Play Me Hot (Play Me 2)

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” He looks concerned, like he really cares, and that only messes with my head more. I don’t know what he wants me to say here, don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. I’m almost totally naked, completely exposed, and all I want is a little cover. A chance to get my head back in the game.

“Yeah.” I push past him into the bathroom, close and lock the door behind me. Then sag against it for long seconds as I try to wrap my head around everything that just happened.

It’s not a big deal. I mean, yes, I just had soul-shattering sex. With my boss. And yes, he’s only the third guy I’ve slept with in my life. All of which means it could turn into a big deal. If I let it. Which I am so not going to do.

Dropping my clothes on the closed toilet lid, I cross to the sink. And come face-to-face with a mirror for the first time since this whole thing began.

Holy. Shit.

I look like I’ve just been fucked every way a woman can be fucked. My hair is a mess, my eyes are glassy, my cheeks are flushed and my lips—shit. My lips are swollen and dark pink while my red lipstick is still smeared across my chin and cheek, even down my throat.

And my body…My God. My body is covered in bruises and love bites and pink whisker burn from Sebastian’s stubble. My breasts, my stomach, my neck, the inside of my arms. The inside of my thighs. Everywhere.

Horrified—fascinated—I reach out a hand. A finger. And play connect the dots with the darkest of the bruises. There’s one on the edge of my jaw, four on my neck. Two on my left breast, three on my right—including one directly over my nipple. I probe at it a little, wincing at the pain—and doing my best to ignore the fact that that one simple touch has my nipple standing erect and sparks of heat shooting through my body.

Is it just that my nipple is sensitive from all the attention Sebastian paid it? I wonder as I gently circle it. Or is it the pain that’s turning me on even though I’m exhausted? Has Sebastian Caine somehow managed to link pain and pleasure in my mind? In my body?

That thought disturbs me more than anything else has so far. More, even, than the bruises scattered like confetti over my stomach and thighs and—I do a quick turn, look over my shoulder—my back. And, if I’m being honest, those bother me quite a bit on their own.

Not because of what they are, but because of what they stand for. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, maybe I’m looking for shadows where there aren’t any, but standing here—looking at the marks on my body, so many of them in visible places—I can’t help thinking that Sebastian was marking me, branding me. Like property. Or the family pet.

For a moment, just a moment, an image of Carlo floats through my head. Suave, sophisticated, jealous. So jealous. He used to mark me like this, to remind me—and everyone else—exactly who it was I belonged to.

Like I could forget.

Whore.

Slut.

Tramp.

The words slam into me like punches, leaving bruises that aren’t so easily seen. Waking up old injuries I thought were healed, old scars I was certain had faded away into nothingness.

Suddenly, I can’t stand to look in the mirror anymore, can’t stand to see my naked body—or the marks Sebastian left on it. I dive for my clothes, yank them on as fast as I possibly can. And then I turn on the water and scrub, scrub, scrub at my face. At the red lipstick smears that speak more loudly than any words.

I’m just finishing up when there’s a knock on the door. My stomach cramps and for a moment, just a moment, the old fear is back. I can feel myself shrinking down, pulling into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible again.

The knowledge infuriates me. Has me straightening my shoulders and clearing my throat. Has me looking myself in the eye in the mirror and calling out with a lot more confidence than I’m feeling. “I’m almost done. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I had a few things sent up from the mezzanine level. I thought they might help make you more comfortable.”

Comfortable? I don’t think anything could make me comfortable right now. Not when my past and present are suddenly converging after I’ve worked so hard to keep them separate.

Still, I open the door anyway, give Sebastian a smile I am far from feeling. He’s back in his suit and I have a moment’s regret that never again will I see that gorgeous tattoo of his—or the strong, well-muscled chest it’s inked on. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got everything I need.” I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if I’ve learned nothing else from my time at my mother’s knee—and my time right here in this casino—it’s that rich men are always on the take. They’re always looking for something. The next million. The next opportunity. The next beautiful, young face.

Then again, it’s not like I’ve got anything left to give him anyway. He did just take me standing up against a window in his office. And since my body is pretty much all I have worth taking, I’m fairly sure he’s done here.

He presses the small black bag into my hand. “Take it anyway. Maybe there’s something in there you could use.”

It’s no use arguing. Not now. Not with him. And so I simply nod and murmur, “Thank you,” before I start to close the door again.

His stops the door in mid-swing. “Aria.”

“Yes.” I force myself to look him in the eye this time. Rich man rules and all that.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”