I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Doesn’t he get what’s happening here? Lars is offering to leave so we can hook up. They do that wordless staring thing again, and still, St. Clare doesn’t get the message that Lars is putting out, which is a goddamn worry, considering I’m reading him loud and clear.

All six feet of St. Clare’s lightly muscled, domineering, slutty-forearmed self stands and looks down at me. His gaze slides over me like a hot coffee slipping down my throat, and my nipples prick harder at the attention.

He knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s leaving me desperate. And maybe this is repayment for me stupidly declaring Arlie the love of my life, and maybe I should hate it, but the whole thing only makes my cock harder.

I’m ready to whimper like a fucking dog at his feet as St. Clare’s eyes fill with that secret amusement before I’m left to watch them walk out the door.

Lars disappears first, and just as St. Clare is about to close the front door behind him, he pauses, half inside, and turns his head so I can make out his profile.

The way his lips move has me mesmerized, and it’s a second before I register what he’s saying.

“I dare you not to touch yourself while you shower.”

The confidence in his tone has me swallowing hard.

Then something lights up behind his eyes that makes me shiver. “I might even reward you if you don’t.”

Thankfully, he walks right out and doesn’t hear the help that bubbles from my lips. How the fuck am I supposed to not touch myself now? I’m half tempted to storm outside and drag him back in here to have his filthy way with me. He’s not playing fair, and we both know it, but the real fuck me moment comes when I realize that I don’t hate it.

It’s torture, but I think I’m sort of enjoying it.

I cheat in the shower, just a little bit. While I’m scrubbing every filthy inch of me I can reach and keeping my fucked-up shoulder dry, I’m also angling my still-too-hard and too-needy dick right under the water flow. It’s as bad as his sinful mouth, though, because it keeps me right on that edge of pleasure without giving me any of the payoff. I can’t come like this, and all I’m doing is furthering St. Clare’s mean, evil, downright maniacal plan.

He doesn’t need to make me want him even more.

I already want him most.

I’m an instant-gratification kind of guy, and nothing about this is instantly gratifying. Even our orgasm last night left me wanting more. I hate this. Because I really, really don’t hate this.