I smiled and reached for the button of my jeans. Slow and deliberate. This time, I did arch. Just a little. Not only for him, but for me. To feel the line of my own body, the strength in it, the familiarity.
The jeans slid down my hips. I inched out of them and knelt again, spine tall, resting my hands on my spread thighs.
Despite the lack of stage makeup, and the plain pink underwear, I felt good.
Not perfect, but real.
And wanted.
The chair creaked under Tyler, his restraint obvious in the tension coiled through him.
My gaze dropped to his chest. The way his t-shirt clung there. The way his breathing had deepened. Then it went lower.
“Your turn,” I said.
His head snapped up.
“Strip,” I clarified. “So I can see if I’m doing this right.”
For a few heartbeats, he appeared like he might argue. Then he swallowed, plucked his shirt, and pulled it over his head.
I watched every inch. The broad planes of his chest. The old scars and ink, catching the lamplight. How his skin flushed under my attention.
Heat bloomed behind my ribs.
“More,” I said when he stilled.
He stood, unbuttoned his jeans, and pushed them down. Kicked them aside with his boots and socks. He remained in his boxer shorts, muscles taut, hands flexing as if it took effort not to reach for me.
I liked him obeying me. His rigid body and slow actions. It was grounding and heady all at once.
“You’re not done,” I breathed.
Tyler’s jaw clenched, but he stripped the shorts, giving me an eyeful of his dick when he freed it. Huge. Hard as nails and with a thick vein. My breathing stuttered.
“Sit,” I managed.
He did, sprawling in the seat, not hiding anything from my view. So I let my gaze roam his beautiful body, unhurried, reclaiming another part of myself, one that liked knowing the effect I had. One that really liked him naked.
I traced my fingers up my stomach; he swallowed. I twined one in my bra strap; his dick bobbed.
For a few precious seconds of playing, of stroking my curves, of tiny reveals, it worked.
I felt beautiful. In control.
Whatever I did, Tyler liked. His dick showed me as well as any words could. He was fully hard, his erection jutting from his lap, untouched but so rigid. I memorised the sight, the vein, the precum that soaked the end.
Then my gaze snagged on my reflection in the mirror and the faint silver line across my throat that caught the light.
And everything wobbled.
Earlier, when I’d done my makeup, I’d taken care to blend out that line, but the hours that passed had revealed it again. It was gross. A slice across what had been a carefully perfected body. The words Sullivan and his men had said to me repeated in my head. Their rape attempt that became a rejection.
“What’s wrong?” Tyler asked.
I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. Not seeing the sexy girl anymore but the broken one.
Ruined. Disgusting.
