He traces the curve of my breast, not touching where I need it most. It can’t be an accident. He can see them standing stiff and sensitive for him. Instead he circles around and around. It’s maddening. It’s cruel. “You’re a bastard,” I whisper.

He laughs softly. “Only one thing,” he murmurs. “We already kissed.”

“Two things.” It comes out on an embarrassing moan.

He rewards me with a hard pinch on my nipple, and I let out a small, muffled shriek. “Ah, ah, Ms. Mendoza. You can’t make noise. No matter how much it hurts.”

It would be so easy to move farther down the hall. To move into one of our bedrooms. We could even go downstairs and never be heard up on the second floor, but that would make this more real. In the dream, where I’m still warm from hearing him sing that old sea shanty, I have to be quiet. “Do it again,” I breathe out, more movement than sound.

He does it again, pinching hard enough that I gasp. He doesn’t let go, either. The pain turns numb, but I’m held taut, my whole body a string between his fingers, knowing that the moment he lets go, it will feel like fire.

It’s with a casual tap of his thumb, a small gesture that speaks to familiarity. That’s how he lets go of me, and I whimper in near-silence as the pain registers.

“Like this?” he asks.

And I shake my head—no, no, no. I don’t want him to stop, but it hurts to keep going. There lies the problem with our relationship. With my entire life.

“No?” he asks, his touch turning gentle again. He slides his hand down to my hip and pulls me close. I can feel his erection against my belly, a hard, hot length that proves how much he’s enjoying this. That turns me on even more than his touch could. This is a man who knows beauty. Who’s been with more women than I’ll ever meet. He could have anyone. He wants me. “What if I felt between those pretty legs of yours? Would you be wet?”

“I don’t know,” I lie.

He gives me a small smile. “Let’s find out. Pull up your nightgown.”

Oh God. It would be so much easier if he lifted the fabric himself. I would let him do anything to me. It’s different to participate. To be the engine of my own destruction.

I grasp the hem in trembling hands and lift.

He takes a half step back to examine me, and I almost chicken out. I almost drop the nightgown and run down the hall into my room. Like some scared little virgin. That’s probably what he expects me to do. He even lifts an eyebrow, waiting and watching.

When I don’t move he gives me a thorough perusal.