Her gaze flicked over him. “You think you’re such hot shit.”
“Yeah, and it fucking turns you on. So come here, and I’ll add another two hundred to the bag. Come cheat on some dumb fuck with me.”
Another agonising beat as Tabby’s mouth twisted. He could almost taste the contradictions coming off her. She wanted him. She was mad at him. She wanted an asshole. She was pissed about wanting an asshole. Some of the heat in his body cooled. She was torn, and no matter how horny he was, there was no way he could push this kind of thing any further without explicit consent.
He got to his feet, his dick shoving his chinos forward like a rudder. “I don’t wanna be a dick, you can stay and finish your drink, but we’re done.”
Tabby looked like he’d slapped her. “What?”
“You’re not interested, and I’m not interested when you’re not interested. So we’re done.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, and walked toward her bag. “Fine. I’m leaving.”
She drained her tequila and put the tumbler on the massage table, collecting her tattoo machine and balling up the protective wrap on the chair. When she was done packing her things, she headed for the stairs, her bag on her shoulder.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said.
“Whatever, Toby.”
They made it halfway down the stairs—Toby’s dick throbbing with every step—when she spoke. “I can’t believe you offered me money to fuck you.”
He could tell her that wasn’t what he’d done, but the longing in her voice was still there.
“How are you offended?” he said over his shoulder. “You said you wanted a sugar daddy.”
“I… not… whatever. You’re, like, the opposite of a daddy.”
“Not what I’ve been told.”
Tabby’s mouth puckered. “Why? You been siring bastards up and down the eastern suburbs?”
He could feel her walls going up and over, shutting her behind an impenetrable shield of irony. They reached the bottom of his second staircase, and he became sure that if he let Tabby leave without saying his piece, she’d come back stony-faced to finish his tattoo, and everything that was possible between them would vanish. He knew her. Knew the way she thought. He decided to lay it out. “I don’t want to back you into anything you don’t want to do,” he said, stepping into the hallway and facing her. “But it’s hot, the thought of paying you to be my little fuckdoll.”
Tabby pulled her bag closer to her side. “I… what are you suggesting?”
“Another deal off the back of one we already have. How does seven hundred bucks an hour sound?”
“I… what?”
“You don’t have to fuck me. I’ll be paying you for your time. And if you decide to spend that time running down a long list of things I wanna do to your body, so be it.”
He stepped toward her, and his cock pulsed at the thought of picking her up and pressing her against the wall, shoving up her dress and pushing into her hot, tight, little?—
“Why?” Tabby demanded.
“Because I want you. And I think it’s hot.”
“Lording it over me with cash?”
“Yup.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she muttered, still not shooting him down. He raised his eyebrows.
“Seven hundred bucks?” she repeated. “For one hour?”
“Seems like the right amount for a high-class woman of taste. And I want to pick out your clothes. Buy them.”
“Why?”
