He was glad for the solitude of the shower. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her. Hell, maybe giving her back to Jake would be a good thing.
He’d had enough orgasms that his balls weren’t blue anymore. And as much as he enjoyed fucking Kimani, it was getting too complicated. There was all her furtive shit, and he just wasn’t himself with her. He was playing fast and loose with a reporter of some kind. And it wasn’t smart.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ben’s assistant had thought of everything, Kimani concluded as she went through all the shopping bags to find clothes, lingerie, shoes, cosmetics and toiletries. She shook her head. All this for a week of sex.
She wanted her own clothes. To feel like herself and not some guy’s toy doll that he got to dress up and fuck whenever he wanted, however he wanted.
She shivered, recalling the intense orgasm she’d had while tied down on the table. She could have done without the zipper of clothespins and the nipple torture with the wand. Unwrapping the towel, she saw that her nipples had yet to fully settle back down. She couldn’t believe how big and hard they had gotten with those suction cups.
The bath had relaxed and rejuvenated her, but it had been a long day. A day full of arousal and agitation, torment and ecstasy. And the day wasn’t over. They hadn’t even gotten to her punishment.
Shit. This was a bigger mess than she had ever thought possible.
He knew. Somehow, he knew there was more to the story behind Dawson and Carlos. She couldn’t persuade him to believe otherwise. She didn’t understand why he was so convinced she was keeping the truth from him.
And the bastard had tried to torture the truth out of her. He was back to being an asshole in her book. A big fucking asshole.
The anger that had been missing the past few hours finally rose. She had been so focused on surviving all that he was doing to her body, craving and hoping to escape through the orgasm that had lain just beyond her reach.
And he had given it to her. Coming had never felt so glorious, so deserved. The tension had built up so much within her that she’d worried her body would be blown to smithereens by the climax.
So maybe the torment had been worth it. All that apprehension, all that pain had gotten the adrenaline going within her, and maybe that was what had the high so high.
He had allowed her to go there without giving up the information he sought. Is that why she wasn’t as angry with him as she ought to be? Was she suffering from some twisted case of Stockholm Syndrome?
She would never have done what he did. But what had he done? To try to get what he wanted, he had used BDSM and sex—which she supposedly consented to when she’d signed up for the Scarlet Auction.
Once again, a small voice told her that she should get the hell out. Give up on the scoop. Get away from him. She couldn’t trust what he might do next, could she?
She looked over at the door. It would be so easy. All she had to do was walk out. He wouldn’t try to track her down. She felt pretty sure of it.
And somehow that belief saddened her.
Which was crazy stupid. She remembered how it had felt to give in to his seduction back at the cabin. Like falling off a cliff. And he had just shown that doing so was much more dangerous than she had ever imagined. It shouldn’t matter that he could give her the most incredible orgasms. They were just orgasms.
Her anger made her want to rebel. Screw his clothes, his fancy restaurant, and anything else he wanted.
But some other part of her—sappier, stupider, more primitive—didn’t want to leave him just yet. She could make herself feel better by telling herself it was her concern for Claire, the scoop, her career, determination, and persistence that made her stick around instead of bolting through the door to freedom. But that didn’t explain it all.
Turning back to the offerings of haute couture, she picked out a white cocktail dress with a halter top. The dress molded her curves, but not in skin-tight fashion, and came down to mid-thigh. She opted for seamless red satin boyshort underpants. Her first choice in shoes didn’t quite fit her, so she had to opt for the strappy gold sandals with five-inch heels. She debated whether to put on any makeup. Part of her didn’t want to look her best for him. Part of her did.
Splitting the baby, she decided to go into the powder room to put on a little lip gloss and a touch of mascara. Nothing else. This wasn’t a date.
Just dinner at the newest, most exclusive restaurant in the city.
But for someone like Ben, it probably wasn’t anything special. No different than going out to a nice restaurant she and her friends might choose for a special birthday but that was well within everyone’s price range.
Why was he taking her out to dinner anyway?
Because he doesn’t feel like cooking. Or making her cook. Maybe she hadn’t impressed him with her cooking skills at the cabin. No need to read anything into the fact that they were going out to dinner.
Back in the living room, she found a matching clutch even though she didn’t have anything to put in it. Even if she had her wallet, she’d let him pick up the bill for dinner. She wasn’t going to expense it and have Sam pay for what would be a very pricey meal.
Feeling nervous, she took in several deep breaths. She couldn’t remember feeling this agitated about a date, and this wasn’t even a date. She didn’t have to impress or seduce anyone. At the end of the week, they were parting ways. No ifs, ands or buts.
Hearing his footsteps, she turned around.