And I let him.
Want him.
My fingers trembled as I shoved the covers down. The room was stifling, Houston’s swampy heat swirling with the heat he created.
I peeled off my shorts, leaving only the damp cotton of my panties. The gusset clung to me—humiliating evidence of what I was. What he made me.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Don’t think of him. But my mind defied me, summoning him in brutal clarity…the wicked gleam in his eyes when he had told me to wiggle my hips for him, like I was already broken.
I slipped my hand down. I was already wet, throbbing at the center. My breath caught, shame clashing with a need that felt bigger than me.
God, stop.
I can’t.
I imagined his palm first, the sting of it landing sharp, then soothing.
Then I heard it: the rasp of his belt sliding from his trousers. I pictured him doubling over the leather in his big hand, testing its weight.
I was gasping then, one hand covering my mouth to keep the sounds in as my hips lift into my touch.
He was so close, body heat rolling off him. Then he pressed the leather against my skin, not too hard at first, just enough to make me arch. To make me beg.
I slid my fingers through my slick folds, circling my clit once, twice. God. The memory of his voice made me shudder. “Naughty girls get punished.”
I bit my lip. With my free hand, I gripped the sheets, anchoring me to that tiny, cheap bed.
I imagined him leaning down, that low growl in my ear: Louder, Seraphina. Let me hear you cry for me.
My hips bucked helplessly as I swirled my fingers faster, desperate for the rush I swore I’d never crave from him again. In my mind, his big hand slid between my thighs, replacing mine—so much rougher, so much more demanding. I was not in control. I was at his mercy.
The belt cracked again in my fantasy, the heat blooming across my ass just as my fingers flicked faster on my clit. The humiliation of it all made my orgasm crest higher. I shouldn’t want this. I did. God help me, I do.
My back bowed off the mattress as pleasure crashed through me, as sharp as it was hot and humiliating. His name caught in my throat but never escaped. I was not that far gone. Not yet.
When it was over, I lay there shaking, breath hitching, thighs sticky. The wet between them was a brand, a promise, a curse.
I curled onto my side, hating how empty I felt without his touch. Without his control. I told myself it was just an itch to scratch.
But now, in this moment, with the pressure of his demanding mouth on mine, I know the truth.
I crave him. No matter how stupid that is.
His kiss consumes me, fiercer than anything I can fantasize about.
The billionaire bastard sweeps his tongue determinedly against mine, making me moan.
He tastes of strong, bitter coffee and temptation that I can’t afford.
I lean into him, hating how I crave more. I’m close to offering him everything he wants.
But what then? He discards women like yesterday’s trash. And if he has any loyalty at all, it’s to himself and no one else.
I’m not this stupid.
Jolted back to reality, I wrench away from him, gasping, my lips burning, my heart pounding. “That wasn’t part of the deal.” My voice is shaky instead of commanding. But instead of shoving against his chest, my fingertips are still curled around the fabric of his suit coat.
