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From somewhere down below on the street level a shout rises, followed by laughter.
I take a breath, wanting to argue. Fight.
Poke the damn caged beast.
I know I should ask myself why, but I don’t.
Because maybe, just maybe, I like this lackadaisical authoritarian air.
Maybe I want to know what he’ll do if I bite back too aggressively.
“What’s the but?”
“No other men.”
I narrow my eyes. “In that case, no other women.”
“That isn’t how it works.”
I swear to God, his mouth quirks. “You want my help, you follow my rules.” He takes another swallow. “No men, no telling anyone this is anything other than true love and hearts on fucking fire. You’re to act like my loving, doting fiancée and you’ll also provide me with the kind of entertainment I want.”
“There are others better at this bullshit game than me.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I don’t want experienced. I want what you have. I want the fine dining.”
There’s a backhanded compliment or insult in there, but I don’t say anything. Malone puts the bottle down again and moves toward me.
He approaches with the stealth of a jungle cat. He’s leather and lust and decadence. I inhale deeply, the faintest whiff of the scent that clings to his sleeve as he reaches up and slides his hand around my throat.
“Are you going to punish me, Sir?”
Malone’s not squeezing or applying pressure, but the vibrations from him sing through my veins. There’s a strength there, one I know can give pleasure and protect. One that can maim, hurt, and kill.
His mouth almost brushes mine as the heat of his hand brands my skin. “Maybe. Take off your dress. Now.”
The quiet command compels. This time he means it, and I taunt without words, stepping back from his touch. Then I turn and walk inside, the click of the heels almost suddenly too loud to my hyped-up senses.
It takes a moment or three to peel off the dress. Finally, I’m free of the sweltering latex and I drop it to the floor.
There’s a soft click, and I turn to find his phone in his outstretched hand, pointed at me.
“Delete that.” The wicked intent in his eyes mocks my words. “Please?”
“No can do, Scarlett. I’d like something to look at during boring business shit. And this?” He locks the phone and slides it into his pocket. “It’s perfect. Turn.”
I’m already facing him, so I do a spin, then come to a stop. His gaze is on my pussy, his stare sliding over me, caressing me, tormenting me because he takes his time and it’s humiliating.
But it’s also weirdly empowering to stand like a prize, naked apart from the heels, for this man’s pleasure.
Malone takes one of my breasts in his hand and it spills over the seat of his palm. The heat of his touch makes my nipple hard. He rubs it and I have to bite back a yelp.
Never, ever have I had someone do this to me. And I feel like… like the finest piece of art, or maybe more like a sex slave to do his bidding if he purchases me.
He bends, sucks my nipple into his mouth, and bites.
I jump, my pussy suddenly lighting up with need.
He flicks his thumb over the wetness he left. His eyes are green fire and I want… I want to be consumed by him.
