Page 36 of The Influencer

“How much to touch you wherever I want?”

My dick perks up. It was a stupid question anyway. He didn’t come here to talk—he came to self-destruct.

Fortunately, the skirt hides my sudden interest in helping him accomplish just that. In the mood I’m in, I’d let anyone touch me for free, but knowing Asher—not that I’m claiming to really know him—he needs parameters. “Just touching?”

“Do you have a menu I can look at?”

“Five hundred to touch anywhere you want. A grand to fuck.”

He pulls out his phone and uses both thumbs quickly on the screen. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to look at it. A Venmo payment of one thousand dollars just hit my account. I try to contain my surprise, but my soft gasp likely gives me away.

“I should at least try to talk you out of this, shouldn’t I?”

“What? You’re not curious about how a shitty lay I am?”

We may be nothing alike on the outside, but he’s one cynical motherfucker, too. I flutter my lashes at him and give him what I hope is a coy tilt of my head. His gaze traces the line of my jaw, ending at my mouth.

“Cameras?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

I pretend I’m incredibly disappointed. I actually don’t care. I’ve made more than enough content in the week since I moved back into my condo. I’ve been quite busy.

“Well, I’m sure you don’t want one, but I could use another drink.” I sashay into the kitchen, the skirt swishing around my ankles, and pour myself a glass of champagne. “Water?”

“No thanks,” he says, staring at me like he’s already inside me.

I flush. It’s sort of strange—the idea of a man like him wanting a man like me, and I’m a little high on the idea of it. His wavering moral compass on my behalf? Also, not gonna lie, is sort of a turn-on. I guzzle my champagne before approaching him again. The alcohol kicks in quickly and makes me realize how anxious I’d been a few minutes ago. I feel more like myself now.

He puts his hands on my bare waist before running them up my sides, all the while looking me in the eyes. His thumbs brush over my nipples, which aren’t exposed, but might as well be for how sensitive they are to his touch and from the clamps I’d been wearing earlier. “Made sure they were nice and puffy for you,” I say, my voice coming out breathy and soft, which is embarrassing because I shouldn’t be so turned on right now. He’s barely touched me.

“Do you enjoy your work?” he asks.

“Mmhm.”

His hands move smoothly across my exposed skin and then to my hips where they rest a moment. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he murmurs.

“Oh?”

“How sexy you are. How sexy you try to be.”

“Ouch.”

“Can’t stop thinking about you actually.”

“We can’t have that,” I say, resting my hands on his tattooed wrists. “This is business.”

“Got it,” he says. “You’ve been real clear about that.”

“I don’t want anyone going broke because they can’t stop thinking about me. Understand?”

“I understand.”

Lifting a hand from my body, he tilts my chin, putting my mouth in a perfect position for a kiss. My heart slams against my ribcage at the raw intent in his gaze. Is he really going to do this? How bad is his relationship? Because I get the feeling he doesn’t do this kind of thing every day. Or ever. And if his girlfriend is that awful, why not just leave the bitch and go find what he really wants? Which is clearly not a celibate woman.

“Let me give you a refund,” I say quietly. “You don’t want this.”

“It’s not a want,” he growls. “It’s a need.”

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