Strip You Bare by Maisey Yates

We’re not done.”
    “Like hell we aren’t done. Why would I let you touch me again?”
    “Because I made you scream like you were dying and you loved every second of it.” He leaned in, planting his hands on either side of her. “You liked it even when you said no. I think,” he continued, a dark light in his eyes, “you like it best when you say no.”
    He straightened, leaving her shivering, cold thanks to his absence. Bastard.
    “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, turning and walking into the bathroom. She did her best not to stare at his ass.
    Her best wasn’t good enough.
    She had a feeling it was an invitation for her to join him. But she had to go. Needed to get her head on straight.
    She got out of bed and headed downstairs, gathering up her clothes. By the time he got out of the shower, she didn’t plan on being here.
    If he wanted any more sex tonight, it was going to have to come from his right hand.

Chapter 8
    Well, fuck. She’d been a fucking virgin.
    He was torn between an uncharacteristic bout of guilt and the searing, slow burn of regret one might feel after knocking back expensive bourbon in one swallow because you’d been under the illusion it was cheap.
    Not that he’d ever imagined Sarah was cheap. It was part of the triumph he felt when she’d gone down on her knees in front of him, ready to obey his every command.
    But if he would’ve known he was the first man? He would’ve gone slower. Not for her, for him. He would have savored that. Even now, satisfied from the explosive release he just had, he felt himself getting hard again. The hot water from the shower sluiced over his skin, his hands following the trail, his own touch turning him on when coupled with the thoughts that were rioting through his head.
    He’d never screwed a virgin before. Not because of any moral scruples, but because virgins didn’t come looking for guys like him. At least, not usually. This one had been standing in the entry of a mansion, waiting for him like a beautifully wrapped gift.
    And being the kind of guy he was, he made his gift unwrap herself.
    His cock jerked as he wrapped his fist around his hardening length. Then he cursed and shut the water off. He wasn’t going to stand in here and jack off like a teenage boy. If he wanted some, he would go get some. Sarah was probably waiting outside, and if not, another woman would do.
    He hadn’t done anything like that in a long time. Gone from one woman to the next with barely a breath in between. Sometimes, all he’d had to do was roll over and another woman was already there, naked and waiting. But that was back in the clubhouse days. And while he couldn’t deny he’d gotten a kick out of that kind of shit, most of those days were a dark, muddy blur in his memory. Days he didn’t really care to repeat. A man he didn’t really want to go back to being.
    But the man he’d become didn’t feel right here. He didn’t function here. His actions with Sarah just now proved that.
    That guy, the one who said all those things to her, who kept on going even when she told him to stop, was the man who’d come straight up out of poorest parts of the city, right into the neon of Bourbon Street to try to make something of himself.
    He’d never been content with poverty, though he imagined no one was. He’d been driven to escape. By any means necessary. That was why they called him Prince. Because he’d lusted after the finer things. Had always—transparently at first—desired to cross the velvet ropes that kept the common folk out of every place that glittered in the gritty swamp of the city.
    That’s why he’d gone to work, first running drugs, then joining up with the Deacons. To try and get a little piece of what people like the Delacroix had.
    Well, tonight you got a little piece of a Delacroix.
    Yeah, so he had. He got out of the shower and grabbed a towel, ruthlessly dragging it over his skin before casting it back down to the floor. He’d