"Nothing you haven't seen before." I let the words hang between us like a threat.
She's pale, but she doesn't flinch. "Fine. But if you try anything—"
"I'm going to try everything." I cut her off, my voice dropping. "That's what you're here for. For the next thirty days, I get to do whatever the fuck I want to do to you and that gorgeous little body, Brielle. I'll fuck you how I want, where I want, and when I want. I'll be rough and rude and as filthy as I want to be. And you won't say no."
It won't even be because she wants the five million and her freedom, either. We both know she won't say no because she's just as desperate to feel me all over her as I am. She wants to be ruined. She wants to be owned. She isn't here right now, agreeing to be mine for thirty days because she wants sunshine and rainbows. No, she's here because she wants me to fuck my way into her soul and rip it apart.
A flash of something crosses her face. It's not fear, but something else, something that tells me just how right I am. It's excitement and horror locked in a cage match. Part of her wants exactly what I'm offering, and the other part is terrified to give me that kind of power. But she will anyway.
She turns on her heel abruptly. "Seven," she says over her shoulder. "Not a second earlier."
I watch her leave, committing every line of her body to memory. There's no satisfaction in the triumph, just a deep, gnawing need that only gets worse with every second.
When she's gone, I sit at my desk and stare out at the city that I own, or that owns me. I think about the next thirty days, about the ways I'll bend and break her, about the things I'll teach her and the things she'll learn on her own.
I think about the moment when she finally admits what we are to each other, and I realize that I asked for a month…but I'll never truly be satisfied with anything less than forever. And I can't have that.
Christ, I'm playing with fire here.
I pick up my phone and dial my driver.
"Deliver the package to her apartment," I say, already imagining the look on her face when she sees what's inside. "And if she tries to run, chain her to her bed."
Chapter Three
Asher
It's seven on the dot when I knock on Brielle's front door, fully prepared for violence or threats, or both. I haven't heard from her at all since she left my office, which is concerning. I expected an eruption as soon as she saw what I sent her to wear tonight.
That's usually how it works. I piss her off, and she erupts like a gorgeous little volcano, spewing her hatred across my skin. I shouldn't fucking love it as much as I do.
The door swings open to her standing there, one hand propped on her hip.
Jesus. She's the kind of beautiful men would sell their souls to even touch. The red dress I sent clings to every curve like it was poured on. It's short—obscenely so—and so fucking perfect against her porcelain skin, my dick throbs.
Her hair is up, all except for two black waves curling around her face. She looks right through me, not bothering to hide her disgust. The smile she pastes on is a living, breathing warning sign.
"Didn't realize selling myself to you was going to be a humiliating public affair," she says, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, squeezing them higher. "Could you be any more disgusting, Asher?"
I step past her into her living room, breathing in her perfume. "I take that to mean you got my little gift. Did you do as instructed?"
"You mean did I pour myself into this fucking dress and shove your little toy up my ass?" She stares at me like she wants to bite my head off. "I know the rules."
"Good. People expect my date to look fuckable," I say, pretending my cock isn't throbbing over the fact that she's wearing the plug I sent her.
"As if that required the toy." She tilts her head. "And I'm not your date. I'm your escort. Your kept woman, your mistress—pick your poison." She pauses. "By the way, isn't it humiliating to pay women to be seen with you?"
"It's efficient." I shrug. "You'd be surprised how much honesty there is in a transaction."
She drags her gaze over me, disdainful. "I'm sure you do. Remind me—what exactly are you hoping to get tonight? Drunk enough to pretend you're not a miserable bastard? Or are youhoping this thing falls out in front of everyone so the story splashed across the news tomorrow is my humiliation?"
Her voice is low, throaty. My balls ache just from the way she says humiliation. She's always known how to get under my skin. She learned the blueprints of my ruin years ago, when she was still in a fucking school uniform and knee-high socks.
But if she thinks she knows anything about me, she's sorely mistaken. I may be photographed with women, but I haven't touched any of them, not since I met her. I'll take that truth to my fucking grave before I give her more ammunition, though.
"Jealousy isn't really your color, princess."
"Jealous?" She rolls her eyes at me. "Please, Asher. I don't care who you fuck. You're the only one delusional enough to think anything you do matters to me at all. You're nothing to me except a paycheck."
