Page 81 of Sugar

“I’m not saying I agree to that, but for the purpose of moving these negotiations along, let’s say I understand. Anything else?”

I’d spent the time since our trial run on Saturday formulating my proposal. On the exceedingly rare occasion that I was roped into helping someone—usually Tripp—negotiate a contract, we went in with a list of necessities, plus a few reaches. Things he didn’t expect to get but were worth a shot anyway.

That wasn’t how I viewed my list of demands for Maddie. When it came to her, I wanted everything.

Or everything I would allow myself to have.

With a special kind of shit timing, the server approached and cut off our conversation. He did his spiel, but I didn’t hear a damn word out of his mouth. My focus was on the rapid rise and fall of Maddie’s chest.

And the hardness of her nipples pressed against her thin dress. Was it the frigid AC blasting through the restaurant… or our conversation?

I wasn’t sure.

If I pull them into my mouth over the fabric, will it turn see-through so I can see how perfect her pretty pink nipples are?

As if she could hear my thoughts, she broke eye contact first, and a blush spread across her cheeks. She gave a soft smile to the server, and I wanted to put my fist through his jaw that it was aimed at him and not me. “I’ll have water, thank you.”

“Same,” I said, though I knew I could use something stronger before I fucked everything up.

Like dragging her into the bathroom to test the transparency of her dress.

Or by demanding she give me more than just her time and company.

That she give me herself.

All of her.

I pushed those thoughts down and worked to get control of myself.

Not that I was selfless by ignoring my desires for her wellbeing. My decision was made purely out of self-preservation. There was a high likelihood that my overbearing needs would makeher run for the hills. I wasn’t ready for that outcome. Playing it slow would prolong the inevitable while I savored what control I was able to exert over her. I might not have power over her body, but having it over her time, finances, and life was no small consolation.

And, pathetically, I would take that over nothing.

The server walked away, and I leaned forward. “That’s another thing. I’ll order for you. If you want something specific, you can let me know, but otherwise the choice will be mine.”

Her brows lowered. “Why?”

Because I bought you.

“Because,” was all I said.

For the first time during our conversation, she looked tempted to leave the table—the negotiation one and the literal one. But it wasn’t my heavy-handedness giving her pause. “Are you going to order me nothing but salads or something?”

“Do you want nothing but salads?”

She recoiled in horror. “No.”

“Then no. Along with your schedule, send a list of dietary restrictions, dislikes, and preferences.”

“That’s doable. What’s your next demand?”

I leaned back and watched her restlessly shift under my stare. Running my thumb across my jaw, I laid it all out. “My list will be continuously evolving, and we won’t always have a negotiation about every new item. You’ll do what I say when I say it.”

She opened her mouth then closed it before repeating the process.

The server returned, giving her the reprieve she needed, but one I wasn’t happy she was getting. I wanted to hear her immediate thoughts, not ones she had time to formulate.

I swallowed down my frustrations and ordered a variety of sushi and dim sum. What I chose must’ve been fine by her because she didn’t interject.