Page 31 of Call You Mine

Her eyes go wide, searching the room for something to latch onto if only to avoid my gaze. But it’s useless, everywhere she looks there are small glimpses of the man she used to know. The friend she confided in, the man who made her feel protected.

That man is no longer me.

Though some would argue that’s exactly what I’m doing, becoming her knight in shining armor, coming to her rescue as soon as she so much as shows up at my door with a look of despair and a plea to be hers, even if only in secret and sin.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she mutters defensively as my earlier comment registers in her lust fogged brain.

I can still see the aftermath of her orgasm has her shaken up. For one, she won’t look me in the eye and there’s a rosy tint on her cheeks that seems to brighten when she stares down at my mouth. She’s thinking about it too. Picturing what it would feel like to once again be completely mine.

I reach for her, once more making the mistake of touching her as I tuck a loose strand of snow-white hair behind her ear. It’s as soft as I imagined it would be, and for a moment I let my finger trail along the warm flesh of her cheek.

“This was a mistake,” she huffs, pulling away from me, but this time I let her walk away. Without so much as another glance she collects her things from my desk, clutching the contact against her chest, though before she exits my office, I tell her exactly what she feared I meant.

“One of these days you’re going to have to tell me what it is you’re running from. You need me Wynter, more than just a friend or afake boyfriend, or whatever it is you want to call this between us. You need my protection.”

“I don’t,” she spits back out at me, her lip quivering as she fights back tears.

Tears I ache to erase.

“You do, Princess,” I say back to her, and the little minx rolls her eyes at me, biting the inside of her cheek to hold back whatever smart ass remark she was about to spit out at me. Smart move, but the ache in my palm to smack her perky, round ass for the defiant attitude makes my cock strain in my slacks. “But it’s going to come at a price.”

Her eyes flicker back to mine, desire once again making them hazy. She’s amused, her mouth twitching slightly and turning up at the ends. Not a full smile, but it’s something and my cock throbs in response.

“And what’s it going to cost me, Damon?” she mutters, a little too out of breath.

I chuckle, unable to hide my amusement. God, I've missed her. I run my tongue over my teeth, biting down on my bottom lip to suppress the feral groan I’m almost tempted to let out just to see the soft pink hue tinting her cheeks brighten.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Chapter Eight

DAMON

When I started working for Kingsman Enterprises, I hadn’t really contemplated what I’d be getting myself into. Having only briefly gone over the services Kingsman offered in my unorthodox interview, I blindly walked into a world I assumed only existed in movies and on television. It was strange because I never applied for a job with Kingsman. They came to me. She came to me—Clarissa O’Neal.

It was a few months after we’d arrived in Hillcrest Hills—after my breakup with Scarlett and the hookup I had with Wynter. I was a fucking mess and drank myself into oblivion for a month straight. Every weekend I’d go out to Killian's, a bar Kai’s Uncle and President of The Pleasant Hills Cobras’ Motorcycle Club owned, back in Pleasant Hills. There I could drink my sorrows away without being bothered by someone I knew from school. I felt at home there.

But one night my best friend Jax and I ventured out to Galen Grove, a ritzy neighborhood known as The Las Vegas of California. We dropped in at one of the many casinos despite having no money to gamble, so instead I spent my time in their bar while Jax spent it looking around for a cougar he’d make his own personal Sugar Mama.

I wasn’t down for that.

Clarissa approached me as I sat alone at the casino bar. It was strange, sure, but although I was only eighteen, I looked like a grown man—the stubble on my chin was a little longer than a five o’clock shadow. There was something in the way she looked at me that made me feel seen. Wanted. And in that precise moment I was looking for that exact thing.

She was hot for an older woman in her late thirties. Long, bleached blond hair that looked to be mostly extensions fell along her shoulders in wide Jessica Rabbit curls, while a dark red dress wrapped every one of her man-made curves. Her tits were on full display, fake as shit, and pushed up to her chin, giving an indecent amount of cleavage. Though eyes were dark and clouded with lust as they raked over me, taking in my appearance in ripped black jeans and a leather jacket.

The hunger in her gaze turned me on—I was a man after all and she was one hell of a woman—but deep down her type made me sick. Entitled trophy wives who married for nothing more than the zeros in their husband's bank accounts only to come to places like these in search of what they really craved. Of course, her husband was screwing his secretary or in a similar situation, regardless I never understood that type of arrangement. To allow yourself to be taken advantage of and humiliated in that way made no fucking sense to me.

After a few drinks and some lewd glances, Clarissa told me about a business she had—a club of sorts. Very exclusive and a littledifferentfrom anything I’d ever heard of.

Women—preferably older, wealthy and bored housewives—procured services from heremployeesthey couldn’t find anywhere else. It all sounded a little sketchy to me and although I could read between the lines, I was intrigued.

Sure, I’d grown up around strip clubs and even was on a first name basis with some prostitutes in Pleasant Hills, not because I ever required their services, but because of my brief employment with The Cobras MC. However, the picture Clarissa was painting was interesting to say the least. The men who worked for her—young, attractive men she referred to as escorts—her elusive clients would hire for things such as charity galas or other societal events they needed dates to.

Though sometimes her clients also held private events and hired a few of her men at a time for theseparties.

She offered me a chance to attend one of these private events and test the waters to see if it was a good fit for me. I almost blew her off thinking she was a fucking psycho if she thought I’d agree to be a Gigolo, but the moment she grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote the amount of cash I could go home with nightly after her cut, I’d be a fucking idiot to refuse.

Five thousand dollars a night for simply attending a dinner at the country club, but up to fifteen grand for these private parties.

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