Sugar

“I think you have a gambling problem.”

“I think you should admit I turn you on.”

I might have been slightly aroused, but he’d be whimpering if he saw into my head, saw the ways I imagined punishing him for being such a colossal shithead.

He had no clue what really turned me on. “Not for the reason you think.”

His half smile stretched into an even grin, and he leaned closer. “No?”

“No,” I rasped.

I could see it so clearly, his body stretched beneath mine in all its glory. Taut muscle and sinew wearing a sheen of sweat as I teased him into a needy frenzy. His body pulsing with desire while I denied him every pleasure and inflicted little nips of pain.

I’d track my nails down his chest, leaving slightly raised trails as he arched into my touch. My breath would tease his cock, but I wouldn’t touch him. Torment, blow, scrape… He’d beg so prettily. I bet I could make him come without ever using more than my words.

Then, when he was just about to cry out, I’d grip him hard enough to force it back. He’d jerk at the repudiation, fight it, try to hide the struggle, and fail. And then he’d beg for forgiveness, accepting I was the one in total control.

My gaze lifted to his mouth, and I fought the urge to drag my tongue over his lips. I wanted to wrench his head back, my fist gripping tightly in his beautiful hair. If he was a good boy, I might let him fuck me, but my way, on my terms.

He’d do everything I commanded and make me come as many times as I wanted. He’d worship me, beg for me, and never once think he could outmaneuver me like he thought he was doing now.

“You don’t know a thing about me, Noah, and I doubt you have the patience or stamina to figure me out.”

“All I need is one night. Let me take you out, prove I’m better than the rest.”

“So persistent.”

“Always, especially when I see something I want.”

No mention of what I might want. God, he was selfish. Yet, I humored him anyway. “And what is it you want?”

He lifted a brow. “Are we being honest?”

I held his stare, unflinching. “Why not?”

“Fine. I want to strip you naked and lick every gorgeous curve of your body. I want to hold you by your hair as you swallow my cock. And when your shoulders tense and your eyes water, I want you to look up at me with that determined look I see now, and I want you to show me you can handle every last inch of me. I want to fuck your tits, your cunt, and your tight little asshole. I want to make it so good for you, there’s never a doubt in your mind that I’m the best you’ll ever have. And then, I want to sleep with you, naked and soft, worn out from everything I did to you, everything you begged me to do. Then we’ll wake up and do it all over again until my skin smells like yours and you’re wearing a rosy glow of whisker burn, come, and me.”

Keeping my expression blank, I glanced toward the elevator as if the political correctness police were going to storm the hall at any second after that little speech. My breath shook as it filled my lungs. No one had ever said anything so graphic and arrogant to me. I wanted to smile at his boldness, then punish him.

It was not only improbable, it was also the exact opposite of what I liked, so why the hell was I breathing so fast? He was rattling me.

This game had to end. I moved my mouth to speak, but my voice had dried up. Clearing my throat, I straightened my shoulders and looked him directly in the eye, whittling all my excuses down to the sharpest point.

It was time he understood how impossible his fantasies were. “Poor Noah. You can’t afford me.”

His brow furrowed. “Afford you?”

His glance took another perusal of my attire, and he cocked his head as if something occurred to him. I endured his inspection, awaiting and dreading the moment the light bulb flickered on. As a private person, my career choices had always been personal. After my mother’s latest episode, I hardly felt like shouting my profession details from the rooftops.

His posture relaxed, and his hands burrowed back in his pockets, a knowing smirk now teasing his lips. “I think you underestimate the size of my … bank account.”

An unexpected ache formed in my chest. On some level, he comprehended my confession when I’d hoped his first response would be disbelief or denial. But he seemed to understand what I’d admitted and hadn’t batted an eye.

His acceptance that I came with a rather large price tag withered something inside of me. My confidence staggered and my pride flinched. His cocky assumption that he would have me—no matter the price—released an unpredicted pain in my chest I wasn’t prepared to process. He didn’t realize some things were not for sale, but damn the assumption in his eyes for hurting me so.