Love the Way You Lie(8)

Dangerous.

“Okay?” he asks, voice gruff.

Maybe he can tell I’m emotional. But if he thinks I need to feel dead inside to do my job, he’s wrong. Lola is the strong one, the one who performs without feeling a thing. Candy does it too, even if she needs drugs to manage it. But I’ve never been able to find that numbness. I feel it all—every insult, every grope. Every cock. And now I would feel his thick cock too.

That doesn’t seem like the worst thing.

“How do you want me?” My voice trembles, but that doesn’t stop him.

His fingers are cupping my pussy, unmoving, letting me recover. Now he dips his finger inside, where I am the most sensitive and wet. Then he lifts his hand to my mouth. One stroke, painting my lips with my arousal, heating up every nerve ending. His head dips, and I know what’s coming next. But I don’t turn my face away. I don’t tell him kisses aren’t for sale.

I let him taste me on my lips. He licks the wetness, a slow swipe of his tongue that makes me gasp. My lips part, and he takes full advantage. His tongue pushes inside, opening me. His hand at the back of my neck is my only anchor while his mouth claims mine.

It’s almost too much. Too intense.

“How do you want me?” I’m demanding this time. I need to know. Because I need to stop this strange intimacy that only increases with every murmured word and tender touch.

“What are you afraid of, sweetheart?”

My eyes widen. How does he know?

Maybe he’s not really that perceptive. Maybe all the men that come through here can see I’m terrified, but they don’t care as long as I make them hard.

“How do you want me?” My voice is hoarse, pleading. This is all I have to give. Take it.

His jaw tightens. “I want you like this. Spread open. Waiting for me to do whatever I want to you.”

His hand returns to my pussy, and I feel relief. Disappointment too. It hurts that he’s stopped kissing me, because for some reason I liked it. And I know, most likely, it won’t happen again. Not tonight. Not ever again. But it’s for the best. I shouldn’t get used to this.

He pulls more wetness from my core and paints my nipples—first one, then the other. I shiver under his touch. It’s more like shaking, really. Because I know what comes next, the same thing he did to my mouth.

He pulls me up so my breasts are in front of his face. He licks the wetness off my nipple, sucks me until I moan. Then he gives my other breast the same treatment.

And I can’t say anything. Can’t demand to know how he wants me. He dips his fingers one more time, deep inside me, pulling out all the wetness he can find. I clench around his fingers and hear his breath catch.

He doesn’t put my arousal on my body, not this time. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckles his pants and pulls himself out. He’s as hard as I imagined. As big. As slick at the tip. He runs a fist down his length, mixing my arousal with his precum over his cock.

I can’t say anything, but I don’t have to. How do you want me? I know how he wants me, and I slide to the floor. The floor that’s cold and dusty and damp at the same time, unforgiving against my shins. I’m more comfortable here. Safer. Because this is for sale. And I have the upper hand now. Sex is a battlefield, and this concrete floor is my country to defend.

“What’s your name?” His voice is low—and desperate? That can’t be right. He doesn’t need anything from me. He could have gone to a bar. With that hard jaw and hard body, he would have had his pick. Any girl would have hopped on the back of the motorcycle I suspect he has. And yet he’s here.

He can pay for my mouth. He can even pay for my orgasms. He doesn’t get my name.

“Honey.”

He laughs, a little coarse, a little bitter. But his eyes, they understand. They’re almost soft, tender as they look down at me kneeling. “Pretty little liar.”

But when I lean forward to take him in my mouth, he pushes me away. He fists his cock, fucking himself, still slick from my pussy. He’s taking himself fast and hard—almost like a punishment.

He took his time with me, but not with himself. Now he races himself to the finish line, fist and hips at war until he tenses and comes, spilling into his own hand while I kneel before him and watch.

He collapses back onto the chair, still sprawled but truly relaxed now. Not tense or wary. Not carefully banked power like I felt before. Now he is an animal in repose, a lion spread across a rock, bathing in the sun—even if the rock is a creaking wooden chair, straining under his force. Even if the sun is the flicker of fluorescent lights from the edges of the velvet curtain. It’s still primal.