Page 12 of The Contract

I look at Dante in surprise and find a slight smile tugging at his mouth. There’s a look on his face like he’s enjoying watching me. It’s as foreign to me as the way he’s touched my body.

He hasn’t touched me at all tonight. Not even a brush of fingers. He’s being so … normal. Well, relatively speaking. He did slip in here and surprise me at four o’clock in the morning.

“Did you come last night?”

Annnnnd psycho is back. I glare at him. “Seriously?”

My sarcasm is obviously lost on him because he says, “Yes, seriously.”

“Why?”

“Because it tells me something about you.”

“And why should I tell you anything about me?”

Apparently, he’s answered as many questions as he’s going to because he just looks at me steadily. My heart starts pounding. Should I admit it?

My cock settled down while we ate, but I start getting hard again as I remember how I walked into that bathroom last night and fucked my own hand until I shot my load all over the shower wall. I’m still not ready to imagine him … inside me, but I did imagine him behind me.

“Yes,” I snap, “you fucking asshole.”

He makes a sound of satisfaction. “Good boy,” he purrs.

My dick jumps. “Fuck you.”

“Never gonna happen. It’s on the red list.”

“The what?”

He taps the file folder. “The red list.”

My heart skips. I swallow hard. Part of my brain already knew, when he mentioned a contract last night, that he meant a sex contract, but holy fuck. Is this real? Are we actually about to discuss asex contract?

I sit there, frozen, while Dante starts cleaning up. He separates the empty boxes from the ones we didn’t get to. He puts the full ones back in the bag. Then he takes the empty ones to the trash. He wipes down the bar with a towel. He didn’t drop a thing, but there are a few bits of rice in my general area. I cringe. I’m not used to eating with people.

He returns to his stool and pushes the takeout bag out of the way. He slides the file folder across the bar to me. Heart galloping, I stare at it. It looks so ordinary.

“What is this?” I ask.

“I think you know.”

“It’s a sex contract.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I expect another truncated, vague, unhelpful response. I get something very different.

“I want to fuck you, Tristan. Again and again and again. I want my cum inside you and all over you. I want you always ready for me, always anticipating me. I want you getting hard at the sound of my voice because you know how I’m going to use you. And Iwillbe using you.”

My breathing shallows. My face heats. My body heats.

“But only if you agree. There will be rules. And I’ll tell you this so you understand: they’re more for me than for you. To keep things … within certain limits.”

“Why do you …” My voice is breathy, and I can’t even finish the question.

“Why do I need that?”

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