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By the time he’d put on a condom, they were dripping with sweat. She was exhausted, but he was ruthless, pushing her for more. He’d flipped her on her stomach, pulled her to her knees, pushed inside her, and pounded her slow and steady, slow and steady, ratcheting her pleasure until she was there, right where it had all started in that bedroom on the night of the Masquerade Party, right on the edge of coming, wanting him to stop but also never stop. But this time, it ended differently.
This time, instead of running away from him, she’d stayed. And in the end, she’d screamed his name as she’d thrashed. She’d sobbed as she pulled his hair and begged him not to stop, and she’d whimpered when her body finally gave out, and she’d collapsed onto the mattress, but only after he came.
“We did it,” she said. “You made me come screaming your name. Thank you, Julian. Thank you.”
He’d rolled over when she nudged him, then seemed to be trying to catch his breath as he stared at the ceiling.
But she couldn’t stay. Not after what she’d just done.
Quickly, she’d muttered she was going to get a drink of water. Then she’d walked into the living room, grabbed her trench coat and heels off the floor, slipped them on, and walked out the door.
She’d been afraid he would come after her before the elevator could come, but that didn’t happen. She made it downstairs and out of the building within five minutes.
The train arrived at her stop. She got out, and in less than fifteen minutes, she slipped inside the elevator at Embrette’s headquarters and punched the key to her office’s floor. She sagged against the wall as the elevator doors closed, utterly exhausted.
She hadn’t faked an orgasm in a very long time, not since college.
She’d sworn a long time ago that while she couldn’t come, she owed it to her lovers to be truthful. She couldn’t live a lie—if a man couldn’t accept her for what she was, then to hell with him.
There were many times she’d wondered if she was being fair. Many times she’d almost changed her mind. Because, of course, her failure to come had haunted the men she’d been with, no matter how much they cared about or even loved her.
And she knew they’d loved her.
Maybe Rex never had, but she knew others had.
And they’d been the ones to sit down with and hold her hand and look abjectly guilty as they told her,“I love you. I love you so much, Skylar. But I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”
Those, far more than the lovers who’d railed at her and tried to blame her for the failure of their relationships, had been the ones that hurt the most.
So she’d given up on faking orgasms, but that didn’t mean with the practice she’d had, she wasn’t damn good at doing it. And Julian had obviously bought the show of a lifetime that she’d given him.
She hated that she felt guilty. Because as hurt as she was by hearing he’d slept with another woman just days before, Julian hadn’t deserved what she’d done.
But at least it was over now. The push-pull. The yes-no. The teeter-totter. The emotional rollercoaster. She was in the driver’s seat again, and she was going to exercise the control Julian had taken great pains to convince her she’d always had and move on.
The elevator doors slid open, and she walked the quiet, dark halls of Embrette until she got to her office. There, not even bothering to turn on the lights, she sat down and clicked on her computer.
Absorbed in a particularly complex financial spreadsheet, she didn’t notice her office door sliding open until she heard a man clear his throat.
She jumped in her seat, a hand to her throat, and looked up.
“Julian?”
He entered like a cat. Slow, sultry steps brought him closer and closer to her desk. His face wore a dark expression, his eyes hooded, his mouth in a thin line.
“What is it?” she whispered. She wasn’t scared—not of Julian—but she was on edge. “Why are you here?”
At her desk, Julian shoved a stack of papers off to the side and hitched a hip on the corner of her desk. His hands were clasped lightly in front of him as if he’d had to tame their desire to reach out and touch her.
“Julian, talk to me. What’s happening?”
“I know what you did.”
She swallowed. “Excuse me?”
“You faked that orgasm.”
“Why would you say that?”
