The Heart Of It (3 page)

It’s okay, Gabe. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.

There was some animal in the room making low, pained noises. Horrible noises.

“Shhh,” she said, her hand slipping from his chest down to his jeans where his cock, so fucking hard it hurt, pulsed against her touch. “You’re so hard.” She undid his belt before he fully realized what was happening, and then her fingers were against his skin. His dick in her hand. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

It feels good, Gabey. It can’t be bad if it feels good. I just want to make you feel good. See?

Elena pushed his jeans down and bent, breathing over his hard flesh and he knew what would happen next.

Do you know what this is called? A blow job. I’m gonna suck your dick—

Gabe wrenched away from the door, from her, pulling up his pants, tripping over his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. With wildly shaking hands he tucked his now flaccid dick back in his underwear. It took him three times to zip up his pants. “I’m sorry, Elena.”

Her dress made a purple-blue puddle on the floor, and he picked it up, too ashamed and broken to look her in the eye as he handed it to her. “You can keep the room for the night,” he said. “And the money, of course.” The dress was pulled from his fingers, and he turned in a circle looking for his shirt, found it draped over the foot of the bed, and quickly put it on. And then because he still felt naked, he grabbed his jacket. The scarf.

To his surprise when he turned for the door, ready to get the hell out of here, she was still standing there, the dress clasped to her chest, her head bent, the dark hair a curtain he couldn’t see through.

“Elena? Please let me go.”

T
he fuck, Elena? Get out of the way and let the poor man go.

But she couldn’t. Her feet were nailed to the floor by the scent of his fear, the power of his desperation.

And because it had been four damn weeks of this. All this bravery and all this fear.

He’s a fucked up person in a world of fucked up people. Do not get all hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold over this.

But he was just so damn sweet. And sad.

“Please,” he breathed. “Let’s just forget this.”

Oh, fat chance, buddy.

Without looking at him, and without moving away from the door, either, she stepped into her dress, slipped the straps over her shoulders. She turned, presenting her back, and she could imagine how she looked, with the gaping split of the purple dress, through which he could see the black satin and lace of her underwear, the curve of her spine to the top of her ass. She knew how she looked, the seductive picture she made for him. It was a tool of the trade. A job requirement and she only felt a little bad using it on him.

“Zip me back up, would you?” she asked.

He was big, this man with four different names. He was tall and wide and strong. He had big hands and big feet, long legs that he never seemed to know what to do with. A giant cock he really didn’t know what to do with.

But he was astoundingly gentle. Devastatingly careful.

When he zipped up her dress, he didn’t touch her—it was just his fingers on the small metal tab of the zipper and his breath warm against her spine.

“There,” he said and stepped away, taking all his heat with him.

She sighed and faced him. He was young, younger than her thirty. Something about him seemed perpetually young. A frozen boy, like in his book.

What would he do if I told him I knew who he was?
Not just his name, but who he was. The service of course gave her his name—Gabe Peterson—which could have been a lie, but on their second failed date she’d recognized him from the back of one of her son’s favorite books.

The
Gabe Peterson. He’d written two books that had become uber-popular. The second one,
Frozen Boy
, was being made into a movie.

“I’m going to have a drink,” she said. “From the minibar. Would you like one?”

He shook his head.

“You sure?”

He vibrated discomfort. “I’m sure.”

“If I step away from this door, you’ll vanish, won’t you?” she asked.

“I’ll leave. Yes.”

She kicked off her shoes and slid down the door to the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Would you mind getting me that drink?”

He gaped at her. “You know, I could just move you.”

“But you won’t.” Her smile was flat. This man wouldn’t touch her, not unless he really had to. In their four disastrous dates, he’d barely ever touched her. Once her breasts, over the dress she’d worn on the first date. Her leg on the second. He’d grabbed her ass on the third, like really grabbed it, nearly knocking her onto the bed. That had been exciting. Very exciting until he stepped back, apologized, and vanished.

Over the last month, she’d spent far too much time not only thinking about him, but trying to discern why she wanted him. Authentically wanted him. When he’d shoved her up against the hallway wall a few minutes ago, she’d gotten wet. Slippery. An instantaneous visceral reaction. And she’d lost her focus for a moment.

For years she’d been able to pick her own dates. She’d had loving and kind relationships with men that had lasted months. She’d been the pampered mistress for an aging diamond importer for nearly a decade. She didn’t fuck anyone she didn’t want to fuck.

But the way she was interested in Gabe . . . she hadn’t felt that in a very long time. Part of it was his looks. His body. He was attractive on every metric. And part of it, she had to admit, was the mystery of him. She’d spent days wondering what kind of lie he’d tell her the next time they met.

Lawyer. Once he’d been a tailor. Another time a baseball referee. It had been hard to keep a straight face during that.

But if she was honest with herself, something she tried very hard to be, she was here right now because of his pain. Because he seemed very alone inside of it. And she knew down to her bones how that felt.

He came back with a mini bottle of wine and a wine glass from the tray on the table by the window.

“Thank you,” she said, cracking open the small bottle and pouring it into the glass. “You sure you don’t want something?”

“I’d like to leave.”

She met his gaze, blue and serious.

“I know,” she said, and set the empty bottle next to her shoes.
And you can
,
as soon as you move me.

She took a deep sip of her wine and sighed. “I’ve never lied to you. These dates we’ve had. I’ve always told you the truth. My name is Elena. I grew up outside Montreal. I have a son. I moved in with my grandmother when I was twelve, she died when I was sixteen. My mother is dead, my sister lives in Norway, and I haven’t spoken to her in ten years. All of that’s true.”

He nodded, slowly, his eyes cagey.

“So, do you think I could call you Gabe?”

He jerked backwards with surprise. “How—”

“The service tells me your name. If you didn’t want me to know it, you should have lied.”

“Oh.” His blush, right to the very tips of his ears, it was adorable on a man his size. “I didn’t even think about it.”

“And my son loves your books, and you have a very nice picture on the back of them.”

“Right.” His laughter was rusty, and she could tell he was embarrassed having lied to her. Over and over again. “I’ve never been recognized quite like this.”

“I can imagine. But, I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about? I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement. If I talk about my clients, it’s serious trouble.”

But he must have known that. It must have been part of the reason he’d contacted the incredibly expensive, incredibly private escort service she worked for.

“That’s not why I lied,” he said, leaning against the half wall between the small foyer and the bedroom area. “And yes . . . you can call me Gabe.”

“Gabe, will you please sit down? Looking up at you is making my neck hurt.”

“I don’t want to sit down. I would like to leave.”

“Then feel free to pick me up and move me out of the way.”

“Why are you doing this? Why don’t you just take the money?”

“Because I don’t want the money. Look at you, Gabe. You’re so clearly a good guy. A nice guy. I just . . . I just want to talk to you.”

For a long moment his eyes met hers, the longest moment of eye contact they’d ever shared, and he gave no indication he was going to trust her. Or could trust her. Which she understood, all too well.

Just as she decided to let him off the hook and was shifting to stand, he turned and sat abruptly, leaned his back against the half wall, making sure his long legs were to the side of hers. Not touching her. Not even close. Despite having spent thousands for the right.

Well
, she thought, stunned by his acquiescence.
You kept him here. Now what are you going to do with him?

“I thought meeting in the bar might help,” she said. “A little social foreplay before coming to the room.”

“It did.” What a sweet liar he was. How ingrained his politeness. “It was nice.”

“That thing about your dog, was that true?”

His nod was stiff, as stiff as the way he sat.

“You sure you don’t want a drink? Because this might be easier if you were a little loose?”

“By
this
you mean sex?”

“I mean talking.”

“I’m afraid that’s never very easy.” His smile was a flash in the shadows, quick and embarrassed and gone.

“Then a few drinks might help with the sex, too.”

“I’ve had more than enough drunk sex. I’m trying to do it sober.”

Hmmm . . . curiouser and curiouser.

“Are you gay? Is that what this is about? Because there are male versions of me—”

In one quick, nearly violent rush, he got to his feet, and an old alarm screamed in her head. She’d thought this guy was tame, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe she was a reckless idiot poking sticks at a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

She scrambled to her feet as fast as she could.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, easing along the wall away from the door.

He stared at her in horror. “I won’t . . . I won’t hurt you.”

“Of course not.” She smiled, because that’s what the assholes said before in fact hurting her. How heavily ironic that just as she was making changes to get out of the life,
this
would come back around.

God, it was so long ago this fear, she’d nearly forgotten it altogether except for the odd echo in nightmares.

“Elena . . .” He held his hands up as if to show her he had no weapons, and while that was all well and good, his giant calloused hands were weapons.

“I’m sorry I said anything.” The doorway was free and clear now, and she was crammed into the corner, having tipped over the empty wine bottle.

He would leave, and she would calm herself down, feeling slightly ridiculous, and then go home to her son, where she would lay awake in fear of the old nightmares. And then if he wanted another date, she’d say no.

Because she could. Because she didn’t have to be scared anymore. Because those years were long behind her, and she’d worked hard, made all the right decisions.

She’d been smart.

Or
, piped up the part of her frozen as the perpetually terrified sixteen year old choosing to live on the streets rather than live with her dad,
instead of leaving, Gabe could knock you around a little.

She reached for the doorknob, thinking she needed to get out now, screw her shoes, screw her purse.

And then to her jaw-dropping surprise, he sat back down, his eyes wide.

“I swear to God you are safe.” He put his hand to his chest as if her doubt and fear hurt him. “I just don’t know how to talk about this.”

Her heart pounded hard in her temple, and she took a bunch of deep breaths.

Of course he wasn’t going to hurt her. Because she was not a desperate sixteen year old with no money and no choices.

And he was a carefully vetted client of a global, exclusive escort service.

“I’m not gay,” he said right to her, as if trying to convince her to stay with his honesty, which frankly was an effective tool. “I tried this . . . with a guy. It didn’t work.”

Stay or go. Stay. Go.

Four weeks of this with Gabe. Of feeling his desire and then his fear and then finally this resigned pain. He walked away from her every week like a man carrying a burden he had long grown used to.

And her son loved this guy’s books.

“Didn’t work like we don’t work?” Her interest re-engaged, she slowly sat back down, not in front of the door anymore, but to the side of it. The exit—for both of them—available.

“Didn’t work like I never got hard.” He plucked at the knee of his jeans, pulling it up to a point right over the joint. “I wasn’t turned on. At all.”

He was turned on with her. Each time he’d walked in this door with her he’d been as hard as a baseball bat. Until things started to get serious.

“Is it me?” she asked. “I’m older than you—”

“It’s not your age.”

“You sure? Because I’m thirty—”

“I want
you
,” he said, quickly, emphatically. His eyes a searing period on that statement. “I can’t imagine wanting anyone more than I want you.”

Well. Desire was kind of part of the business, but that was . . . well, that was nice. “Then we have a bit of a quandary, don’t we?”

“Did you really think I’d hurt you?”

“I go into dark rooms with men I don’t know,” she said. “There’s always that possibility.”

“But the service I called, it’s so upscale—”

“Rich men like to hit women, too.”

His eyes flared and his lips tightened. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault.”

“It doesn’t stop me from being sorry you have any kind of experience with something like that.”

She shrugged. His defense meant nothing, but it didn’t stop her from being slightly pleased, if for no other reason than it seemed to prove her suspicions about Gabe. He was a good guy.

“I didn’t always work for Denise.” Talking about her history with a client was hardly acceptable, but by just sitting there, his eyes wide, his big hands folded in his lap, he pulled the words right out of her. “My grandmother died when I was sixteen, and I lived on the streets for a while rather than go back and live with my dad.”