“Right,” she smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”
I look at her– really look at her– and my head swirls with inner turmoil. Of course, she’s beautiful– they all are– but Allison is absolutely flawless. She wears very little makeup, and her face is unmarred by the telltale signs of plastic surgery or injections. Tiny, tan freckles dot her slender nose, giving her an almost innocent, youthful appeal. The fact that she hasn’t tried to hide a little piece of herself that society would deem blemished, intrigues me. Shit, it makes her kind of badass. Such a small act of rebellion, yet such a monumental f*ck
You to a world that celebrates narcissism and bullshit images.
Allison’s fiery halo of red hair falls to her shoulders in deep waves. It’s full and healthy, but not overly styled with product and extensions. It’s…her. Simple. Classic. Perfection.
“What are you looking at?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
“You.” The word is out of my mouth before a lie can even begin to stifle the truth. Shit.
“Why?” Less annoyance, more amusement.
“You have freckles.”
She twists her mouth to one side and raises a cynical brow. “That I do. Would you like to count my moles? I may be able to scrounge up some scars for you too.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just…you didn’t get laser surgery or bleach them. You don’t even try to hide them.”
“Look, I know that I’m less than perfect, but you don’t have to be an ass-”
Just as she turns away from me, her face flushed with anger, I clutch her elbow. Our heated gazes collide before sliding down to her arm, where my hand is grasping her soft, ivory skin. I pull away before the act is misconstrued as inappropriate as my traitorous thoughts.
“I like it.”
Can’t. Stop. The. Word. Vomit.
I’m a lot of things– crass, stubborn, brutally honest, egotistical– but one thing I am not, is careless. I know my boundaries, and I never cross them. In a business where lines can be easily blurred, those boundaries are outlined in black Sharpie, traced in gasoline, then set the f*ck
on fire, ensuring that no one even gets close enough to inhale the fumes of temptation.
Yet, here I am, touching, tempting, testing the limits. Begging to get burned by an angel with a halo of fire.
“My apologies, Mrs. Carr,” I straighten, my defiant hands balled into tight fists at my sides. “I assure you-”
“You like it?”
I meet her eyes, which are as big and bright as the moon, casting an ethereal glow across her face. This close, much closer than deemed innocent, I see they’re not quite blue, as I’d initially thought. Flecks of green and gold illuminate the irises, and I find myself getting lost in the liquid depths, wondering what secrets lie beneath. What past pain is hidden behind those long, auburn-hued lashes.
Yes, I like it. Much more than a narcissistic ass*ole
like me should.
Liking these women isn’t what made me the man I am today. It isn’t what built my solid reputation. I’m not known for my bleeding heart of gold or sugarcoated tongue. What I am known for is results. And that’s all Allison—or anyone else, for that matter—will get from me, and not a damn thing more.
I’m facing the entrance to her suite by the time I realize I’ve abandoned her, leaving her mouth agape and her question unanswered. I imagine those blue-green eyes narrowed in confusion at my erratic behavior, but force myself not to look. There’s nothing to see there that I haven’t seen already. Just another poor, little, rich girl.
“Class is in session at 10 am. Don’t be late.” My gaze stays fixed on the dark, cherry wood door, dying to break free. The walls are closing in, suffocating me, demanding I turn around and face my cowardice. That I confront my weakness, currently bubbling up like bile as I pass the threshold of her suite—away from those enigmatic eyes and the temptation to play connect-the-dots with those freckles, in hopes of uncovering more of her beautifully blemished skin.
Day-f*ck
ing-One. I’m so screwed.
“UNLESS HE’S COMPLETELY desperate or under the influence, a man can’t—and won’t—f*ck
what doesn’t get him hard.”
Less gasps this time, but every perfectly powdered face is beet red with embarrassment, causing my mouth to slide into a sardonic smirk.
Truth be told, I love this shit. I love ruffling their meticulously groomed feathers. Their obvious discomfort entertains me. Seeing the rosy hue of coyness bleed through their blush is like a balm to my little, sadistic soul.
“And in that case,” I continue, “you don’t want him anyway. What you do want is for him to be salivating at the soles of your Jimmy Choos. And let’s face it, ladies… that’s not happening. Why do you think that is?”
Crickets. f*ck