Page 91 of Damsel in Disguise

It’s too vague, too unsure—I don’t actually know if we do.

“No, we don’t.”

My eyes close briefly. What was I thinking? This is his personal space after all.

“Not even a recorder,” he adds, leaning in, his lips ghosting far too softly over my cheek. “Nothing to prove what I can do to you here.”

A slow breath grazes my skin. “It’s just you and me, Ariella.”

I try to face him, to regain some kind of control, but he doesn’t let me move at all. The only thing I manage is to tilt my head toward him.

Our lips almost brush.

I take a sharp inhale—coffee. The smell wraps around my senses, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if he’d taste the same.

My lips part on instinct.

His front presses against my back, letting me feel how this minor interaction is also affecting him physically—how hard he is for me.

I snap my face forward, forcing my gaze down to the marble beneath me.

The edge presses into my hips, grounding me just enough to remind me where I am and who I’m trapped with.

If anything, it’s making me want to grind my clit over his desk. I want him to do something to me—give something to my body. It begs to be ruined by him like last night.

His fingers slide between mine. I let him. I allow him to pin my hands flat against the desk firmly.

I bite back hard. But it doesn’t stop my panties from flooding with moisture.

“Don’t you… don’t you have a wife?” I force the bitter words out.

“That wasn’t your concern when you were licking her off me every night, little kitty,” the words brush against my ear.

My eyes widen from the realization crashing into me like a train wreck.

He knew.

He knew.

Waves of panic kick hard in my bloodstream. My mind races fast, scrambling to piece together just how much he’s seen, how much he’s understood, how much I’ve unknowingly revealed.

“So you pretended to be sleeping while I…” the words catch as awareness slams into me all over again.

Saying it out loud feels like crossing a line I can’t step back from.

“I pretend to be a lot of things,” Alistair says, his tone sincere, “but right now I’m not pretending to fuck you.”

My pulse stutters into an uneven rhythm.

For a second, I think he actually will. What terrifies me the most is that I won’t stop him if he does.

He exhales slowly, the sound caressing the shell of my ear like a promise he has no intention of breaking.

Then suddenly he pulls back.

The loss of his weight leaves me disoriented, my body still pitched forward over the desk, palms flat where he just had them pinned. Thighs trembling, pussy aching from the desperate urge to touch myself.

I hate it.