His eyes darken. Lifting his hands and coming a little closer, Lawrence grips my towel-covered upper arms tightly. “Don’t talk about yourself like that, Blaire.”

I throw my head back and laugh. It’s a bitter and hollow sound. Bitter and hollow just like me. “Oh, here comes the daddy complex.”

Letting go of the towel, I push myself flush against him. I rub my tits on his chest, kiss his neck, his jaw, breathing my poisoned breath on his skin and polluting him with my touch. “Nice old men like you love saving girls like me, don’t you? You think you can protect us, change us. Well, newsflash: I don’t need saving. I don’t need your protection. I just want your money. Nothing more, nothing less.”

His grip grows painful, and I love it. Punish me, Lawrence. Go ahead and be disgusted like everyone else.

I sneer, a scornful smile on my lips. “So come on, fuck me and stop pretending that you care. Show me how much you want me.” I grab his face with both of my hands, my nails digging into his skin as I grind my pussy on his growing erection. “You bastard. The thought makes you hot as fuck, doesn’t it?” I close the space between our mouths and kiss him. I kiss him as though I want to tear him apart, wound him, and destroy him with my teeth, with my tongue, with every soiled part of me.

Letting go of his face, I lower my gaze and unbuckle his belt.

“Stop it, Blaire.” He places his hands on top of mine, halting my every move.

“Shut up, and fuck me like a whore. After all, you’re paying for this and dearly.” My voice cracks as I push his hands away. I unzip his pants, and pull out his dick, wrapping it with my fingers and rubbing the head of his cock on my clit.

“Look at me,” he orders, his voice thick and soft. When I don’t, he lifts my chin with one finger and makes me look up at him. I hate myself for what he sees.

Lawrence cups my face gently in his hands, leans down, and begins to kiss each of my tears away. His lips, soft like feathers, land gently on my skin, warming me from the inside out over and over again. “When I first saw you at The Met”—kiss— “I watched you from across the room.” Kiss. “I could see that you were alone and uncomfortable. That selfish piece of shit that you arrived with had left you on your own while he went in search of his friends.” Kiss. “Yet, you stood there in a room full of strangers ready to condemn you, looking like a Queen. Proud. Brilliant. Then you were making your way to the other side, and as you crossed the room, I had never seen anything more beautiful than the young, brave woman with the eyes full of fire and pride. That girl took my breath away.” He stops kissing me to gaze into my eyes. “Bring her back to me, Blaire.”

“She doesn’t exist. That girl was just an illusion.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s here, in my arms, pretending to be someone else, letting bullshit get to her.” He tightens his hold on me. “My beautiful, wild thing. They are dust at your feet. They can’t touch you. Don’t let them.” Drawing back slightly, he smiles. “I won’t let them.”

Oh, Lawrence. “What are you going to do, sweet man?”

At that moment, as we stare at each other, understanding reflected in his green, green eyes, I know that I’ve found a friend—that I’m not alone. It’s a simple thing, but how it unravels one so.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it. Just know that as long as you’re under my protection, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

My lips quiver. Who would have known that underneath that hard exterior, Lawrence Rothschild was such a good man? Usually, compassion would drive me away—I don’t want people’s pity—but I’m just too tired to fight it. All I want is some peace from my inner turmoil and the comfort that Lawrence’s arms bring to me.