Atticus swallowed and twisted his head away, his gaze jumping over the casual luxury of Master Ryan’s bedroom as he tried to calm down and rein in his body’s crude demands. He knew such self-centric behaviour was not in line with a whore’s trade, but he wasn’t one anymore. How did normal people have sex? Did they decide beforehand who would be attended to, and who would serve? Master Ryan had said nothing of it. He didn’t comprehend how it was meant to work.<br/><br/>His attention was drawn back to his employer as the man sat up, the silken drag of hair making his breath catch, and almost miss Master Ryan’s comment on his discontinued career. Atticus actually snorted with amusement, Master Ryan’s characteristic love of money unaffected by their current state. He was almost sure the Master of the House was just being kind, in his way. He doubted anyone who moved in the circles of wealth and breeding The Teahouse catered to would pay for an old, used up whore like him. He still enjoyed hearing it, though.<br/><br/>He started to say something back when the man’s long, soft-skinned fingers caressed his shaft, pressing it against warm silk. His air rushed out, his eyes shut, thrust against the teasing touch and gasped to claim back the breath Master Ryan had stolen. He opened his eyes and met the man’s steady gaze, panting and fighting to hold himself in check.<br/><br/>He let out a breathless ‘<em>Ahh</em>,’ when Ryan’s gaze and fingers moved away from him, and he lost both delightful sensations. For a moment, the question confused him until he followed the movement of Master Ryan’s hand as it dipped into the open draw. He was curious, and made even more-so by Master Ryan’s dark, playful smile and cryptic comment.<br/><br/>When the object was placed on his chest, he looked at it – and felt his eyes widen. Fear was crushed ice in his veins, prickling underneath his skin and swirling with the fire of lust in his belly. He didn’t want it anywhere near him, that little, seductive blade. Deceptive and familiar. He twisted his hands against the belts again, fingers gripping the leather, a disquieting, deep yearning bleeding from his marrow before he could tear his gaze away from the knife to look up at Master Ryan.<br/><br/>Not a client. Not a client. He had paid nothing, but months of respect for Atticus’ wishes. He didn’t take security in place of trust, didn’t make whispered deals over permanent damage. He didn’t let anyone hurt those in his House. Still asked him, even though he was powerless to say no. Atticus bit his lower lip, feeling the warm, perfect ache of the bite Master Ryan had given him. The knife... it would give him that dark intimacy that he so hungered for. Still, he said nothing but looked at the man’s face, trying to read something in him that warned of true danger.<br/><br/>After a handful of silent moment, he nodded slightly, then swallowed again and said, “Yes. I do, Master Ryan.” He wondered for a dreadful, plunging instant if he had misread Master Ryan all these months, and if he was going to pay for such an acute failure now.<br/>