standing before me.

“So tell me about yourself, Quinn.”

She shrugs. “Not much to tell. I’m homeless, but I guess you know that.”

“I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t looking for your pity. I just figured all the women Dawson picks up for you are homeless.”

The edge in her tone pisses me off. Not just because no one talks to me this way, but also because of her innuendo.

“You’re suggesting I prey on desperate women?” I ask coolly.

She shrugs. “Is it preying if they take your offer?”

“
Dawson’s
offer.”

“Of course. Your hands are clean.”

I clear my throat and remind myself to keep cool. None of the women Dawson’s brought over before has arrived with an enormous chip on her shoulder. To the contrary, they’ve been giddy with excitement.

“Look, Quinn, if you don’t want to be here, you’re free to go. Keep the money.”

She bristles visibly, her eyes narrowing. “No, I made a deal, and I’ll keep it. But I don’t think we have much in common. Conversation will just be awkward. Maybe we should just get to it.”

I arch my brows in amusement. She can’t seriously think I’m hard right now. “Get to . . . ?”

Her cheeks flush. “Eating. And then . . . whatever. Look, I feel like I should tell you I’m really inexperienced. Maybe I should have told Dawson that. I’m hoping a blow job will be . . . enough.”

I can’t hold back a small smile. There’s something about Quinn’s tough façade I find incredibly vulnerable.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Relax. Let’s just have some dinner and talk. ”

“You’re not paying five hundred bucks for my conversational skills.”

I look up at the ceiling. This is like trying to seduce a cactus, her prickly points jabbing me at every turn. “That may be true, but . . . I’m not going to force myself on you.”

Her expression is skeptical. I reach for the buttons on my dress shirt cuffs and unfasten them, rolling my sleeves up slowly. I like the way she watches me, her gaze wandering over my forearms.

I can command anything. My father taught me that. Control doesn’t have to be an unpleasant experience for either party. If I want to relax Quinn and make her smile, I will.

“Sit down,” I say softly. “I’m going to make you a plate of dinner. We’re going to eat and talk. You’re
not
going to stab me. Okay?”

She nods, the wariness seemingly dissipating, and sinks into one of the wood chairs at my kitchen table.

“This place is amazing,” she says softly. “I’ve seen a lot of fancy houses, but none of them compare to this.”

“Thank you. I oversaw the renovation myself. It’s got an industrial style, so I think it’s just the size that makes it seem luxurious.”

I pull the roasted beef from a warming oven, slice it, and put generous portions on two plates. After adding roasted red potatoes and sautéed asparagus, I carry the plates to the table and set one in front of Quinn.

“Wow.” She looks up at me. “This looks delicious. You made this?”

I shake my head, wishing for a second that I had. “No, I’ve got someone who cooks for me.”

She looks down at the food, her eyes swimming with emotion. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. Is she upset? She presses her lips together, and finally, I get it.

She’s hungry. The thought sends a burning sensation to my chest.

“Let’s eat,” I say, sitting down quickly.

Quinn’s utter satisfaction upon tasting the first bite of beef is something I won’t soon forget. Her expression relaxes as she chews and cuts another bite.

I’m eating, too, but all I can think about is feeding this woman. The lithe frame I find so sexy—is it a result of not having enough to eat? The thought makes me feel like a callous asshole.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

She nods. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

I wait until she’s eaten more than half the food on her plate to interrupt her with conversation again.

“Can I ask how you found yourself on the streets?” I ask. “You don’t seem like the type to end up there.”

“Lots of decent people are homeless,” she says with a touch of defensiveness.

I’m silent as she takes a bite of potatoes, studying me. Is she sizing me up, or is she attracted to me? I can usually read people better than I’m reading her right now.

“It was just . . . circumstance,” she finally says. “I needed to get away from someone. It’s easy to be invisible on the streets here.”

“How old were you? How old are you now?”

“I was sixteen when I got here, and I’m twenty-one now.”

She cuts her asparagus carefully. “How did you get so rich? How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-eight. I capitalize companies for ownership interest and buy others outright.”

She nods as she finishes her last bite of food.

“More?” I ask, reaching for the plate.

“I’m full, but thanks.”

Her expression shifts back to nervousness, and she reaches for the wine and takes a tiny sip. I can’t help laughing at her cringe.

“Don’t like it?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

I clear away the dishes as she downs a few gulps of water.

“So,” she says, standing up, “I’m really curious about why you pay women to be with you. You’re rich and not unattractive. Lots of women would kill to be with you for free.”