Page 16 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

His throat pulses with a swallow. “Put your fucking clothes back on.”

“Oh.” I lift both eyebrows as I saunter toward him with a swing in my hips. “You changed your mind, huh?” I bat my lashes. “That was fast. It was so fast that I’m really not convinced.” I raise my chin as I stop right in front of him. “In fact, I know the truth is you actuallyreallylike the view right now, don’t you?” I angle my lips just next to his as though I’m about to kiss him, but I maintain a hair’s breadth of distance. “You do. And you know what? If I tried to suck your dick right now, you wouldn’t even try to stop me. Just like you didn’t stop me the night you took me home. Youreallyliked it then. You’d still like it now, but you’d never admit it. Not even when I’d have a mouthful of yourcum.”

With his jaw clenched tight, August’s eyes are glued to my mouth. “You’re a filthy fucking whore, Scarlett,” he murmurs, his words barely backed by breath.

“Oh, am I?” I reach for his belt, and—just as I suspected—he doesn’t even try to stop me as I unbuckle it. “You know, from what I recall, you were equally receptive to me going home with you, just so we could fuck. So if I’m a whore, you are, too.”

He still doesn’t stop me as I unfasten his fly. He says nothing, arms stiff at his sides like he’s gripping the door behind him in an effort to avoid touching me. I shove my hand into his boxer briefs and pull out his hot, rigid erection, and he exhales a ragged breath. “Aren’t you, August?”

I give him a long, slow stroke that forces his eyes shut. His head drops back against the door, as he growls, “Fuck you.”

“You already did. And you liked it as much as you like me doing this,” I say, my voice low as I’m suddenly under the spell of a drug-like sensation of being totally in control of August while he visibly unravels right before my eyes. With one hand firmly fisting his length, I grip the back of his neck with my free hand and force him to face me. “August, look at me.”

His lashes are surprisingly long for a guy, and they flutter slightly as he peels his eyes open to meet mine.

“It is so fuckinghysterical,” I say on a shallow breath that matches his as I pump his cock faster and harder, “how much youhatehow much youwantme.”

He merely stares at me, the tip of his tongue slipping out to graze across his bottom lip. There’s a glaze over his eyes, now deep emerald with that rage and heat, and it’s clear he’s getting close to the end of his rope.

Still fisting his dick, I reach my mouth way up to his ear, pressing my bare breasts against his chest, and a throaty groan spills from his lips. “It must reallysuckto want people you’re just never going to have. Doesn’t it?”

At that, his hands propel from his sides to grip my hair, and he forces our foreheads together just as his hot cum jets into the palm of my hand. I immediately release him and step backward, smugly marveling at him catching his breath.

After a second of heavy breathing, August drags his gaze to mine as he closes up shop, tucking in his shirt and fixing his belt. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Oh,nowyou’re complaining again.Hmph. I guess I should put on that fancy outfit so maybe you’ll shut the fuck up.” I waggle my head, holding up my cupped palm that’s still full of his cum before flattening my hand against his solid torso, smearing the mess all over his tailored, designer Oxford shirt. “You might want to change clothes, too.”

I stalk away from him to pick up the slinky, stringy goldthingand pause in front of a mirror to pull it on. It’s basically a jewel-encrusted bra with long fringe and a high-cut bikini bottom that’s attached to the top by a long center strap that runs down the center of my navel, and what-the-fuck-ever. It’s a total burlesque costume. And he wants me to look like a whore because he thinks Iama whore, even though the only thing that remotely qualifies me as a whore is something we didtogether.

Behind me, I see him strip off the cum-soaked Oxford shirt and toss it into a garbage can in the corner, leaving him in only his white undershirt. His forehead is damp and his hair is tousled, his solid chest rising and falling, biceps flexing and stretching the sleeves of his shirt, and it’s a real damn shame that he issuchadick.

But then again, most guys who arethatattractive usually are.

I adjust the straps in the mirror one more time before spinning around to toss another sassy comment about his own whore-ishness at him, but he marches out of the room without saying a word.

* * *

In the styling chair,I’m feeling a hell of a lot less smug as I stare at my totally color-stripped hair. Nothing about the stringy, home-bleached blonde is cute, but the blondewasn’tsupposed to be cute. Thepurplewas supposed to be cute because I knew it would make my cute Maw-Maw smile and think of Mardi Gras instead of the fact that her mind was slowly, but surely going to fail her.

August is still wearing his white undershirt, standing just behind the chair, arms crossed over his chest while Francisco runs a comb through my hair, assessing it before he gets started on the color. While it’s all wet like this, it reaches clear to the middle of my back, and Francisco is picking up the ends and studying them with a squinted eye.

“It’s in decent shape for the most part, but I do need to take off a bit of the ends,” he informs me. “They’re a bit dried out from the bleach, but the rest is still nice and healthy.”

“Okay, that’s—” I start to say, when August interjects.

“Cut it to here,” he says, even and cold as he points at an area of my back that I can’t assess how short he’s talking about.

Francisco raises his eyebrows and glances at August. “Are you sure? It’s pretty healthy, and think of the luxurious waves we could—”

“Here,” August clips, still pointing.

“That’s um…” Francisco daintily clears his throat and points at my back. “I mean, you mentioned a Marilyn Monroe type cut, and hers was more here. Although, when you style it in curls, it does obviously make it look a bit shorter.”

“Here,” August repeats in a hard, biting tone.

Francisco’s gaze lingers on August’s face before sliding back to meet mine in the mirror. The chipper, exuberant, friendly stylist now has a concerned look on his face like he thinks whatever length August indicated is a bad call. But August is obviously the boss in this situation, and Francisco nods compliantly.

“Okay…” he says, gathering my hair into a ponytail and then picking up a pair of shears.

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