Page 137 of Beautifully Ruined

“Cade. We talked. I, uh…told her I was looking for Gianna.”

“Christ.” I groan.

But she lifts big eyes to me. “It’s not that bad, and it’s what really got her talking. I told you, she works there, and she suggested I get a job there, too.”

I don’t move.

It’s probably the best way to find information. On all fronts.

Almost perfect.

Apart from the fact I know what working in places like that means.

“This might be a smart move, I guess. But there’s just one major problem with it. I’m not good at sharing. In fact, I might be a selfish prick when it comes to sharing my toys. I don’t. End of story.”

She shivers. “I’m your toy?”

“You’re very much my toy. To do with as I want.” Slowly, I grin. You like being called my toy, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Her nipples push at the soft cotton of my T-shirt she’s wearing.

Damn, I love how she gets all hot over word paintings, how I could probably make her come just by whispering nasty things in her ear, spinning her a filthy story of all the things I’m going to do to her, all the things I’m going to have done to her. And it doesn’t matter if it’s something I’d do, like fuck her in public, or something I’d never do, like share her.

She gets off on the imagery and the fantasy of it all.

I really want to go there, spin her the nastiest, wildest, most erotic story I can think of, one where I can go further than Iever would and one she can tumble into without even needing to think of her safe word.

More, I want to take her hard against the counter and make her scream my name.

But I don’t.

I need to stay focused. “Mexican?”

“What?” she asks me, clearly non plussed.

“Dinner, do you want Mexican? Something simple, like tacos. Or Greek?”

“I don’t want to think about food right now,” she snaps, irritated. “What happened to being your toy?”

“You are. We know that. But…I don’t want you getting a job.”

“You’ll be there.”

I rub my eyes and sip my whiskey. “Will I? We don’t know if once you enter into that if Thomas would suddenly shut me out. You’re not doing it.”

“We can come up with something.” She takes a swallow of her Sprite and whiskey mess and wrinkles her nose, sets the glass down, and comes up to me, one hand on my chest. She looks up to meet my gaze. “I can say it’s a fantasy, and you need to be there, too.”

“And what? Take part?”

“Watch over me.”

“Vi, no one’s going to want a sex worker?—”

“There are other jobs. Waitressing, or?—”

“You really think the women who work there don’t have sex? It’s a sex club. It’s what they’re all into. Or supposedly into. Sex is a given. It always is at those kinds of places. Some people don’t have partners who take part, and they don’t want the burden of a hook up with a single patron. That can get messy. Rare, but it happens. Go with a girl who’s into it and also is employed to be discreet, then that takes the mess away.”

Her hand tightens. “Did you…?”