The Filthy One

CHAPTER ONE

RIVER

“I like to have control.” My gaze darts up to the man sitting right across from me, the fancy coffee shop set-up looks like someone’s Park Avenue living room, even with a sex contract lying on the table.

I smirk.

“Don’t we all?” It takes him a second to move from his relaxed position to that of a coiled cobra ready to strike. Intense gray eyes pierce right through me as he sits up, elbows resting on the slacks of his midnight-blue Ford suit, and clasps his hands together as though needing to hold himself back.

“No. Some want the illusion of control. Others willingly give it away. I’m neither of those. I have control because I take it. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I don’t answer right away, letting this information settle between us before I add it all to my notes.

“And in this scenario, am I giving you control or am I pretending to have it?” With one brow raised in defiance, I let him know that I’m not begging for his business. I don’t need him to sign this contract, I can live without his money. In fact, the only reason I’m even considering him is because I need to keep myself busy. And by busy, I mean I need to keep my mind from constantly going back to Nathaniel and wondering why I’m paying for the sins of others. I’ve tried contacting him, I’ve sent text messages—our usual banter—but he hasn’t responded. Not once. I get it, he’s protecting his heart. But in doing so, he’s breaking mine.

So, here I am, diving into my work and hoping this guy is merely looking for candy on his arm at his multiple functions. After all, Tyler Walker sent him my way so chances are, I’ll be getting paid for looking pretty and smiling.

“Hmm, I suppose that’s for you to choose. Ultimately, I make all the decisions. Where we eat. Where we sleep. How we fuck and for how long. I decide what you do or don’t wear, how you speak and to whom. And when we fuck, I decide which hole I take and how hard I take it.” With a shrug, he sits back into the chair, resuming his position of false relaxation.

There goes the arm-candy theory.

I have a feeling this man is anything but calm. In fact, I’m seriously considering refusing his business even though the slight accent intrigues me. Definitely a bit of Brooklyn but there’s something more to it. The lilt of a song and a rolling of his consonants.

“Let’s be clear, here. Your control reaches as far as the words on this contract. Not a letter more. We will discuss your terms and then I will lay out my hard limits. If this arrangement does not agree with you, then I think it’s best we end this conversation right now.” I stand, flicking the deep brown strand of my wig off my shoulder and stare down at him while he contemplates my words.

It’s the wild fucking west as his pensive stare roams my face, dancing from one eye to the other, over my lips and back up to my eyes. He’s testing me, wondering if I’ll cower at his eerie silence. What he doesn’t know is that men like him, in my business, are a dime a dozen. Control freaks who think hiring an escort gives them the right to treat us like their own personal blow-up doll.

Yeah, I don’t think so.

Slowly, a faint smile forms at the corners of his mouth as he pulls one cuff, then the other, before crossing his leg over his knee and sitting like a king on his fucking throne.

“I like you. You’ll do quite nicely.” His gaze moves from me to the seat I had occupied only seconds ago. “Please, sit. Let’s try this again, shall we?” I watch him, reading his every move, every tick he may have. In my profession, you have to go with your gut. And your research, of course. Except, I haven’t had time to do my due diligence yet. All I have is the name I was given from a sweet-sounding receptionist as a referral from Tyler with the address to this coffee shop only a couple of hours before my meeting time.

When he sees me hesitate, he rises to his feet, takes one step closer to me and holds out his hand.

This is it, I think. I’m either on board or walking away.

Problem is, I’m curious as fuck and when he tilts his head to the side and flashes me a smile that lights up his entire olive-tinted skin and I realize there’s no turning back. I need to know more.

“Let’s try this again.”

Holding out my hand, we shake once before he introduces himself properly, his impressive stature erasing everything around me.

“Marco Mancini, at your service.”

CHAPTER TWO

RIVER

“Now that we have the introductions out of the way, let’s focus on the logistics, shall we?”

Carefully placing my Mont Blanc fountain pen on the stack of papers, I cross my legs at the knees, making sure I don’t give him a peek at the goods. “I’m listening.”

At the ripe old age of twenty-six, I’ve been an escort for the better part of eight years. At first, I just needed the money so I could take care of my brother and make sure he got the best education, the world was his oyster and all that shit. Thanks to Polly, I learned a few tricks along the way.

The most useful of those tricks being how to read a room. More specifically, to read the john. Of course, I’m not cheap. I’m not walking the streets for just enough cash to get through the night, thank fuck. I got lucky when I met Polly, never had to fuck for scraps. If I could, I’d build my own brothel and make this a job with dignity. I mean, our sexuality is sold for everything else, why not for our own profit with our own rules?

But that’s a fight for another time.

Right now, I have this confident, too handsome for his own good, mob boss wannabe piercing me with his gray eyes and trying to assess me the same way I’m trying to read him.