Page 22 of State of Ruin

I squeeze my thighs together and stare at his mouth. Honestly, it’s so hot remembering how selfish he was. How unashamedly he gorged himself on my body. Telling me what he wanted. Telling me what I wanted.

He glances to his left and his right, then back to me. “And I want to do it again. Same terms—unless you have any counters you’d like to make?”

It’s so freaking weird, standing here in the exact same spot with Sinclair Voss as I did last week, having him request my company upstairs again, but in such different circumstances. This time, his isn’t an idle question. This time, I know exactly what I’m getting myself into. But I don’t know how I should reply. I’m still hung up on this theory that he only propositioned me for novelty value, as a challenge in a club where every other woman present would drop their panties for him in an instant.

God knows I would, too, even without the prospect of another tantalizing ten thousand dollars, and I despise myself. Equally, I don’t want to disappoint him, don’t want to make myself too easy a conquest. It seems like my only option is to play it cool as much as I can outside of the private room and hold off for as long as I can inside it before I collapse into a total fucking mess as soon as he whips out his monstrous dick.

I lick my lips. “Let me think about it. In the meantime, what can I get you to drink?”

A tiny smile. He likes this game. “Glenfarclas 25, neat.”

I fetch the scotch and free-pour a shot into a Waterford crystal tumbler, which I slide toward him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Out of interest, how much thinking time do you need?”

I make a point of looking him up and down, evaluating him as coolly as I can. The blue shirt has a couple buttons open at the neck. There’s a whole world of manly perfection inside of that little V: tan skin, and a smattering of dark hair, and his Adam’s apple, and the hint of his collarbones below. “I have one counter,” I tell him. Check me, negotiating sexy terms with a ruthless billionaire.

“Shoot.”

“Next time, we both take our clothes off.” The guy is a work of art. It’s a crying shame that he kept them on last night, even if it made the power dynamic kind of hot.

He laughs a little and shakes his head. “Extortion, that’s what it is. Fine. Done. When?”

“Same time next week?” I suggest.

His face falls as if he’s a little boy who’s been told Christmas has been canceled. For a dude who falls in my previously stated entitled asshole camp, he’s disgustingly sweet. “Why not sooner?”

I lean forward a little and whisper, “A girl needs some recovery time.”

From his expression, Christmas is back on. He’s lit up. He full-on cranes his neck to look down at my crotch area in my tight black pleather pants. “Can you still feel me?” he asks.

I look away. “And then some.”

“Fuck, I love that. Hey—did I mark your shoulder? When I bit it? I want to know.”

I nod, fiddling with the ink pad. I can’t look him in the eye after admitting to his face that my vagina is still imprinted with the shape of his dick.

“Show me.”

Now I do roll my eyes. But the bar area is quiet, and his face looks like he wants this so very badly, so I discreetly push one capped sleeve up to show him the fruits of his labors—a.k.a. a hickey that definitely had me wearing a giant tee to bed last night.

“So. Fucking. Hot.” I swear I feel his words against my clit.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” I cover my shoulder again and hold up the stamp. “Hand, please. The rules are for everyone, remember?”

He looks straight into my eyes. “Give me the red one.”

That makes me freeze. “You’re not going upstairs?”

“Nah. Not tonight.”

“Need some recovery time, too?” I joke as I mark the back of his hand with the red stamp. I find myself quite amusing sometimes.

He doesn’t reply for a moment but signs the check with a flourish. When he looks up at me, his eyes are all pupil. “Recovery time isn’t an issue for me. Not with you around. Let’s just say there’s nothing that interests me upstairs. Not tonight, in any case.”