"My parents would have hated knowing my uncle got custody of me after they were murdered," Asher says into the silence. "Between the drugs and the women, he was never someone they wanted around me."
"Were they right to worry?" I ask quietly, genuinely curious if he'll tell me.
"Maybe," he says. "He hired a prostitute for me when I was thirteen. He thought it was time I learned about sex, and wanted it to be a professional who taught me so I didn't get some girl pregnant and start a scandal."
"Jesus," I whisper, my heart clenching. He was just a kid. My heart breaks for him a little, for the little boy who never stood a chance after his parents died. Did he even get to grieve before he was thrown into his uncle's world—into this world? Somehow, I doubt it. Liam and I didn't. In this world, there's no room for grief, not when the weight of everyone else's expectations settles on your shoulders.
I want to tell him that I understand, and that I'm sorry…that my heart breaks for the little boy who lost more than he could afford to lose before he was even old enough to understand what that meant. For the one who found his parents' bodies and never got to grieve before he had to learn to be an adult. But I don't say it. I know better. He just gave me something real. If I push now, it'll push him away. He'll snatch it back, pretend it doesn't matter.
"So…that's where you learned to buy women," I mutter instead.
His rough bark of laughter tells me it's the right thing to say. "Yeah, I guess so." He turns toward me, one rough palm sliding across my abdomen. "You're the most expensive I've ever bought."
"Gee, thanks," I snap, rolling my eyes even though he can't see me.
His chuckle grates against my womb. So does the way he hauls me across the bed until I'm pressed up against him. "You're worth every goddamn penny," he breathes in my ear.
In a fucked up way, it's the sweetest thing he's ever said to me. At least until he tops it when I'm nearly asleep.
"You aren't your mom, princess," he murmurs. "You're too goddamn perfect to be anyone but yourself. Anyone who would rather see her than see who you really are doesn't deserve you."
I bite my tongue hard, fighting back a sob. It's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
Sunday, Asher blackmails me into another gala. And by "blackmails," I mean, he simply tells me that I'm going and that I'll regret it if I say no.
I pretend to resist, but I don't put up a real fight. Maybe because I want to be seen with him again when no one is ever seen with him twice, or maybe because I want a repeat of last time, when he tried to ruin me.
He has a dress waiting for me when I drag myself out of the shower. It's a black column gown, so dramatic that it was basically designed to cause a scandal. There's a slit straight up to my hip and a neckline that's less "plunging" and more "fuck it, let's start at the navel." There's even a matching thong, a pair of matching heels, and a necklace that looks like it cost more than most people make in a lifetime.
"Wear this underneath," he says, holding out a plug, this one bigger than the last, before I can shimmy into the dress.
I stare at it for a long moment. "I thought we were done with these. It's not like you haven't already been in that hole."
"Maybe you need reminding that it belongs to me, too," he smirks, crooking a finger for me to come to him. I think that's because he intends to put it in like usual, except he doesn't. He just drapes me over the bed beside him and slips it into my hand.
I consider launching it at his head, but quickly decide that it probably won't get me anywhere. He'll just laugh. Or spank me.
He watches in rapt fascination as I follow the same process he always does, using my own arousal as lube. Maybe I take my sweet time playing with myself, just to torture him.
The plug is bigger than the last, but not quite as big as him. I like the way it burns as I slowly work it inside. I definitely like the way he watches, his eyes dark and stormy, his hands clenched like he's trying to force himself to keep them off me.
By the time the plug is in place, I'm a panting mess on the bed. He strokes a single finger down the crevice of my ass before touching the plug. "You look so fucking pretty stretched around one of these."
I whimper and then groan, trying to put myself back together enough to get through another gala with a butt plug in. My knees are trembling when I finally stand upright, stepping into the thong he holds out for me.
He watches me dress, one ankle slung over his knee, like this is a private performance.
"Are you going to help, or just stare?" I ask, struggling with the zipper that keeps catching.
"Turn around," he says.
I do, and he steps into my space and zips me up. When he's done, he clasps the necklace around my neck. His hands slip tomy waist, his fingers splayed around my ribs. He leans in, his mouth at my throat. "You look like you want to be ruined."
"I thought that was your plan," I fire back.
His palm slides over the cut-out panel at my hip, tracing the bare skin just above the slit. "You have no idea."
He leaves my hair down, wild and messy, and then musses it more just for the hell of it. "I want you to look like you just crawled out of my bed," he says. "Because you did."
