Page 16 of A Mistake of Worth
Chapter four
Henri
Henristeppedintothemuggy London night, Michael’s arm settling around his shoulders. The weight should’ve made him flinch—Marc’s training had him braced for pain at every touch. Instead, he leaned into Michael’s warmth, a reckless need stirring deep in his chest.
He’d invited Michael Taylor to his suite. Henri Rohan, who had never chosen a lover on his own.
But Marc was an ocean away. For the first time, Henri was free from those cold eyes watching his every move.
Michael’s thumb traced lazy circles on his shoulder, shattering Henri’s spiraling thoughts. He glanced up, studying Michael’s profile under the amber street lamps. Brown hair in a sharp fade, longer on top, a trimmed beard softening his jaw. Warm brown eyes crinkled, hinting at easy laughter.
They matched in height, but Michael’s broad chest and shoulders spoke of raw strength, not Marc’s sculpted vanity.Henri was lean by comparison, toned but not built, nothing like Michael’s solid frame or Marc’s gym-obsessed body. Henri’s pulse quickened, drawn to the contrast.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Michael’s voice held quiet amusement.
Henri startled, caught staring. His society smile snapped into place. “Just enjoying the view.”
“Good.” Michael’s tone dropped, his grip tightening just enough to steal Henri’s breath. “Give me your phone.”
It wasn’t a request. Henri handed it over before his brain could catch up, unlocking it first. His body obeyed Michael’s authority without question.
Michael took the phone with calm confidence. Henri’s heart stuttered. Years of Marc’s surveillance and control made him startle at the action, terrified of what might be found. But Michael just pulled out his own phone, holding both devices close together, tapping his screen with practiced ease. A soft chime sounded as the contact transferred. Michael tapped Henri’s screen once more, then handed it back.
Henri stared at the new entry. Michael Taylor’s contact, complete with number. Dangerous. Stupid. Marc had access to his phone records, his messages. He could delete it later, before returning to PDC. Marc would never know.
Henri exhaled, grateful but rattled by how easily he’d surrendered control of something so personal. Michael’s hand slid to Henri’s nape, fingers threading through short hairs. A shiver raced down Henri’s spine, scattering his panic.
“You’re thinking too much,” Michael said, his subtle command peeling away Henri’s defenses. They passed Hyde Park, the air heavy with warm grass and late summer flowers.
Henri wanted to protest, to make some clever quip or flirtatious remark—anything to reclaim some semblance of his usual control. But Michael’s hand was warm against his neck,and he found himself leaning into the touch, his carefully constructed mask slipping despite his best efforts.
“London’s gone mad with this heat wave,” Michael commented. “Half my employees can’t focus because their flats don’t have proper AC. The Brits act like 80 degrees is the end times.”
A genuine laugh escaped Henri before he could catch it, the sound surprisingly light and unguarded. “Could you imagine summer in PDC without air conditioning? We’d have riots in the streets.”
“At least in the Second Cat,” Michael agreed, his thumb tracing idle circles at Henri’s nape. “Though I bet the Docks would just keep working through it. My place in Camden’s got central air. Couldn’t survive these London summers without it anymore.”
“Lucky for us,” Henri said, trying to ignore how Michael’s touch was making his skin tingle, “the Dorchester’s fully climate-controlled.”
Michael’s low chuckle held a predatory edge that made Henri’s pulse jump. “Good. Because I plan on getting you nice and sweaty.”
Heat flooded Henri’s cheeks, his cock twitching. He bit his lip, torn between arousal and caution. But Michael’s hand was still steady on his nape, and the warm night felt like freedom, and Henri leaned into the promise.
As they approached the Dorchester’s elegant entrance, Henri fumbled for his phone, trying to pull up the hotel app before they reached the elevator. His fingers weren’t quite steady enough to navigate the screens efficiently.
As they approached the Dorchester’s elegant entrance, Henri fumbled for his phone, pulling up the hotel app. His fingers weren’t quite steady as they reached the elevator.
He tapped his phone against the reader. The doors chimed open.
Michael’s hand moved to Henri’s waist as they stepped inside, his presence warm and solid at Henri’s back.
On the eighth floor, Henri tapped his phone against his suite’s reader. He tried to ignore how his hand trembled slightly as the lock clicked open with a soft whir.
Last chance to back out, his mind whispered. But Michael’s steady presence behind him, the warmth of his hand, the lingering scent of Dalmore whiskey—it all made Henri want to step forward instead of retreat.
The door clicked shut behind them, and Henri felt the weight of true privacy settle over him. No cameras. No microphones. No Marc. Just him and Michael in this sanctuary, where anything that happened could stay secret. The thought was both terrifying and intoxicating.
Michael’s hand slid from Henri’s waist to his lower back, guiding him further into the suite. “Take off my jacket,” he murmured, his voice low but firm.
