Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
The cabana offers the suggestion of privacy, gauzy curtains creating the illusion of walls, but I’m acutely aware of eyes on us. Men watching from the pool deck, from the bar, from loungers strategically positioned for the best view. This is a performance, and I’m the star attraction.
What’s most disturbing is the electric current running through me at the thought. I should be terrified, disgusted, planning my escape.
Instead, I’m... excited?
The possibility of Giovanni taking me here, with an audience, sends a shameful thrill through my body that I can’t entirely blame on survival instincts or Stockholm syndrome.
I’ve never been an exhibitionist. Never even considered it. But something about the danger, the forbidden nature of it all, the complete departure from my careful, controlled existence—it’s intoxicating in the worst possible way.
Giovanni’s hands slide up my T-shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare back as he studies my face, reading me like my expression is a neon sign.
“You like this,” he says quietly, not a question but an observation. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts, and I can’t suppress a shiver.
God help me, I think I do.
19
“You like this,” I say, watching her pupils dilate despite the glare of the low sun hitting her face through a break in the canvas above us. Her body tells truths her mouth won’t admit.
She doesn’t answer, but the flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck speaks volumes. Emmaleen Rourke—bakery disaster, poetry champion—is getting off on being watched.
“Which part?” My voice drops lower, scraping the bottom register where promises live. “Which part do you like, Emmaleen? The part where it’s me who’s touching you? Or the part where every man here is ready to jerk off to the expression on your face?”
I shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t put her on display like this. Especially not with Rico circling. But the way she moves against me, like she can’t help herself—it’s making me reckless.
Around us, men pretend to be engaged in conversation while their eyes keep sliding back to us. To her. There are at least thirty naked women at this party—silicone-enhanced, professionally beautiful women who know exactly how to perform desire—and yet these men are watching Emmaleen in my oversized T-shirt like she’s the only thing worth seeing.
Because she is.
The fact that she’s the only one clothed makes her more desirable, not less. The suggestion of what’s underneath. The possibility. The tease of it.
But that’s not the only reason. It’s the way she holds herself. Like she’s slumming it with all of us. Like she’s tolerating our existence. Even now, straddling me with her underwear soaked through, she has this look in her eyes that says she’s calculating something more complex than just physical pleasure.
I want to break that calculation. Want to see her mind go blank when I’m inside her.
Fuck. What’s happening to me?
I slide my hands under the shirt, thumbs brushing over her nipples as they harden and peak tight, pressing against the thin cotton. I could lift the shirt right now. Show everyone exactly what they’re missing. Make Rico choke on his own tongue.
My cock throbs at the thought, and I know she feels it because her breath catches.
“Tell me,” I demand, reaching down with one hand to squeeze her ass, encouraging her to grind against me. “Tell me which part you like.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her eyes are slightly unfocused, like she’s fighting to stay present.
I could take her right here. Pull her underwear aside and fuck her in front of everyone.
She’d let me.
I can see it in the way she’s moving, seeking friction, seeking release.
She’d be tight and wet and perfect around me. Just like she was against the door. But this time I’d go slower. Make it last. Make her come twice before I finished. I’d watch her face when she climaxed, memorizing the exact moment her careful control shattered, so I could jerk off to it later.
Then I’d take her back to the pool house and do it again. And again. Keep her there all week, naked and willing. I’d make her beg for it. Make her earn every reward in that notebook. Make her come so many times she’d forget her own name.
Keep her forever.
No. Not forever. What the fuck am I thinking?
The rest of the week, though. I own her for six more days, and I’m going to make the most of every hour. By the time she walks away with that money, she’ll have earned every dollar.
I’ve never wanted a woman like this. Never felt this desperate need to possess someone completely. It’s not just sex—though the sex is already addictive. It’s the way she challenges me. The way she sees through my bullshit. The way she surrenders without breaking.
Little Miss Take. My little disaster with her yellow cardigan and heart-covered socks and words that cut like glass.