Page 12 of Heavy Equipment
There’s more than just one dark gaze on me now. Many of the men are looking at me. They don’t dare say anything, not since I came with Asher Cook. I’m not a lost little lamb in a school girl outfit. No, I’m a woman now. And my nipples press proudly against the silk, declaring my readiness.
The problems in the ceiling aren’t the focus of the men anymore.
Conversation quiets and then becomes ringing silence.
My cheeks burn, but I started this for a reason. Because my father could have introduced me to Asher at a dinner party, he could have asked me to date him, he could have even told me to marry him. I would have done it as the good daughter. Instead he sabotaged any chance of a normal relationship.
If I asked him why, he would say it was for the family honor.
I know the truth. It was cowardice. And this? My heart beating faster, my chest rising and falling, my nipples proud and firm beneath the thin silk? This takes courage.
My arms reach above my head, stretching for the world to see. It could not be more blatant. Even though I’m wearing plaid slacks and my hair is done in a bun, it could not be more sexual. Even if I were stripping at a club in a thong I could not feel more inviting than this.
That’s how I turn away from the men, feeling their desire like a tether—and then snap.
Walking away from it. Someone will follow.
I stride blindly down a half-built corridor, not knowing where to go from here. This is how I ran away from the men all those years ago, my heart beating too fast, my body thrumming with urges I didn’t fully understand. It’s different now, because I’m running toward something.
A water fountain, still wrapped in heavy plastic, is the only indication that I’ve found the restrooms. I slip inside, relieved that there are actually stalls and sinks, even though the walls are unfinished.
Heavy footsteps approach, and I dash into a stall. My fingers fumble with the lock.
It could be anyone outside that door. A stranger. A dangerous man.
It’s not only part of the game. What if Asher Cook didn’t like my little show back there? He could have turned around and continued working. He could have let one of his men follow me instead.
A low chuckle bounces off the tile, and I shiver with relief because I recognize him. Anticipation races up my spine. My breath comes quicker.
“I know you’re in here. You may as well come out and make it easy on yourself.”
More footsteps, and I lean against the door, too afraid to make a sound. The lock isn’t working right. I think the door isn’t aligned. There’s nothing stopping him from coming in except my weight.
“Or you can make it harder on yourself,” he says, stopping outside my stall. “Maybe you’d enjoy that. Maybe you like getting men all riled up, thinking about them touching you with their dirty hands.”
A knot in my throat. “No,” I say, my voice breaking. “That’s not true.”
There’s a shift in the metal, and I realize he’s touching the door on the opposite side. Only an inch separates us. “I suppose we’ll find out,” he says, soft enough I have to strain to hear. “When I touch your pussy, we’ll find out if this is getting you wet. Won’t we?”
There’s a clench between my legs, and I know exactly what he’s going to find. “Don’t.”
The stall door opens despite my weight, inexorably, inevitably, until I’m standing there in front of him. His white T-shirt has black smudges that weren’t there before. It looks somehow more obscene than even my silk camisole with no bra beneath it. In his gaze I find an unexpected tenderness.
“Don’t what?” he asks, his voice gentle.
How far do I want this game to go? “I don’t know.”
“It’s a little late to ask for mercy, beautiful.”
I’m doing more than asking. I’m begging, after he made me come three times last night. He looks hard as steel beneath those jeans, and he didn’t climax even once.
Slowly, slowly, I sink to my knees in the half-built bathroom.
Asher’s eyes flash. “What are you doing?”
“You’re right,” I whisper, my gaze on his. “I do enjoy getting the men all riled up. I like thinking about the dirty things they’d make me do if they trapped me in a room like this.”
He takes a step closer, his body inches from mine. “Show me.”
My hands are clumsy on his belt buckle, but he makes no move to help me. He stands there like a god passing judgment. The tile is hard and cold beneath my knees; it makes this sharper. Sweeter.
The denim strains against the length of him. My hands tremble as I tug the zipper down, half afraid I’ll hurt him, half afraid he’ll hurt me. That’s what this is—a form of battle. One of us is going to lose.
