Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Once she’s out the door, I turn to face Arlo. He’s still watching me. Gathering my confidence, I go over and take a seat across the table from him. That’s when I notice a piece of black-beaded jewelry wrapped around his fist, which wasn’t there before. I remember briefly seeing it at the café. Furrowing my brows, I wonder what that’s about.
Even from across the table, I’m close enough that I can smell his cologne, and it smells fucking divine. I notice he has a bottle of the same wine Delaney and I had, along with a single empty glass. His cockiness knows no bounds. Before I have a chance to do it myself, he pours me a glass with the hand wrapped in the necklace, then slides it over to me. His glass of whiskey still appears untouched, but do you want to know what’s not untouched? My body, with the way his gaze keeps skimming all over it. It feels invasive, and at the same time, it’s thrilling to know this man wants me so much. A part of me is telling me this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I never mix business with pleasure. I keep them separate at all costs. I know a lot of my agents don’t, but I’ve always tried to make it a personal rule.
I guess rules are meant to be broken.
“How was the food?” he asks.
“Good,” I reply, my gaze flicking from his lips to his eyes.
“The cake?”
“Amazing.”
“Good.” He nods, pleased with my answer. “If you weren’t so intoxicated right now, my hand would be up that skirt of yours.” It’s then that he finally breaks eye contact and looks down at my skirt. I bite my lip and spread my legs just a little. He smirks but makes no move to touch me.
Pity, really.
TEN
ARLO
Confidential — Personal Use Only
OBSERVATIONS:
She seems more forthcoming when she has consumed alcohol.
Noticing this, I wonder how much her openness is influenced by lowered inhibitions.
It must be the alcohol in her system that’s making her reconsider as she sits there, looking so much more relaxed, like a fucking goddess. Before, I didn’t think she wanted anything but business from me, but as I’ve said, her body language is so closed off, she’s a difficult one to read. But right now, as she spreads her legs just a little in that tight skirt, I can read her just fine.
It’s fucking difficult not to slide my hand up between her thighs and see if she’s wearing panties or not. My guess is that she’s not. Which makes me even fucking madder that I’m restraining myself around her. That’s one thing about me—I don’t restrain myself around women. Ever. Some would say it’s cocky, but I understand what women want. Most of the time, they want to come first. Men are eager, and some are just so enthusiastic they don’t think about the other person’s pleasure. I like to watch a woman come undone under my hands, even more so when I degrade them. But what I really enjoy is watching them break.
It’s sick. Fucked up. Twisted.
I know where it all comes from.
I understand it.
I wouldn’t be the esteemed and accomplished mental health professional that I am if I didn’t understand my own motivation for needing to break a woman and, at the same time, watch her come from pleasure.
Some hate it or appear to hate it. But they keep coming back for more.
I wonder what Cora might be like.
Would she let me tell her what a bad fucking girl she is? Let me break her apart and watch as she tries to put herself back together.
I’d like to find out. That much I do know.
“What’s with the beads?” she asks, nodding to the beaded length wrapped around my hand. I’ve seen her eyeing it a few times, but she didn’t ask about it until now.
“I like to use it to choke the women I fuck,” I tell her, then sit and wait for her reaction.
Her green gaze, like the color of a new leaf in spring, bounces from my face to my hand as her breathing ever so slightly changes at my confession.
“You fuck a lot of women?” she asks.
I lean forward, so close I can smell the wine on her breath. Her lipstick is almost nonexistent compared to what it was earlier.
“Do you fuck a lot of men?” I retort, remaining in her space. Most women would pull back, but she stays still, challenging me.
“I’ve fucked a few men.”
“Have you enjoyed it?” I ask, and she nods. “Have you been choked before?”
“No,” she answers casually.
I wonder what really fazes her, what gets under her skin and makes her scream. I really want to find out.
“Arlo.”
“Yes, Cora?”
“I think you should kiss me.”
“I think I should wait until you’re sober,” I reply because I want her to remember it.