I pull my hand away, get up on my knees, and fist my throbbing cock several times, and then shoot my come all over her tits. Moaning and groaning with relief. She reaches for my cock, her body still convulsing from her climax, and I’m so distracted by how good this all feels, I don’t brush it away.
She pumps out the rest of my come. Her small hand barely fitting around my shaft.
I close my eyes until I’m finished. She leans forward, swipes the tip of her tongue around my head, then puts me inside her mouth.
Oh. Fuck.
No, no, no. We’re done here. What I did was wrong on so many levels. Every fucking minute I’ve been with this girl has been wrong. The drugging, the fight in the alley, the van ride, the house, the bedroom, and now this.
I’m one fucked-up dude.
I push her head back, then get up off the bed, tuck my dick away, and walk downstairs.
If she were really mine I would stay. I want to tell her that so she doesn’t think I left for the wrong reasons. She’s so messed up, what I just did tonight could make her worse and I suddenly feel bad for walking out.
I could go up there and try to explain myself. Turn it into something lighter. Like… I’d hold her all night and make her feel safe but that goddamned bed isn’t big enough for two grownups. It was made for a single little princess.
She might even laugh. It could even make her relax a little and fall asleep. Knowing that I’m not as bad as I seem.
Because I’m really not. I’m not this guy at all, actually. I just… need that fucking money her stepfather promised me. It’s really important that I get it. And I’m sorry she’s the way I get that done, but…
Fuck it.
I don’t go back up there. I don’t tell her any of that.
After cleaning up in the bathroom I pull a chair into the hallway at the bottom of her stairs, and listen for the sound of tires on the gravel driveway outside that will announce the arrival of her stepfather and the end of my time with Lyssa Baylor.
CHAPTER EIGHT – LYSSA
I wake up to the sound of a luxury car door closing outside. “Fuck,” I grumble. “He’s here.”
But then I remember what happened last night. Well, most of it. The ride in the van is still pretty hazy.
Mason though. He’s not hazy at all.
God. Why did we have to meet like this? He’s not what I expected. And yeah, it’s fucked up on so many Stockholm syndrome levels that I’m thinking about him like this, but I don’t care.
I just have a feeling about him.
If we had met somewhere else, if we had met on a different night and under different circumstances, I would like him. He’s rough and controlling, but not in a bad way. Not the way I’ve experienced it with men before.
And yes, I do realize that I was drugged, kidnapped, stripped naked, spanked, and maybe a little bit humiliated—but… it wasn’t personal.
It wasn’t me making him do that stuff. It was my stepfather. But I get this feeling that’s not really why he’s here, either. He’s not the typical man my stepfather employs. A memory of him talking to my stepfather on the phone last night in the van flashes though my head.
I told you my terms. I’ll be there in three hours and you had better be waiting. I’m a bounty hunter, not a goddamned babysitter.
He gave my stepfather an order.
Who does that?
This guy Mason, apparently.
I reach down between my legs and find the sheets still damp, then realize I nodded off right after he left my room. Didn’t even bother to clean myself up. So there’s dried come all over my breasts.
I force myself up, jump in the shower, and clean myself up. I will be presentable for the next phase of my stepfather’s plan. I need to get out of here. I need to be rational, and sane, and think clearly or…
I don’t want to think about that.
There are clothes in my closet because of course there are. I choose a white cotton eyelet dress that makes me look like a six-year-old going to a garden party and not a twenty-five-year-old being sentenced to confinement before my forced wedding to stupid Dickerson.
They are already talking downstairs in the office when I descend the left side of the grand staircase barefoot.
I stop at the bottom and listen to the conversation, safely hidden from sight.
“No,” Mason says. He sounds angry. I take a few steps closer, trying to figure out why. “I told you. Wire transfer only.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” my stepfather says. “I can’t do it right now.”
“You better be able to fucking do it. I kidnapped your daughter outside a club. I put myself at risk and still delivered the goods.”