Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
“No…” Eugenia wouldn’t be able to climax if there wasn’t some emotional connection. “That’s not a lie I’d be able to pull off.”
“And now you understand why the men dump their food and beer on the same women they kill themselves to buy. Can’t have the natural female physiological response kick in. There can’t be any ties—why the women don’t cry but some of the men do when the door closes and the night’s entertainment is over.”
“You are a really sick man.” A sick man who had put his hand on her knee.
Who was lifting that hand to pinch her chin as if he might kiss her. “I would be gentle with you, if I could trust you not to breathe a word of it.”
Cocking a brow, she asked, “And what about that natural female physiological response?”
Lips cocked, hazel eyes languid, he said, “You hate me. I don’t think we have a problem there.”
“Which brings us full circle to why on earth you think I’d want your dick inside me.”
“Because we’d both like it, and you know that.”
She brushed her lips over his, not a kiss. A taunt. “But I’m the unattainable whore.”
“Eugenia.” The warning in his voice was unmistakable.
“I’ll tell everyone you fucked me in the corner, standing, face-to-face. You came on my stomach, wiped yourself off on my dress. I cried after and slept on the couch.”
“You’ll need to smear some blood on your skirt.” Serious as murder, he added, “I am big. You’ll bleed the first few times.”
“And after five more nights of charming conversation, the other women on weekly rotation, I’ll only have to play this game three or so times a year.” Which sounded so ugly to say out loud. “I should just throw myself overboard right now.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he leaned back against the seat and shut his eyes.
Blood on the dress wasn’t going to be enough. “You’re going to need to slap me around a little. And you’ll need a scratch or two, because I would have fought back.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” How dare he look angry? How dare he make this out as if she were the difficult one?
“I’m just following your rules, maintaining your status quo. Don’t get mad at me if you don’t like living in the hell you created.”
Standing, he towered over her to snarl, “But at least I’m living. And so are you. And so is every other fucking person on this boat! They are all safe.”
“Temper, temper, slaver. Use it. Hit me now before you puss out.”
And he did, catching her when she flew at him on a roar and fought back like a wildcat. The tussle was short-lived—but effective. Pinned to the ground, her hands caught above her head, bleeding strips where nails had raked him decorated all the way from his neck to where his shirt exposed too much chest for the costume to be considered gentlemanly. Marks that would scab and sit on display for others to see.
“Jesus, Eugenia…” He panted, hard against her leg.
Chest rising and falling, hungry for more violence but subdued no matter how hard she struggled, she forced herself still. “You need to get off me now.”
“I don’t want to.” Which, of course he didn’t. Not with a massive erection pressed to her thigh.
Which was problematic. This was supposed to be a charade, but he was leaning in close, and there was nowhere to retreat when one was already caught.
Lips to her jaw, not quite kissing, more like a man desperate for air, he pleaded, “Five-hundred thousand tickets.”
“You can’t buy me, Aaron. How many times do I have to tell you that? I am not for sale.”
“Then fuck me because you want to!” His grip on her wrists tightened. Muscles bulging to stretch the fabric of his shirt and he tensed. “We both know you are as wet as I am hard. Hate-fuck me, scratch me to bits, but let me inside you.”
His hand was already bunching up her skirt as if she’d given permission. Eugenia snarled, “Have you lost your mind?”
Leaning up with a sexy smirk, one that belied eyes dark with passion, he teased, “I’ll do the tongue thing.”
Afraid his hand might reach higher than midthigh, that she might be forced to face something she didn’t dare think of, she whispered, “My answer is no.”
“Fuck.” And he was off her, running a hand through his hair as he paced.
Stopping only long enough to see where she lay on the floor, skirt halfway up, disheveled, half warrior and completely agitated. The image of her laid out like a sacrifice caught him. Caught him dead in his tracks from whatever mental gymnastics he was working through to get his way.
Jaw tense, he ordered, “You sleep on the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Which was so utterly backward she didn’t know where to begin. But she did not argue. Not when he looked like that. Not when he was looking at her that way.