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But my wall’s already shaky as hell, and I don’t want to let what remains of my guard down.
Not when I can still feel his cock in the back of my throat, the liquid heat of his release. Not when I can feel his kiss, the taste of his skin as I bit him…
I pause, scrunching my nose at the scent of tobacco that wafts into the air.
He’s outside. The lights aren’t on out there, but with the light of the city and some of the golden spillage from here, I can make him out, that tall, muscular form as he leans against a column, the red tip of a cigarette lighting up into brief life.
There’re bottles and glasses on a wet bar near the glass wall. I don’t bother asking permission. I just pour a drink, choosing the rum, and then I walk outside.
“Take everything off except the shoes,” he says.
My stomach somersaults. “No.”
“No?” He sighs and takes another drag. Then he picks up the bottle next to him and takes a swallow from it.
I know Lagavulin. My father drinks it. Not from the bottle, though, like it’s malt liquor from a fucking bodega. Part of me wants to give him grief about it or believe he doesn’t know better. But I think he might. There’s an air about him, even with the gilt of flash he bathes in, that’s got quality baked into it. Like he knows how to live well but has decided to splash around like he’s got the cash but not the class.
Not that I’m calling him classy. I’m?—
Shit.
Does it matter?
“No.”
“Red, you’d do a lot better if you admitted you like to play in the filth with me.”
“I don’t know you,” I snap.
That’s when he looks at me, the green eyes catching the light from inside, and it’s like he glows with the charisma and charm of the devil. “We can fix that.”
“I’m not planning on sticking around any longer than it takes.”
“Once your family’s safe, you’ll be sticking around until I get what I want.”
“You can’t buy a better social standing.”
He puts down the bottle and stubs out the butt of the cigarette in an ashtray. “No. But I can buy my way in with a fake marriage.”
Horror rips through me along with a dark thrill I don’t want. “I’m not marrying you.”
“The engagement ring suffices. I have no intentions of giving myself a headache by doing all the fucking prenup bullshit to keep your hands off my money.”
“Or yours off mine.”
And Malone laughs. “Scarlett, I’m a fuck ton richer than you. No matter how many millions are in that trust fund of yours.”
Again, the wave of horror hits. He knows how much I have. I can feel it. I almost ask him how he knows, but he’s a criminal and they’ve got their ways. “I don’t want your money, either.”
“Then we’re agreed. Take off the dress, Scarlett.” He picks up the bottle again as he straightens up. “Out here or inside, I don’t really give a damn. But you have one minute to comply, or I’ll make the decision for you.”
“I thought that’s what this whole thing is about, you taking away my freedom.” I pause. “Sir.”
“Freedom? Do what the fuck you want.”
“There’s a but.”
He grins slowly, like I’m dessert. “Isn’t there always?” He takes another swig from the bottle but makes no attempt to edge closer.
