I set the plate down in front of her, set the silverware where it should go, and turn around to grab a napkin.

Oh…the ranch! And me, I think wryly.

I turn back to her with my best poker face. “The truth is, I always did like orgies, so I decided to form my own personal harem.”

I watch her heart-shaped face carefully, focusing on her eyes, because I expect them to get wide. She holds her cards close, though, so the only way I know that she’s unsure of whether to believe me is the tiny twitch at the side of her mouth.

“Really, though,” she says, pouring syrup over her waffle, “how does one decide to be a pimp?”

“I’m not a pimp,” I tell her. “I consider myself a business man, but if that doesn’t sit well with you, think of me as a mack.”

Now her eyes narrow: hazel, framed by long, thick lashes, topped by thin, elegant brows. “What’s a mack?”

I drop down into the seat across from her and rest my forearms on the table. “A mack works for the girk. Keeps her—or in my case, her and him—safe. Makes sure clients pay up. A pimp makes sure the escort pays up. Rents her out.” I shake my head. “Everybody who works here wants to, and they make a fuck lot of money doing it.”

Suri considers this as she chews her waffle, then smiles up at me. Her smile is so damn sweet. I want to kiss her. “I can maybe accept that,” she says. “And I love the waffle. You do cook.”

“Maybe?” I smirk. “Do I look like a pimp to you?”

She laughs as looks me up and down, blatant enough so my cock twitches. “I think the waffle iron might have pushed you more into the mack camp.”

“I’m a mack. I’m telling you.” She licks her lip and I get up from the table. I’ll never lose my boner if I don’t put some distance between us. I angle my body so she can’t see me from the front, then hide behind part of the counter as I pour more batter into the waffle iron that’s resting on my little island.

I look over my shoulder at her. “One of my chick friends in college was a stripper. Never had good bosses, always got a bunch of shit. She told me it was better out in Vegas, or at least that’s what she heard. With it being legal and all, there are rules. A lot of rules,” I say dryly. “I was majoring in business and English, and I thought it sounded like a decent idea. A different kind of brothel. Classy. Clean. Safe. Hunter fronted me the money.” I don’t tell her how I also invested most of my parents’ life insurance. I don’t like to talk about my parents.

“Turned out—” I tap my head— “I’ve got a head for business. And I try to make it a fun work environment.”

“Selling their bodies for sex?” She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “No offense, but how can you make that a fun experience?”

I shrug. “Healthcare. Movie Nights. A movie theatre. Security. Free iPhones. They screen their own clients and accept or decline whoever they like. At least at the ranch they do. The Strip location works more like a typical brothel—mostly a bunch of bachelor parties and high school dudes and basement dwellers stepping out from behind a game console for a few hours.” I throw a sidelong glance at her and wink. “I’ve even got a company shrink out here. A gym, sauna, salon. It’s not such a bad place.”

She gives me an unreadable look, and I shake my head. “And still, the lady doth protest.”

“It’s not that.” She shrugs one bare shoulder. “I just think it’s weird.”

“It is, I guess. But it’s a service that’s in demand. That’s not changing.”

“It’s made you a good living,” she says thoughtfully.

Yeah, it has, but I shrug. “I guess.”

“Do you enjoy it?” she asks before biting a strawberry in half.

“I do, mostly. It’s a lot like running a hotel—or at least I imagine it is. You’ve gotta focus on the client. The experience.”

Her cheeks redden at the word experience, and it hits me like a fucking asteroid. I remember everything. Suri’s face inside the ambulance. Suri at the hospital. I remember pulling her into my hotel room and—

“Jesus Christ.” I wheel around, leaning on the island, and grab my head. My legs feel weak. For a moment, it’s a struggle just to breathe.

“Marchant? Are you okay?” She’s on her feet. Probably about to come over here. I can’t take it, so I whirl around. “I’m fine,” I snap. “Sit down.”

Oh, fuck. I fucked Suri Dalton—fucked her hard—and I left her there alone. I rub my face and flinch when I smell the waffle burning. I pull it out and toss it on a plate.

I turn to her. “Why are you here?” I snarl. “Are you stupid? Or do you like being treated like a whore?”

Her mouth drops, and her face reddens. She’s shocked, angry, insulted. “I thought it would be a fun job. Is that a problem? What is wrong with you?”

“Why do you want to sleep with me again?”

“I want to fuck you,” she corrects.

“Fuck.” What’s wrong with her? I tug at my hair.

“You’re acting weird. Like you’re pissed. Was that another thing that you forgot?” She looks disappointed.

I don’t address that—the part about me forgetting. I figure I look crazy enough without confirming her suspicions. “Not pissed. Fucking confused. What about that night appealed to you? What made you want to do that again?”

“…I don’t know,” she murmurs. She’s looking down at her perfect manicure. Her eyes collide with mine. “I wanted to get to know you more, I guess. The attraction—the chemistry— It’s clearly there. Don’t try to say it’s not, because I won’t believe it. You didn’t treat me like a whore. We had rough sex, which I liked.” She shrugs. “Anyway, why are you asking all these questions now?”

“What does it matter?” I snap.

“Marchant,” she says gently, “do you have a drug problem?”

“Did I tell you that I did?”

Her eyes widen. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

“No. I’m not. I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the island again. God, I need to get myself together. I stand up straight and turn to face her. “Suri…I think this is a bad idea. You being here.”

“But you’re the one who—”

“I know, but look—I changed my mind.”

She’s up from the table in an instant. Her hair falls in layers around her face, and her hazel eyes look red and watery. “Was it that bad?”

“No. Jesus, no. Not at all. I don’t remember very clearly, but I don’t need to. You’re goddamn beautiful and I’m just sorry that I left you there.”

“You have a drug problem,” she says slowly.

“Yes,” I tell her grimly, hoping this will send her on her way. I open my mouth to tell her I’m a wicked bastard—good for no one. Just ask Marissa.

“Were you in rehab recently?”

“I was,” I say.

“So you were on drugs that night? The night of the fire?”

“Yes,” I lie. A drug problem is better than a mental problem, isn’t it?

“And now you’re clean?”

“That’s none of your business,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be nosey. I just…want to help.”

It’s something about that. Something about the way her face goes soft and caring. I just can’t take it.

“If you stay, you stay on my terms.”

“We already said that. Yesterday. I’m fine with that.”

My frustration multiplies. I wave at the door. “Go. Find someone else.” This won’t be the emotionless fuck-fest I’d imagined for us. Not now that I know she saw me sniveling about needles. Not when she saw me getting all teary on the bed at the hotel because the smooth lines of her soft body reminded me of Marissa.

“Go,” I tell her. “I don’t want you here.”

She walks close to me, so close I can smell her syrupy breath. She runs a finger over my lip, and I go so still.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Stupid,” I say.

I lift her in my arms to carry her to the door. Because I’m humiliated. Because I feel something for her—because she saw me in that state and she came back.

Halfway across the den, she wraps her arms around my neck and rests her forehead on my chest. I divert toward my bedroom.

15

SURI

As he spirits me across his den and down a long, dark, hardwood hall, my mind spins. Marchant Radcliffe has a drug problem. He doesn’t remember having sex with me. He just offered to make me feel used—then begged me to go. And now he’s carrying me into his room.

The bed is big—king-sized with engraved mahogany posts and crimson bedding. I notice long, dark curtains and a vast bookshelf before he yanks the duvet back and drops me on the satiny sheets.

He grabs the hem of my dress and tugs it toward my head. “I warned you. I told you to go—but you didn’t, did you?”

I hold up my arms and feel the whoosh of the dress over my head. All I’m wearing underneath it is a yellow thong and matching lacy bra. I stare up at him as he sets his mouth in a scowl, his biceps rippling as he pulls off his own t-shirt and tosses it behind him. He leans over me and fingers a strand of my hair.

“You’re here because you want to be fucked.”

I nod, because those eyes of his are liquid brown and hot as fire, and I’m mesmerized.

He rolls me over on my side, making quick work of my bra. My breasts bounce free as he rolls me back onto my back, but he’s already moving lower, licking down my belly as he shoves my thong aside and thrusts a finger into me. He covers my pussy with his mouth and I moan.

“I’m gonna give you what you want,” he pants against my thigh.

His tongue flicks hard against my clit, and my orgasm is almost violent, making me convulse and cry out, “Marchant!”

He takes a step back and drops his plaid pajama pants. His dick springs out. It’s big and hard and standing tall—for me.