Текст книги "Dance for Me"
Автор книги: J. C. Valentine
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 12 страниц)
SEVEN
I lost count of how many drinks I had around number seven. Seeing as seven is my lucky number, I can’t go wrong. Stepping onto that stage tonight seems like a pretty good idea from where I’m standing, which is on top of my chair.
“If you don’t stop shaking your ass like that,” Brody chides, “you’re gonna bust an ankle.”
I glance down at my heeled blue suede boots and shake my head. It spins in response, which sends all of my senses into a tailspin. I throw my hands out to steady the walls, feeling like I might throw up. “These shoes would never hurt me,” I slur, knowing I’m right because Elvis would never steer me wrong.
Shaking his head, Brody returns his attention to the stage where a female duo is wrapping up their version of Wind Beneath My Wings.
It’s at that moment that the chair slides out from under me.
I screech as I begin falling, but before anyone at the table has time to react, a pair of strong arms catch me just in the nick of time. I’m so happy I didn’t break my ass that I cling to my savior like a bur.
Until I realize who is holding me.
Black-as-midnight eyes glare back at me, as though I’ve done something to personally offend him, and I shove out of Professor Scott’s arms, rolling awkwardly to my feet. He’s such a gentleman, though, that he refuses to relinquish his hold on my arm until he’s certain I won’t make a repeat performance.
“What are you still doing here?” I brush any dirt I may have picked up from my clothes.
“I think the question is what are you still doing here? How many drinks have you had tonight? Because I counted seven.”
Well, what’s the point in asking if he’s just going to answer for me? I lift my chin a little higher. “I know my limit.”
He leans closer, placing his lips against my ear. “Yeah? Then why are you swaying on your feet right now?” As if to prove his point, the room tilts and I pitch sideways. Grasping my arms, Professor Scott holds me upright. Which is good, because I am pretty sure my legs have turned to rubber.
Maybe he has a point.
“Come on, you’ve had enough for tonight. I’ll drive you home.”
“I’m not ready to go home yet. I have a performance and I can’t miss it.”
“The only performance in your future is climbing into bed and sleeping it off.” Focusing on something over my head, Professor Scott says, “We’re heading out.”
Baffled, I turn to see who he is speaking to and see Brody nod in agreement. “Cool. I’ll have someone follow me over in the morning to drop off her car.”
“Wait, you two know each other?” I ask, fighting through the alcohol-induced fog.
“Who, Ransom?” Brody asks as he abandons his chair to join us at the end of the table. “He’s the art teacher.” He says this as if everyone knows this, which maybe they do. The man is gorgeous. You’d have to be dead not to notice him.
Ransom. So that’s his name. It’s… hot. Dangerous, just like I know him to be. I wonder just how much Ransom has told Brody about us. But the fact that Brody isn’t beating his face in right now suggests not a lot.
“He’s gonna take you home, okay, kid?” Brody’s massive hand lands on top of my head and gives it a little shake. Hair falls in my eyes, and I shake him free in annoyance. “I’m gonna need your keys before you go.”
“My keys? What if I say no?”
Brody gives me his trademark crooked smile that says he finds me funny. “You’re wasted, and I already made the arrangements. Do me a favor and cooperate for once. I’ll make sure your car is waiting for you when you wake up tomorrow.”
I’m not sure how I feel about him going behind my back, but the alcohol is starting to get to me and I don’t think to question it further. My chest constricts at how nice Brody is to me. He’s such a good guy. It literally brings a tear to my eye. I sniff and wipe it away as I hand over the keys. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Not unless she asks me to.” Smirking, Brody pulls me into a quick hug and then hands me back to Ransom. “I don’t care if she asks you to, don’t hurt her. Got it?”
“You have my word.”
***
I don’t live far, and Ransom has no problem following my directions. Surprising considering I can’t quite remember how to get home right now. With a hand on my arm to help steady me, he walks me to my door and uses my keys to let me inside.
“Thanks for seeing me home safely,” I say as I step inside and feel around for the light switch.
“Do you need any help with anything before I go?”
Looking back at him, the slight frown Ransom wears confuses me. I’m not sure if he was hoping I’d tell him no so he can leave, or if he wants me to ask him inside. “I’ll be fine,” I assure him. It’s probably best that he leave anyway. There is nothing cute about being drunk, and I am pretty sure I’m going to be worshiping the porcelain god soon.
Bending to take off my shoes, I have a difficult time maintaining my balance. Using the wall for support, I succeed, though barely. The sound of the door closing behind me is startling, and my head jerks up. “I thought you left.”
Ransom shakes his head. “You can barely stand. I’d be angry at myself if I didn’t at least stick around long enough to make sure you made it to your bed.”
I don’t know how I feel about him being in my personal, private space. With a relationship like ours, this kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen. He isn’t supposed to know my name, who I spend my time with, or where I live. In a week’s time, that careful balance has been shattered.
The kindness in his dark eyes is surprising, though. There’s something different about him tonight, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. The man I know never had a look that I would call “kind.” Predatory is more like it. Is this the man he really is outside the bedroom? Not that I am complaining. What girl doesn’t like being taken care of?
Placing a hand on my lower back, he urges me on. “Come on, let’s get you tucked in.”
Following my lead, we walk together through the hallway that connects my minute living and dining rooms with the even smaller kitchen, bathroom, and single bedroom. It is such a tiny space that it only takes a few steps before we are standing outside the door. Staring at my queen-sized bed, I can’t decide what my next move will be.
On the one hand, I really want sleep. On the other, I really need the bathroom. As drained as I am, I know I have to take care of one before I can do the other. “I need to…” I point to the bathroom behind us, my cheeks feeling flushed.
Taking a step back, Ransom gives me enough space to get by. “While you do that, I’ll go get you a glass of water.”
I nod, thankful that he is giving me distance, and close the door. After spending a solid five minutes hanging over the toilet bowl and realizing that I haven’t quite reached the point of no return, I relieve myself and take a minute to scrub my face clean of makeup and pull my hair back. When I run out of things to do, I return to the bedroom to find Ransom sitting on the edge of the mattress.
The sight of him there makes my blood simmer. Screw personal space. I like the idea of having him in my bed, of his rich cologne permeating my sheets.
He stands as I walk in. “I found a bucket under the sink, in case you need it later. Water is on the table. Do you need me to bring you anything from the bathroom, aspirin or Tylenol?”
How incredibly…sweet. I study his offerings, unable to keep the smile off my face. “This is perfect,” I tell him. I’m used to taking care of myself, so this is a treat. “That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
His eyes widen a fraction and I step closer. Placing my hands on his chest, I reach up on my toes to show him my gratitude. My lips graze his, and the fleeting contact is electric.
“What are you doing, Josephine?” Grasping my wrists, he draws his head back and forces me away from him. The stern look in his eyes is confusing. He’s denying me?
“I was thanking you.” I try to step into him again, but his firm hold ensures I keep my distance.
“You’re drunk,” he says, dismissing me entirely. What. The. Hell.
“Ransom, I’m not that drunk,” I protest.
“Well, then, I’m going to pretend that you are.” Dropping my wrists, Ransom turns his back on me and begins walking away.
“Ransom! Wait, don’t go!” Even though the voice inside my head suggests that I leave well enough alone, that this is the way it’s supposed to be, I can’t keep myself from running after him.
Once he reaches the front door, Ransom rounds on me. “What did you think was going to happen here tonight, Miss Hart?”
My jaw drops at the formality, and I flounder for words. “I—I don’t know. You’d stay the night maybe?”
His head drops to his chest and he shakes it in disbelief. “I’m your teacher. You’re my student.”
He was really going to pull this card on me? I understand the confusion. I feel it, too. But there is no sense in pretending that nothing has happened between us. He had his mouth on my nipples just days ago, and I know the taste of his cock well. Pretending none of it ever happened doesn’t mean it will just go away. I know. I tried. And look where it’s gotten me.
“Then why bring me home? Why come inside?” I challenge.
Scraping his hands through his hair, he lifts his gaze and I can see the war being waged inside him. “You’re a nice girl, Josephine. I knew you’d had too much to drink tonight, and when your friend asked me to do him a favor and take you home, I said yes. I was just trying to help.”
Sure he was. Or maybe he got closer than he intended and is running away. Where has my confident, take-charge mystery man gone? I much prefer him over the one standing in front of me. If only I could turn back the clock and choose a different path.
Instead of being the complacent little mouse I have always been for him, I get angry. “Thanks for all your help, but I’ve got it from here.” Crossing my arms, I glare at him. I just want him out of my apartment. I haven’t completely forgiven him for bringing that woman to me, and I am furious that he would come all this way just to walk out. I feel like a fool, running after him when he clearly doesn’t want to be chased.
Well, I’m done.
Sighing, Ransom opens the door. His hand freezes on the knob as he looks back at me. “I’m sorry I upset you. You’re an attractive girl, and you seem really nice, but I just can’t go there. When you wake up in the morning, you’ll see that, too.”
Although his words ring true, I don’t care to hear them.
“And Miss Hart?” Regret shines in his dark eyes. “From now on, I think it would be best if we stick to formalities.”
For some reason, that really stings, almost as much as knowing he’s slept with another woman. As he closes the door behind him, I scoop up one of my black pumps and lob it at the door. Then I flip the lock so he can’t come back.
From here on out, Ransom Scott is dead to me.
EIGHT
My outlook is good come Monday morning. After spending the remainder of the weekend catching up on homework and wallowing in self-pity, I am resolved to start fresh. Nothing of the past week will affect my time moving forward, and anytime my thoughts attempt to stray toward the past, I shove it into a little black box in the back of my mind.
That plan goes to shit the moment I enter the classroom and see Ransom sitting at his desk. He’s dressed casually in tan slacks, a light blue button-down shirt with a navy sweater-vest overtop. His head is bent over, one hand delved deep into his tousled black hair, the other writing something in red pen.
Annie is absent today, and I want to kill her for leaving me to my fate, but I’m also grateful, because it allows me to escape. With hurried strides, I bypass my usual seat in the front row and claim one at the back of the room.
I try my best to remain invisible throughout the next hour. I slump in my seat, keep my head down, and volunteer for nothing. When Ransom hands down our final assignment for the semester, I groan inwardly. We have to find a way to inspire art. I don’t know what that means exactly, but he assured us that as the class progresses, it will become clearer. Of course, if we have any questions, he is always available after class.
I’d rather Google it.
The bad thing about being in the back of the room is that it prevents an easy escape. I do my best to blend in with my classmates, and as the door draws nearer, I think I have succeeded, until I hear my name.
“Miss Hart, can I see you for a moment?”
Those nine words chill me to the bone. My head droops on my shoulders. Why me? Taking a deep breath, I turn and make my way back into the room, stopping several feet from Ransom’s desk.
He is busily tucking papers into his leather briefcase when I approach and it takes a moment for him to acknowledge me. “I noticed you hiding in the back today. Any particular reason for that?”
“I prefer the back of the room.”
He nods, seeming to understand. “Does this have anything to do with Saturday night?”
My arms clench tighter around my books. “I’m afraid I had a few too many drinks with my friends Saturday night. My memory is a little foggy.” A lie, but when cornered like prey, sometimes it’s the only chance of escape.
Snapping the case closed, Ransom lays it flat on the desk, and then presses his palms into the soft material. “I understand if you feel uncomfortable around me, but I want you to know that I have zero interest in complicating matters any further than they already are. My job is on the line, so if it’s okay with you, I’d like to put this weekend behind us and move forward.”
“As if nothing happened?” My lip curls at the idea. It’s what I wanted, but hearing those words come from his mouth somehow makes them more real. His willingness to walk away from me makes my stomach lurch.
Those midnight orbs lift, and I swear I see the same pain and confliction in them that I feel inside of me. Could it be that he doesn’t want this any more than I do? That he, too, longs for our time together. “Nothing happened, and that’s the way it needs to stay.”
I hear the growl in his voice and even though I know it’s wrong, my body responds. I feel the flames of desire licking between my legs, making my nipples grow tight. Does he have any idea what he does to me?
I’m not sure how to take his words. Is he just saying that because it’s the right thing, the only way to cover his ass, or is it because he really believes that what we have shared together amounts to nothing?
Both possibilities are difficult to face, because there can be no good outcome either way, but I still want it, even if he doesn’t. “So where does this leave us?” I ask, using my books as a shield against my feelings for him. Ransom is the only man who has ever affected me this way—he can strip me bare with a single look. He can reduce me from a strong, intelligent, educated woman into a puddle of wanton desire with the stroke of a finger.
Pushing his hands into his pockets as he comes to stand before me, I realize, with a mix of horror and intrigue, that this man is the only one that has ever held the power to hurt me.
He holds my gaze as he stares down at me, and I see the muscle in his jaw tick in time with my heartbeat. We’re connected in a way that neither of us fully realizes, and I feel the draw to him growing stronger. “This leaves us right where we stand, with me as your professor and you as my student.”
The deep rasp of his voice triggers something deep inside of me, and I feel myself lean closer. The allure of those full lips is nearly impossible to deny. You can tell so much from a simple kiss. I want his on me—on the most intimate parts of my body—and I want him to know that.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I need to kiss him. If this is it between us, then I need this last connection, this final goodbye.
“Miss Hart.” My name is a low warning as it whispers past his lips, but I ignore it.
“Please, call me Josephine,” I whisper just before my mouth closes over his. I don’t know who moans first. If Ransom meant for us to go our separate ways, then I probably shouldn’t have kissed him, because the way he is kissing me back definitely isn’t a goodbye.
His mouth is hesitant at first, as if he is unsure what to do. I understand his confliction. This is the worst case scenario, a student falling for her professor. Movies have been made about this sort of thing, but neither of us heeds the warning.
It doesn’t take long for him to throw himself into the deep end, though, and then we’re both drowning, surrendering to the torrent of emotion rushing between us. I’ve never felt a man surrender, much less this man, who is normally so aggressive, but he is definitely giving in to me now.
I am still clutching my books to my breasts, which have grown swollen and heavy, and his hands are still shoved deeply into his pockets. The only part of us that is touching is our mouths, but Ransom’s wet tongue probing the inside of my mouth is like a full body caress. It takes me back to our hotel room, and I start imagining what it would be like to have him bend me over his desk, pull down my pants, and take me right now.
That fantasy is shattered when I hear voices approaching. I break the kiss first. Ransom stares at me with some emotion I can’t name. His breathing is labored, his lids heavy, eyes dilated, and the bulge in his pants is unmistakable. He looks like how I feel—hot, raw, and aching, the need to touch and be touched almost too powerful to ignore.
But I can ignore it, because we’re no longer alone, and I won’t risk him losing his job. I would never do anything to hurt him, just as I instinctively know he would never do anything to hurt me. For as complicated as our relationship may be, we have a mutual respect for each other that runs deep. We give each other pleasure, and in return, we respect and protect each other’s privacy.
“You should go,” he says, his voice a guttural rasp so thick, he has to clear his throat.
I love that I can affect him this way. It gives me a rare sense of power that I typically only experience on-stage. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Scott.” I back away, smiling. The last image I have of him is his dark scowl, but it doesn’t concern me, because as much as Professor Ransom Scott might say we’re done, I know the truth.
We’re just getting started.
***
Work Wednesday night is a bitch. The first thing I hear upon entering Mirage is, “Tamera called in sick. You’re headlining tonight.”
My head whips up in shock, seeing Kota standing there in his open leather vest, showing off a toned physique and a dusting of dark, curly hair. His expression is grim but expectant.
“Headlining?” Thrown by his announcement, my hands pause in the task of latching my bra. That spot is reserved for the most popular dancer. It took Tamera years to work up to that position. “Why not one of the other girls? Someone who’s been here longer?”
“Because no one holds a candle to you, Pussycat,” he says with a smirk. “You’re on in ten.”
I’m left standing alone in the middle of the dressing room in nothing but a bra and thong, my mouth gaping open. As the seconds tick by, a slow smile creeps into place. Headlining is the highest form of praise here. I could make rent with the tips from one dance alone. It is in that moment I like to think my parents are looking down at me from above, giving me that little boost I so desperately needed.
With tears in my eyes, I whisper, “Thank you,” then I suit up for the hottest performance of my life.
NINE
I take a double shot of whiskey as I stand offstage waiting to be announced. As happy as I am to have this opportunity fall into my lap, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a nervous wreck. In the span of ten minutes, I have considered twenty different ways to back out. I can’t shake the thought that this isn’t my show. I’m not supposed to be up there. I haven’t earned this.
To be honest, despite the financial benefits, I’m not sure I want this.
Being a headliner means standing under a different kind of spotlight. Even though most of these men are regulars, I don’t know how keen I am with the idea of being their central focus. And I will be if I go through with this.
This was never Plan A or B. Stripping was a mean to an end. Going up on that stage tonight could change everything, but I’d be stupid to pass this up. I just want to make my money and leave. That’s been my goal since day one, and it’s my goal tonight.
As Felicia’s song ends and she steps offstage, I pull at the hem of my shirt and straighten the tie hanging between my breasts. Tonight, I’m going farther than I ever have before. The idea that Ransom could be out there watching makes every cell in my body ignite. But it’s only Wednesday.
My feet teeter in my heels as I step up the single stair onto the stage and stand just beyond the curtains, out of sight.
The room is plunged into darkness, as per my usual request. It gives me the time I need to walk onto the stage unnoticed, and take my place. Stretching my arm up, I let my head fall back and close my eyes.
Blue lights begin to spin around the room, fog crawls across the stage, and I hear Kota’s growl over the sound system as he announces me. There are no cheers, no clapping hands, just the music as it filters down from the ceiling and expands throughout the building. Then the spotlight hits me, and I begin to move.
“Hot for Teacher” is my song of choice, kind of a personal joke. I know Ransom isn’t here to hear it, but if he was, I imagine he’d be laughing right along with me. As I grind my hips and do my turns around the pole, I find myself hoping that he is here. I lack the guts to look. Even though I am used to the job, I will never get used to the exposure of it. Power or not, the idea of performing in front of a crowd is unnerving. The only way to survive the anxiety that threatens to creep up on me is to ignore everything and just dance.
The music consumes me, and I remind myself that this is a special performance. In order to be the head dog, I have to perform like one. Channeling my inner vixen, the one that gyrated in her lover-slash-professor’s lap while his girlfriend watched, I drag my palms over my hips and up my sides, following the swell of my breasts as they continue to climb higher. Lifting my long hair, I release my top and let it flutter to the stage.
Every woman has a favorite part of their body. Mine are my breasts. They’re round and full with smooth, pale skin and pert pink nipples. Any man I’ve ever been with has had nothing but nice things to say about them, so I am confident in showing them off now.
It’s as I stand, whipping my hair back from my face, that I feel the intensity of His stare. I can’t see past the gloom I’ve set for myself, but I know he’s here. My insides turn molten instantly as I drop to my knees and thrust my hips. I’m on fire, thinking of our earlier kiss, of the way his hands feel on my skin, the scorching heat of his body against mine.
I can’t think straight, and when the music ends, I miss my cue. The lights rise before I do, and I feel the horror of seeing dozens of eyes plastered to my naked body, but then my gaze lands on one set in particular and a curious sense of calm comes over me.
Ransom’s smirk is contagious, and as he leaves his table and makes his way toward me, anticipation pours over me like hot candle wax—breathtaking, scalding, thrilling.
Standing, I collect my top and exit stage left.
I’m not in the dressing room for more than thirty seconds when the door opens and Bernice pokes her head inside. “Joe, that man from the other night is here to see you. He says you know each other?” She looks uncertain, but I wave my hand.
“Let him in.” Running a brush through my hair, I watch in the mirror as Ransom walks up behind me. Even in the low light, his dark eyes and hair are striking against his sun-kissed skin, and as he moves closer, his arrogant gaze travels down my body. Settling his strong hands firmly on my hips, he dips his head to trace his nose along the side of my neck.
“Damn, you smell delicious.”
The stubble on his cheek scrapes over my skin, causing every nerve ending in my body to tingle. It’s like pins and needles, only it feels good. “Ra—uh, Mr. Scott,” I quickly correct myself, reminded of his preference for formalities. “I thought you were done with this?”
I watch his expression for something, anything, but it remains fully focused as he continues to explore my nakedness with hands and mouth. Everywhere he makes contact feels like a burn. “Done with what?”
“With us,” I say, an embarrassing moan leaving me as his hand boldly sneaks beneath my thong and traces through my wetness.
“I could never be done with this,” he groans, his voice pitching lower before sinking his teeth into my shoulder. “Fuck, you’re so damn wet. I was going to order us dinner before I took you to bed, but your sweet pussy just ruined all of that.”
His fingers push through my slick folds and plunge inside, tearing a moan from me. Distantly, I hear the clink of his belt buckle, followed by the lowering of his zipper. I gasp at the sudden emptiness as he pulls his fingers out of me, and then I hear as much as feel my thong torn from my waist. I’ll feel that later, but for now, the only pain I want to pay attention to his hard cock pounding into me.
“Bend that sweet ass over,” he commands as he wraps his hand around my nape and shoves me down, forcing me to throw out my hands and brace myself against the vanity. Grabbing his cock, I watch him in the mirror as he rubs it between my legs.
“You’re a tease,” he accuses as he slaps his cockhead against my aching clit. “You made me come in my pants.”
Breathless, I say, “I didn’t hear you complaining.”
His hand lands hard on my ass, and I scream from the sting of it. My arousal turns painful. “My date didn’t like it.”
“Oh?” I pant, reeling from the word date. Not girlfriend. Date. The bastard. But I don’t feel sorry for what I did. Instead, I feel anger take root in my gut, and I’m unable to keep the bite from my words. “Didn’t she enjoy watching you clean away the mess I made?”
“No,” he says wickedly, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “She especially didn’t enjoy having to lap it up with her tongue.”
I want to laugh even as jealousy tears through me. He let another woman touch him, taste him. Not that it was a big surprise, but suspecting and knowing are two different things.
“Too bad she couldn’t make you come in your pants. Maybe she’d be the one riding your dick tonight instead.”
“Who says she didn’t?”
My eyes narrow, and I am ready to tell him to fuck off, when he shoves his cock into my ass. His hand clamps over my mouth before my scream has a chance to carry. Moisture burns my eyes as he pounds into me. I’ve never grown used to his size and being untried there, verges on excruciating.
Stars float behind my closed eyelids as I struggle to even out my breathing. Ransom continues to take me hard, making it difficult, if not impossible, to do. I’d tell him no, but he loves it, and I love pleasing him. Even if it means I won’t be able to sit down right later.
I’m a sick person, I know this. Ransom doesn’t deserve me, and I deserve so much better than him. Trouble is, I can’t seem to make myself walk away. One look, one touch, that’s all it takes, and I’m back under his spell.
“I love fucking your tight little hole,” he growls into my ear, and presses in deeper, holding his hips against mine long enough for me to feel the full length of him. “You think it was funny messing up my pants? I wonder if you’ll be laughing when I fill your pretty little ass with my cum.”
I’m sure I won’t be laughing at all. His filthy words stir something inside of me, and despite the weakness in my knees, I feel an orgasm lurking in the shadows. I won’t give the thought voice, but I want him to fill me. I love feeling his juices leak down my thighs after he uses me, hard. It’s his mark, his own personal brand, and I wear it proudly.
If he knew the way I really felt, turned on by his aggressive, deviant behavior, he’d drop me faster than I can blink. He doesn’t have to tell me this for me to know it’s true. Ransom is the kind of man who gets off on instilling a little bit of fear. I can see it in his eyes, which is why I will never let on how much I love it.
A few squeaks of surprise, a couple of moans, and some heavy panting are all it takes to push him over the edge. I don’t get mine, but he pumps his hot semen into my ass with a roar so loud I’m afraid someone will barge in to investigate.
Still lodged deep inside me, Ransom’s softer side makes an appearance as he pulls me up and wraps his arm around me, holding my back to his chest, ensuring I don’t fall over. It’s a big possibility, considering how wobbly my legs feel right now. He lingers long enough that his cock shrinks back, slipping from my body of its own accord. Semen wets my cheeks and inner thighs, slowly leaking back out as I stand up straight. Turning me in his arms, Ransom smoothes my hair back from my face and flashes me a lazy but devastating smile.
“I’m staying in room two-oh-five. I’ll have dinner waiting when you get there.” Gripping my chin, he tilts my head back and his mouth covers mine, his tongue sliding over my lips and into my mouth before he releases me. After tucking himself back into his pants, he reaches into his wallet and hands me a key card. “Let yourself in.”
I bite my lip as I watch him turn to leave. This man confuses me. One minute he’s a brute, laying waste to my body and emotions, and the next, he’s almost sweet. I wish I could figure him out, but he’s like a puzzle that’s impossible to solve.
Studying the hard piece of plastic in my hand, I find myself questioning the wisdom of meeting him tonight. I know I’m waffling, set on walking away one minute, and diving back into bed with him the next, but I don’t know how to turn my back on this man. Not certain I even want to. The only thing I know for certain is how I feel when he’s standing in front of me—alive. I’ve never felt more alive than in the moments we steal.
Ransom is my drug. Each time I feast on his body, I fall deeper into my addiction. Tonight, even with my ass already beginning to ache, I know I will show up at his door. The secrecy shrouding our relationship should cause me shame. I know he’s hiding something from me. I used to think he was just a businessman who breezed into town a few nights a month to fuck me senseless and leave again, but now I know different. So what reason would a man who lives in the same city I do have to rent a hotel room, unless he has a secret?
