The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

I was stunned. “You put yourself over your company.”

He abandoned me, not agreeing or denying. His feet fell heavily on the wood floor as he strode to the chair he’d placed in front of the mirror and sat down in it. I turned, stepping out of the heap of clothes at my ankles, and faced him.

What was supposed to happen next? With him in the wide chair, his legs spread, and his hands curled over the upholstered armrests, he looked like a king on his throne. Was he going to ask me to entertain him?

Or was he going to continue to stare at me like art and contemplate his existence?

His command was wrapped in velvet, trying to coax me. “Sit down.”

Relief poured through my system. If he’d told me to dance, it would have been awkward for both of us because I didn’t have the vaguest idea of how to do that and make it remotely appealing. I walked toward my chair and—

“No. In this chair.”

My heart crashed through my body, lurching to a stop. “You want me to sit on your lap?”

His expression was corrupt. “I would like a great many things from you, Marist, but we will start here tonight.”

“No, that’s touching.”

He looked at me like I was being ridiculous, and his tone was sharp. “No, it isn’t. I have my clothes on, so there’s not skin contact.”

Even though I’d made a deal with the devil, I hesitated when he came to collect.

He raised an eyebrow. “I suspect there’s more you want to ask me, and this is what you agreed to.”

I crossed an arm over my stomach, subtly brushing the side of my thumb over my Medusa tattoo. She wasn’t afraid of men. They feared her, and I drew from her strength.

One foot in front of the other, I walked on unsteady legs toward him, and he watched the sway of my hips and the undulation of my bare breasts. When I’d made it to the chair, I turned and reached behind me for the now-empty armrests, and ever-so-slowly lowered myself.

I wasn’t actually in his lap. He’d made room for me between his legs, and I sat perched on the edge of the chair. With the mirror in front of us, he could see both my nakedness in the reflection and his favorite part of me up close—the long line of my back.

I’d kept my knees together, and once I had my balance, I rested my hands there. With the armrests no longer in use, he took them back, and the way his fingers curled around the edges, it made me wonder if he’d done it to remind himself he could look, but not touch.

“Lean back.” His voice was a whispered sin. “Spread your legs and let me tell you a secret.”

There was a thick taste of debauchery in the air, and no amount of dry swallowing could remove it from my mouth. My eyes fluttered closed. Maybe he’d think it was me falling under his spell, but the truth was I didn’t want to see the desire etching his expression while I made myself totally vulnerable. All I wanted to think about was Royce.

Macalister’s chest was firm, his suit coat soft, and the silk of his tie was cool against my back. The worst part of this position was how it put his lips right beside my ear, and his steady, quick breathing filled it. The proximity made it so much easier for his commands to invade my mind, but hopefully his secrets too.

“I didn’t stop pursuing Ascension,” his voice was low, “when I learned what I was truly buying, because I know what his next step will be.”

My eyes burst open, and I was treated to the full, shocking image of us slumped back together on the green chair, my legs spread and his parted wider around mine. We were fitted together like puzzle pieces, and although I told myself this image was perverse, my body had a different reaction. A bolt of interest reverberated through me.

That wasn’t allowed. I was only playing a part, following the advice Royce had given me the night of our first date. I was simply being the version Macalister wanted me to be.

Win, no matter what.

In ancient Greece, I was in my perfect form like this, unadorned of clothes. The pinnacle of strength and beauty, and in the mirror, Macalister viewed me this way. His heavy gaze swept along the tips of my breasts, down the curve of my waist, and skated over my legs.

“Show me how you touch yourself.”

Static played in my mind. “What?”

He was irritated he had to repeat himself. “When you masturbate. Show me how you do it.”

In one of the models I’d forecast, this was a variable. I’d weighed the pros and the cons and decided it was a viable action if he asked for it. My right hand slowly curled inward, and as I brushed my fingers across the insides of my thighs, my gaze slipped down to the bottom of the mirror.