Page 66 of 10 Days to Ruin

He’ll never want me.

“Your thoughts are deafening, Ariel.” He reaches up to toy with a sweat-soaked lock of hair that’s fallen over my face. He twists it in his fingers, then tucks it back up where it belongs.

I fumble for a bluff. “Just thinking of all the ways you’re full of shit.”

He laughs. “I’m an open book in every way that matters.”

I laugh right back at him, because that’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard. “You? ‘Open’? All you do is hide, Sasha. You’re literally a professional.”

He rises from the table, brushing against me as he stands. “Maybe you’re right. Fair is fair. I won’t hide anything from you anymore.”

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his swim trunks.

“Hold on?—”

Too late. The trunks hit the floor.

My brain whites out.

He’s…crafted. All hard lines and wicked intent. Michelangelo’s dirtiest secret. My knees threaten mutiny.

And he’s not even one percent shy of his nakedness. I keep my gaze far above the equator because that way lies temptation, and I’ve got plenty to deal with up top anyhow.

Sasha steps closer. I retreat. Closer. I retreat. “You’re sweating.”

“It’s a sauna. We’re literally in hell.”

“Close enough for the difference not to matter,” he agrees. He palms my waist, picks me up, and switches positions, so now, I’m hemmed in against the massage table by a naked, six-five giant.

“The real hell,” he rasps, “is you pretending you don’t want me as much as I want you.”

Our mouths hover centimeters apart. “I don’t?—”

“One day, you’ll learn to stop lying.”

“I’m not?—”

“No? Then why are you dripping for me, hm?”

I try to stop him again, but I’m too slow and too half-hearted and he’s too much for me in all the important ways. His fingers are deft as they pluck the knots at the side of my bikini bottoms in one go.

My dental floss armor goes slithering to the floor.

Sasha leans in, his knee knocking mine apart, and his palm comes to cup my center. He peels it away a moment later and, without looking away from me, licks the heel of his hand.

“Tastes like the truth,” he growls.

All I can do is whimper.

His hand returns to where I need it so fucking badly. He parts me, one thick finger sliding past the last resistance I have to offer. I reach out to grasp his shoulders for balance.

Slowly, still staring straight into my soul, Sasha pushes me onto the massage table, laying me out on my back. His hand is a slow pulse inside my throbbing pussy.

“Still hate me?” he growls down from where he towers above me.

“Yes.” My nails score the underside of his wrist. “Despise you.”

“Good.” He adds a second finger. “Hate me louder.”

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