Chapter 15 #2
Despite some pretty bold behavior in the past, I’ve never in my life flaunted my body purely to prove something. And, on top of a flood of insecurities, the longer I stand here, the more doubt manages to worm itself into my certainty.
Mallory getting hard might have more to do with the situation than with me. Maybe it was adrenaline, or he has a bit of a primal play kink, or just didn’t have time to jerk off with his conveniently stored bottle of lotion and tissues that morning.
Or—my chin lifts determinately—the asshole wants me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the door and stare out at the profile of the man on the couch, who still hasn’t realized what I’m about to throw his way.
“What do you think?”
The look on Mallory’s face when he turns is all the validation I’ll need for the next decade or so.
He stares, jaw slack and eyes bugging out of his head, for at least fifteen seconds. Until his brain catches up with his cock, and he remembers he isn’t supposed to be looking at me when I’m not wearing clothes.
God, who needs drugs when you can force Damien Mallory to confront his attraction to you? The rush.
“That bad, huh?” I muse, strolling past him to stand on the little round platform, surveying my body in the three-way mirror.
Granted, I’ve only been at it for a month or so, but running hasn’t changed my body in the way I thought it would.
I haven’t lost my curves or anything, but there’s a hint of quiet strength beneath the softness now.
I think I like it.
And so, apparently, does Mallory.
“Put your clothes on, Blair,” he hisses, and in the reflection, I see he’s resolutely fixed his gaze on the wall, his fingers digging into the arm of the couch.
“Come on, you have to admit I look a little hot. Even demonic entities can experience sexual attraction. I think they can, anyway.” Shaking off this unknowable question, I sigh, twisting this way and that to examine the effect of the pink lace on my body.
It really is gorgeous. I think I need it.
A choking noise comes from the chair behind me.
“Blair. Fucking Christ, put your clothes on. Now.” He’s begging, literally begging, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him off the hook that easily.
If he really wanted to leave, he could go stand outside the door of the private room, and yet here he is.
Is it tacky to wonder if he’s hard?
Whatever. Tacky or not, I’m wondering.
I got him with the shock of it all, but I don’t for a minute think that Mallory will sit there and let me get away with trying everything the stylist brought me. If I had to guess, I’d say I have one more chance to make an impression before he flees or gouges his eyeballs out or something.
“Fine. Your loss.” With a pretend sigh of resignation, I head back into the tiny dressing room and close the door behind me.
Alone, I shift my weight onto my hip, frowning appraisingly at the remaining selection of lingerie.
Frankly, I don’t think I could possibly go wrong here.
All of it is wicked, and yet when my eyes finally find the very last garment on the rack, it’s like a warm weight has dropped into my pelvis.
Yup. That one.
My pulse is racing as I step out of the first set and carefully remove the second from its hanger. It’s a bralette and panty set, made of the most delicate, white cotton imaginable, the material unadorned apart from the thin blue ribbon which weaves through the rouching.
If I were to get wet wearing the panties, they would be practically transparent, the material clinging to my folds like it doesn’t exist at all. If someone were to suck on my nipples through the bra, you’d be able to see what color they are.
The quiet thud of the dressing room door hitting the jamb has Mallory’s head whipping around, and even from three yards away, I can see his pupils dilate.
This time, there are no demands for me to put my clothes on.
I draw forward and stop just in front of him, intoxicated by the rush of what I’m about to do. “This one’s probably no good either, huh?” Biting my bottom lip, I allow my hands to drift down my sides.
Mallory lets out a sharp, winded noise. “Enough,” he hisses, jaw locked tight, even as he can’t seem to stop himself from looking. An interesting reaction from a man who said it would be a lie to tell me I look nice after a haircut.
I step closer, until my knees brush his, and even the material of his trousers against my bare skin makes heat leap in my core. “Tell me how terrible I look.”
“You—” He blinks, his eyes flitting from my tits to my eyes, then down again. Lower. “You—”
Leaning forward, I brace my hands on the back of the couch, boxing him in. This close, I can smell the ocean on his skin and see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, a reminder that I am currently seducing a man almost twenty years my senior.
Why is that so hot?
I let out a soft, thoughtful hum. Not pausing to allow him the opportunity to find his voice, I crawl up onto the couch, my thighs bracketing his hips as I settle my full weight in his lap.
My hands find the warm, solid breadth of his shoulders, and it occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve ever touched him, if you don’t count a hand gooped in mud.
“Tell me how you hate seeing me like this.” My voice is a soft, breathy plea, as I feel the unmistakable, hard length of him pressing right against my core through the paper-thin panties.
Mallory groans, his chest rising and falling heavily as both hands curl into fists on the upholstered surface below us, as though he’s forcing himself not to grab me.
The battle is lost, though, when I allow my hips to rock over his stiff cock.
His hands fly to my waist, so large that they make me feel dainty and delicate by comparison, and it’s all I can do to hold back my moan as his touch sends heat rushing through my entire body.
For the first time, I feel a pinch of sympathy for what I’m putting him through.
Just not enough to stop.
“Tell me you don’t like how this feels.” I lower my lips to his neck, and without thinking about it, my tongue darts out to taste the patch of skin below his ear. In response, his hands tighten on my waist as he lets out a near-silent groan that goes straight to my clit.
This is more than I bargained for. When I stepped out of that dressing room, all I was thinking about was how to affect him, without a thought of what it would do to me.
Now, I’m aching with how badly I want him, how much I want this to be real, but I know it isn’t. We’re in the middle of a public place, and any minute now, my stylist is going to come back with a fresh selection of clothes.
I wish she wouldn’t.
I wish we were back at Thornhurst.
I wish he would guide me onto my back and cover my body with his.
I wish he would kiss me until I forget how much I hate him.
Letting out a shaky breath, I rock against him. My lungs are burning, and the room spins around us as I issue the last, most important challenge. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
Silence.
Pulling away is almost physically painful, and as I lean back to meet his inky stare, I know it is for him, too. I smile, even if there is nothing in the world less amusing. “Not such a lie after all, huh?”
The warm, tight grasp of his hands vanishes from my waist, and Mallory’s expression shudders, apparently lost for words as I get back to my feet. The air of the showroom is somehow much colder than it was before, but I ignore the goosebumps, sweeping my newly done hair over my shoulder.
It seems to take an age for the man before me to come back to himself.
He stares up at me, the line of his erection visible through his trousers, and I think maybe—just maybe—he feels as flayed open as I do right now.
Finally, his gaze falters, and he looks at the floor rather than me, his broad shoulders heaving.
Yes, I think. I’m more dangerous than you thought.
Muffled female voices sound from outside the room, and I turn, striding back into the dressing room. Closing the door behind me, I lean back against it, pressing my hand to the place over my heart, which is beating harder than after one of our runs.
A quiet knock sounds from behind me. “How’s it going in there?” comes the bright, cheerful voice of my stylist.
I swallow, letting my hand fall back to my side. “Great!” I call back, loud enough to ensure Satan can hear me, too. “I’ll wear the white set to go.”