Page 98 of By A Thread
And then I saw it. His face was hard, as always. That beautiful jaw in its perma-clench under the unfairly sexy five o’clock shadow. But it was his eyes that stopped me. They weren’t cold. They weren’t mocking. They were fiery. Fierce. Hungry.
Had he finally snapped? Had I won?
I stopped a foot from him.
His intake of breath was audible.
I forgot about the money. The shame dissolved. I was here for one reason. To make Dominic Russo regret this night more than I did.
“No touching,” I snapped.
“Do what I paid you to do,” he demanded, his voice had a gravelly abrasion to it that gave me as much pleasure as dread. Even in the dim light, I could see he was hard. It was worse now that I knew what his cock looked like.
The music started, and I frowned when I recognized the song. It was a number from the dance studio. I wanted to ask him how he knew. But he flashed me that hard, smug look, and I made it my mission to wipe that expression off his perfect face.
I placed my palms on his thighs and thrilled when he stiffened at my touch.
“You said no touching,” he rasped.
“You can’t touch me.” I sank between his knees, spreading my own wide. I used his legs for balance, for contact, to inflict misery. His jaw was so tense I hoped he’d need a dental appointment next week. I skimmed my hands higher, bouncing, twisting, gyrating.Grinding.
If he wanted a dance, I’d give him one he’d remember for the rest of his life. We both could remember the night I sold my soul with shame.
The music built.
I rose, snapping my hips back and bending forward into his space. My hair hung in a short curtain over one eye. I could feel his breath on my face. His gaze burned onto my breasts, just inches from that mouth. His lips parted just enough to draw in a thin stream of air.
I felt the beat pulsing in me. This was my fuck you to the cards I’d been dealt. I would survive. I would make ends meet. And eventually, I would go back to not giving a damn about money.
But first, I would make Dominic suffer like he made me suffer.
With a hand to his chest, I pushed him back against the tufted vinyl banquette, stepping over his legs to straddle him. I wasn’t even settled on his lap yet, but his erection was doing its best to tear its way through his trousers. I could feel it flex through my embarrassingly thin underwear. The man was ruining more pairs of my underwear than I cared to think about.
His fingers flexed in the air, wanting to touch me. Needing to. But still that obnoxious self-control reigned supreme.
Undulating just above the ridge of his hard-on, I looked at him through my lowered lashes. He was wearing another goddamn vest. The sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to the elbows to reveal the tattoos on both forearms. So proper and polished on the outside, but underneath, ink and a hungry monster of a dick.
What did his denial get him? Or me?
Talk about life being unfair.
“Do you want me to stop?” I whispered in his ear.
“No.”
I rose high on my knees, brushing the curve of my breast over the scruff on his jaw. Instinctively, he turned toward me, his mouth open.
“Uh-uh-uh. No touching.” His hands clamped around the edge of the bench, and I was surprised it didn’t rip in two.
I decided to make it much, much worse. I brought my fingers to the knot in my shirt and felt his breath catch. I loosened it, and he swallowed. Tugging it free, I held the material to my breasts, pushing them together before whipping the shirt open.
His groan was pained, eyes glued to my breasts. I felt his erection flex under me.
“Why are you here, Dom?” I breathed, leaning in and nipping at his ear.
The song. The dark. His mouth so close to mine. It was intoxicating.
“Because I can’t fucking leave you alone.” His breath was labored.
