Page 53 of Almost Rotten

I scoff, disgust rolling through me. Is this some weird patriarchal programming coming out to play, or did he genuinely believe I was saving myself for him?

“You want me to take it back and pretend?”

“Yes. Lie. Pretend. Whatever you want to fucking call it, just do it.”

He folds forward, forcing me to drop back, and brings his lips to my cleavage. Then my chest. He trails his nose along my collarbone and up my neck and plants a soft kiss below my ear.

“Tell me you waited,” he whispers. “Tell me it’s only me.”

With a hard shove, I tell him, “No.”

He rears back, his eyes wild, his chest heaving. “Sawyer, I swear to god; just say it.”

I lift my chin. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’snot true.”

Nostrils flaring, he crosses his arms and assesses me.

I sit up and roll my eyes.

We’re clearly at an impasse. I’m exhausted, and I just want to be done for the night.

“Go sit on the couch. Let’s get this over with,” I tell him.

Tension crackles between us, the charged magnetism we share fueling our stare-down with every passing second.

A cruel smile spreads across his face. “You think I came here tonight just to let you grind your needy little pussy all over me until you come?”

I scowl back at him, suddenly brimming with pent-up need and impatience.

“That’s not the game we’re playing tonight, petit diable,” he says, moving in close again. “Tonight, I have something else in mind. Lie back and get comfortable. I want to watch.”

My heart catches in my throat. “Watch what?”

“Watch how you please yourself.”

What the fuck?

He backs up, and without looking away from me, he grasps the back of my desk chair and drags it over to the side of the bed.

“Go on. Be a good little wife. Take off your clothes and make yourself come while your husband watches.”

Sinking back against my sheets, I consider defying him for all of two seconds. But I’m high. And now that he’s put the idea in my head, I’m horny.

The prospect of touching myself in front of him—of showing him exactly what I like, of teaching him for next time—unlocks a carnal desire in me that I’m surprisingly willing to indulge.

I love to be chased.

I also love to put on a show.

Without preamble, I sit up, take off my shirt and bra, shimmy out of my leggings, and lie back on the bed.

I settle in, focusing on my own breath.

Or trying to, at least.