Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Nico
I watch her process those words
She’s scared.
She’s confused.
She’s also angry, but she doesn’t really have a right to be. This was her choice. She’s the one who sold herself.
The baby doll doesn’t help the situation. She looks like a fucking angel.
Maybe that’s the real reason I’m angry with her. Not just because she works for me. Not just because of what this could do to my reputation, but because she’s willing to throw away something so precious for twenty grand.
That doesn’t make her a whore. That makes her stupid. That makes her desperate. And right now, I can’t decide which one is worse.
I need to be careful with her. I don’t want to break her completely, but I do want to break this. I want to break the illusion she has that this is some sort of fairy tale she’s in control of. I want to break the idea that she can walk into a place like this and walk out unchanged.
The longer I stand here looking at her, the more I want her.
I’m a bastard for it.
She’s young. She’s my employee. She’s in a situation she can’t get out of. She’s everything I swore I’d never touch.
But she’s also standing in a room I paid for, wearing a costume she chose to put on, waiting for a man to do whatever he wants to her. And I’m the one who paid to be that man.
I wish for the bourbon I left behind on the bar, but I don’t want to walk away right now.
Her breath is too fast. Too shallow.
I walk toward her slowly.
She doesn’t step back this time. She just stands there, frozen, watching me come.
I stop in front of her, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin, close enough to see the tiny pulse beating in her throat.
Her eyes are wide, fixed on my face. They’re blue. A clear, light blue that looks almost gray in this light.
Her lashes are dark. Her lips are parted. Her cheeks are flushed.
I want to kiss her. Not gently. I want to claim that mouth, make it mine, feel her under me.
Instead, I lift my hand. Slowly. Giving her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
She flinches, but she doesn’t move.
My fingers touch the thin strap of the baby doll on her shoulder. The fabric is flimsy.
Her breath hitches.
My knuckles brush against her collarbone. Her skin is warm. Soft.
I slide my finger under the strap, feeling the delicate give of it against her skin. I could snap it with one pull.
“You’re shaking,” I say. My voice is low. Quiet.
She swallows hard. Her throat bobs.
“No, I’m not,” she whispers, but she is. I can feel it against my knuckles.
The lie is as flimsy as the fabric; it’s pathetic. I almost smile.
“Have you had anything to drink?” I ask. “Alcohol?”
She shakes her head. “None.”
I slide my finger from under the strap to the curve of her shoulder. She’s not muscular. She’s soft. Yielding.
“You’re scared,” I say. It’s not a question.
She presses her lips together, a stubborn line. She looks like she’s trying to build a wall with her jaw.
“The man I was bidding against at the end,” I continue. “He has a reputation..."
"What kind?" she whispers shakily.
I slide my thumb along the line of her collarbone. "The kind that likes a little fight in his women."
Her eyes go wider. She looks sick. She looks like she’s finally, truly understanding what she almost stepped into.
She's staring at me in fear. Real fear.
"I'm not into that sort of thing," I say and watch the fear tamp down.
"What—" She licks her lips. "What are you into, sir?"
Her voice comes out small and low.
My lips curl slightly, but it's not a smile. It's something darker. I like that word on her lips. Sir.
I've heard it before. From her at work. From other employees. From other women in my bed.
But hearing it in her small, trembling voice makes a bolt of lust flash through me.
"I like obedience."
My thumb pauses on her skin.
She holds her breath.
"But I like it even more," I continue, my voice dropping, "when it doesn't come easy."
I don't give her time to process that.
I tug the strap.
It slides down her arm, catching at her elbow.
Her breath comes out in a rush, a sound that's half gasp, half whimper.
The white fabric drapes, exposing the pale skin of her shoulder, one perfect breast. The rosy peak tightens in the cool air of the room. Her body betrays her.
I let my gaze linger on her breast before dragging it back to her face.
Her cheeks are a deep, burning red. Her lips are parted. Her blue eyes are wide and fixed on me, swimming with a storm of shame and defiance and something else.
I don't tell her the whole of it.
The truth is, I want to break her too.
Not the same way as some of the other men with hungry eyes and deep pockets tonight.
No, I want to make her mine, in every single way. I need it.
But despite what she thinks, I’m not interested in taking what hasn’t been offered. I don’t have to tell her that, though. I just wait patiently for her to pull away, tell me no—a real no—or give me any sign that she’s only doing this because she has to.
She doesn’t.
I tug the other strap.
It falls just as easily, and the sheer white fabric pools around her waist, leaving her naked from the waist up.
The instinct to cross her arms, to cover herself, is written all over her face. I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her muscles tighten to do it.
I lift my free hand, not touching her, just holding it in the space between us, a clear command to stop.
She freezes.
Her arms stay at her sides, trembling.
“Keep them there,” I say, my voice quiet, but the order clear.
She does.
"You don't hide yourself from me," I add.
My gaze takes her in. The soft swell of her breasts. The flat plane of her stomach. The dip of her navel. Her skin is pale, almost luminous in the warm light of the suite. She’s beautiful. Unbelievably so.
My anger is still there, a low thrum under my skin, but it’s mixing with something else now. Something hot and possessive and far more dangerous.
I paid for this.
The thought cuts through everything else.
I paid for the right to look. I paid for the right to touch.
I paid for the right to own her, for tonight.
My fingers trail from her shoulder down her arm. Her skin is smooth. Warm. I can feel the frantic beat of her pulse in her wrist when I brush over it.
I watch her face as I touch her, looking for any sign that she wants me to stop. Any sign that this is truly, deeply unwanted.
I see shame. I see fear. I see humiliation.
I'm fine with all of those. In fact, they're exactly right.
What I don't see is "no."
My hand continues its path, moving over the curve of her hip, hooking into the thin fabric still bunched at her waist. Little tremors work over her skin, tightening it.
Her breath hitches. Her eyes squeeze shut, like she can't bear to watch. Like if she doesn't see it, it's not happening.
I pull.
The rest of the baby doll slides down her legs, whispering over her skin to land in a heap at her feet. She stands there in nothing but a pair of flimsy white panties.
My gaze drops. Her body is perfect. Soft and curved in all the right places. My God, she’s beautiful.
My hand rests on her hip, my thumb stroking the soft skin there. I can feel the goosebumps rising under my touch.
Her eyes are still closed.
“Look at me,” I command.
Her lids flutter. She blinks, her eyes focusing slowly.
The blue of them is darker now. Almost stormy. Her pupils are wide, swallowing the light.
Her lip trembles. She bites it, stilling the motion.
My other hand comes up, my thumb tracing her jawline, tilting her head back slightly. I can feel the frantic beat of her heart in the delicate skin of her throat.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me, Erica?”
She sucks in a sharp breath, her chest rising.
“Or what?” she whispers. It comes out breathy and unsure. She doesn't know she just stirred something else in me. The need to punish, to bend her to my will.
I tamp it down. Not tonight; it's too much.
“There is no 'or what',” I say, my thumb stroking her pulse point.
I feel the motion of her throat under my fingers as she swallows.
“Now, say it.”
“Say what?” she whispers.
“Tell me you'll be a good girl.”
Her throat works, a visible swallow.
“I'll be a good girl,” she whispers.
The words are a surrender. A capitulation. They're exactly what I want to hear.
But it's not enough, not quite right.
"I'll be a good girl, sir," I whisper.
Her shaky breath comes out on a weak exhale.
"Erica," I say, my tone a clear warning.
"I'll be a good girl... sir," she says, her eyes dropping. In shame, in humiliation? I don't mind either.
My fingers hook into the waistband of her panties. I wait a beat, giving her a final chance.
She doesn't move.
I pull them down slowly, letting the fabric drag over her skin. Her breath shudders. She trembles, a fine, continuous shiver that runs through her entire body.
I note the wetness on the panties as they drop to join the other fabric at her feet. Her body is betraying her, telling me the truth her lips won't.
She's completely naked now.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Mine.
My gaze sweeps over her again, taking my time. Her breasts, with their tight, rosy nipples.
My thumb traces her lower lip, pulling it down slightly.
“Are you wet for me, Erica?”
A choked sound escapes her.
“Answer the question,” I command.
Her eyes flutter closed.
“No, sir,” she whispers, but it's a lie. We both know it's a lie.
“Open your eyes,” I order.
She does.
Her gaze is hazy, unfocused.
“Don't lie to me,” I warn. "Never lie to me."
My thumb moves from her lip, down her chin, over the frantic pulse in her throat. Down, over her collarbone, between her breasts.
Her breath catches.
Down, over the soft plane of her stomach, circling her navel. Her muscles jump and flutter under my touch, an involuntary reaction.
Down, to the soft skin at the apex of her thighs.
Her breath is ragged.
My fingers pause, hovering just above, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her.
“Tell me the truth,” I say, my voice low and rough. “Are you wet for me?”