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My face burned. “Wh—what? You've been... checking up on me?”
The barest expression of confusion flitted across his face, as though he could not comprehend why I would ask such a question. “Of course,” he said. “If we are to wed, I should know the sort of person I will be marrying.”
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. What else did he know? What was he not telling me?
Anton Waters could see right through me. He knew everything.
He knew it, too. I could see it in his eyes as he stood lazily and walked toward me.
“Of course, you would have all the time in the world to work on your artwork, as well. No more working as a bartender. No more taking gifts from your mother. No more shoving your creations down a flight of stairs because you have to move and can't afford to take the big pieces with you.”
My chest constricted. That had only happened once. But it had hurt. Oh, it had hurt.
He drew closer and closer and I backed up until I hit the floor to ceiling window behind me and flattened myself against the glass.
He reached out, running a finger over my cheek, down my throat, down between the valley of my breasts.
“There are a few small clauses in the contract that I thought you might find... distasteful,” he said. His voice had taken an almost dreamy quality, but I could barely hear him over the roar of blood in my head. “But given how much you want me, I don't think that will be a problem.”
How much you want me. Yes, I did. Oh god, more than I had ever wanted anyone. If kissed me, I was sure I would spontaneously combust.
“I don't want you,” I said. Even to my own ears, I could hear my throaty arousal.
His lashes fluttered. His finger traveled across my breast, and when it found my nipple, he rested his thumb and forefinger around it.
“What did you say?” he asked me.
I swallowed around my dry tongue. “I don't want you,” I told him, louder this time.
He pinched my nipple and twisted.
The effect was electric—painful pleasure shot from my nipple, through my heart and straight down to my clit. I cried out and my legs buckled. My purse and the contract slipped from nerveless fingers.
“Don't lie to me,” Anton Waters said.
I didn't answer.
He moved in.
He didn't touch me. Not really. He ran the tips of his fingers over my body, but he avoided my skin, as though touching my directly would cause him pain. His lips traversed the fabric of my sweater, over my waist, traveling over the outside of my hip. His hands skimmed against my ass, finding the sensitive creases where my ass met my thighs. He scraped dull fingernails down the backs of my legs. I could barely feel them through my jeans.
I wanted to grab his face and shove it into my crotch. I needed his mouth on me, his cock in me. My hands hovered near his hair, at the tips of his ears, but I was afraid to touch him.
The tip of his nose met my hip, scraping over the front of my jeans. He stopped, just at the cleft of my thighs, and inhaled deeply.
Putting his hands against the glass behind me he stood up and leaned in. His lips brushed my ear and his body moved forward until, at last, I could feel his cock, trapped in his pants, push against my belly.
“I can smell you,” he whispered in my ear. “Your pussy is already begging for me to fuck it.”
Yes. God, yes. My clit ached, and my cunt felt like it was about to explode. I couldn't even try to hide my arousal any more. My breath came hot and fast. His body hovered over mine, furnace-hot, and the thick swell of his erection pressed firmly against my stomach.
I couldn't get enough air. I was going to pass out.
“Sign the contract, and you will have everything you desire.” He rolled his hips, rubbing his cock over me, almost but not quite brushing against my pussy. My panties were soaked and slick with my juices. Then his lips found my throat, brushing over my hammering pulse.
Flames licked over my body, radiating out from where he touched me. My hands came up, gripping his shoulders. He felt as good as he looked, all hard planes and firm muscle underneath that white linen shirt. My hands curled into fists as he let his fingers drift along the hem of my sweater. Then, slowly, torturously, he slipped them beneath and trailed his fingertips against my stomach.
I wanted to tell him to stop. I couldn't tell him to stop.
