Page 82 of Black Light: Cured

beef about. “Does it not taste good? You said you had no dietary issues.”

“Oh, it’s amazing, but I’d rather eat something else.” Her teasing smile takes my breath away.

Unable to drag things out any longer, I motion for the waiter and sit impatiently as he boxes up the

rest of her food. “Go ahead and put this on our bill. Room 1028.” The waiter pauses for a second

from his writing and stares at me, eyes wide. “Are you sure? That’s the —”

“Presidential Suite, yes? At least it better be. That’s what I’m paying for.”

This time it’s Lila’s turn to look pale. It’s clear she’s not used to this much money, this much

opulence. But what’s the point in having money if you can’t use it?

“Thank you, Dr. Saint James. I’ll apply that to the room right away.”

Turning once more to look at Lila, I watch as she gives the man a weak smile, as if to say she’s

sorry for not eating all her food. As if he cares. As if I care. A dinner like this is nothing to me. I’d

take her somewhere even fancier if I had the wherewithal to make a reservation, but restaurants like

those need weeks at a minimum, not hours.

I don’t give a damn if she eats the meal or not, but I know deep down she’ll feel awful if I don’t

let her take it up to the room for later. What she doesn’t understand is that there will be no later. Not

tonight. I plan on using every inch of her until she’s too drained to keep her eyes open, then I’ll

probably fuck her some more. When she wakes up and gets ready for work, I’ll fuck her in the

shower. Every inch of her will be touched by me, and she’s not leaving the hotel room until that

happens.

Once everything is settled, I slide out of my seat and extend my hand, noting the slight blush as she

eases her hands under the back of her dress to keep things from showing. How badly I want to flip

that dress up and show everyone here just how wet she is, and more importantly, how wet she is for

me. But no one here consented to see that. Besides, I have other buttons I plan to push later on in this

budding relationship.

As her fingers curl in mine, electricity skitters up and down my spine. Forget the hotel room, we

might not even make it out of the elevator. Bringing her out of the restaurant, I clutch the takeout bag in

one hand and her hand in the other, locking her in my iron grip.

When the elevator doors open, we both stare at the bench sitting prominently in the middle. “The

moment we get inside, I’m going to sit on that bench and you’re going to sit on my lap facing away

from the security camera. Do you understand me?”