And the not so subtle digs.
My skin is covered entirely in goose bumps. Even my nipples are stiff and proud, like some cruel parody of arousal. I’m not even wearing my heels anymore, but my legs are wobbly when I cross the small space.
The carpet is softer than anything I’ve ever felt. This is the floor where he walks with those bare feet. This is the floor he might lounge on or do push-ups on. This is the floor he might fuck some other girl on, a girl he actually likes, one he doesn’t order to bend over.
The leather of the couch looks worn—artfully worn, like rich people have. Even in my shame and my nervousness, I have the sense to wonder where he got all that money.
And why he’s corralling drunk assholes at the Grand if he doesn’t have to.
“Now, Lola. Stop stalling.”
His voice sends a shiver down my spine. Cool leather kisses the fronts of my thighs. I bend at the waist, using every ounce of grace, of strength I’ve built up while stripping. He wants to see something those fuckers don’t see, but that’s all I show him—the smooth descent, the blunt display of my ass, as if I were onstage and he were standing two feet away with a twenty in his hand.
It feels like a victory, that small defiance. Like I’ve held something back.
Especially when I hear his breath catch at the sight.
Confidence steadies me as I dig my heels into the soft pile. My hands stroke the buttery leather before settling into place, fingers spread.
The heat from his body touches me first. It breaks through my defenses, invisible and undeniable. A hundred men have touched me, have grabbed me, have ground their dicks against me. And just the whisper of his body, the evidence of his nearness makes my heart pound.
His finger is featherlight against the small of my back. He touches me like I’m delicate, breakable, when we both know I’m anything but. He touches me like he’s tracing the lines of me, drawing the curve of my ass, dipping into the tender space between my legs.
“You’re shaking,” he says as if remarking on the weather. “And you’re wet.”
Of course his words only make me shake harder. They only make me wetter.
He leans down, his forefinger notched to my pussy, barely invading me, casually possessive. His mouth is close to my ear, his whisper low and gruff. “Are you afraid of me?”
“No,” I lie.
Two fingers shove inside me, deep and fast. My body is lubricated, but not enough. I flinch and hop up on my toes. It presses my face into the cushion—and I think that’s exactly what he meant to do.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, the spider to the fly.
I’m already caught in his web. There’s no way out.
My voice is muffled even to my own ears, mouth half-smashed against a leather couch that probably cost more than my car. “Candy says you’re not really going to hurt me. She says you…you just want to fuck me. That you’re not really mad.”
His fingers stroke me deeply, intimately, soothing me after the rough burn of entry. “Five years would be a long time to hold on to a grudge.”
Part of me wants him to agree, to say that all this was some strange seduction, to assure me that I have nothing to fear. But if he told me that, it would be a lie. He may hide his anger well, especially if Candy couldn’t see it. I can see it. I can feel it as he adds a third finger before I’m ready.
I rise up on my toes again, breath held in my chest, cheeks hot with embarrassment. He touches the inside of me as easily as another man might hold my hand. No, this is less intimate than that. This is a man reaching inside his car to twist a knob. This is a man touching something he owns.
“Are you going to hurt me?” I whisper.
There. I’ve asked the question, and I know that if he does answer me, it will be honest. Whatever his answer, I can take it. I’ve felt pain before, felt hate and rage. Even if it seems like it will be different coming from him—sharper and more personal. I’ll survive. If there’s one thing I know I can do, it’s survive.
His hand stills. I imagine him looking directly at me, staring at the pink skin stretched around his fingers. It’s humiliating being this open to him while he’s still dressed. Humiliating with the light on. Humiliating when he takes a swig from his beer bottle with one hand while the other is still pressed inside me.
“And ruin the surprise?” he asks mildly.
My jaw clenches tight. My eyes shut too. “I’ve never been a fan of surprises.”
“No,” he says thoughtfully. “I can’t say that I’m a fan either.”
I cringe knowing he’s thinking of that awful night. It had been one hell of a surprise when I’d accused him of raping me. He would hardly be a fan of them after that.