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“It was hard enough saying no to you downstairs,” he says, his voice gravelly. “I don’t need you coming up here and tempting me further.”
Tempting him? My breath catches.
“Why did you say no if you were tempted?” I ask.
“Because thisisn’ta relationship, it’s an arrangement. I’m paying you to be here.”
Ah.
“And frankly, I don’t know if I’m comfortable fucking a woman I’m paying.” He moves behind me, pacing. I’m tempted to turn around, but something makes me feel like I shouldn’t. “It’s...sleazy.”
“What you’re paying me for is everythingoutsidethis apartment. When we’re in public, with your family... We made it clear what happens behind closed doors isnotpart of the arrangement.”
I’d been clear about that before. I don’t want to feel like I’m being paid for sex, and I certainly don’t want Daniel to feel like he’s entitled to anything. But this whole interaction makes it clear that he’s a decent guy.
A decent, sexy, hung-like-a-freaking-horse guy.
Stop thinking about his dick.
“I don’t like being outmanoeuvred, Ava.” He’s closer now. I can feel him behind me—not touching, not even attempting to touch. But I catch his eye in the reflection of the glass. “I don’t like being put in a position where I’m making decisions with my cock instead of my head.”
I swallow and my mouth is completely dry. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”
“You came up here, hoping to find me in a compromising position and you do it wearing the flimsiest, poorest fucking excuse for nightwear I have ever seen,” he growls.
I glance down at myself. I hadn’t even thought about that. At night, I tend to overheat and so I sleep in as little material as possible. Flowy, thin white cotton. It’s a camisole that barely covers my bum and ties at the shoulders in little bows. It’s the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like a million degrees once the weather starts to warm up.
I’ve never thought of it as sexy—because in my head sexy equals red and black and lace and satin. Not white cotton.
“You come up here inthat.” He almost spits the words out. “So thin I can see your nipples through it, and so short I’m almost salivating to find out if you’re wearing anything at all underneath.”
“I’m not.”
The sound he releases is so hot and so frustrated that I almost melt. “Are you wet, Ava? Did you get that little pussy all wet watching me jerk off?”
I whimper. “I think so.”
“Youthinkso?”
The air is so silent and so still for a moment I think I’m going to choke on the tension. My knees feel weak, and my pulse is so wild that I feel like I’m not getting enough air to my brain. Or maybe it’s too much air? I don’t even know anymore.
“I want you to know, Ava. Not think.”
“I...” My brain is scrambled. Words won’t form.
“Let me spell it out for you. I want you to put your hand between your legs and stick your fingers there and tell me if it’s wet.”
He’s punishing me.That’swhat this is. I’m being punished for stepping over a line and making him feel like he lost the upper hand for a moment. I shouldn’t find this ridiculously hot.
It goes against everything I understand about sex.
But despite all that, I find my hand tracking under the hem of my nightie and up my inner thigh. I gasp when I touch myself, because my excitement is wound so tight that even the softest brush of my fingers has the muscles inside me clenching up tight.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m wet.”
“Louder.”
“Yes, I’m wet,” I say, louder this time. “I got wet from watching you jerk off.”
