Page 6 of Corrupted Bride

“Is that why you keep bringing gum?”

“Consider it an offering.”

“It’s nice.” I stop chewing and sip the whisky. The taste mingles with the wintergreen and it’s strangely pleasant. “I mean, most guests treat me like, you know, barely more than furniture.”

“Must be frustrating.”

“I prefer it, actually. Makes the job easier.”

“Do you like it here?”

“Not at all.” If only he knew how much I hated it and what it meant, he wouldn’t ask. “What sort of business do you have here?”

“Meetings.” He doesn’t elaborate. Not that I expect him to. A man like this probably has more secrets than zeroes in his bank account. And I’m betting he’s got a lot of those, too.

“Are your meetings going well?”

“For better or for worse.” He turns to me and lifts his glass to his lips. His eyes lock on mine, holding me there. I think all over again that I should turn and run. That’s all I’ve ever wanted in life, right? To escape? To get away? But here I am, purposefully putting myself in a position I know is only going to end one way.

Tragedy.

“It’s true, you know.” I say it quickly. My heart’s racing so fast I feel faint. This is stupid, impulsive, and painfully strained, but I can’t help myself. It’s like all the years I’ve spent trapped in this hotel put me here, in this moment, and I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth.

“What’s true?” he asks quietly, and that voice sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.

It’s a purr and a promise of something very nice, but very wrong.

“The underwear. I said it as a joke. But it’s true.”

There’s a faint reaction. His eyes widen like he’s surprised, but he’s good at controlling himself.

“Show me.”

I almost choke. The way he says it with so much longing but also with perfect confidence. It’s the hottest two words I’ve ever heard in my life. Show me. A command, but also a plea. The way he’s looking at me like he can’t imagine being anywhere else.

Oh god.

I hold out my glass. He takes it. I undo two more buttons, enough to bare my cleavage. My name tag pulls my shirt to the side. I show him the top of my bra, the green lace curling around my light brown skin. Pale enough to pass as a white girl, my cousin once snarled in my face.

I push that memory aside.

“Do you always wear those for me?”

My lips part. “No.”

“Are you lying? I bet you come to work every Thursday with your sexiest underwear hoping for this exact moment. Do you think about it all week?”

“No.” But now I’m lying. I definitely think about him and that voice of his.

He’s very close now. My shirt remains hanging open. I should cover up. He’s gazing at my chest, my mouth, my throat, and I don’t know what he’s going to do to me.

Except I do. And I want it.

God, I want it so badly I could scream.

I haven’t been touched in years. Not by anyone except for me and my trusty vibrator, anyway, and now there’s the most gorgeous example of everything that’s so-wrong-it’s-perfect staring at me like I’m the meal he really wants, and it’s making my knees tremble and my core pulse with a desperation I’ve never felt before.

It’s heady and light, and I like it.