Page 12 of Plum

“What’s wrong, Pudding?” He eases his strokes, still firm, but less diggy. “Did I hit a tender spot?”

“No, no. Feels good. I was just thinking, this is nice and all, but this is supposed to be foryou.”

I slide my hands down from where I’d obliviously rested them on his chest—his hard-as-fuck chest—to start fiddling with his belt buckle.

He pretty much ignores me. He slips his hands behind my knees and guides my legs up until they’re sort of folded and tucked under his armpits. He can easily reach my shoes now, and he unstraps them with both hands, sending them clunking one-by-one to the floor. Immediately, he squeezes my bare feet in his huge hands, tracing firm lines up my arches with that thumb.

Oh,sweet Lord. That feels so, so good.

I leave off working at his belt—I can’t seem to get it undone anyway—and I live for the moment.

I nuzzle my head in the crook of his neck, and doesn’t he smell sonice. Like salon shampoo.

Nestled in his lap—cuddled really—he’s so much bigger than me. He could probably tuck me in the jacket of his thousand-dollar suit. I’m guessin’ at the price. I don’t know anything about men’s suits, but I know money when I see it.

He looks like a fancier version of the businessmen we get all the time, assholes slumming it for cheap thrills, so they can tell their buddies they partied with the Steel Bones MC. These are the type of guys who order top shelf liquor, overpay for a rub and tug, and then stiff you on the tip.

It’s a nice jacket, though. Soft, not scratchy against my skin.

“This nice?” he asks.

I mumble something. My eyelids are getting heavy. Austin better knock on the door frame soon, or I’m gonna be conked out and drooling on the customer.

“What’s your real name, Plum?” His voice is low, confident, as if he’d never heardnoin his life. I bet this is a man who gets seated in the center chair in whatever room he walks into. A dangerous man. The kind the world moves out of their way for, crushing people like me.

Tension fills my body, and he can’t rub enough to make me a noodle again.

“You want to know my real name?”

“Yeah.” He nips at my bottom lip. Testing, but not. He knows he can kiss me if he wants to. He paid.

“You gonna tell me your real bank account number?”

He laughs. I don’t. After a few moments, he says, “Reach into my pocket. Front left.”

All right, then. I pull out his brown leather wallet, and this time I notice the worn creases. It really doesn’t match his fancy suit and watch and shiny wingtip shoes.

I hold it up between two fingers.

“Open it.”

This feels like a trap. It probablyisa trap. But it’s also a pretty thick wallet. Doesn’t quite fold all the way closed.

I flip it open. He’s got a wad. I thumb through it quick. All twenties.

“Take it.”

There’s at least four or five hundred in there. That’s the mortgage made, and it’s only the tenth of the month.

This is definitely a setup.

“So, I take the cash, and then you go cry to Cue that I stole it? Is that your grand revenge plan?” There’s the camera, so it’s not like it’d work, but it pisses me off anyway.

I shove the wallet into his chest and try to get up, but he has both my feet, and damn him, he hasn’t stopped massaging them.

“Who’s Cue?”

I huff. “Bald motherfucker? Runs the place? Pulled Nickel off you last week before he killed you.”

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