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He leaned against the wall, watching her.
“Just water? A little cheap for a billionaire. Don’t you have endangered seal blood to drink?”
“No point in spending money on someone who would be impressed with a date to Applebee's.”
His tone. Since the moment she'd gotten into his car, this tone. Condescending, nasally in a way she couldn’t stand, dismissive to the point where she briefly, briefly wanted to push him out of his giant glass window—all of it sent a spike of rage through her that overrode good sense. She wanted to hear him beg, moan, squirm with worry that he wouldn't get what he wanted. She wanted to break his life apart and see him crumble.
Her water was uncapped, roughly half full.
She tossed it in his face.
A brief, ugly look of shock crossed his face before he recovered. He didn’t bother wiping the water away. He crossed that gap between them until he had her pinned against the counter.
“Don't—” she said.
He uncapped his water.
“Do not.”
He caught her chin with his hand and tilted it up to him. His face was dripping, his hair coming undone. His cologne had worn off—it wasn’t as overpowering anymore. Now it was distinct; dark and masculine.
They held eye contact for a long, long moment, Gertrude enjoying the way his thumb caressed the edge of her jaw, his hands large, warm, reassuring.
Then he poured the water on her head.
A sharp plunge of icy cold drenched her hair, matting it down. She closed her eyes and felt it stream down her forehead, her cheeks, dripping in rivulets off her chin.
With a flat palm, Barret tapped the side of her face, making her scowl. “Oh don’t be mad,” he taunted. “That water is imported from Norway. It’ll do wonders for your hair." He grinned sadistically. "Tell me, do you getit cut at a shopping mall?”
Gertrude bit his lip, dragging him to her like he was meat off a plate. She grabbed his tie and pulled, hoping it choked him, as he cupped the back of her head within one hand and shoved his other between her legs, ripping a hole in the leggings. He grabbed the elastic band of her underwear and pulled, letting it snap back in place as he explored her with his greedy hands.
“How much did these cost?” he hissed in her ear.
She squeezed her thighs together, clamping them around his hand, pulling her hips back, drawing him into her. She put her lips to his ear and bit that too—why do I keep biting?—whispering back: “Eight dollars.” His hand on her pussy slid upward as he curved his fingers and slid them into her. She tensed. The shock of his touch made her face very warm. “But I got them for three.”
He groaned, his breath hot on the side of her neck.
Whatever this was, it was working. On Gertrude, too, which was baffling but whatever, it was making things so much easier. She grabbed his face with both hands and turned his head sideways to bite his neck. “I got them on clearance," she growled.
“Oh my,” he moaned, bucking against her. His cock was bulging against her leg; it seemed impossible someone could be so hard from her words but here he was, about to explode in his European-made slacks.
“My room, now,” he ordered, and she almost laughed, but he touched her clit when he said the word now and suddenly it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
"Lead the way," she said, "I might get lost in your big ol' castle."
"Shut up, princess."
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her, walking backwards. He was cute like this; his self-possession dissolved into pure, needy want, his hair half-wet and messy, his face bereft of that smug look. She gave him a little resistance, setting her feet to get him to pull, enjoying how eager he felt. She understood it now, a little bit. What fun this could be. Her boots clunked on the tile, and she had a brief mental image of stepping on his face with them, but that felt like a different version of her, a darker version where she handed out black cards to men who would pay to be destroyed by her.
She could wear even more black…
One identity shift at a time, she decided as they got to his room. She didn't have time to examine the bed that was the size of a landing pad, or what appeared to be a swimming pool sized hot tub. She got a glimpse at a minimalist, IKEA-set style decor before he was grabbing her ass, squeezing, murmuring: "Get this off, get this off" as he tugged at the dress.
"It has a zipper!" she exclaimed, laughing. She turned around to face the bed, pulling her hair out of the way. She wiggled her hips. "Unzip me."
A wet kiss found the back of her neck as he slowly unzipped the dress, peeling it away from her body like the petals of a black flower. He held her hand as she stepped out of it, watching her with a quiet awe that was both alarming and gratifying. It made her self-conscious; the momentum of the night stuttering as she crossed her arms in front of her, hiding her chest, suddenly unsure about him actually seeing her body. The dress had been the armor; she could be the dark princess or whatever the fuck with it on, but now it was gone and she had to be just Gertrude.
Luckily, they appeared to have crossed some threshold for Barret. He didn't hesitate when he gently took her hands and pulled them away from her body, pinned them against her sides and leaned down to kiss each of her breasts, inhaling against her skin. "Get on the bed," he said quietly.
