Breaking Joseph by Lucy V. Morgan Page A

liquor chocolates nobody wanted at Christmas. “Why
are you staying in a hotel if you’ve got this place?”
    He pushed a
tumbler into my hand, the ice clinking in pale syrup. “Bringing you
straight here might have been a little strange. And I can keep an
eye on everyone if I’m at the hotel.” He scowled. “Especially
Yves.”
    “What kind of
cupcakes do we have?”
    “I don’t know,
some lavender shite. This is what it’s like to live with Nigella
Lawson, isn’t it?”
    “I can only
imagine.” I watched him as I chewed. “I’m sure you have.”
    “Not really my
type.” He reached out and touched me for the first time since I’d
arrived. It occurred to me then that without even noticing, I’d
grown comfortable with him, even in this unfamiliar space. He
traced the seam of my stocking with a fingertip and my blood
followed in a hot little surge.
    “I like these,”
he murmured. “They suit you.”
    “Thank
you.”
    His hands
curved around my ankles, toying with the shoe straps.
    “Did you have a
good time visiting?” I asked.
    “Yeah…was good
to see my sister.”
    “You didn’t
catch your parents?”
    “It was good to
see my sister,” he said drily.
    I smiled as his
fingers made the journey back up my calf. “How is it that they’re
all over here, and you’re in England?”
    “My dad’s
American. They moved when I was a teenager. I didn’t want to go, so
I stayed with my grandmother.” He reached my thigh and kneaded
hard. Harder.
    “They just left
you?”
    “Pretty much.”
He lowered his eyes.
    “And where does
the Swedish thing fit in?”
    “It’s where my
Grandmother is from. She had my mother in England.”
    “Sounds
complicated.” I caught his hand as he went to lift my skirt. “Be
patient.”
    He sat back and
eyed me playfully. “If that’s what you want.”
    Before he
moved, I brought his fingers to my lips and nipped at each one.
    “I’ve had the
image of you doing that in my head all day,” he said. “That kiss
you gave me this morning…”
    “I like making
you wait.”
    He drew his
hand away and reached for a cupcake adorned with mint leaves. “I
like it more than I ought to.”
    “Why’s that?” I
stole some of his cake icing and he went to smack my palm. “What’s
wrong with a bit of delayed gratification?”
    “Nothing, if
you have the time.”
    “We’ve got all
evening, haven’t we?”
    “We’ve got
until Friday. Do you think it’s enough?”
    I blushed,
unsure where to look. Whores weren’t meant to blush, of
course–cliché declared it genetically impossible. Maybe that only
applied to Charlotte, who would roll her eyes at the act of
modesty. “There’s one more job left, remember? I’m sure you can
think of something.”
    “Oh, I will.”
He observed me with a strange melancholy: considering.
Dissecting.
    In an effort to
ignore that, I took a great mouthful of whiskey, then almost choked
on the dull, dry heat.
    “Not a whiskey
fan, hmm?” He laughed.
    “Sorry.” The
glass clinked as I set it down. “That wasn’t very graceful.”
    “You have grace
in the right places.” He was stroking my legs again.
    “Thank you,” I
whispered.
    “And you’re
gorgeously coy,” he went on, pushing plates aside so he could sit
next to me. “You could teach a lot of women in your profession a
thing or two.”
    “Lawyers, or
call girls?”
    He kissed my
throat. “Both.”
    “Gifts,
compliments, cake stands…I’m starting to get suspicious.” I took
the half-eaten cupcake from his hand and sampled it. “Or is this
the gold standard from the Chairman of the Whored?”
    He cocked an
eyebrow.
    “Elise warned
me about your evil, manslutty ways,” I said.
    He cracked a
grin over the rim of his glass. “And you answered her with a
straight face?”
    “I’m quite good
at looking horrified about prostitution. Go on. Try me.”
    “All right
then.” He crossed his legs and fell back on his hands. “You might
be interested to know, Miss