I cross the marble expanse of the lobby, my heels striking the floor like I'm heading to war, ignoring the doorman gawking at my legs.
Asher is already sprawled across the back seat of the limo, cradling a glass of something amber and ruinously expensive. I slide in beside him, the hem of my micro dress climbing higher. Half of Manhattan may end up seeing the plug in my ass tonight if I'm not careful.
Asher would probably love that. It's probably why his instructions included the no panties clause, the bastard.
He doesn't look at me on the drive, just tips his head, drinks, and stares out the window while the city crawls past. If I didn't know better, I'd think I hurt his feelings when I said he means nothing to me. But that would mean he's human, and I'm pretty sure those rumors have been greatly exaggerated. He stopped being human years ago, if he ever was at all.
I ignore him, just to prove I can, and spend the whole ride scrolling through my phone, pretending to be too absorbed in reels to notice the heat radiating off his body. Pretending I'm not so fucking turned on, my whole body aches.
It's a losing battle.
The memory of his mouth on mine and his hand between my legs has already replayed in my mind a thousand times since he walked out of my apartment. The feel of the plug stretching me and the way he slammed it into me has me dripping. I hate him for it. I hate myself for not hating it enough.
If I didn't need his money to open my own agency, I'd shove that glass in his hand down his throat and watch him choke on the shards. But somewhere over the last few days, I realized that I'll never be free of him unless I hold the power. If I work for someone else, I'll always worry that he's pulling the strings, that my job will disappear as soon as he decides it should. I'm not willing to take that risk.
Instead, I'll take his money and make myself untouchable.
Thirty days in his bed is a small price to pay for freedom. Or so I keep telling myself.
I have a feeling he'll make sure I live long enough to regret my decision.
We pull up to the hotel, and he helps me out, his fingers gripping my waist with just enough pressure to bruise. The press is already waiting with cameras, microphones, and the kind of hawkish glances that can spot a scandal from a mile away.
Asher leans in, so close his breath fogs my ear. "Smile, princess. You're the luckiest woman here tonight."
"Liar. I'm the only woman both here and in hell tonight." I paste on the same smile I used for years on red carpets, the one that says I'm too pretty to care what you think. We glide through the lobby, past a flock of socialites in borrowed couture, and into the ballroom.
The ceiling is crystal, the floor a ridiculous polished gold. Everyone is here…politicians, actors, the sort of Manhattanites who fundraise for orphans and then call their dealers from the coatroom. I recognize half of them. They recognize me, too, but not in the way they used to.
Once, I was Liam Dabry's baby sister, the tragic ingénue with the dead parents and the movie-star smile. I was the girl who was supposed to be somebody. Tonight, I'm arm candy for the man everyone fears, but no one can afford to hate, the one with the power to pull strings they've only dreamed of. I'm notsomeone to admire. Tonight, I'm someone they both pity and envy.
Asher deposits me at a table near the stage, then abandons me to be king of the wolves. I watch him work the room, trying desperately not to pretend that I'm growing more desperate to come by the minute. He's devastating in a tux, his hair swept back and his stubble artfully carved to look as though he spent five minutes, not five hours, on his appearance. Except, unlike most of the men here, he probably did spend five minutes or less on his appearance. He doesn't have to do much to be the most beautiful person in the room.
People flock to him, desperate for a scrap of attention. He gives them nothing, glancing back at me every so often with that look—half ownership, half threat.
I discreetly flip him off.
It only makes him smile.
I'm halfway through my second glass of champagne when he returns to the table, looming over me like a thundercloud, just like always.
"Come dance with me." It's not a question. It's not even a request.
"I'd rather not," I say anyway.
"I don't care." He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, his grip unyielding and absolute.
I reluctantly let him steer me into the press of bodies on the dance floor. His hand rests low on my spine, dangerously close to the curve of my ass. So close, people are staring. I feel the weight of their eyes, the whispers building with every step we take. I keep my gaze fixed on a spot over his shoulder, pretending I don't care about anything.
"Stop pawing at my ass. You're making a scene," I hiss.
He leans in, his lips brushing my hairline. "Good. I intend to."
I try to keep my body stiff, but Asher moves so close I can't avoid the heat of his body. His thigh wedges between mine, his palm creeping onto my ass as we sway in time to the music.
My nipples harden against the thin fabric. His thumb slides along the crevice of my ass to the base of the plug, and I pray no one notices…that no one hears the way I whimper.
"I can still feel you on my hand," he murmurs, so low only I can hear. "You love having that plug in your ass right now, don't you?"
