‘I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the RA looking all cultured and classy and innocent in your floaty dress, and fucking look at you now. The lovely Marlowe is all mine to play with. You should know I’m this close to whipping out my dick and shooting my load all over your arse, but I won’t. Because this is you auditioning me, so tonight, love, you come first, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I agree breathlessly, grateful that he’s not hiring me for my dirty-talking skills. Because I’ve got nothing. What I do have in my High-Class Hooker arsenal is a couple of recent rewatches of When Harry Met Sally, just so I could nail the fake orgasm thing. Except, the way this guy is manhandling me is making me think it won’t be very hard at all to sound convincing. He’s most definitely pressing the right buttons, even if tonight’s pressure and stakes and nerves mean there is literally zero chance of my coming for real.

He lets my hem fall some of the way back down. Then, in a couple of slick movements that tell me he’s had a lot of practice at this, he gathers up my hair and dumps it over one shoulder, slides both my straps down as far as he can with my hands like this, and finds the zip, yanking it all the way down so that my brace position is the only thing holding my little dress up.

Until, that is, he barks out his next order.

‘Turn around.’

CHAPTER 11

Marlowe

As I turn, instinct has me pressing a hand to my chest to hold the dress up.

Brendan takes a step towards me, shaking his head. ‘Back against the glass. Let it fall. I want to see what I’ve bought.’

Every minute in here with this guy brings a fresh fear, a fresh confrontation, a fresh precipice off which to leap, but this is the highest precipice so far.

His gaze is so intense. So all-consuming. It’s like nothing exists for him in this moment except for what lies beneath my dress. He told me during the interview that he had ADHD.

I suppose this is what hyper-focus looks like.

‘Go on.’ He nods. ‘Eyes on me as you do.’

There’s a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball. I give myself a mental kick and remove my hand. Surely I’m the first woman he’s been with who’s ever hesitated to undress for him. Most of them probably chuck their thongs at him the second they get him alone—or even before.

The slinky fabric drops instantly, the tiny, ineffectual straps slack around my forearms, the dress caught around my hips and my top half completely exposed to him.