Page 25 of Promiscuous Lies

He arches a perfect eyebrow. “I’m the one being labeled crazy right now?” He scans the room with his gaze, then gives a pointed look to the book I’m holding in the air, ready to throw at him.

Okay.

Good point.

I lower the book.

“One thing you can trust me on is my word. Always. Despite how much you think of me as an asshole, I’ll never jeopardize your safety or force myself on you. This is a legitimate deal.”

I roll my eyes. “But I have to go on a date with you?” That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Has this man everactually been on a date before? I imagine he gets the luxury of skipping even the name exchange before women are on their backs for him.

“A date doesn’t equate to sex. But preferably, will end with it.”

“I’m not sleeping with you,” I reiterate. “Why are you offering this? It’s unprofessional.”

I don’t understand Dutton Taylor. There is no rhyme or reason to him, and that sharp intellect is always running some type of scheme in the background. What could he ever want from me to make him go so far?

“Because I have an issue with other men touching you. It would appear I don’t think rationally when you’re on the floor, and I find it awfully distracting. I don’t want it to jeopardize my business if I accidentally kill one of my clients, so this seems like the most practical approach.” His words are straightforward, his tone emotionless.

I’m shocked by his honesty, and all I can say to derail the intensity of that possessive statement is, “They don’t touch me; I touch them.”

His face glazes over with a lustful expression. “Hmm. I suppose you did touch me when you gave me that private dance, and I don’t usually let that happen. But I touched you more that night in the back seat of my car,” he says, pushing off the edge of the desk and stepping closer. “And I want to touch you again. You might be used to being in control out there with your clients, but I promise you, you’re very much out of your depth if you think you can control me and my desires.”

His intense aura is stifling, but I refuse to look away as he picks up a piece of my curled hair. This guy is giving me whiplash between his possessive asshole and charismatic playboy personas.

“You don’t fuck those you work with,” I point out as I slowly push away his hand.

“I don’t fuck the girls who dance,” he clarifies. “And you no longer dance.”

I bite my bottom lip, trying to consider my choices, but it all feels too rushed right now. And I still need to decide whether it’s worth the hassle of dealing with this asshole. Then again, earning double what I’m earning now is not an opportunity a single mother is given every day.

“If I agree, I want a sign-on bonus as well,” I demand defiantly.

His blue eyes darken as he looks down on me and takes another step forward. He encroaches into my space, and I inevitably take a step back. He barricades me against the door, and I feel his intensity dancing along my skin, creating a heat at my core that I wish I didn’t acknowledge. His body suffocates mine, and when he leans down, I can’t help but hold my breath.

I shouldn’t want this.

I should push him back.

But my body wants to pull him in. This fucker has a magnetism that I’ve never known or dealt with before. And I want to defy it with all my might so that he doesn’t think he’s won.

His lips brush my cheek as he says, “What’s your price?”

My heart is pounding as his lips linger against my cheek and then move to my jaw. I try not to move, not trusting my body in its heated desire.

I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Ten thousand?”

“Is that a question?” he says, lifting up a piece of my hair again. His nose grazes against my neck as if he’s smelling me, and I can’t help but lean into him.Fuck. If he pushes any further right now, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to say no.

“Did I hear twenty thousand?” I say.

He chuckles as he steps away from me. I lick my lips as I glance down quickly, realizing his cock is straining against his pants.

“Done.” He nods once as he rounds his desk and gets money from his top drawer. He rejoins me at the door and offers me what looks like a few thousand dollars—certainly not ten or twenty thousand.

“This is payment to cover tonight since I cost you your earnings. Once you figure out your job description, the bonus will come through with a new contract. I do have one condition. When I message you, I expect a reply.”

I’m gob smacked. “You don’t care what job I do?”

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