Hustled by Roya Carmen

“I officially rescind any future proposals. There will be no money. You’re absolutely right. You’re not a whore, and I’ve been completely out of line. You may go now.”

My jaw drops to the floor. Who does this guy think he is? “I may go now?”

“Yes, please go. ” He pulls away, and I ache for him. The sudden absence of his warmth leaves me hollow inside, like someone has scooped out my insides with a cold spoon.

My body betrays me completely—my skin prickles with goosebumps, my breath catches in my throat, and there’s this terrible, painful emptiness that only he can fill. I lean forward slightly, instinctively chasing his touch before I catch myself.

The space between us feels charged with electricity, crackling with unspoken need. A hint of his cologne—that tangy, distinct scent—still lingers in my nostrils, teasing me, reminding me of how close he was just seconds ago. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to reach out, to pull him back against me.

I hate the power he has over me. I hate how my body responds to his without my permission, like it belongs to him instead of me. But I can’t deny the physical ache that spreads through me, radiating from my core outward, making me feel both weak and desperately alive at the same time.

I shove him hard.

He recovers quickly. “Do I need to call security? ”

I watch him as he walks away from me. I’ve really done it this time. What must the man think of me? He reaches into his desk. For a chequebook? For a security button?

I huff. I hate him so much, I can’t stand it. “And another thing, Mister. You’re not as perfect as you think. One of your ears sticks out more than the other… it makes you look goofy.”

His gaze reaches mine, and that maddening smile curves his lips again. “Is that so? I never realized. Thank you so much for bringing that to my attention, Jenna.”

Just as he’s about to take a seat at his desk, he changes his mind and stands. “Let me show you out,” he says cooly, and every syllable grates me — how dare he be so calm and collected, when I just want to rip his head off.

But when we get to the door, he presses me against it, his body claiming mine—and I lose complete control.

I’m his. All his.

His hands find the hem of my skirt, rough and demanding as he hikes it up. My back presses against the cold door, a stark contrast to the heat of his body pinning me there. I gasp as his fingers trail up my thighs, leaving fire in their wake.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his breath hot against my neck. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

But I can’t. The words won’t come. All I can manage is a desperate whimper as his hands climb higher, stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. My head falls back against the door with a soft thud.

“Caine,” I breathe, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears.