Page 43 of The Bargain

“Because, love, if you and I were really dating, your orgasms would be pretty damn fucking important.”

She leans forward suddenly, and her hair slides from her shoulders like water, dark gold curtaining her face, eyes blazing.

“How many times did Elodie make you come?”

My heart skips a beat.

Deflection, I wonder, or Desdemona’s way of rising to the challenge I’m throwing at her? Certainly, she isn’t shy. Repressed, maybe, and probably so rigidly self-disciplined she’s never committed so much as one selfish act as long as she’s been alive, but she’s not shy.

And she’s not a coward, after all.

“Wouldn’t you rather know how many times I made her come?” I ask, lowering my voice, so she knows this isn’t so much a question as an invitation. She’s leaning down over me, and I can smell her hair, sunshine and expensive soap and an unexpectedly sweet perfume.

“Why would I want to know that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know what you’re not getting?”

“There’s more to life than the pursuit of pleasure,” she answers.

I draw closer, the tip of her shiny shoe brushing against the edge of my thigh. “You wouldn’t have to spend time pursuing it if you let someone give it to you.”

“But not you, right?” she says.

She doesn’t move away, though, and her foot rests right against my leg, and despite the layers of her shoes, socks, my trousers, I can still feel the warmth of her skin, the pressure of her contact like a solar flare, the radiance of it.

“Why not?” I ask.

I hold her gaze—I won’t be the one to look away, and normally, that would be power, but right now, I have the odd feeling that we’re both caught in the same trap.

“We’re allies, aren’t we? And I’m capable of great generosity.”

“For a price,” she says, her tone accusatory, almost rueful.

I shake my head slowly, placing one hand on her leg, the one that’s crossed over the other, depositing my thumb first on the outline of the tibia, then my fingers pushing softly into her calf.

If you’re going to stop me, Desdemona, do it now.

“Consider this offer on the house,” I murmur. “For the sake of our bargain.”

“You’re breaking rule two,” she replies, but she doesn’t move away.

She does the opposite, in fact: when I gently push her leg aside, she spreads her thigh ever so slightly, letting me in.

Ah, we’re well and truly in the bear trap now. The iron teeth are dug deep, and ripping free would surely be more costly than staying.

“This doesn’t count,” I tell her softly. I brush my thumb up the ridge of the tibia, to her knee. Her fingers tighten on the edge of the desk, and a wave of goosebumps ripples up her thighs, disappearing behind the dark pleated fabric of her skirt. “This is—research.”

She narrows her eyes, but they’re hooded, shadowed, a defiant spark in them like a kindling flame.

“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for,” she says.

But try anyway, her eyes seem to add.

“When was the last time someone made you feel good, love? I know it wasn’t Julian.”

My voice is barely a whisper. Outside, night has fallen without my notice, casting the room in shadows. The only light is Desdemona, her unexpected reactivity—a girl breaking out of a shimmering shell.

“What a unique and special talent to have,” she retorts, just as quietly. “To know so much about someone from just looking at them.”