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I see a flash of hurt in her eyes before she quickly glances away, and I hate myself a little bit.
“No, it shouldn’t have,” she says quietly.
“It won’t be happening again.”
“No, it most definitely will not.”
The prim, cool tone she uses makes me want to put my fist through the wall. She gathers her dress and shoes and quickly walks out, and I hear her padding down the hallway to her own room at the other end of the penthouse. Good.
I run my hands over my face in frustration, and when I look back down, my gaze lands on the tiny red panties I tore off of her last night after making her come in them. I look away as my stomach clenches.
Fuck.
I fucked up. She should have fucking told me, but she’s not wrong. I should have been more careful, too. I swore I’d never let myself get into this type of situation again, and here I am. And I’ve already hurt her feelings, even if she tried to hide it.
This is exactly why I hired her for a month. I didn’t want emotional bullshit. I wanted a sexy, gorgeous woman to decorate my arm at all of these events I have to attend in the next couple of weeks, without any expectation on her part about feelings or emotions or anything else.
Bullshit, a little voice mutters. You wanted her. You were being some kind of knight in shining armor, saving her from sleazy Harry and the other assholes who would have bid on her eventually. Because you wanted her.
I shove the thought away and stalk to the bathroom. I can still smell her all over my body. I need distance, and I need to focus on something else for a while. Because no matter how good Samantha tastes, no matter how good it felt to be inside her, I can’t let that happen again. I can’t let her start to get attached to me. I don’t work that way.
For about a half of a second, I consider just letting her have her money and go. Cut my losses. But I paid for this month, and I want my money’s worth.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. The truth is, I’m not ready to have her walk away just yet.
Chapter Seven
Samantha
I manage not to cry until I step into the shower in my room. And it’s not sadness, but I know he’d think I’m crying over him, because he’s an asshole.
No, I’m one of those people who cry when I’m mad, and right now, I’m so angry I can barely see straight.
The gall of him! To act high and mighty and pissed at me because I didn’t tell him I was a virgin. As if that affects him in any way. My virginity was mine to give, and I was happy with my choice until he acted like a jerk this morning.
I scrub away the scent of him, even as my body still aches from the things he did to me last night. My breasts are tender and swollen, and when he said I was going to feel him inside me for days afterward, he wasn’t kidding. As angry as I am with him just now, there’s also a part of me that wants to have him on top of me again.
Last night wasn’t like anything I could have ever imagined. The things he did to me with his lips, his tongue, his fingers… I’ve read about things like that, but having them done to me is something else entirely. I felt almost dirty, especially when he looked up after licking me to orgasm and I could see that his mouth and chin were coated in my juices. But he didn’t give me a chance to obsess over it, and the second his dick slid into me, I couldn’t think at all.
It hurt like hell at first when he pushed his way into me. But then, all I could focus on was how damn good it felt, feeling him filling me over and over again. My first time was perfect.
Until this morning, anyway.
If I didn’t need this money to save my father, I’d be out the door already. I know I’ll never have another chance like this. He didn’t tell me to get out, so I guess I’m not fired. Good. I’ll make sure I get my money. I can do this, as long as he doesn’t touch me again.
I wash each part of my body, as if by letting last night swirl down the drain, I can regain some sense of sanity and dignity. I’m mortified if I let myself think about it too much, about the way I was for him, opening my legs on command,
begging him. I was out of my mind, and it’s not something I’ll let happen again.
When I’m dressed and my hair is dry and I’ve put on my makeup, I square my shoulders and open my bedroom door. I need coffee and I’m starving, and I’m not going to hide from Dante. He can toss blame around all he wants, but I didn’t do a damn thing wrong and I know it.
When I enter the main part of the penthouse, he’s sitting at the long dining room table, looking at his phone, papers and blueprints spread out on the table in front of him. I walk into the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee, then grab a croissant from the tray nearby. I bring them both to the other end of the table and sit down, pulling my own phone out of my pocket.
I start scrolling through my messages and email. Nothing too important. A few casting calls I’m probably going to miss thanks to my contract with Dante this month. If I have my way, we won’t be in San Francisco much longer anyway.
I let myself think that over. Where should Pops and I go next? L.A.? New York? I’d love to go to New York, but I don’t think there’s a chance in hell of getting Pops out of Cali.
We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I have to get through the next twenty-nine days first.
