I just stare at him, both fear and fury fighting inside me. “How long am I supposed to stay with you?”
One hour? Two? I don’t know how long it even takes for a man to finish with a woman. I’ve never done any of this. Never slept with a man. Barely even kissed one, at the end of dinner, my date drunk enough to dare a press of his lips. And I accepted it because my father arranged it.
I knew that one day I would marry for my family. I would lose the Li surname I’m so proud of, but it would be in service of my family. That’s when I would give up my virginity—not like this.
“I’m not sure how long,” Asher says thoughtfully. “How much is your pussy worth? A hundred bucks a pop? No, a high-class hooker like you would command much more than that. But even if we value it at a grand a fuck, that will still take quite some time to work off.”
I’ve never heard such crude language in my life. “How dare you—?”
I can’t even finish the question before he grabs me. First he takes my wrist, until I’m backed against the wall. Then his other hand goes to my throat. My gaze swings wildly, searching for my father—but all I can see is the dark, looming presence of the man who has me captive.
“Let’s get one thing straight, beautiful. I dare to say anything I want, to do anything I want to this gorgeous body, to take anything I want. When I say jump, you jump. When I say bend over, you touch those pretty pink toes. Understand?”
His grip isn’t firm around my throat, but it’s immovable. Even though my hands are gripping his arm, I can’t shake him off. He’s like a tree trunk in front of me, his arm a branch I’m dangling from, the ground a deadly drop below.
Every muscle clenches. I want to fight him.
Except I’ve been trained all my life to be a good daughter.
His voice drops. “I asked if you understood. The correct response is yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, sealing my fate.
He bends, pushing his face against my neck. With my vision clear, I’m shocked to find the foyer empty except for the two of us. My father left me here, knowing I might get hurt. He’s paying his debt with me as if I’m a thing, an extra zero in his bank account instead of his living, breathing daughter. Betrayal turns sharp in my chest, cutting me so I can barely breathe.
Asher’s lips are hot against my skin, and I shiver.
“That’s right,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be doing a lot of that.”
“You don’t scare me,” I say, but the quiver in my voice calls me a liar.
His laugh brushes over my skin, strangely pleasurable despite the mocking sound. “Your heart is racing, beautiful. I can feel it.”
Then he runs his lips over my neck, right where he’d take my pulse—and then I feel my pulse too, as if it’s too large to be contained in my body, as if I’m spilling over into him.
He runs his hands over me, from my shoulders to my elbows to my hips. It’s like he’s measuring me, seeing what he bought. I push against him, but he’s as hard and unmovable as a concrete wall, like the kind he’ll be able to build with my father’s company.
“Go ahead and fight,” he murmurs against my temple. “I like it rough.”
“I don’t,” I say, biting out the words.
He pulls back enough to meet my gaze, lids heavy, eyes dark. “Don’t you? I think you like what I’m doing to you. I think if I dip my fingers in that pretty little pussy of yours, I’m going to find it wet.”
I hate that he’s right. “Is this what you need to get off? Forcing yourself on a woman?”
Something flickers in his gaze, as if I’ve wounded him.
It’s gone in a second, and I don’t know if it was ever really there. Instead his gaze turns sharp. “I was going to wait until I got you back to my loft to fuck you, but I think I want to test my theory right here.”
Then his rough hands are pulling on the silky fabric, bunching it up in his large meaty hands, tugging the fabric against his calluses. Cool air washes over my legs, and I close my legs, humiliated. This is how he wants me—humiliated and broken.
I refuse to break, even when his large hand slides up the inside of my thigh.
Even when he’s proven correct, when his fingers push aside the thin fabric of my thong and touch wetness. I expect him to laugh, to gloat. Not groan like he’s in sweet agony. Not pant against my shoulder as if he can barely contain himself.
