Page 5 of His for Christmas
His forehead creased for a moment, but just as quickly, whatever question he’d had faded from his eyes, replaced by something I knew well. Lust. Desire. Possession. Men had looked at me enough times that I could recognize it.
At least you’re pretty. The night I’d seen that look in my daddy’s eyes was the night I’d left home, too young and too stupid to make anything of myself. At sixteen I could do little more than shack up with a guy. He’d promised me the world, but in the end all I’d gotten were two silver bracelets and a one-way ticket to jail.
Mr. Thompson was older, smarter, and a heck of a lot richer. But he might give me the same things if I wasn’t careful.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice gruff.
And so I obeyed him. Because I understood what he wanted from me. Because the consequences of refusing him were so much worse. And because I’d been trained to follow orders for eighteen months at the state correctional facility.
Just do what he says and you’ll be fine. That was what the secretary told me. Had she meant this? Had she meant turning away and feeling him step close, shivering at the firm grasp of his hands on my hips, my back flush against his front. My eyes fell closed. Did he do this to her? Did he think I was her? But I had dirty-blonde hair and the secretary’s was a dark brown. My breath whooshed out.
He groaned. “You’re too fucking pretty, and it’s been too long. I need you. Now. Do you mind?”
Did I…mind? Oh God. Was this how billionaires propositioned women for sex? By touching them, by making them burn, and then asking, almost politely, if they minded getting used? And the worst part was, I didn’t know if I minded. But I knew I couldn’t tell him to stop, couldn’t risk him asking questions. “I’ll do what you say.”
He grunted in something like approval.
And I knew I should mind. Regular women didn’t like this. A normal woman would get offended and maybe even slap him, but I’d been too well conditioned to do what I was told. Too desperate to keep this job. Both of those were reasons I let him touch me, but not the only ones.
But I didn’t mind his warm hands on me or his hard body behind me, holding me up when my legs began to shake. I didn’t mind seeing what else he could make me feel. The truth was, I was starving for human touch. After two years behind bars, I hungered for it. Feared it. Needed it. But when his hands slipped back to cup my ass, I tensed.
The pen fell, almost silent, on the plush carpet.
“Am I going too fast?” he murmured. “Christ, of course I am. I’ll make sure you’re ready for me. It won’t hurt.”
It seemed like such a small thing to offer me. It won’t hurt. And such a huge gift. I felt offended and grateful at the same time, shamed and eager, and my body reacted by pushing my ass into his touch. He squeezed, and a moan escaped me, low and needy, as he pulled me against his body, showing me his arousal in the hard brand of his erection.
He hissed at the contact. “Jesus.” His hands moved from my waist, skimming over my shirt. “I want to make you feel good. Can I do that? Can I make you come?”
He was asking…permission?
Something about this seemed off—that he’d touch me like he had every right to but ask almost meekly if he was allowed to make me come. The world felt off balance, but I didn’t question it. I couldn’t question it, not with my employment and my housing and my freedom at stake. Couldn’t question the sudden relief that ran through me. The thin cots and cool metal chairs in prison hadn’t felt good. The bare walls and coarse sheets on my bed didn’t feel good either. But he could make that pain go away. He would make me feel good, I knew he could.
Two minutes in his arms and I already knew so much about his skills in this department. This was a form of interview, his hands cupping my breasts, broad fingers finding my nipples through the fabric.
“Please,” I whimpered.
He stroked my breasts with agonizing gentleness, weighing them in his hands, lifting them, and squeezing softly. Warmth coursed through me, heating me inside the confines of my clothes. My arms were trapped beneath his, and it was a relief. A relief to know I didn’t have to move—that I couldn’t move. He was directing me, commanding me. This was a man used to being obeyed, and power coursed through every caress of my breasts.
His breath whispered across my temple. “More?”
It wasn’t enough. Not after two years of impersonal touches from the guards or dirty looks from the other inmates. Not after coarse uniforms and cool concrete and smooth metal bars. “Mr. Thompson, please.”
