She walks around Byron’s desk, leaving behind a faint, sweaty imprint of her ass on the wood. It’s disappearing already. Pity—someone should frame that and hang it in the Louvre.
“You make a huge deal about meeting my needs and wants, but the truth is, they don’t matter at all. I don’t matter to you at all.” Her eyes have gone misty again. “I’m nothing more than a plaything to you.”
There are a dozen or more snide jabs I could think of to lob at her feet and walk out of here victorious. But strangely, the need to come out on top feels much less important than the pain in her eyes.
On instinct, I reach forward, moving to cup her face with my palm.
But she flinches back like I might hurt her.
I drop my hand with the sudden realization that, quite apart from not trusting me, Natalia does
