Page 17 of Endless Obsession

Maybe Jaz was right. Maybe this place is exactly what I need right now.

I suck in a breath, gathering my courage as I take another sip of my drink. A part of me is still nervous and uncertain, wanting to run home to where things are familiar and safe. But my home is partially tainted now, full of memories of Nate, of all the times together that I thought meant more than they obviously did. If I go back right now, if I leave, it feels like admitting that he was right. That he needed to do those things with other women because I would never have done them with him.

I want to prove to myself that he was wrong. That he’s entirely the asshole in this situation. And he is, because whether or not I ever would have done those things, he should have left me before he cheated on me.

It honestly would have hurt less.

That thought replaces my nerves with the anger I’ve been feeling off and on since I saw those texts. I’m hurt, sad, and unsure of the future—but I’m also furious. I’m furious that he did things like this with other women—that he probably went to clubs like this, that he played out filthy fantasies with them, that he never, ever even hinted to me that he might want me to try to satisfy him in some other way than what we already did. That he lied to me, and he never even gave me a chance.

I want to get back at him for hurting me like that. I want revenge.

This is a good start.

I take another sip of my drink, and turn to look at the man next to me. “What if I did want to do more than talk?” I whisper, the nerves fluttering through me with every word. “What then?”

He smiles, a lazy, lustful smile that’s full of promise. His eyes drop to my mouth, then my breasts, my waist, sliding lower until his gaze has raked all the way down to my red-painted toes in my high-heeled sandals, and then back up again to my eyes.

“Then,” he says slowly, his voice deep and rasping again, “Then I would do whatever you like, little dove.”

Something jolts through me at the pet name. It sounds like an endearment on his tongue. And it sounds so much better than babe, or baby, the things Nate used to call me.

“What if I don’t know what I like?” I take the last sip of my drink, my heart beating hard in my chest.

“Then we’ll go slow, and find out what that is.” His voice is full of promise, dark and rich, and I swallow hard.

“Can we go somewhere private?” I look up at the railing surrounding the second floor, and he nods, standing up with that same catlike grace as he holds out a gloved hand to me.

“Of course.”

I catch Jaz’s eye as the man leads me to the spiral staircase. Her eyes widen, and she gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up, mouthing I’ll be right here, as she taps her now-full drink. I feel a flutter of guilt, knowing she’s not hooking up with anyone because she wants to make sure she’s there if I need her. I’m going to have to make sure I do something nice for her, I think as I follow the man up the stairs. Jaz is a good friend. The best kind of friend. And I’m lucky to have her in my life.

We stop in front of one of the doors. I notice that the one next to it has a golden tassel hanging from the knob, and I realize why when the man unlocks the door in front of us and takes a similar tassel off of a hook just inside the moment we step in. He hangs it off of the handle, and closes the door firmly, turning to face me.

“Well, you have me alone.” He smiles that same slow, wicked smile. “I’m at your service.”

Oh. A flutter of heat ripples through me at that thought. At the idea of having a man so blatantly sexual, so attractive, at my service.

I’ve always felt, in every sexual situation I’ve ever been in, that my own pleasure comes second. That anything I might ask for, any foreplay, any lead-up to the main event, is something that the men I’ve slept with have tolerated as a means to an end. What they have to do in order to get me aroused enough to have what they want.

This man seems to be treating my desires, my pleasure, as the main event. And I’m suddenly seized with a desire to push that as far as I can.

The problem is that I don’t know how to vocalize what I want. I don’t know what to ask for. I’ve never been in a situation before where I’ve felt that I can.

He seems to see my hesitation. He walks towards me, stopping a hand’s length away once again as he looks down at me, his dark blue eyes unreadable behind the mask. “What’s wrong, little dove?” he murmurs, and I swallow hard, wishing for another drink.

“I—” I think desperately of how to explain, of how much I should say, and I wish more than anything I were the kind of person who could fling herself headlong into this, without so much hesitation. I’m being offered everything that I thought couldn’t possibly be real, and my own anxieties are on the verge of ruining it for me.

I don’t want to let that happen.

He tilts his head slightly, studying me from behind the mask. I’m suddenly very grateful for my own—I feel less exposed, less vulnerable with it on. It keeps him from reading every emotion on my face, just as I can’t entirely read him.

“You’ve come here for a reason,” he says calmly. “I don’t think it’s just for pleasure, or you would have told me what you want from me already.”

“What do you want?” It’s the boldest question I’ve asked all night, but he just chuckles.

“I want your pleasure.” He lifts his hand again, tracing my lower lip with just the tip of one gloved finger, that same motion that sends a tingling shiver down my spine again. “I want to find out what you taste like, little dove. Your mouth—or lower, if you don’t want me to kiss you. I want to find out the sound of your moans when you come. I?—”

“I don’t come.” I blurt it out, and he frowns. “Not usually, I mean,” I amend. There have been a few times with Nate. But it’s been rare. Rare enough that I could count on one hand. “Usually just—when I’m alone.”

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