Page 22 of Tempting the King

No one gets that privilege from now on except me.

Walk away. He’s her next client.

My fingertips twitch, staring at the bloodied cuts across my knuckles. I consider punching the mirror again since I can’t do what I really want, and knock a few of his veneers down his throat.

Why would I make a promise like that to her?

What’s really bugging the shit out of me is, nobody has ever made me second guess my instincts before now.

I shoulder through the door back into the hall, just in time to see him disappear behind the door to her little lobby. Even the way he walks infuriates me.

The urge to grab him by the throat and throw him through a fucking window is overwhelming.

Instead of following my instinct, I turn around and start down the hall. Because I’m an asshole in an infinite number of ways, but I keep my promises.

But, I’m not leaving until I know he’s not going to touch her with those unwashed hands.

CHAPTER 9

Emee

This is like a fever dream, I think as I shake my head, wandering in an aimless circle around the bed.

Never in a million years would anyone have convinced me I would let a client hold me down and dry fuck me until I came. While calling him My King, no less.

I'm not mad, though, because that was the best orgasm of my life.

As well, I can’t quite shake away the protective sense of comfort he gave me when he mentioned the lack of a peephole and security system.

I have time for a breath at least. I always schedule a break between clients. Sometimes I need to change bedding and swap out pillows, but also, you never know when a client might spill something heartbreaking or enraging.

I also use the time to make notes in client profiles and hydrate.

This is the first time I’ve had to deal with a pair of ruined underwear.

Luckily, my closet is stocked with backup clothes. I can’t meet one client with another’s tears still drying on my shoulder, or occasionally vomit—it happens. Stress is complicated.

Outside of the need for fresh underwear, I also strip down and change everything, grabbing a pair of gray sweats and a fresh white t-shirt, and do a deep breathing exercise to get my focus back.

I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anyone else with his scent on me for the rest of the day.

After I’ve changed, washed my hands, and splashed some cold water on my face, I slip my feet back into my tennis shoes and head out toward my desk to grab my water bottle and get my head straight.

My phone buzzes on my desk as I drop into my chair, releasing a long groan with my fists to the ceiling as I see my brother’s face and phone number on the screen. “Whaaaaaat now?” I say to no one, before popping my finger on the green accept button.

“Hel—” I start, but he’s talking before I get the word out.

“Em, I need help. I’m in trouble…”

“No more money,” I say, pushing sternness into my voice that masks the helplessness I feel when it comes to my brother.

The memory of making pancakes for him on his birthdays while our parents slept off their hangovers weaves through my hazy thoughts. I also remember the drug dealers, thieves and other questionable guests that traipsed through our tiny trailer park living room and, when I got a little older, started looking at me like I was dessert.

And the way he took the beatings from my father that should have been mine.

“Yeah, no, no money,” He says, and my eyes pop wide, a rush of hope that this time, this time, maybe he just needs me to help him find a good suit for a job interview. Maybe take on an alter ego and give him a professional reference. “You don’t have enough money for this, Em… I took the grand you gave me to the casino. I tried to turn it into enough to fix this. But I had a bad run, Em. I’m in deep.” He clears his throat, and all my happy hopes are drowned by the fear in his voice. “Are you still seeing that client today? King Hertzof?”

My cheeks burn as I answer, “Already saw him. Won’t be seeing him again until tomorrow.”

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