My woman?
Fuck.
I might be losing this morning’s battle.
“Here,” Alyssa says at last, pushing a plate of breakfast breads towards me. “Eat. You’ll feel better afterwards.”
I grab her arm and twist her towards me. “What will make me feel better is if you go and put on some actual fucking clothes. Do you really think I’m going to let my woman traipse around the house dressed like a whore?”
She flinches, leaning away from me as far as I’ll allow. “Except that I’m not your woman. You’ve made that pretty damn clear.”
I lean in so that she can’t escape my scowl. “You’re whatever I say you are.” Then I push her back so that her spine hits the kitchen island. She can probably feel the cold marble through that threadbare slip she’s wearing. It really doesn’t serve any purpose.
Apart from making me hard, that is.
“I’m onto you, narushitel. This siren act you’ve got going on is not—” I slip my hand down into her bikini bottoms and she gasps, pulsing hard against my hand. “—going to work.”
She bites her bottom lip, her starved eyes staring up at me as though she’s desperate for relief. And fuck, do I know the feeling. She’s wet when I slip my finger inside her and start playing with her clit. She never takes her eyes off me as the moans start to drip off her tongue.
“You like that, don’t you?” Her eyes seem to quiver. “Answer me.” She pulls in a sharp breath and nods meekly. I shake my head. “Not good enough. I need to hear you.”
“I… I like that.”
“Been dreaming of my cock now, have you?”
“U-Uri… ahh.”
Her eyes clamp shut and her lips part. I’m desperate to lean in, take a bite out of that plump lip. But I know if I kiss her…
I’m never going to stop.
She lets me keep going. We stare, her at me and me at her, our breath caught in our throats and the air around us getting hotter and hotter and Alyssa’s pussy getting wetter and wetter and tighter and tighter around my fingers. Her lips are spreading, her pupils blowing wide open. I can smell her desire and feel every ounce of blood pumping into my cock as we both ride the wave higher and higher and higher still.
I wait until she’s right at the pinnacle of orgasm—before I rip my hand out of those neon green bottoms. Alyssa’s eyes startle open, surprise written all over her face.
“Not today, little narushitel,” I snarl. “You don’t get to win today.”
Then I spin around and walk away before I have to eat my own words.
18
ALYSSA
I’ll give him this: no one does humiliation quite like Uri Bugrov.
I stand there in my bikini and gaze stupidly at the empty space he just vacated a moment ago. I’m trying to catch my breath and get my bearings, while also trying not to feel like a complete fool.
I’m losing on all three counts.
You don’t get to win today, he spat in my face. What does winning or losing have to do with any of this? It figures that Uri would assume that I’m playing some sort of game. That my attempts to comfort and take care of him were misconstrued as a ploy to seduce him. He just isn’t used to people being nice to him without a reason, without some ulterior motive or the other—probably because he doesn’t do nice things without getting something in return.
Then again, I did have an ulterior motive, didn’t I?
But mine was simple.
I just wanted him to look at me.
I pull my robe tighter around my torso and look around to see if anyone saw what just happened. I hate that he’s made me feel so self-conscious about my body, about myself. The neon green bikini that made me feel so sexy and alive this morning looks cheap and trashy in the wake of his scorn.
But right on the heels of that shame comes anger.
Where does he get off not trusting me? He’s the one who locked me in his basement and refused to let me go! I’ve almost certainly lost my freelance gig at the magazine. I’ve definitely missed my best friend’s wedding. My parents are probably either pissed off or scared shitless that they haven’t heard from me in an alarmingly long time.
And after all that, he expects my trust?
Get. Fucking. Real.
I storm off towards the basement. I don’t want the bright sunlight of the pool deck anymore. What I want is a dark, quiet place to lick my wounds and take stock of all my poor life decisions.
Mistake number one was buying those damn sex toys. If I hadn’t gotten so giggly about a purple tentacle dildo, none of this would’ve ever happened.