Sparks of victory sizzled through Gladys’s veins as she strode away from The Despicable Medford with her hips swaying.

She’d been close enough to touch and he’d been dying to do just that. It was written all over his face, in the catch of his breath, in every gesture. His wants would have to wait. The cat wasn’t done playing with its mouse yet. And Medford was too cocksure about his own irresistibility to realize he was no longer directing the play.

Leaving him speechless made Gladys giddy with delight. She doubted Medford was ever caught speechless, save for when he was asleep, or had someone’s tongue down his throat.

And now, no matter how many other kisses he stole, the only mouth he would be thinking about belonged to Gladys.

She had behaved more coldly toward him than she normally would with a client, though there were certainly some men who sought cruelty and more. Medford was not one of those. He didn’t want to give up power. He wished to exert it. To prove his dominance, and expose women’s helpless subservience to his virile masculinity, or whatever such shite he told himself whenever he glimpsed his reflection in a looking-glass.

He hadn’t known what to do with Gladys, and it drove him mad. She smirked. It wasn’t that a rakehell by definition always knew what to do. It was that a man as pretty as Medford had never had to do anything. He’d thus discovered to his shock that things were different this time. If he wanted her—and they both knew he did—he was going to have to work for it.

But it wouldn’t do to be too predictable in that direction, either. The cat didn’t claw at the mouse without ceasing. Sometimes, it batted the terrified little thing between its paws. And sometimes it gave the mouse a bit of space, luring it into a false sense of safety before pouncing all over again.