Page 62 of Resist

His touch ignites my skin much in the same way his kiss did earlier. These sensations he evokes cause such an explosive reaction within me that it takes a second to line up my train of thought.

“I wanted to be a special education teacher for the longest time.”

If I told him I wanted to be an Olympic wrestler there would be less shock registered on his face than there is now. I avert my eyes, needing to look elsewhere to help abate the embarrassment over what my career is now compared to what I had hoped it would be . . . especially in the presence of someone so successful. But at the same time, it feels good to say it out loud. It feels good to talk about me.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why that profession?”

It’s a simple question, but a loaded one for me. “Because I think it would be rewarding. Because many people are uncomfortable around those with disabilities, and I’m not. Because . . . I don’t know.” My voice drifts off as a jogger runs around us, his two dogs stopping to sniff us. “Because it would feel good knowing I’m helping someone, somehow.”

“So why do this and not that?”

“Because I have a lot of debt, and this seemed to be the quickest way to pay it off.” Simple. Uncomplicated. Partially true.

“But why?”

I open my mouth to tell a lie and then realize this man knows more about me than anyone else, really. And the things he doesn’t know I’m sure he can find out.

“Because sex is sex. Nothing less. Nothing more. Everybody wants it. Everybody needs it. So why not sell the one thing that’s always in demand, make my share, and then bow out when my time is up.”

“Bow out?”

“Yes. Bow out.”

“It won’t be as easy as you think to walk away from the high life. Money is a powerful thing. Once you have it, it’s hard as hell to live without.”

I start to protest but then realize he doesn’t get it. He knows how much he is paying me. He can conclude that I skim off a percentage of all my girls’ income. He sees the expensive clothes and jewelry I have on but has no clue they are from thrift stores and pawnshops.

“I’ll walk away.”

The chuckle he emits scrapes over my nerves and irritates them. “No, you won’t. You’re addicted to the power of it. Of knowing you can bring a man to his knees. Of the ability to use your body to get exactly what you want.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

But the ghost of a smirk that plays at the corner of his mouth makes me fear he just might. “You don’t have to be embarrassed by it, Vaughn. I get off on the same type of power when I’m in court. It’s a high. Something once you have a taste of, you only seem to want more of.”

“Don’t paint your experience on my canvas,” I murmur.

“Here we are,” he says, pulling my attention to our surroundings instead of to him. We’re standing outside the entrance to The Club, and every part of me deflates a little at the thought of having to go back inside with him.

Of having to play more of the part, when this, me getting to be a little more of myself, has been so unexpected and nice.

“Here we are,” I repeat.

We stare at each other, the shadows of the night playing over his face and reminding me I barely know this man and that I do, in fact, want to know him more.

“I’d be more than happy to drive you home—”

“But—”

He puts a finger to my lips. “But that’s too personal.” He steps into me so that we’re both in the shadows now on the broad sidewalk.

“It’s too personal,” I agree as I draw in the scent of him, the feel of his palms as they run up and down my arms. And for the briefest of moments I forget what I’m doing here and that he’s paid me for it because all I can think about is him kissing me. All I want is him to.

“Why don’t we go—”