Free The Master by Kresley Cole Page A

decide to call for
me
today?”
    “I was at a yacht party yesterday, hosted in my honor. Many businessmen attended, and even more escorts. As I had no intention of calling you again—and proving you right—I
gravitated toward my usual.” He swirled ice in his glass. “But the blondes weren’t doing it for me. Figuring my tastes had changed, I approached a petite Latina. Didn’t work
out either. Still I fought the impulse to call you. I made it to this afternoon. When I pulled up your picture, I decided I’d have what I truly wanted.”
    Had he slept with the Latina? Me on Monday, her on Tuesday, me on Wednesday night? “So you had a taste test of sorts. I guess I outperformed her in bed?”
    “I didn’t fuck her or anyone else there.”
    I exhaled, relieved once more.
    “And no one at that party was using a bed.”
    “It sounds like an orgy.”
Dios mío.
“Do you often attend them?”
    “I wouldn’t say
often
.” He turned my question back on me. “Do you?”
    “I’ve never been to one.” I was open-minded about sex, but an orgy would never be in the cards for me. “That’s not my speed.”
    “Have you ever slept with more than one man at a time?”
    “I’ve never had sex with more than one man.” He’d think I was talking about
at one time
. And he would still disbelieve me. “I don’t want to.”
    “Earlier, you balked hard. That’s unusual in your line of work, no? Still, I can see it.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ll wager your clients can barely handle you, much less another added to the mix.”
    “Thanks. I think.” I drank.
    “Have you ever even tried BDSM?”
    I shook my head. “I wouldn’t want to be struck.”
    “There’s more to it than that,” he said. “Whipping a woman is not a favorite aspect of mine.”
    “Then why was a crop part of your script?” Maybe because it limited touch even more?
    “If you’ve never tried any of it, then how do you know you won’t like it?” He’d deflected my question.
    Because of my ineptitude at lying, I dodged and deflected, bobbing and weaving, and I was attuned to similar tactics in others. “I liked Monday night,” I told him, dodging his own
question. “I liked how the weight of your body pressed down on mine, and our skin touched all over, and I could feel your big muscles flexing.” I leaned in, wanting closer to the heat
emanating from him. At his ear, I murmured, “When your chest rubbed over my nipples while your cock plunged, I came until my vision blurred.”
    He inhaled sharply. “We should return.
Now.
”
    “We’ll ditch—”
    “Here we are!” Tiffani said, tray in hand. She was probably puzzled when we both scowled at her.
    My scowl faded once she uncovered the dishes. Lobster salad with citrus dressing, and langostinos accompanied by truffle-butter risotto. The bottle of wine sat at my disposal.
    I moaned with my first bite. I was indulging in a meal like this—when I’d planned on nothing more than a can of soup. “
Está como para chuparse los dedos.
This is
delectable.”
    “I wasn’t hungry before, yet now . . . I think you increase
all
of my appetites,” he said, his words loaded with innuendo. But when he met my gaze, I got the feeling he
was telling me something more. Between bites, he asked, “Aside from jogging, what are your other interests? And that shouldn’t count as a personal question.”
    What
had
I enjoyed doing before my life had changed so drastically? “I like to cook.” My mother had taught me. It seemed we only got along when we prepared dishes together,
neither talking, soft Cuban music playing on the radio. Though I looked so much like her, we’d been opposites in every way. She’d rarely smiled or laughed, yearning for the religious
life she’d given up for my father. “I love swimming, reading, and hanging out with friends.” Past tense. I missed having friends.
    I’d had a great group in Jacksonville—loud and ballsy, each one. I missed swapping dirty jokes. I