Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. "I don't use that word."
"Clients?"
"Romance." She brings her lips to the glass. Takes a long sip. "I don't mind asking for money. It's part of the job. But I don't appreciate the expectations." She motions to the high slit of her wine-red dress.
My eyes flit to her dark skin. She looks gorgeous in the moonlight. Luminous.
"Men want to fuck me."
"As a quid pro quo?"
"Sometimes."
My veins surge with protective energy. It's a familiar sensation, but not in this context. Not with her. "They ask?"
"Imply."
"I'm not."
"I know." She finishes her glass. Sets it on the table. "You wouldn't pay for sex."
"I wouldn't?"
"It's not a compliment." This time, she offers her hand.
I take it. Pull her to her feet. "What is it?"
"An observation."
I raise a brow.
"You want to prove something with the notches on your bedpost," she says.
"And that is?"
"That women don't want you because of money, or status, or looks even."
"They don't?"
"But because you have a big dick."
Fuck. A laugh spills from my lips.
"Am I wrong?"
I set my glass on the counter. Pull her closer. "Yes."
"It's small?"
"No."
Her hand goes to my chest. Her dark eyes fix on me. "No?"
"Are you that impatient to find out?"
Her lips press together. She is.
I don't call her on it. "I don't have anything to prove."
Not the way she means.
I'm not trying to prove skill. Or desirability.
It's something else.
Something deeper.
Some ability Bash challenged. Some emptiness he claimed I was capable of filling.
No, it was worse. He called me a coward. Said I was afraid to try.
"I want something real." I wrap my arm around her waist. Try to ignore the memories of my brother's voice. Deep down, you're desperate, Simon. Desperate to love someone. When you admit that to yourself, you'll be a lot less miserable.
She undoes the button of my suit jacket. The other. "Is that what this is?"
"Yes." It's terrifying. But I keep my promises. And I—
I'm going to unravel if I keep thinking about my late brother.
I don't fuck for connection or love or physical release.
I fuck because it makes sense.
Making Vanessa come, watching pleasure fill her expression, feeling her nails on my back—
That makes all the sense in the fucking world.
I need to step into my role. To take control of something. "Turn around."
"You didn't say please."
"I don't say please."
She freezes. "I don't like rough."
I'm not usually rough, but I am who I am here too: demanding and determined. Determined to hear my name on her lips. "What do you like?"
She sucks in a sharp breath. "Teasing."
"And?"
"Mirrors."
Fuck. Teasing Vanessa until she watches herself come.
How the hell did I get so lucky?
"Firm requests?" I ask.
She nods.
"Turn around." My voice drops to something deeper. Not the tone I use at work. Not even the one I use with other women.
Some tone I've never heard before.
Some tone that exists exclusively for her.
I'm out of my fucking mind. I am.
But I'm done thinking.
Tonight has gone too long. There's been too much in my head. I need the world to make sense.
I need this to make sense.
Vanessa turns. Her eyes flit to the mirror in front of us. She watches as I bring my lips to the soft skin of her neck.
I find the zipper of her dress. Pull it down slowly, an inch at a time.
I trace the line of her spine with my index finger.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Her breath hitches in her throat. She waits patiently, trying to outlast me.
A battle of will.
Of course.
People are who they are. They do what they do.
Even when she's standing here, watching me undress her, Vanessa is a queen commanding her kingdom.
Steady.
Sure she'll win.
And she will. But not the way she thinks.
I peel her dress down her torso. Over her chest, waist, hips.
All the way to her toes.
She stands there, in only her thong and heels, poised and patient.
I hook my thumbs on the straps. Pull the slick fabric over her ass, down her legs, all the way to her ankles.
She steps out of the underwear. Stands tall and proud and gorgeous.
I study every inch of her. Tight curls, pulled back in a loose knot. Dark eyes, staring back at me through the mirror.
Round hips. Thick thighs. Lush tits.
The pert brown nipples that beg for my lips.
"Beautiful." I press my lips to the small of her back. Stand.
She gasps as I pull her body against mine. "Simon."
"Yes."
"Fuck me."
I bring my hands to her hips. Pull her closer, so her ass is against my hard-on.
A groan falls from her lips.
I rock my hips against her.
"Now."
"Now?"
"Yes, now." She breaks my touch. Turns to face me. "Do you have a condom?"
"In the dresser."
She leans in to press her lips to mine.
It's a hard, deep kiss. Patient and unyielding. Claiming me. Claiming some part of me I'm incapable of reaching.
Does she want more?
Or am I the egomaniac everyone assumes I am?