9. Drew

Ijerk awake, having nodded off for a third time this shift. It was not a restful day after I left here this morning. I thought maybe since I'd come so hard, sleep would be no problem, but yeah—wasn't that simple.

I let a dude suck me off—correction, I let a dude I fucking hate—I let The Heir suck me off. What the fuck? It didn't help that both bedrooms were occupied when I got home, and I was stuck with the couch. I was half-tempted to join Silas because he was alone, but given what I'd just done, I thought maybe it'd be better to stay out of men's beds until I figure out what the hell came over me this morning.

It frustrates me that I can't use porn as an excuse. If I'd had the urge to get my cock sucked the day those women were going at it on his flat screen, maybe I could pawn the urge off on that—all the sex sounds.

I've never been into anything much kinkier than letting a woman tie me up, and I've certainly never wrapped my hand around anyone's throat with the goal of—what's it even called—? Erotic asphyxiation? Never occurred to me. I can safely say the urge to strangle His Highness was pure violence. Zero sexual intent whatsoever. What's more fucked up is I had no idea what I was doing, and I really do think I could have accidentally killed him.

I don't want to kill him, just to be clear. Not really. I don't have some latent murderous urge coming to life inside me. But I found something in doing it I hadn't realized I do have an urge for—an outlet. And he was in the wrong place at the right time.

All that excuses the first time. This last time, however? When his frantic body fought both for survival and release? I still hadn't wanted to kill him, but I had wanted to use him.

Use him so much it hurt.

As I lay awake on the sofa bed earlier today, Silas had emerged from the bedroom, and I asked him, "If a straight man lets another man suck his cock, does that make him bi? Or gay?"

Silas had frozen on the way to the coffee maker and arched a brow at me. "Did said man seek out the other man?"

"Not really."

"Would he like to seek out the same man or another man again?"

"He's still processing."

"If I let a woman suck my cock, would that make me straight? Or bi?"

I'd scowled at him while I thought about it. "A mouth's a mouth, right?"

"Pretty much," he said.

"Hm. But have you?" I asked him. "Let a woman blow you?"

"It's never come up. But I'm not saying I wouldn't if the circumstances were right."

"Like what circumstances? When would you find yourself in need of a woman to blow you?" I'd asked, searching for common ground. Something I could claim as true for "all men."

"Well…if I were really horny, really fucked up—and she took control of the situation—can't really see myself pushing her away."

That sort of fit. I had been horny. I've been fucked up in the head awhile. However, Olivier hadn't taken control. I'd shoved my cock in his mouth like a fucking predator…God…

What had I done?

"Was it good?" Silas had asked me just as I rolled over and tried to close my eyes again.

"I don't know."

"I have no basis for comparison, you understand, but I've always been told men give better head than women."

"Not sure anyone can say that a hundred percent across the board," I'd said, in women's defense. I've been with some who've had some pretty sexy moves.

"In your experience then?" Silas asked. "Or were you asking for a friend?"

"It was me," I groaned.

"And?"

"Yeah," I felt forced to admit. "It was better." My stomach had cramped then, and I'd drawn my knees up to my chest. I spared Silas the details.

The worst thing about that conversation with Silas this afternoon? I got hard during it because I'd been remembering too much.

Now I can barely keep my eyes open, and it's just past midnight. I'm nodding off again, in fact, the heavy weight of exhaustion drawing my eyes shut, when the door opens, and I jump up, rushing to do my damn job. But it's Olivier, looking at me all confused, like why the hell did he have to open the door all by himself.

"You okay, Jack?" he asks.

"Fine. I was on the phone," I say shortly. "Where's your date?"

He balks, blinking up at me, and I realize suddenly—the audacity.

"I mean—are you alone tonight?"

That's also not any of my fucking business. It's not like I ask Babs that every time she comes in.

He just stares.

"Forget it. Apologies. Can I get you your mail while you wait for the elevator?"

"Why are you so chatty all of a sudden?" he asks, striding into the heated lobby and slipping off his winter coat to lay it smoothly over his arm.

I shut my mouth and vow not to say another word. I punch the up button and go back to my seat.

He leans on the wall dividing the lobby from the vestibule. "What's with you?"

"Nothing. Have a nice evening."

"You said that already. Curious whether you mean it or not."

I check the front door to make sure no one's coming before I turn to look up at him. His hair is perfectly untamed, curls falling across his forehead like someone professionally styled them. He's got his collar buttoned all the way up, but it can't hide all my marks. Something base and primal licks at the back of my mind, satisfied. If anyone can pull off a strangled neck, it's this guy.

"Just doing my job, Mr. Arnaud."

"Hm. Well…"

The elevator doors slide open, and he glances back at them. We both know it's now or never.

"I'm having breakfast delivered in the morning. Will you see to it that it makes it to my door?"

"Uh…" I give what I hope comes off as a careless shrug even as my nuts tingle. "Yeah."

"Thanks. Good night."

"'Night."

The thing is, it'd be totally orthodox and expected for me to send the college-aged woman who arrives at seven a.m. with croissants up to the penthouse to leave The Heir's order outside his door. We do it all the time. Food deliveries come at all hours, and we're not supposed to leave the lobby for longer than it takes to piss. As long as they're in and out in ten minutes, it's fine.

And, as established, I'm exhausted. I don't have the desire to fight anyone this morning, and I'm not in the least bit turned on by the idea of a repeat of yesterday. Frankly, it seems like too much work.

But I need to put an end to this—whatever it is—along with our stupid feud so I can focus on things that matter—like finding a new roommate or moving out of New York. Figuring out what to do with the rest of my life.

So, with the best intentions, I accept the delivery, hand the building off to William, and head up to the twelfth floor—one last time.

While I know he's expecting me, I'm once again not sure what I'm going to have to deal with this morning. I'm surprised when Olivier opens the door. And I say Olivier because he looks almost like a regular person. While his jeans are Dior and his Henley is probably bespoke or something, he looks nothing like The Heir.

He looks…

Some kind of way that makes my lungs shrink slightly in capacity. A week ago, I would have chalked that feeling up to bitterness, but I can't be so sure anymore. I wouldn't go so far as to say we've been "intimate," but we did go through something. Together.

"Would you like a croissant?" he asks. "I ordered two."

I look down at the bag I'm holding. "I can't stay."

He holds out a hand, and I pass the bag along to him. "Five minutes?"

My gaze narrows with suspicion. "Why?"

His expression remains placid. "I'd like to apologize."

"Mm…" I see the red flag as clearly as if it's waving over his head, but honestly, I'm too exhausted to pay heed to it. Better to get this over with. I came up here to set things straight, right?

Very, very straight.

"I don't eat carbs," I say.

"I didn't figure you did." He sighs, opening the door wider and gesturing me inside. "Regardless, please come in."

Such manners. I glare at him as I do as he says.

It's warm in his apartment. My instinct is to take off my jacket, but I hesitate over the top button. "Do you mind?" I ask him first.

"Make yourself comfortable."

"Five minutes, you said," I remind him.

He sets the delivery bag down on the dining table and casually shrugs. "If you're hot…" he clears his throat. "You know what I mean."

I'm sweating. I unbutton the jacket and shrug it off, leaving the slim fitting polo beneath, which I go ahead and untuck to maximize airflow. I loosen the tie and work the top button of my shirt open. "What's up?" I ask, when I'm marginally more ventilated.

"You despise me," he says, eyes locked on mine, arms folded across his chest.

"Is that a question?"

His head tilts, gaze narrowing. "If you like."

"You're not my favorite," I say.

"Why?"

"Do we really need to get into this?"

He loosens his arms and ticks off some items on his fingers. "You insulted me, you tried to kill me, you forced yourself on me, you didn't open the door for me last night."

I snort at that last one.

"So, yes," he says. "I'd like to get into it."

"You want an apology?"

"No," he says quickly. Loudly, even.

"Then what?"

"I want to know why. Or I could try guessing again."

I wave the suggestion away. I don't want to hear any more of his "guesses" about who I am. "You're spoiled. You're rude. You're entitled, and in general, you're a rich prick."

"That's all?"

I nod.

"So you're not… jealous of me?"

I huff. "You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"So I'm a prick. So what? There are plenty of pricks in this town. Have you tried to strangle all of them?"

I glare at him, jaw ticking.

"Just me then," he surmises. "Why?"

"I don't know, Olivier, maybe because you can't carry your own fucking packages like everyone else somehow manages to."

He smirks. Something about it twists me up. His eyes go half-lidded when he does it. It's not so much a look of derision—more like the kind of look he might give a woman he's trying to convince to come home with him. Although, given who he is, I imagine he doesn't need a look like that in his arsenal. Surely his reputation precedes him in this part of town.

"Point taken," he says. "You wanted to put me in my place."

"Not sure that's possible," I grumble.

"Hm. Well, maybe not by you… but I have been recently humbled."

"I'm aware." It's my turn to smirk.

"I don't mean by you."

"Oh, I know."

He grimaces, refolding his arms over his chest. "We've gotten way off topic."

"What is the topic? Your five minutes are up."

"You still wanna kill me?" he asks.

"Kill is a strong word."

"Make me suffer?"

"Did you want to suffer?" Why the fuck is my dick twitching? He's not that pretty.

Okay. Maybe he is that pretty. But it's all bought and paid for. It's all surface. There's nothing inside him worth admiring. He's a picture on Page Six. Two-dimensional. Empty.

"Can I tell you a secret, Drew?"

"Of course. It's my job to be discreet."

"My parents are making me marry Elodie Lafayette or they'll cut me off. I'm hoping they'll come to their senses before I have to walk down an actual aisle, but I have to go along with the charade for now in return for their lawyer getting all my charges dropped."

"Wow," I say, faking sympathy. "You've just redefined first world problems for me in a way I never thought possible."

He lets out a wry huff of amusement. "Here's another one for you then, since you're so entertained—I can't stand her. She's—unusual. Her tastes are—not like mine."

"For example?"

"Golden showers," he says without hesitation.

I bark out a sudden laugh. I can't help myself. The idea of The Heir being pissed on is too inspiring. "What's your point? Why are you telling me this?"

"Because no one will return my calls, Drew. My parents are angry with me, so no brunches. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do—besides Elodie—and I'm hoping maybe you'll find it in your heart to take pity on me."

This guy. Unbelievable. "Pity's a stretch. Does she not want to fuck you?"

"She does. She insists on it."

"I don't see the problem," I say.

"Would you like to have sex with Elodie?"

I don't want to have sex with anyone. Jericho got lucky two weeks ago, but yesterday morning was the first genuine erection I've had since my parents' bathroom remodel got underway. "She's hot," I say because I'm not as compelled as he is to lay all my cards on the table with a perfect stranger I have nothing in common with.

"I'd invite you to join us tonight then, but I suppose you're working."

"You want me to fuck your fiancée for you?" This is rich.

He shakes his head letting out a sigh so long it has weight. "I can fuck her myself. I'm just not looking forward to it."

"Maybe it won't be so bad."

"That's not the point."

My patience is wearing thin. "What is the fucking point?"

"How was the blow job, Drew?"