Page 7 of Dirty Love

“I do.”

“I know.” I take a deep breath because we’ve drifted out of the fantasy and into reality. I hate reality. “How many people?”

“A hundred, maybe. Tonight there weren’t that many. Only a handful of dates, no big rollers in person.”

“In person? Where else…is this filmed?” My heart starts to pound.

“Live steamed to interested parties that pay top dollar for access.”

“You aren’t worried about that?”

“I don’t worry about anything.”

I know that. I still don’t believe it, but I understand he does. “Iworry.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

His voice wraps around me, pressing into my skin. The words prick into me like thorns—and I like the sharp pierce a little too much. I need to get this back on track. “What would I wear to this fight of yours?”

“Whatever you want.”

“But if you could dress me?”

He grunts, a rough, guttural noise that makes me squirm. “Jean skirt. Short. Black tank top.”

What I’m wearing.

“And a leather jacket to keep you warm. No bra.”

“Panties?”

“A thong. Easy to pull aside.”

“And would you?”

Another noise, this one more helpless and in the back of his throat. This is what he called me for. My brazen, no-limits phone sex. My total and utter depravity.

“Would you finger me while I watch two men pummel each other? Would you go into your own fight with my come on your fingers, leaving me shaking and helpless at the sidelines?”

“I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“Who would hold me? Who would you trust?”

“I don’t trust anyone.” And that’s the thing, isn’t it…we’re alone in this together. Us against the world, trusting no-one. “I’d bring a guard.”

“Would he touch me?”

“Never.”

“Even if I wanted him to?” This is cruel of me. I know he’s possessive. I know he hates that I’m off-limits, claimed by another. But he knows that I’m all his in the only way that matters.

“You don’t.” His voice shifts. Heavier, more demanding. “You don’t want anyone else’s fingers on your clit. Inside you. That’s my responsibility. My pleasure.”

“Yes,” I breathe, sliding my hand down my body. I’m wearing a jean skirt now. Short. I flick my gaze to the corner of the room where my traveling wardrobe is set up. Where at least one of Wilson’s cameras is carefully hidden. “Are you watching?”

“Always.”

“Where are you?” It’s not fair that he can see me and I can’t see him.

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