Chapter 21

Diane's POV

I don't want to say it. I have no intention of being vulnerable in front of Conrad, but I can't stop myself no matter how hard I try.

You know, desperate times call for desperate measures. I desperately need that money, and I didn't think it through. It never occurred to me that it would be difficult, especially since today is the official first time I'll be giving myself to him.

I take a gulp, then turn to him. "You know, I was thinking it would be easy for me..." I pause to catch any expression from him, but he just stares back, no expression, no words, just that cold stare that seems to hide a lot.

"It's difficult, and when you're drunk? You wouldn't remember the moments, or if you do, it'll be foggy." I smile lightly at him.

I hear him scoff. "You're really pathetic, Diane." His voice isn't soft, and it isn't harsh either, but something akin to disappointment, maybe disbelief, laces his words.

"I didn't invite you over to hear a pathetic story, and definitely not to have you drunk on my bed." He stares at me, really stares, and his lips curve, not into a smirk, not into a smile, but it's just there.

I gulp, gripping the hem of my gown.

"If I had plans to fuck you, Diane, it wouldn't be in my house..."

My heart twists, like a knife has been plunged in and someone is deliberately turning it to see if I'm still there.

"...I don't do fucks here." He completes, and my hands slump to my sides.

It's what I expected him to say, but I can't smile or even exhale, and it's as if I'm slightly disappointed, which makes everything strange.

I mean, that's exactly what I wanted, right? So why do I feel like I've been robbed of something?

I only stare at him, my heart pounding, torn between his words, confusion, pain and hurt all colliding at once.

Diane, what is wrong with you? Are you doing all this to get his pity? Or are you just completely out of it?

I sharply take my gaze away, then gulp down another shot. He doesn't say a word. He just continues taking slow sips from his glass of wine.

Silence settles between us. Cold, gripping silence, the kind that sends shivers down your spine and makes you wonder what the hell is going on in his mind.

He doesn't spare me a glance. He just drinks like I'm not even there, and it strangely hurts. Is he being like this because of what I said? Hell no, that can't be possible, can it?

With a soft clang, I drop my glass on the table, feeling a little tipsy but still managing to speak.

"Feels like we're two different poles being forced to stay in one place, and it's somehow boring." I hiss at him, hoping that will ignite a conversation.

Silence.

He doesn't breathe a word, and it's my own voice that returns to me. That feels like a slap, honestly. But am I going to drop the conversation here? No.

I flip my hair so hard that it almost slaps his face, almost.

Then I shift a little closer. "Why did you place such an offer before me?" The question rolls off my tongue before I can stop it.

My eyes snap wide when I realize what I asked. He turns his head to me, his gaze sharp, piercing, like he can see right through me.

I shake my head continuously, hoping he won't answer.

He stares at me for a fleeting moment, like I'm an experiment under his eyes, then shakes his head.

"I'll answer..." he starts, his gaze never leaving mine. I can feel my blood turning cold, my lips trembling slightly.

"Only when you're sober." He adds sharply, his gaze sweeping back to the glass in his hands.

I blink once, twice.

Only when I'm sober?

I gasp, almost in shock. Am I drunk? There's no way that's possible.

I can't get drunk with just five shots, can I? Okay, that's wrong. Seven, or even eight.

Ughh, whatever. I know I'm not drunk.

I grab his hands, and he stiffens under my hold, but I don't care. I hold on tighter. "I'm not drunk, trust me." I press further. I'm even shaking his hands before I know it.

He slowly takes his hands from mine. "Not now, Diane. You're drunk. Stop trying to fight it." He sneers, frustration dripping from his words.

My face squeezes into a tight frown, but I grab his hands again. "I'm... I'm really not drunk. I just want to..."

"Diane!!" He cuts me off with a snarl, his voice sharper than the edge of a blade, his face red, or maybe pale.

I bite the corner of my lip with a blink. He exhales, not a soft exhale but a rushed one, as if he's stopping himself from bursting out.

"Can. You. Let. Go?" He seethes with a hardened jaw. Something about his voice makes my stomach flip.

It's deep, like he's fighting some silly urge.

I shake my head. "And why should I?" I narrow my gaze at him.

He gives another harsh exhale, and his breathing comes out rasped. "You have to let go because that's... that's..." He pauses, then glances up at me, his entire face pepper red.

I'm still staring at him, wondering why he's acting strange. Of course he is! Or am I the strange one here?

"I think being drunk comes with a lot of shit." He hisses through clenched teeth.

I huff. "I just said I'm not drunk." I slam back at him with a sniffle, then lean in. I don't let go, though.

He groans once, twice. "I don't want to do this with you, not in this state and definitely not today!" His voice is hoarse, as if he's fighting something really difficult to overcome.

His breathing comes out rushed, and his heart seems to be thudding.

"What are you doing with me?" I ask cluelessly, my face just an inch from his. I don't even know how I got this close. I know I was sitting beside him, grabbing his hands, but now I'm an inch away, and that's... too close.

His gaze meets mine, and for a moment, everything goes into oblivion. The tension in the room thickens, and I feel something shift inside me.

I see him gulp once, twice, and he shakes his head. The great Conrad Beaumont is this uncomfortable because I'm holding his hands and I'm too close, but why? And why is...

My gaze shifts to his lips, and I gulp too, momentarily getting lost staring at them.

They're wet from his drinking, and strangely, I want to kiss them so badly that I don't notice my grip around his hands tightening as I struggle to fight the urge.

I'm gripping tightly, pressing on it like it'll ease my tensed nerves while I stare at his lips.

He groans.

No, it isn't a groan. He moans, really moans, making my eyes widen in shock.

Then comes his voice, breathless, shaking, and tinged with pleasure.

"Diane... that's my dick you're... you're PRESSING."

WHAT?!!!