"I know what I look like, okay?" I say. "I know that if it weren't for my mother's interference, you would never want me."
"What has that woman done to you?" he whispers.
I lift my eyes to his. There's a gentleness in his voice, like he's truly concerned about me. Some people are good at acting, but this doesn't feel like he's putting on a show.
"Is this because I told you I wasn't going to help?" he asks.
I don't say anything. I just watch his smoky eyes. They seem to be burning from the inside out, just like I was a moment ago.
"I didn't want to touch you because even a man like me has some morals," he says. "Believe me when I say that I plan on getting my money's worth."
He lets his gaze wander now, his eyes sweeping over my pebbled nipples and thick thighs.
Fireworks go off inside me.
I can tell that he means it. The desire in his eyes is real. It's such a relief that my mother doesn't have anything to do with this.
But it's still a problem, because every time he speaks, the ache between my thighs worsens.
"Your eyes," he whispers. "They're going to be the death of me."
He runs his hand through his hair again. It makes me want to run my fingers through his hair, too.
"Have you ever had an orgasm, Grace?" he asks.
I bite down on my bottom lip as he watches. When I release it, it fills back with blood so quickly that it throbs.
He mutters a curse under his breath, his voice so low and husky that I can't even make out the words.
"I'll walk you through it then," he says. "Take the vibrator in your hand."
"I don't know what to do with it," I say.
His breathing turns heavier. "Start by taking off your shirt."
I glance down at my pajama top. I'm not wearing a bra underneath.
"How is that going to help?" I ask, glancing back up at him.
"I told myself I wouldn't touch you, but there's nothing wrong with looking," he says.
I see now that I was completely mistaken about this man not being attracted to me. He's looking at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
It's a rush of power unlike anything I ever felt before.
"Were you the one who changed my clothes?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies.
"So you looked already."
"I did," he says.
I'm supposed to feel violated by his admission, but for whatever reason, I'm not.
“Show me those pretty tits, little bird,” he says, his voice darker than the night. My nipples harden into tight points that strain against the thin fabric of my shirt.
I like it when he calls me his “little bird.” It makes me feel so precious.
