Page 62 of The Plus One Contract

Crossing my arms, I shift my weight to ease the ache low in my stomach, fully aware that I look like a petulant child, but screw him and his smug, devastating face.

“Stop trying to...” I trail off, gritting my teeth before nearly stomping my foot like an actual five-year-old. “Make me flustered.”

A quiet laugh escapes him under his breath.

He’s enjoying himself.

Before I can retreat, he pushes up from his seat, crossing the space between us in three slow steps.

My body locks up, every nerve ending sparking. He’s close now. Towering over me in all the best ways.

Flashes of our night together slam into me. His hands gripping my hips, his mouth dragging over my skin, his voice, rough and wrecked, groaning my name into my throat.

I try to breathe past it and fail.

Nathan lifts a hand, his fingers brushing my cheek before tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ear. The trail he leaves burns my skin.

Leaning in, his breath grazes my jaw, his voice a whisper meant just for me.

“Tell me, Sienna.” The way he says my name is like a promise and a sin in one breath, and it nearly sends me spiraling. “If I were to take you into that dressing room, strip you out of this dress, and press my fingers between your legs...”

His lips brush the shell of my ear.

“...would I find your pussy wet for me?”

I almost choke, but that involves breathing, and I’m pretty sure my lungs have stopped functioning.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me beyond what he already is, but his words snake around my throat, my spine, my thighs. I can feel them like hands on my skin.

I stagger back, my body tight and desperate for relief that I refuse to acknowledge. My chest rises and falls in frantic, uneven breaths.

“I was serious about the no sex,” I whisper.

Lie.

Weak.

Every part of me is screaming at me to shut the hell up and let him ruin me all over again.

He watches me with a tilt of his head. And that look—like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, exactly how close I am to snapping—is infuriating.

But he doesn’t call me out on it.

He doesn’t press.

Instead, he pressures his thumb against my lower lip and says, “I know.”

Move, Sienna. Turn around and return to the dressing room. And for the love of God, don’t drag him in there with you.

So I do. I pull the curtain closed and press my hands against the wall before pulling off the dress like it’s attacking me.

He’s right. I am wet, and now I have an uncomfortable throb between my legs.

Dresses. Focus on the dresses.

I’m running out of options, already debating whether I can fake a sudden illness to escape this ordeal, when I hear his gravelly voice. “You decent?”

I peek out, half-covering myself with the curtain like he hasn’t seen me naked and doing the spread eagle before. “Define decent.”

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