She whimpers. The sound shoots straight to my cock.
“Who is he?” I repeat, voice sharper this time.
“M-my cat!” she breathes.
I pause.
She’s trembling beneath me, eyes wide, barely breathing.
“You don’t have a cat.”
“N-not here,” she stammers. “He’s with my parents. In Italy.”
A cat?
That’s who she was smiling at?
I stare at her. Then I laugh—dark and warped by the modulator. It echoes in the room like something out of a nightmare.
I lean down and bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent—fresh apples.
Fucking intoxicating.
“Can you get off me now?” she asks, some fire creeping backinto her voice.
Good girl.
I sit up. Give her the space she wants.
But I don’t leave.
I drag the chair from her dresser, turn it around, and straddle it—watching her.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
“Go back to sleep, Angel.”
She sits up, clutching the duvet to her chest. “No. Please leave.”
I tilt my head. “Can’t do that. You’ve got two options: go to sleep… or entertain me.”
She narrows her eyes. “Entertain you how?”
“You could give me a live show.” I waggle my brows, then remember—she can’t see my face.
Doesn’t matter.
Her blush gives her away.
“You’re sick,” she says. “Stop watching me.”
I grin beneath the mask. “You don’t seem all that angry about it. Are you sureyou’renot the one who needs therapy, Emily?”
She tries to bite back a laugh. Fails.
“Probably,” she mutters.
10