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“What for?”
“Because maybe that would stop you from cringing, and I wouldn’t feel like I was violating you.”
“I don’t think of it as a violation.”
He snorted in disagreement. “Could have fooled me. You don’t even look at me.”
She gave him a meaningful look then, but she didn’t dare verbalize what she was thinking—that looking at each other would make it harder, not easier.
He seemed to realize that, too, because he turned away and mumbled a string of swearwords. He tilted his face up toward the ceiling, placed his hands on his hips, and blew out a gust of breath. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Christ.” After a time, he looked at her again. “I walk in here, we’ve barely made eye contact. You’re lying there, still and silent, resigned to a fate worse than death. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“I don’t care how it makes you feel.”
She did, but she couldn’t let him know that. Actually, his concern touched her, and that was a dangerous sentiment. They couldn’t be friends. Or enemies. They could be nothing to each other. Between them there must be nothing except total indifference, or she could never return to this house.
Her features impassive, her tone cool, she said, “This is biology, Mr. Burkett. Nothing more.”
“Then why don’t you just have me jerk off into a bottle and hand it over? You’ve made it plain how distasteful it is to have me on you. Admit it, you came unglued when I put my hand down there. Hell, you panicked when your chain got caught on my button. If it’s so god-awful, why do you put yourself through it?”
“I thought you had that figured out.”
“You were driving the night your husband lost his manhood. Poor you. You’ve got that cross to bear the rest of your life. This is your penance, I guess. Screwing a lowlife like me. Is that it?”
He’d scoured an open wound, and she lashed back in self-defense. “If I can stand it, surely you can.”
His expression changed to match hers. The skin of his face was pulled tight, actually changing the configuration of the bruises. “I didn’t sign on to be insulted.”
“And I didn’t promise to make polite conversation. Stop worrying about how I feel and just—”
“Play stud.”
“That’s what you agreed to do.”
“Well, I’m rethinking our agreement. I don’t need this shit.”
“No. Just our millions.”
He glared at her for several seconds, then turned. He reached the door in two long strides and flung it open so hard it bounced back when it hit the wall. “I’d say ‘Fuck you, lady,’ but I already did.”
He slammed the front door on his way out, thinking he was leaving for the last time. Even if he wanted to come back, which he didn’t, his exit line was reason enough for them to fire him.
Fire him? Like this was a normal job. Like the terms of his employment would ever be a matter of record. He could just imagine some time in the future being interviewed by a prospective employer.
What was your last job, Mr. Burkett?
I was paid to fuck this rich wacko’s wife.
Uh-huh. And you failed to perform the task?
Oh no, I performed just fine.
Then what was the cause of your dismissal?
I lost my temper and told her off.
I see. And all you had to do was show up, keep your mouth shut, and just fuck her?
That’s right.
