"Because if so, get the fuck out."
My stomach drops.
No.
"I'm not interested in anything other than reality."
Reality.
Reality is I signed a contract for forty-four thousand dollars that I desperately need. Reality is I filled out a questionnaire admitting every sick fantasy I've ever had and this man—whoever he is—read every word of those sick fantasies and is now holding me accountable for desires I can barely admit to myself.
Reality is Iwantthis.
God, I want this so much it hurts.
But he's asking me to say it out loud. To confess what I just thought. To strip away the last protective layer between who I pretend to be and who I actually am.
"I—"
My voice cracks.
Pathetic.
Start again.
"I don't want to fake it."
The words come out small. Ashamed. Exactly like I sound in real life when I'm trying to tell someone what I need and failing spectacularly because I'm fundamentally broken at human interaction.
His finger moves. Trails down from my nipple to my ribs. My stomach. He's going lower and my breath hitches because I know where he's going, and I'm so wet it's obscene, and he's going tofeelit and know exactly how desperate I am.
"Thendon't."
Two words. That's it.
Don't fake it.
Like it's that simple. Like I haven't spent my entire adult life pretending to be normal, pretending I don't think about captivity, and surrender, and being owned by someone who sees through all my bullshit.
His hand stops just above my mound. Resting there. Not touching anything important. Justthere. A threat and a promise.
"Confess what you thought when I called you perfect."
No.
Pleaseno.
I can't?—
"Now, Scarletta."
My name in his mouth. The command in his voice. The weight of his palm against my lower belly, so close to where I'm throbbing and aching and?—
"I thought—" I swallow. "I thought you were wrong."
Silence.
His hand doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. Just waits.
