Page 26 of The Risk (The Billionaires Club)

“Darcy.” I said the name she’d given me because I liked it. And because it made her shudder. “I don’t play with dolls. But a music box? That’s something I could get my head around. I like to collect pretty things, after all. But there’s something you should know. When I take something and make it mine, I don’t like to let it go.”

I didn’t know why I said that. Or why I raked the soft, sweet skin of her neck with my teeth until she cried out, then bucked against me wildly as if she’d lost all semblance of control.

“Please, sir. I want to come. I want to dance. I want whatever it takes—”

“You get what I give you, little doll. Maybe that’s the shelf for you, cast aside with nothing to do but watch.”

I pulled her off me then and set her before me, turning her around again until she settled back down on her knees.

And this time, her eyes were unfocused. She was panting, her lips parted, a pretty flush all over her cheeks.

She was so beautiful it hurt. I reached over and helped myself to some more of the bath gel. I wrapped my hand around my cock, made a fist and pumped myself as she watched.

And very nearly lost myself entirely when that unfocused look turned greedy. Hungry.

“Sir...?”

But I shook my head, enjoying myself. And her need. “I want you to stand up. Climb out of this tub and wrap yourself in a towel.”

She swallowed. “Can I make you come first?”

I felt my cock pulse in my own hand.

“Did I ask you to?” I demanded. Severely.

She blew out a breath as if that hurt her, which only made me harder.

Then she did what she was told.

And that was when I knew.

No matter what, no matter what it cost or how foolhardy it was, there was no way in hell one night with this woman who called herself a doll—and who I wanted to call mine—was going to satisfy me.

I wanted more.

And I was Sebastian Dumont. What I wanted, I usually got.

My little dancer didn’t stand a chance.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Darcy

SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT.

I wrapped myself in a towel as ordered and watched as he did the same. Then I followed him out through the sumptuous bedchamber to the main room again, where an elegant meal had been set up on the table for two, placed to take in the breathtaking views of Paris all around us.

It looked romantic. Intimate. And I felt something tug at me, because there was a part of me that wished it was—

Stop, I ordered myself. I needed to remember my place. The transaction I’d agreed to, no matter what it looked like.

But I couldn’t keep myself from trying to make light of it, somehow. I laughed as we walked toward the table. “Is this a date? I think we’re doing it backwards.”

“Do you have dinner with all your dates without your clothes on?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He pulled out a chair for me, helped me sit in it with distinct courtesy, though I didn’t require assistance, and then took my towel from me.

I should have protested. I meant to, surely. Instead, goose bumps prickled all over my skin in a new kind of delight and I...didn’t.

When he sat down across from me, he kept his towel knotted loosely around his hips. That meant I could still admire that beautifully formed chest of his. I could marvel at the clean, masculine line of his jaw. I could watch his hands as he used them to pour the wine and remember what they felt like on me. In me.

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