“One hundred thousand pounds is a massive overpayment,” she says casually, and I laugh. I was wondering when that might come up. What does she want me to say? That I want unlimited access to her?

I shrug. “Is it?”

“You know it is.” She throws me a half-dirty look.

“You’re underselling yourself,” I say to the road. I would’ve paid ten million.

“I must be the most expensive hooker ever.”

My smile falls. “Ava,” I grate, irritated. “If you refer to yourself in that way again—”

“I was joking,” she replies, chuckling.

“Do you see me laughing?”

“I have other clients to deal with.”

Unfortunately, yes, she does, and I’ll accept that so long as one of those clients isn’t Van Der Haus. “I know,” I say quietly, holding my tongue. I know Ava, and if I demand she removes him as a client, she’ll fight me on it for the sake of it. And ask lots of questions I can’t answer. “But I’m a special client.” I grab her knee, and she laughs.

“You’re special all right.”

I move my hand to her hip and squeeze, relishing her sweet squeal, before turning up the music. She sighs, settling back. I know she’s studying me. I know she’s smiling. And I hope she’s thinking about how much she loves me.

28

The roads are kind, which is a good fucking job because the closer I drive to Lusso—or, more to the point, my bed—the more impatient I’m becoming. It’s been a long, mixed day of amazing, frustrating, and worrying. We need to get back to amazing. The zeal swirling inside is becoming excruciating, and I can only compare it to a craving I’m all too familiar with.

Alcohol.

Knowing it’s close by.

Knowing that with one sip, every muscle will become loose and every thought will become clouded.

Escape. And yet I know in my heart of hearts, this craving for Ava is just as unhealthy as my dependence on drink. I also know Ava can’t be readily available. Alcohol can be found anywhere. I can lay my hands on it in a heartbeat, and often did. With this new addiction, I’m depending on someone else to feed it, and that’s far from ideal.

“Are you okay?” she asks as I stop at a red light, my thoughts bringing on a cold sweat. “You look troubled.”

I flex my hand, loosening my grip on the steering wheel. My knuckles are bloodless. “Yeah.” I look across the car, and as ever, the vision of her hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut. One corner of her mouth lifts, and she blinks slowly, making her lashes fan her high cheekbones. I feel like my only saving grace here is her equal, obvious craving for me. I need to maintain that. Build it. Nurture it.