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“Maybe take your jacket off first?” he suggests with a hint of a smile.
I hate what this man does to me. It’s like my brain flew out the window. I slide the jacket over my shoulders and down my arms before folding it in half and laying it over at the back of the desk chair. Then I return to my blouse, working it out from my waistband before opening it one button at a time.
Strange. I couldn’t have imagined the tiny thrill that runs down my spine as I watch him watching me. His eyes are glued to my every move, dropping lower and lower until I finally peel the blouse away and leave it with the jacket. Goosebumps cover my skin, but I do my best not to tremble under his lustful gaze. The skirt takes no time—I lower the zipper and let it fall to the floor, leaving me in nothing but my best black satin bra and panties. I’m so glad I wore them today.
He runs a hand over his bulge, and it twitches in response. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and Colton groans softly. “Keep going. I didn’t tell you to stop.”
I kick off my shoes, trembling. This is it. No going back now.
I do as I’m told, getting it over with in a rush—not like I know how to be seductive, anyway, but I have to get it over with or else risk chickening out. My already tight nipples harden painfully under his gaze, and now the towel juts out in front of him like a ship’s prow.
“Turn around.” I do so, forcing myself to breathe evenly before I hyperventilate. “You are so fucking hot.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I whisper, turning around to face him again. I can hardly lift my gaze from the bedspread, I’m so embarrassed. Even if he’s turned on, that doesn’t make this any easier.
Without another word, he drops the towel, and what was already eye-poppingly big when it was soft is now almost frighteningly huge and standing straight up. He wraps his hand around the thick shaft and makes a few strokes, his eyes glued to my breasts.
“This speaks for itself,” he assures me in a voice that’s a lot breathier than it was before. “You’re a fucking goddess.”
An interesting choice of words, one that makes my already wet pussy practically gush. I believe he means it. This insanely wealthy man who once broke my heart thinks I’m a goddess. He could have any woman he wants.
“Now go get in the shower. I want you fresh and clean tonight.” He waits while I get my things out of my suitcase, stroking himself as he watches. My heart is hammering, my stomach in knots, and I can’t believe I’m actually going through with it.
But why not? I said I wanted a new life, didn’t I? This is as good a way to usher that in as any, I guess.
He follows me into the luxurious room, where I step into the glass-walled shower and place my toiletries on a shelf. Am I dreaming? I can’t be. I feel the water under my feet from when he showered, and I hear his deep, rasping breathing on the other side of the glass partition. He perches on the edge of the tub, and the sight of him is almost enough to make me forget my nerves.
He’s beautiful, perfect, chiseled, tanned, and completely focused on me.
“Get started,” he growls. “I want you shaved smooth.”
It’s a good thing I already prefer to be smooth, or else this would take a lot longer. I turn on the water and wait until it goes warm before letting it run over me, closing my eyes, and forcing a deep breath. I can do this. I’m going to do this. All it’s going to take is forgetting who I used to be and stepping into who I want to be.
First, I wash up, pouring body wash onto a cloth before I begin to run it over my arms. “Use your hands,” he instructs. “I want to watch you touching your body.” The dark, throbbing need in his voice makes my pulse race faster than ever.
It makes me bolder, too, allowing me the courage to put myself on display, to run my soapy hands over my neck, shoulders, and chest.
“Play with them.”
Jesus. He’s going to force me to break down every last one of my fears, isn’t he? Every last bit of my shyness.
I hold my breath as I take my breasts in my hands, squeezing a little, and soapy water sluices through my fingers. When I dare take a look at him, I find him stroking faster than before, his lips parted, his eyes glued to the soapy, glistening globes in my hands.
I lift them a little, like I’m offering them to him, and he shudders. Am I really doing this to him? I barely know myself, the girl who now soaps her hands up again, this time to slide them over her stomach and down her hips.
“Make sure your ass is nice and clean.” I take this as an instruction, turning around and bending at the waist. Holy hell, I’m actually about to do this, aren’t I? While he watches, I slide a hand between my cheeks, soaping my crack.
“Fuck, yeah,” he groans, and the almost helpless sound of it makes me move slower, my touches more deliberate now. My pussy is in agony, hot and swollen and so wet. Every stroke of my fingers leaves me wanting more.
Leaves me wishing he was the one touching me this way.
And all the while, all I can do is imagine what I would have thought back in school if anybody told me this would happen one day.
After a minute or so, I straighten up and turn around, soaping up my legs and feet, before pulling out my razor and touching up what I already shaved this morning. I save my pussy for last, my back to the wall, legs spread, crouching slightly.
He stands and steps up closer to the glass separating us. “That’s right. Get it smooth for me.”
It’s not like I didn’t think that’s where this was eventually going to go but hearing him say it out loud—that he plans on having me—makes a desperate craving explode in my core and reverberate through me until all I can do is moan softly, watching him watch me.
