of my chest, creating more distance between us. Hugging, protecting myself—in vain.
I watch as he removes his suit jacket, tossing it onto the end of the bed as he speaks, “Someday you should. It’s spectacular.”
My eyes are transfixed on the man as he reaches up and begins to tug on the
tie around his neck, loosening it.
“How many lovers have you had?” With a final rough tug, the tie comes free.
The question startles me, and I take a shaky step backward as the man steps
toward me, shoving the tie into his pants pocket.
“What?” I ask softly, casting my eyes to the ground.
How do I answer that question?
Or more importantly, what answer does he want?
“Look at me,” the man snaps. I jump, my heart racing violently as I look up
into his stony face. “How many men have fucked you, willingly or otherwise?”
I forcibly swallow the lump in my throat. It takes every ounce of self-control not to look away. His brows are furrowed, and his dark golden eyes are burning into me. I want to look anywhere else. I want to hide.
“None,” I manage to squeak out.
“The truth,” he growls annoyed, taking a quick step toward me. I
instinctively backup until my knees hit the bed. I’m trapped.
The man grabs my hair again, painfully tugging my neck back as he leans over me.
“I want the truth,” he whispers coolly, the softness of his voice scarier than any screaming madman.
“I’m-I’m telling you the truth,” I stutter, barely holding back my tears.
“We shall see,” he says softly, loosening his hold on me and taking several
large steps backward. “Strip.”
“What?”
The man’s answer is to silently cross his arms over his chest and raise his eyebrows, giving me an I’m waiting stare.
My hands shake as I quickly unzip the ultra-short black pleather mini skirt.
The plastic sticks to my skin despite the AC as I push it down and let it fall to the ground. Next, I unhook the black and white trimmed corset, breathing in a sigh of relief as it drops to the floor.
Looking up, the man’s intense stare burns into me with a ghost of a pleased
smile on his lips. He’s enjoying this. Enjoying me.
I should be disgusted. Revolted. Afraid. Instead, the idea of being able to make this stoic man smile fills me with confidence, muting my fear considerably.
Reaching behind my back, I unhook my bra, letting it slide off my arms and
onto the pile on the floor.
“Stop,” the man commands as I begin to tug off my remaining barrier—the
red G-string. “Come here. I’ll unwrap the rest of my present.”
Realization suddenly hits me and my stomach clenches. I’ve been given to this man. To enjoy.
“Come,” he repeats, crooking his finger at me.
I cross my arms over my naked chest and, with unsteady steps, move closer
to stand in front of the man.
His warm hands run lightly along the skin of my upper arms before reaching
down and uncrossing my forearms. I brace myself for his touch to be rough and bruising and am shocked when he gently cups my breasts in his hands and teases my nipples with his thumbs. His hands are rough and callused, nothing like I would’ve expected from a millionaire playboy. I gasp in shock as pleasure floods through me.
“Beautiful.” He pinches and twists my nipples, making them hard, and I find
myself leaning into the pleasure.
