Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(47)

A small sound escapes my lips.

“You have no idea how hard this is for me, Charlotte. To have you as mine, but not in the way I want.”

“I…I don’t know what to say…” I breathe in response.

“Just fill out the fucking form,” he growls, his mouth only inches from mine.

And just like that, he backs up and lets me breathe again. I take in lungfuls of air as I watch him march out of the room, leaving me standing here alone, thinking about what he just said.

This whole time I was so afraid to admit that I wanted more with him, and he basically just admitted that he wanted it too…but also that he would never give in to that want.

There’s no sign of him for the next hour as I take the list to the kitchen with me, hovering over each item. A swarm of butterflies assaults my stomach at the mere thought of experiencing these with Emerson.

Exhibitionism…five.

Oral…five.

Sex toys…five.

Anal…deep breath, Charlie…five.

Am I going overboard? Putting down a five basically says that not only do I want these things, but I’m practically demanding them. And it’s not like I’m saying five for everything. There are a few things on this list that fall deep into the negative one range—hard pass on fisting and golden showers. But how can I possibly hand this paper to him with these fives all over it?

I’m tempting him on purpose, and sure, maybe I am being a little bit of a brat. It’s as bad as me using my tits and red lipstick to get my sister a copy of her book at the store. I’m purposefully manipulating Emerson to get what I want…and that’s cruel, but I don’t feel bad about it. There are so many fun things we could do with me as his submissive servant if sex was on the table, and I don’t want to be a PG version of Monica. I want it all.

After lunch, I set the list on Emerson’s desk. He’s still MIA, but I get back to work anyway. Well, I try. Can’t exactly focus on anything with a written confirmation basically proclaiming I’ll be your fuck toy. Bonus: with anal! just sitting there on his desk, waiting for him. And I have to be here when he does read it. That shouldn’t be awkward at all.

It’s almost two, and Emerson is still missing. I haven’t gotten anything done, and I feel as if we need to have a conversation since he just left me with that truth bomb from earlier. So after setting up the coffee pot to brew his afternoon caffeine fix, I gather up the courage to go investigating. Emerson’s house is huge, but I’ve only really seen the lower level which is the office, kitchen, bathroom, and sitting room. There are large wooden stairs that lead to the second floor.

One quiet step at a time, I sneak my way up. The left side leads to another sitting area, and it has the telltale signs that he actually uses this one. The leather sofa has wear marks; there’s a giant flat-screen TV, and a couple of books on the nightstand.

He’s not in here, so I tiptoe silently to the right, where there’s a door open just a crack. It feels like a massive invasion of privacy, but I can’t help myself.

Stepping up to the sliver between the door and the frame, I spot his back as he sits on a workout bench, his feet on the floor. So this is how he keeps up that perfect body. It looks like he’s turned a spare bedroom into his own personal gym. There are weights, a treadmill, a huge contraption meant for who knows.

And Emerson is shirtless.

Tan skin stretched over muscular shoulders grab my attention and won’t let go. Judging by the way his elbows rest on his knees and his head hangs low, Emerson is deep in thought, and something about that bothers me. Like the day I knelt by his side and eased his stress, I want to take it away now.

“Knock, knock,” I say, tapping on the door.

He spins and gazes at me with a guarded look of concern written on his face.

“You disappeared,” I whisper, stepping into the room. “I didn’t even know you had this up here.”

He grabs a towel and brushes it against his sweaty brow. Still sitting away from me, he replies, “I had to work out some…aggression.”

After our encounter at the desk, he had to come work out to let off some steam?

Walking over to where he’s sitting, I lean against the mirror on the wall and stare at him.

“You know…” I say with a teasing smile. “You could always work out some of that aggression on me.”

His head hangs as I let out a laugh. “Jesus, Charlotte.”

“Come on, it’s a joke,” I reply, stepping toward him. Then his hand latches around my thigh and he holds me close to him. I don’t breathe for a moment as I rest my hands on his shoulders.

“You make everything a joke, don’t you?”

I shrug. “I find it makes things easier that way.”

“It doesn’t make anything easier for me,” he grumbles lowly.

His hand strokes the back of my leg as I stand between his knees. His touch is like fire, sending a thrill through my body. This forbidden contact isn’t just crossing the line—we’re pretending that line doesn’t exist. And I lean into his touch to send home the message that I want—no, I need—more.

“I filled out the form,” I whisper.

“Good,” he replies.

“You should know I marked a few zeroes.”

He lets out a deep chuckle. “A few?”