Page 97 of The Neighbor Wager


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“I’m getting there.”

He raises a brow, but he doesn’t object.

“That night, after the meeting, one of the guys on the marketing team emailed me about sex. The concept. How we’d add it to the app. He had good questions, so I met him at the hotel bar.”

His eyes flit to my lips, my shoulders, my chest.

I feel naked, but it’s in the best possible way. “I showed up in my suit. He was in his, too. Back then, I wore black, not pink, which only made me look more—”

“Like a Domme.”

I hesitate. “Is it obvious where this goes?”

“You have a type.” His smile is wicked. “Not that I blame the guy.”

My cheeks flush. Because he sees me. Because he wants me. “He started talking about how much he loves a powerful, in-control woman. It took me five minutes to realize what he meant. I had to call Lexi to bail me out.”

“How’d she do it?”

“She came downstairs and distracted him.”

“How?” he asks.

“She flirted.”

“Was he more interested in her?”

He wasn’t. At the time, I thought he was. I thought he was moved by her blonde hair and her sweet smile. But he wasn’t. “No. That’s the first time that’s ever happened.”

“I doubt that.”

“Forgive me, but I can’t take your word for it.”Because you have a crush on her. Because you want her. Because you believe she’s your everything.

“Sure, I had a crush on your sister,” he says. “I’m still a man.”

Hehada crush. Nothasa crush. Since when?

“A man,” I muse. “That means you’re moved by boobs?”

“That means I know an appealing woman when I see one,” he counters.

“As long as you want a Domme.”

“And you want someone who’s willing to take control.” It’s a statement, not a question.

He sees that. He sees what I want. How I want. “Sometimes.”

“Boss in the boardroom, sub in the bedroom?”

“Not always. Only sometimes.”

“Have you asked anyone?”

“What?” My throat is dry. I need water. All the water. But my glass is empty.

“Have you asked a guy if he’s interested?” River asks. “Put it in your profile? Tested out a competing app? Gone back to Depressed Mode in a sub collar?”

“Once,” I admit. “Not the collar or that bar, but the rest of it.”

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