Worick Arcangelo

“Pretty,” Worick murmurs, exhaling the smoke from his mouth. He taps the cigar against the edge of the table, eye trailing down your figure. “Do you like it?”

He’s surprised he has enough self-control to keep himself seated. Worick’s not exclusive to you—can’t be in his line of work—but you’re his favorite. It’s why he spends his money on you, doesn’t make you pay for his time. Maybe he loves you—he’ll never tell you if he does, though. Easier this way. You’ll become a liability otherwise.