The Price of Mason (Forbidden Men 10)

A hundred percent of the time, I knew the client had an idea in her head of how she wanted this to go down. But asking directly never worked out well. I’d learned early on not to come right out and say, “So, how do you want it?”

Maybe that way lacked subtlety and sounded too crass to their ears. Or maybe

asking made me come off as if I didn’t really care, didn’t want to be there, and just wanted to get this over and done with so I could collect my money and go home. And as true as that might be, it wasn’t a good way to run a business. Not this kind of business, anyway.

So I never asked.

On the other hand, not asking was a total no-no as well. In the beginning, I’d bungled my way through, trying what I wanted, always to be slapped down and reprimanded for doing it wrong. It didn’t take long to realize what I wanted had nothing to do with the transaction at all. The meeting was all about fulfilling the client’s wishes. I was just a tool to accomplish that.

So, over the last year, I’d learned a fail-safe trick that never steered me wrong.

As soon as she led me up a set of back stairs and through a hallway into a dimly lit bedroom, I stepped up right behind her, set a hand on her waist, and moved my mouth next to her ear, where I paused dramatically before whispering, “So…what’s your fantasy?”

That had become my signature phrase. Every other question seemed to spill out wrong. But inquiring about a “fantasy” seemed to put the client at ease. It made the moment more personal for her, gave her options, put her in control, and it relaxed her enough to tell me the truth, because after all, fantasies weren’t real. She could convince herself she was just confessing a hypothetical daydream to a stranger…until I actually started to act the daydream out for her.

No matter how many times I asked it, the client always responded like a cat who’d gotten the cream, smiling decadently, damn near arching her back and stretching in pleasure, ready to be petted. Didn’t matter if it was the first time I asked them the question or the tenth, they always loved it.

On cue, tonight’s client watched me from hungry, glittering eyes. I knew it wouldn’t be our last encounter. She liked me already.

“They told me you’d say that,” she said, running her gaze down my body. “And yet it still managed to send a shiver straight through me. Very well done, Mason.”

The condescending tone she used rubbed me all wrong, as did the way she said my first name. I hated it when they used my name.

Patricia had a tendency to give women my full name. She must’ve been the one to refer this client to me, which made me even more leery of the stranger in front of me. Any friend of Patricia’s was not someone I wanted to spend any amount of time with.

But I was here for a job. My second semester of college wasn’t going to pay for itself. Neither were Sarah’s medical expenses or utilities on the house.

I stepped toward the woman, managing to keep good eye contact. The right amount of eye contact was key.

“So you’ve already had time to think about your answer.” Reaching out slowly, I touched her wrist, then slid my thumb along the side of her hand and across her pinkie.

She gave a visible shudder. “Damn,” she murmured, licking her lips. “You’re good at that.”

I stepped closer still, my gaze on nothing but her as my smile turned playful and mischievous. “At what?”

She set her hands on my chest and smoothed them down, over the slopes and dips that made up my pecs and abs, so she could feel each muscle through my Country Club polo.

This is where a part of me checked out. Touching them had never been a problem. Like a dentist or doctor, I could treat touching like some kind of clinical chore. Call me a gynecological masseur, if you will. But it was when they started touching me back when things turned tricky.

I don’t think I was a typical guy. I didn’t like being touched.

No, revise that. I just didn’t like being touched by them.

I could snuggle with Sarah twenty-four hours a day, and if my mother ever gave me a hug, I’d probably drop dead from the euphoria. I had a feeling I’d make a touchy-feely—probably even a constantly horny—kind of boyfriend too, if, you know, dating actually ever happened to me.

But I swear Patricia had broken something inside me when she’d started me down this path. Because anytime anyone who was paying me for the opportunity to put their hands on me actually touched me, their touch just felt…vile. This creepy shiver would pass over my skin, and my stomach would revolt.

Every time.

Made me feel like a swimmer afraid of water or a firefighter scared of fire.

To overcome, I had to trick my mind and think about other shit before my body could respond in a way that actually pleased the client.

Fighting back the instinctive urge to curl away as her fingers made it to the waistline of my pants and she dipped a few inside before gripping denim and tugging me closer, I chuckled to make her think I liked the move.

Then I traced the back of my knuckles down the side of her neck and along her collarbone. “You ever going to tell me about that fantasy?”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, a small smile playing across her lips. “Yes. I want compassion.”