Devil's Bargain

I don’t like clutter or anything messy, not anywhere in my life.

My eyes fall on that tartan again. Why have I kept it all these years? I need to talk to the maid. I don’t want to have to see it every time I fucking turn around.

Melissa lowers herself into the chair nearest her and farthest from me. She hangs her head and her hair falls forward like a veil between us, but I don’t miss the tear that drops.

She combs her fingers through the thick mass, sniffles and straightens her spine. She meets my gaze.

“One night,” she says.

I nod.

“And I’m free and you won’t hurt Liza.”

“Not a bad deal if you ask me.”

“You’re not the one who has to fuck you.”

I chuckle at that. “You could do worse, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

I shrug a shoulder. I could give a fuck.

“What are you, anyway? What’s your accent?” she asks.

She hears it? I wonder if others do too. I’ve worked hard to rid myself of it. Rid myself of the past.

“Scots.”

“You’re from Scotland?”

“Born in the Highlands.” I sip from my glass. I hear it now, too. Familiar and foreign at once.

She scratches her head, studies me, then dismisses whatever thoughts are going through her head by giving it a shake.

“What happens now?”

I uncross my legs. Point to the floor between them. “You come here.”

Her eyes grow wide at the command.

“I said come.”

She gets up, walks toward me like a condemned woman walking to her execution. She stops a few inches from me.

“Kneel.”

I see fear in her eyes. Her breathing is short and uneven, and I notice how the light dusting of fine hair on her arms stands on end.

“Kneel,” I repeat.

“No.”

I reach out, keeping my eyes on hers as I slip my hand under the tartan she’s still clinging to and, before she can get away, grip the patch of hair between her legs and twist. I rise to my feet, holding her where she is by that handful of hair.

Her face contorts in pain as I loom over her.

“You really think that tartan will keep you safe from me?” I ask, my voice low as, with my other hand, I drag it off and let it fall to the floor. “I said kneel.”

“I said no.” Her voice is high and trembles and her pupils are dilated either with arousal or fear. A combination of the two, I’d say, considering the musky scent of her.

I walk her backward, still holding onto that patch of hair between her legs. “You want me to make you, Melissa?”

“You will anyway. It’s what men do, isn’t it?”

My jaw tightens. “You’ve dealt with the wrong kind of men, then.”

Her eyebrows knit together, and she studies me.

When her back hits the wall, she swallows, slaps her hands to my chest. “Stop.”

“I change my mind,” I say, leaning down inhaling her hair, her skin. “Don’t shave your pussy.” I press my chest against her as I curl my fingers.

Her mouth opens and she makes a sound, something like a squeak.

I slip my fingers between her folds and when I do, I cock my head to the side and grin.

“Oh, Melissa,” I say, drawing her name out slowly.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, lowers her head. She pushes against my chest like she’s trying to move me, and it’s cute that she tries, but I don’t budge.

“Are you wet for me, sweetheart?” I ask, tilting my hips, making sure she can feel my erection against her belly. “Because I’m hard for you.”

“This is a devil’s bargain,” she mutters.

I lean my face down, kiss her jaw, cup one heavy breast with my free hand, weigh it like I wanted to from the first moment I saw her naked. I rub her pussy.

“Are you going to come on the devil’s hand, then?” I ask.

She fists her hands, punches my chest. It doesn’t hurt. I wonder if she meant for it to. Probably.

It’s quiet, the only sound that of her wet arousal.

“I want to be clear,” she finally says, her body giving a little jerk when I take her clit between thumb and forefinger.

“Yes?” I ask, not bothering to try to keep the grin from my face.

“I don’t want this,” she says as that involuntary jerk comes again.

“No. Clearly you don’t want me to touch you,” I say, pinching her nipple.

“I mean it.”

“Noted.”

I rub that swollen nub and watch her. It won’t take long for her to come. I can see it on her flushed face, see it in the dilated pupils of her pretty whiskey-colored eyes, in the panting, open mouth.

But then I draw my hand away, up toward her belly, wiping her own arousal on her as I step backward.

“You don’t want it,” I confirm, giving her a wink like we’re co-conspirators. “Get on your knees,” I tell her, undoing my belt, the buttons of my pants.