“And if I say no?” I don’t know why I’m asking this. This is not how it’s supposed to go. I should be seducing him, not trying to put him off. Yet something within me rebels at his casual assumption that I’m his for the taking. Other men have assumed this before, and it didn’t bother me nearly as much. I don’t know what’s different this time, but I want him to step away from me, to stop touching me. I want it so badly that my hands curl into fists at my sides, my muscles tensing with the urge to fight.

“Are you saying no?” He asks the question calmly, his thumb now circling over my areola. As I search for a response, he slides his other hand into my hair, possessively cupping the back of my skull.

I stare at him, my breath catching. “And if I were?” To my disgust, my voice comes out thin and scared. It’s as if I’m a virgin again, cornered by my trainer in the locker room. “Would you leave?”

One corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. “What do you think?” His fingers tighten in my hair, the grip just hard enough to hint at pain. His other hand, the one on my breast, is still gentle, but it doesn’t matter.

I have my answer.

So when his hand leaves my breast and slides down my belly, I don’t resist. Instead, I part my legs, letting him touch my smooth, freshly waxed pussy. And when his hard, blunt finger pushes into me, I don’t try to move away. I just stand there, trying to control my frantic breathing, trying to convince myself that this is no different from any other assignment.

Except it is.

I don’t want it to be, but it is.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, staring at me as he pushes his finger deeper. “Very wet. Do you always get so wet for men you don’t want?”

“What makes you think I don’t want you?” To my relief, my voice is steadier this time. The question comes out soft, almost amused as I hold his gaze. “I let you in here, didn’t I?”

“You came on to him.” Kent’s jaw tightens, and his hand on the back of my head shifts, gripping a fistful of my hair. “You wanted him earlier today.”

“So I did.” The typically masculine display of jealousy reassures me, putting me on more familiar ground. I manage to soften my tone, make it more seductive. “And now I want you. Does that bother you?”

Kent’s eyes narrow. “No.” He forces a second finger into me and simultaneous presses his thumb against my clit. “Not at all.”

I want to say something clever, come up with some snappy retort, but I can’t. The jolt of pleasure is sharp and startling. My inner muscles tighten, clutching at his rough, invading fingers, and it’s all I can do not to moan out loud at the resulting sensations. Involuntarily, my hands come up, grabbing at his forearm. I don’t know if I’m trying to push him away or get him to continue, but it doesn’t matter. Under the soft wool of his sweater, his arm is thick with steely muscle. I can’t control its movements—all I can do is hold onto it as he pushes deeper into me with those hard, merciless fingers.