He and his perfectly sculpted cock that hits every single spot just so…
“I like where your mind just went, baby. And we will certainly get to it later. It’s been too long since I fell asleep with your taste coating my tongue.”
He takes a step closer, his large hand cupping my cheek, but as his thumb brushes across my bottom lip, it’s not him I’m imagining being close to me but a guy I should never allow anywhere near me after what he did to me Wednesday. But while my head might be fully on board with that plan, it seems my pussy is on an entirely different page.
“Go get dolled up,” he says, taking a step back from me. “I’m pretty sure that dress will be too tight for underwear too.” He winks at me and something sinks inside me.
I should refuse his offer, send him on his way and maybe call for another takeaway in the hope of luring Nico from his hiding place. At least, that’s what my pussy wants to do. My head… she knows that taking up Brad on his offer is the most sensible choice if I don’t want to spend a Friday night alone in my flat. Especially when I’m feeling better and have had more sleep than I usually get in a week.
“I think you might be right,” I purr, forcing as much lust into my voice as possible.
Maybe I just need to play the game. Get him between my thighs and let his talented tongue distract me and remind me that he’s the safest choice here.
A smile that should probably melt my underwear graces Brad’s face as he backs out of my doorway and heads toward the kitchen with the other bag still over his shoulder.
“What else did you bring?”
“Champagne, obviously,” he says, barely containing his eye-roll at my apparently stupid question as he lifts the bottle from the bag. “And accessories to finish your look.”
“Brad, you—”
“Enough, Brianna. You deserve it. And if it makes you feel better, you can sell it all after I’ve fucked you in it.”
A frown crinkles my brow. “That does not make me feel better. It makes me sound like an upmarket whore.”
“Which is about as far from the truth as possible, so get those stupid thoughts out of your head.”
My chin drops to argue, but he cuts me with a look and I swallow my words.
Unhooking the dress from the bag, I fold it over my arm and make my way across my flat to the bathroom. But I don’t get that far, because Brad pauses his search for my champagne glasses, wraps his fingers around my wrist and tugs me into his body.
“You’ll crease the dress,” I argue in a futile attempt to stop the inevitable.
“It’ll be worth it,” he mutters before his lips land on mine.
He’s insistent as his hand skims down my side, grabbing my arse and pressing us closer so I have no choice but to feel what my presence does to him, but I refuse to deepen the kiss, much to his irritation.
“What time is the meal booked for?” I ask, trying to extract myself from his hold.
“Seven-thirty.”
“I’d better get a move on then.” This time when I twist away from him, he lets me go without argument. He has plenty of experience of how long it can take me to get ready when I have a reason to waste time.
* * *
Ihave to hand it to him, he might be dull as dog shit, but Brad knows how to pick a good dress.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bathroom, I twist this way and that, admiring the designer dress he selected for me.
He’d already taken the tag off, so I have no idea how much it cost him. But as the saying goes, if you have to look then you can’t afford it. And I know that’s the case here.
His suggestion of selling it after this night is done floats around my head, but I can’t help feeling seriously weird about it.
I like sex, and I like trying it out with as many different guys as I can. I always have. But that does not mean I’m willing to be a whore for any man.
Even a man as wealthy as Brad.
I might be riding the edge of bankruptcy right now with my rent due and still too long until my next bursary payment, but I still refuse to sell myself. Things aren’t that fucking desperate. Not yet, anyway.