Page 19 of State of Ruin

Fuck. I’m all out of willpower.

“On your elbows,” I bark, removing my hand from her clit as soon as I’m confident I’ve wrung every drop of her climax out of her, and she drops obediently to her elbows, widening her stance and giving me a deeper angle. I grip her hips once more and I fucking go for it, thrusting and thrusting like a lunatic, driven only by the all-consuming need to come. As I do, I snort the skin of her neck and nip at her shoulder like the addict I seem to be. She’s intoxicating, and I’m hell-bent on getting every last cent of my money’s worth. I lied to her earlier: I want quality and quantity—and variety. I want to fuck her every which way, in every hole, in every position. I want to look at her and never again see the passive, disinterested way she looked back at me from behind the bar last week. I want to see the memory of these orgasms in her eyes every fucking time she glances at me. I want her so desperate for more of my dick that she can barely hold her shit together. That’s what I want.

As I suck on her shoulder and come deep inside her with an earth-shattering, bone-smashing orgasm that feels more like a tsunami than a bodily release, I understand viscerally that nothing will satisfy me like this until I have Elyse in a room again, naked and begging and eyes glazed with the blind need for the one thing only I can give her.

CHAPTER 11

Elyse

When I wake the next morning in the twin room I share with Sylvie for space and practicality reasons—she can’t easily go to the bathroom on her own—it’s there.

Ten thousand dollars sitting pretty in my checking account.

I stare at the amount on my screen for a hot minute before putting my phone down quietly and rolling onto my back.

I did it.

I did it.

Not only that, but I survived. More than survived, if we’re being honest here.

I may have gotten home earlier than I would have on a work night—I was tucked up in bed just after midnight—but I am bone-tired in a way I’m not after a regular shift. Everything hurts. Muscles I didn’t know I had are stiff, and as for my vagina… well, it feels as though someone fucked me with a baseball bat, which is not entirely inaccurate. Might need to spend the day sitting on a bag of frozen peas. Or lying on one. God, I need to sleep so bad. But my alarm will go off in less than ten minutes, and our morning—heavy on routine, light on time—will kick off.

These few minutes, though, are mine. And, as I lie here in my aching, exhausted state, a smile creeps over my face. Not only is the Ward family officially ten thousand dollars less in debt than we were yesterday, but the things I did to earn the money were pretty freaking amazing.

I have never had a sexual experience like that. Never. The most risqué I’ve ever been was a few rounds of sex on the beach. There was one time on an ex’s tailgate, I guess… but nothing like what Sinclair put me through last night. It was like an hour of sexual Navy SEAL training, and hotter than hell. On the one hand, you can say he worked me hard. On the other, I’m not sure I should have gotten two orgasms out of it when he was paying me to debase me for his pleasure. Honestly, it makes me feel a little guilty. A little weird. And a lot grubby.

I’m still shocked that he got me so turned on, so quickly. I went from terrified to dripping in five minutes or less, and I never would have guessed my body or my brain would be capable of that kind of one-eighty. I guess Katrin was right: I do like being dominated more than I realized. He was so insanely hot and so insanely in control, and I guess I didn’t stand a chance against that double threat—triple, if you count how fucking skillful he is with all his body parts.

When he said that thing about being disappointed that I didn’t even put up a fight against my arousal, I thought he was serious for a moment. I can’t help but wonder if he wanted me to act different. To hold out on him. After all, the only reason I can find for him to have propositioned me in the first place is that I represented a challenge.

I did not represent a challenge for most of that hour with him. And that’s probably how every single other woman is with him, all the hot blondes who step out on his arm on Page Six and hover around him at the club. Maybe I’m just as predictable as all the others, after all—a gushing little groupie.

Gushing is actually a pretty good word for what my pussy was doing last night.

Horrifying. I clamp my hands over my eyes, like I can hide from the memory. I was so fucking needy.

But he seemed to like it.

My swollen and probably chafed inner walls clench involuntarily around thin air as I allow myself to move on to my favorite memory of the evening: his reaction.

He started out so cold and seemingly in control. Let’s face it, the guy’s not a bundle of personality. It’s not like he needs to be, with those looks and all that money. And clearly I was digging the whole hot, cold billionaire vibe. I mean, he does it well. But the most epic part of the whole experience, and possibly even cooler than those insane orgasms, was that I made him fall apart.

I. Made. Sinclair. Voss. Fall. Apart.

He’s obviously a bit of an asshole—so smug and arrogant—and I got the impression that the stuff he did to me, he did to prove a point. He did those things because he wanted to play with me. He wanted me at his mercy. He didn’t exactly hide that. He was generous, yes. Skilled, yes. Relentless, hell yes. And what was with that dirty talk? It was world class. Even without the mouth and the fingers and the dick, he could probably have talked me to a catastrophic climax.

But he was affected, too. And I may not be the most experienced woman ever, but I kind of expected him to fuck like a robot, all controlled and controlling, making me fall apart for his own bored-rich-guy titillation and riding out his orgasm in a ruthless way, intentionally designed to maximize his own pleasure.

That is categorically not what happened.

A series of filthy, intoxicating flashbacks play in my mind’s eye.

Being fucked while still bent over in that crazy contraption.

The shock of him throwing it open mid-fuck and hauling me back against him.

How it felt in that moment, when he glued me to his body and let rip with his hands, pinching and stroking and rubbing everywhere.